Chapter 3
Don pushed through the swinging door from the kitchen into the dining room and stopped abruptly. Charlie was not sleeping on the couch, where he had left him just a few minutes ago to go and start a pot of coffee. Rather, he was standing just in front of the large, picture window of the living room. His arms were wrapped around his torso and he was staring outside in a way that told Don he wasn't really seeing anything.
He started toward his brother and called softly, trying not to wake his father, asleep in the recliner. "Charlie? You okay?" There was no response, so when Don was close enough he touched Charlie's shoulder and tried again. "Charlie?"
The mathematician started and jerked, immediately grimacing and tightening his arms around his middle. "Ouch…"
Don tried to steer him back toward the couch. "Come on, lie back down for a while." As Charlie moved slowly to comply, Don frowned. "I still think you should be upstairs in your own bed. I'll help, it if hurts too much tackling the stairs."
"The couch is fine," Charlie answered quietly. A whoosh of air escaped him as he allowed Don to help him lower his uncooperative body down. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes while Don hovered anxiously over him.
Alan snorted, waking himself up. "What's going on?", he asked, fuzzily, fighting his way to his feet and looking toward his sons. "Is everything all right?"
Don shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The house was really cold, now that the furnace was completely out of commission. "We need to get some space heaters," he said, thinking out loud. He looked back at Charlie's pale face. "At least put the blanket back over you to keep warm."
Charlie wearily raised his head. "I'm fine," he said, in a voice too weak to please either man who was listening.
Alan rubbed his hand over his face. "I smell coffee. How about if I make us all some breakfast to go with that? Charlie? Do you think you could eat something?"
The pale face took on a decidedly green tint. "No," he said, without hesitation. Charlie thought about it another second and became even greener. "You're going to cook things?"
Alan looked at him, a little confused. "Yes. I thought I might make oatmeal…or, Donnie? Scrambled eggs?"
Charlie groaned and moved toward the edge of the couch. "I think maybe you're right about going upstairs," he said in defeat to his brother.
Don helped him carefully rise, grateful that the thought of smelling cooking food was at least finally driving Charlie to bed. "So what day is it, Chuck?", he asked, guiding Charlie by the elbow toward the stairs.
Charlie made a face Don couldn't see, since he was slightly behind him. "Saturday. 2006. George W. Bush. 31. I blew myself up. Dad wants me to cut my hair. You work for the FBI. You leap tall buildings in a single bound. Anything else?"
They had taken a few steps, and paused so Charlie could catch his breath. Don smiled. "As long as you remember that last part, I'm good."
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The space heater banged against the door of Charlie's room two hours later, and Don winced. He had hoped to set this up without waking Charlie. He continued to push the door open and looked toward the bed — completely missing the pile of books in his path. As he felt himself stumbling forward, and heard his own exclamation of surprise, Don had just enough time to figure out that his was going to be ugly. He windmilled with his free arm, hit something solid and warm that made a noise when he did it, and suddenly stopped.
"Damn," he heard Charlie hiss. "How much do you weigh these days?"
Don dropped the heater the few inches that remained for it to hit the floor, hoping it didn't break. He had to use both hands to claw his way up Charlie's chest until he was standing straight again. He pushed himself back as soon as he could, looking down at the books to make sure his feet were safe this time. "I don't know if I should thank you or yell at you for booby-trapping this place," he started, but stopped when he looked back at Charlie and saw him clutching his t-shirt over his heart.
"I think that hurt," Charlie whispered, and Don felt terrible.
"You should have let me fall."
"With that thing in your hand? Heaters can be dangerous, you know. You could have been hurt."
Don relaxed a little and grinned. "What were you doing up, anyway? I thought you'd be sleeping."
"I heard you and Dad whispering in the hall. I was coming to see what was going on."
Don looked down at the space heater. "We were planning where to put these. Stan brought over a couple for us to borrow, and we had one in the basement…" He frowned, worried. "This cold spell could last. I should go buy a couple more."
Charlie turned, hand still clutching his t-shirt, and walked slowly back to the bed. He sat on the edge and sighed. "I found a place. They're coming Monday. I may need a new unit. What do you think? Heat pump?"
Don was confused. "What do you mean, you found a place?" He focused on Charlie's hand, again. "You ok?"
Charlie shrugged and took his hand off his t-shirt long enough to point at the desk. "Yellow pages. Wonderful invention." He touched the back of his head. "Ow."
Don leaned over and picked up the space heater. "Stop touching it." He fought his way across the room and found an electrical outlet near Charlie's bed. He plugged in the heater, relieved when it came on as he flipped the switch. He positioned it carefully and then joined Charlie on the edge of the bed. "That gonna be ok?"
Charlie pushed himself back and leaned against the wall, bringing his legs up and behind Don with a series of grunts and hisses. "Perfect. Thanks."
Don sat. It had been several hours since the accident, but he still felt the need to reassure himself of Charlie's health and welfare. He wanted to just sit there a while. "We could have taken care of the furnace. You should be resting."
Charlie smiled. "It's my house. My responsibility. And I turned the pages very slowly, if that makes you feel better."
Don grinned at his brother. Charlie's hand was resting on his sternum, again, and he had a far-away, almost blank look on his face. Don grew concerned, again. "Seriously, Charlie. You need something for pain?"
Charlie didn't answer, and Don's concern rose a notch. He shook Charlie's leg and tried again. "Charlie!"
The younger man's eyes focused on Don. "What? Did I miss something?"
Don indicated the hand over Charlie's heart. "Pain?"
Charlie looked down and seemed surprised to see his own hand. He dropped it to his lap. "It's okay."
Don studied him and began to feel a familiar sense of dread. "You're not doing that P thing in your head, are you?"
Charlie held his gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes to his lap. "Don…we never really talked about that. Calmly, I mean. After." He looked back up. "I know you were upset by what I did those last three months of Mom's illness…"
Don stood, abruptly. "That's done, Charlie."
His voice was brusque, and Charlie was a little taken aback."Is it?", he asked, apprehensively.
Don crossed his arms in front of him. "Charlie, I don't think we should do this."
Charlie's apprehension grew. "But I wanted…"
Don interrupted, quietly. "We won't go there, Charlie. I don't want to talk about this." Charlie just looked at him. His mouth was still open, and he looked so wounded that Don hurried on. "Listen, Buddy, I'm glad you weren't seriously hurt last night, and whatever you need, you let me know." At the end, his voice sounded both firm, and reluctant. "I won't talk about this, though." Charlie looked away, then, and Don saw him swallow. He slid down the wall so that he was lying down, and turned on his side away from Don. He wrapped his arms protectively around himself. Don sighed. "Charlie…"
"I'm tired," came the muffled reply. "Thank-you for the space heater."
Don stood for a moment, and couldn't think of anything else he was willing to say. Apparently, Charlie couldn't, either. When the silence grew uncomfortable, Don whispered a quick "Sleep well," turned, and left the room.