Chapter 10
By the time he got back to Newport, Charlie had talked himself down enough to stop and spend the night. Considering the year he was coming off, pushing himself was probably not a good idea. While he was there, he studied a map in the motel room, and in the morning, he took Highway 20 to cut over to I-5. He wanted to get home faster than the coast highway would allow.
According to Charlie's calculations, three more hours on Friday, once he hit I-5, six on Saturday and seven on Sunday, and he could arrive by mid-afternoon. He was almost to Grants Pass, where he planned to stop for the day, before he realized he had been making calculations. Equations figuring the variables of estimated traffic flow, miles per hour and minutes spent at rest stops crowded his head. It felt at once like the return of an old friend — and being cornered in a dark alley.
As the days progressed, his equations become more precise, spilling out of his head and onto the margins of the map. He was nervous about going home after nearly six weeks, and the numbers, as they usually did, began to calm him.
Saturday night, in Sacramento, tired and sore, Charlie considered a new equation. Two four-hour days, and he could still be home by Monday. Taking I-5 back cut off hours of time, but quickly became monotonous and hypnotic, and he missed the scenery of the coast. He was so close now, though. He decided to push one last day. He reworked the original calculations, with increased out-of-the-car time, and set a new target of dinner.
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Alan and Don stood side-by-side at the stove, peering with distrust and distaste at a saucepan.
"Maybe we did something wrong," Alan finally said.
"We followed the recipe exactly," Don argued. "Maybe after it cooks down and thickens, it will change colors. And look less…lethal."
Alan wasn't convinced. "Could you have written something down wrong?" He wrinkled his nose. "It doesn't smell very good."
"Cecile swears this is great. A childhood favorite."
"How long has it been since she made it? Perhaps she got something mixed up."
Don shifted him weight uncomfortably. "She…hasn't exactly made it. This is what she was able to figure out from her great-grandmother's recipe cards."
Alan sighed. "Something tells me the woman didn't have very good penmanship." He stirred the concoction and the unpleasant odor became more pungent.
"I love Cecile," stated Don flatly, "but I am not eating this."
"Eating it? I'm throwing the entire saucepan away. Hand me your phone. I'll order Chinese."
Don reached for the waistband of his jeans, but stopped suddenly. "I think I left it in the living room."
"It was on the kitchen table. Here, Dad."
Alan took the cell. "Thank-you, Charlie. Don, turn the stove off and…" Alan suddenly heard himself and blanched. He looked at the cell in his hand, then at Don, and finally turned to see Charlie standing a few feet behind him grinning.
Alan flew into him so hard that he propelled Charlie backwards several feet, until his hip connected hard with a kitchen counter. Cell phone and cane went flying, and only his brother's muffled "Umphf" spurred Don into action in time to cross to Charlie's side and help brace him against Alan's assault. He tried to pry his father's arms away from Charlie.
"Dad, please. You're hurting him." Don's words finally penetrated and Alan pulled away, still murmuring Charlie's name. He started to ask how Charlie was hurt when Don suddenly shoved him aside and took his place, embracing his brother hard and slapping him on the back. He was pleased when he felt Charlie hugging him in return, and held on a little longer than he would have, if that hadn't felt so good.
At last they stood as three separate individuals, facing each other and grinning like idiots. Alan, who hadn't touched Charlie in several seconds, reached out to take his arm. "Did I hurt you?"
Charlie shook his head. "No, Dad. But can we sit down?"
"Of course, of course!" Alan hurried to the refrigerator and pulled out the entire 6-pk. of beer, centering it on the table between them.
Don immediately passed one to Charlie and took one for himself. "Come on," he said. "Celebrate. It's a homecoming."
Charlie grinned back, twisted the top off the beer and took a small drink. He smiled happily at them both. "I hate beer."
Alan laughed. "Son, I'm so glad you're home." He immediately frowned. "You look tired. How sick were you?"
Charlie connected with Don's eyes for a moment. It hadn't taken their father long to switch into Jewish Mother. He looked back at Alan. "I'm good, Dad. I've just been driving a lot the last couple of days."
To his surprise, Don took Alan's side. "Dad's right. You've been sick, and it's not as if you were on some kind of deadline. Why the big hurry?"
Charlie sipped some more beer before he answered. "It was time to come home," he finally said. "I wanted to come home."
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An hour later, Don had helped Charlie unload the car, Alan had started a load of laundry, Charlie had called Larry, and the Chinese food had arrived. They sat at the kitchen table again.
Charlie tried to spear rice with chopsticks. He was concentrating on his task, not looking at Don when he asked about Cecile.
Don hesitated just long enough for Charlie to give up on the rice. He looked up at Don and frowned a little. "Is there a problem?"
Don exchanged a look with his father, which elevated Charlie's concern, but when Don looked back he was smiling in an embarrassed kind of way. "Charlie…Cecile and I are getting married."
The chopsticks clattered to the table and Charlie's mouth dropped open. Don waited for him to speak. Charlie's face began to cloud and Don got a little concerned. "I wanted to talk to you about it first," he explained. "Really, you know, get your opinion. But you never stayed on the phone long when you called, and it never seemed like a telephone conversation, anyway. And it was important to ask her on our anniversary, I think." His words were speeding up as he became increasingly nervous, and he forced himself to stop.
Charlie finally looked away from him, down at the table. He still hadn't said anything. Don couldn't stand it very long. "Charlie? You like Cecile, right?"
Charlie looked back up at him and shook his head a little, as if clearing cobwebs from his brain. "What?"
"I asked if you…like Cecile?"
Charlie smiled. "No. I love Cecile. I love Cecile with you. I love you with Cecile. I'm just…a little surprised." His smile dropped away. "I didn't realize things had progressed that far. I guess I've been too wrapped up in myself."
Don smiled tentatively. "So we're good?"
Charlie nodded, but still looked sad.
"What is it, son?" Alan spoke gently, and Charlie glanced at him, then off to the side, at nothing.
"It's just…this is another thing, for the list."
Don was confused. "The list?"
"Yeah. The list of things I let get away. Those last months with Mom. All that time with Amita. Sharing this with you. I should have been here. I'm sorry."
Don was worried that Charlie was going to go into a funk on him again, and he reached out to touch his arm. "Hey, it's okay. I mean, yeah, I would have liked some time with you…I needed someone to ground me there for a few days…but I know you're here now. We saved all the details, we haven't discussed dates, or anything. I want to talk to you about some stuff."
Charlie smiled a little. "Me? You're not marrying me."
Don laughed. "Thank God. But really, Buddy. It's important to me that you're part of this, that you're good with all this."
Charlie smiled so brilliantly that it nearly broke Don's heart. He lifted his beer in a salute. "Wow. You're getting married."
Don had missed that smile. He hadn't realized how much Charlie had become a part of his life, how much he had come to depend on him. Countless times over the last few weeks he had been forced to stop himself halfway into dialing Charlie's number, ready to suggest lunch or a movie. Then he would feel the loss all over, again.
Now, Don raised his bottle and clinked it to his brother's. They both drew on their beers. "See, that's one thing right there," noted Don when he lowered his. "You're going to have to work on your toasts."
