Chapter 2

While Charlie was in the shower, Don opened up the couch into a bed, smiling grimly. To think that he was sure buying a convertible couch was a mistake, since he was hardly ever home himself. He retrieved sheets and blankets from the hall closet and made up the bed. Since he wasn't driving Charlie home tonight, he was having another beer. This time when he opened the refrigerator he noticed a 6-pack of nutritional supplements. He took the beer into the living room, sat down in the chair, and thought.

Apparently, whatever happened didn't culminate in a spur-of-the-moment angry dash out of the house. Charlie had taken the time to pack, right down to his new dietary requirements. And not driving yet, he had taken time to call and wait for a cab. Of course, Charlie wasn't a real spontaneous guy – unless you included running off to Vegas to marry Archie three months after he met her in the first place.

Don heard the bathroom door open, heard Charlie pad barefoot into the kitchen. He came into the living room with one of his drinks, looked at the couch. "You didn't have to do that. I didn't even know you could do that."

Don waved his beer toward the newly made bed. "I almost forgot, myself," he said. "I don't get a lot of company. Anyway, this is for me. You can have the bedroom."

Charlie sipped his drink and made a face at the taste. "I hate this stuff. And no. I won't take your bed. I'm fine out here."

Don decided it wasn't worth an argument. Until he got a new mattress, the couch was probably better anyway. He balanced the bottle on his knee, wondering how to talk to Charlie, and finally just asked.

"So…they know where you are, right?"

Charlie perched on the side of the couch/bed and finished his drink, silently.

"They'll worry. Whatever happened — is that fair?"

Charlie carefully lay down on the bed. "They're not home. Some of Dad's book club went into the city tonight to hear an author read from his new book, and then they were staying for a late dinner. Archie went with him."

"So they're just going to come home and you won't be there?"

"I left a note. In the middle of the kitchen table."

"Is is all right if I call and leave a message on the answering machine? In case they don't see the note?"

Charlie sat up again, slumped over the side of the bed and dropped his head into his hand. "I don't care," he mumbled.

Don stood and walked to his cell phone on the kitchen counter, hit the speed dial for Charlie's house. He waited for the machine to deliver its message. "Dad, Archie, it's Don. Charlie…Charlie is staying at my place, tonight. He says he left you a note in the kitchen. Anyway, I just wanted you both to know that he's safe. Talk at ya tomorrow." He flipped the phone shut and left the empty beer bottle on the counter. He turned back around and looked at Charlie.

He'd lost a lot of weight, a natural consequence of losing part of his stomach and all the other abdominal injuries, and while the loss had stopped, he was having difficulty gaining any back. Last week the orthopedist had told him his arm was not healing on schedule, and the cast would remain for at least another month. More surgery on his arm was a possibility. Tonight he admitted to not feeling well most of the time.

Don felt a wave of guilt. He had faithfully spent time with Charlie almost every day since he had gone back to work, but they hadn't really discussed Charlie's medical issues in depth for a while. Don had figured Charlie was tired of all that by the time he got there in the evening, and he had been fine with watching games on television, the occasional rented movie, a rare game of Scrabble…most often, just sitting together silently, while Don worked on some of that damn paperwork and Charlie spent some time on his lap top, or fell asleep on the couch. Once Charlie was home from the hospital, he had let relief make him complacent.

He walked over and stood over Charlie, still sitting on the edge of the bed. He opened his mouth to say something when Charlie spoke first.

"She told the doctor not to let me go back to work."

Don sat next to him on the edge of the bed.

"He asked me what I thought I could handle, he was going to let me go back, I know he was…but before I could answer, she was telling him I wasn't ready for anything, even part-time. That I was still too sick. I had no idea she was going to do that. She didn't talk to me about it, first."

"I'm sure she just wants you to be healthier, stronger…"

Charlie didn't seem to hear him.

"Then, she dropped me off at my PT, and she came home and tore apart the garage."

That surprised Don. "She what?"

"Dad picked me up, and I was still hurt, and angry about the doctor, so I decided just to work in the garage for a while. Think about what to say to her. And I opened the door, and all the boards were down. I saw them all stacked in a corner, erased. She erased weeks' worth of cognitive emergence work. Just…erased it."

Charlie's voice lost a little anger and took on more confusion. "Why would she do that? Even if she thinks I'm spending too much time in the garage and wants me to stop, why would she just throw away all that work? Some of that was from before the shooting, I hadn't transposed it all to my computer, yet."

Don wasn't sure what to say. To his knowledge, no one had ever erased one of Charlie's boards, before, except Charlie. He finally went with a weak, "I don't want to take sides, here, Charlie, but you really need to be talking to Archie."

He'd thought it was a fairly safe answer, and was surprised when Charlie stood and rounded on him in anger. "Why not? Why the fuck not, Don? I've been your brother for over 30 years, and you've only known her for seven months. And we're even? We're even in your eyes? Why can't you be on my side, Don?"

Don stood and tried to touch Charlie, but he backed away. "Buddy … no … that's not what I meant. Of course I'm on your side. Always. That's … That's why I want you to work this out with Archie. I've seen you happier than I ever have, before, since Archie. I want that for you again. I'm sorry. This recovery has obviously been harder on both of you than I realized…"

Charlie looked at his feet. "Never mind. I'm tired. I don't want to talk, anymore. Can I go to bed, now? It's early, I don't want to kick you out of your own living room."

Don sighed. "No, it's okay. I was kind-of tired myself, tonight. Besides, I have a television in the bedroom. Do you need anything?"

Charlie smiled bitterly as he pushed past Don and lay down on the bed again, curling around a pillow.

"What could I possibly need?"