Chapter 6
Don climbed into the SUV and started off on the most direct route to his apartment. Charlie was less than three blocks away, sitting in a bus stop. Don pulled over to the curb and waited for his brother to get in.
It was only 9 o'clock, and it was still light enough for Don to see, when Charlie did get in the car, the faint imprint on his face, obviously left by someone's hand. His blood boiled. He didn't care how small Archie was. He didn't care what Charlie had said…
And then he felt a niggling of fear. Charlie wasn't really himself, right now.
"Did you hit her first?"
Charlie looked at him, and he saw the hurt, covered quickly with anger. Then his hand was on the door and he was getting out.
"No! Don't!" Don lunged for him and barely caught a piece of his shirt. "I didn't think you really had. I'm sorry."
Charlie hesitated, then closed the door again.
"The Charlie I know would never hit anyone. But the Charlie I know would never make anyone want to hit him, either. You've got to admit, you're not really yourself."
Charlie silently buckled his seat belt and crossed his arms in front of his chest.
Don pulled back out into traffic. "I'm…"
"Shut-up. Please."
Don's hackles raised. "Hey. Dude. My car."
"Then let me out." Charlie's hand was on the door, again. "If you have to talk, let me out. Here."
Don was getting as tired of this as Alan had. No, Archie didn't have the right to hit Charlie, but Don was beginning to consider it himself. "Don't be an ass. It's not your best feature."
Charlie inhaled deeply. "Sorry," he finally whispered. He let his head fall against the window with a thunk, and closed his eyes.
Oh, geez, now he was depressed. Charlie was becoming a man of extremes, and Don was having trouble keeping up.
"Dad's just upset."
"He's disappointed. In me. But which part should I fix?"
Don sat at a red light, so confused he didn't notice that it turned green until the car behind him honked. "What do you mean?"
"The part where I ran off to Vegas and married her in the first place, or the part where I left? Or maybe the part where I became a virtually worthless jellyfish to be carted around everywhere for an indefinite time period. No, wait, I know. The part where I let a dead guy bleed all over his dining room."
Don's reply was automatic. "He had a broken neck, Charlie. He didn't bleed."
Charlie started giggling into the window. A hand crept around his stomach again as the giggling continued. "Not fair," he finally gasped. "You made me laugh."
Don grinned as he pulled into his space at the apartment. "Feel better?"
"Feel like crying," Charlie said, and they both sat for a while in the SUV. Don finally reached for his door handle.
"Sometimes, Charlie, sometimes you just gotta laugh, instead." He got out of the vehicle and moved to Charlie's side, opened the passenger door. Charlie was still buckled in. "Come on. We're not going to fix this tonight."
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Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Don called Alan.
"Dad. I think you need to back off on Charlie."
Alan snorted into the phone. "You woke me up to tell me that? I'm entitled to my own opinion, Don."
"Of course you are. But there could be things neither of us knows; maybe we don't have enough information to form an opinion, yet. Even if we did, maybe our opinions don't matter as much as being Charlie's family matters."
"Donald, I will not have one son leave his wife and the other lecture me like I'm the child."
"She hit him. Out by the koi pond."
Don heard a quick intake of breath. "She what?"
"He didn't tell me, but he couldn't hide it. I could still see the handprint on his face. She must've slapped him."
"Archie? But…"
"I'm just saying. What she did yesterday really hurt him, and now she's hitting him…and…and I don't think he could stand losing you, too."
"He could never lose me."
"Ordinarily, he would realize that, I'm sure. But his world is pretty tilted, right now."
Alan was definitely more subdued than he had been at the start of the phone call. "Is he awake? Can I talk to him?"
"He's asleep, Dad. You could call tomorrow?"
"Yes. All right." Alan spoke sadly. "Maybe I was too stern, out of line."
Great, now his Dad was depressed, too. "It'll be okay, Dad, Just don't give him time to blow it all out of proportion in his head."
"How many eggs did you buy?"
At least he knew why he had problems following Charlie, sometimes. It was genetic.
"They come in a carton, dad. Twelve. Why?"
"I just thought maybe I could come over in the morning and make that breakfast frittata you like so well."
Don smiled. "Good idea. Better bring some cheese. And milk. And maybe some…"
Alan sighed. "I'll just bring everything."
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Don thought it would be okay.
Sure, it was difficult to get Charlie up for breakfast, even a Sunday morning frittata at 10 o'clock, but he had gotten up eventually.
And if at first the atmosphere was charged with strain and uncomfortable, that had gone away, in time.
Charlie had finally stumbled into the shower. When he had finished, and came to join them at the kitchen eating counter, still shaking his wet curls like a dog caught in a summer rain, both Don and Alan had winced at the bruise on his cheek. Small. Probably would be gone in a day or two. But still. Archie must have really walloped him.
Alan dished out the casserole and cut right to the chase. "I want to apologize, Charlie. Whatever is happening between you and Archie is none of my business."
Charlie chewed and swallowed. "This is very good, Dad."
"Thank you. I know both of you boys like it."
"It is sort-of your business. I mean, it's your home. You deserve to know what's going on."
"Have some orange juice. Even if we state that as a given – my right to know what's going on does not automatically extend to the right to comment on it."
"Nobody wants to take sides." Quiet, almost buried in frittata.
"Don't talk with your mouth full. And it's not a question of taking sides. Ever. You're my son. If I've ever made you feel that I'm not on your side, that's on me. My fault."
"Are there onions in this? I'm sorry, Dad."
"Don likes onions. I tried to leave them out of your side. Pick out the strays, if you don't want them. Why are you sorry?"
Charlie shrugged. "Could be a pepper. Something crunchy. I don't know. I haven't been doing a very good job, lately. At anything."
"There's celery in this. Maybe that's it." On the opposite side of the counter from his sons, Alan put down his fork and took Charlie's face in his hand. "Your value to me is not based on the last one, or two, or dozen things you may have done — or not done. You are valuable to me simply because you are here. And because I know your heart, I am also proud of you. I know that you will find your way again."
Charlie blinked and looked at his plate when Alan let go of his face. He yawned and started to get up. "I'll do the dishes. You guys did them last night."
Don finally made his first observation of the meal. "Hope you're not expecting an argument from me."
And even if Charlie had gone back to sleep again as soon as Alan left, and even if he had slept most of the day, Don thought that was all right, because his brother and his father were at peace, again. Alan had even promised to come and pick Charlie up for therapy the next day.
And even if Charlie was still sleeping the next morning when Don left for work, he had thought it would be okay. He didn't have a clue that it wasn't, until he came home, around 7, and Charlie was gone. Charlie's duffle bag was gone. Charlie's drinks were gone from the refrigerator. The couch was a couch, again. The bathroom was clean. The only evidence of his ever having been there was a note on the kitchen counter:
Don,
Thanks. Can't live with anyone right now. Subletting Larry's apartment. Close to campus; can walk to work. Bus to therapy. I'll be okay.
Charlie