Title: The Sound of Silence

Author: FraidyCat

Disclaimer: I own the threadbare robe that I wear, and the graying hair on my head, and nothing else. You are encouraged to let the cat out. I mean, to support financially those who truly own these fine, strapping young men and their friends.

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Chapter Seven: Homecoming

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Don vacillated between grateful relief and mind-numbing terror; there did not seem to be a lot of ground in-between the two.

He went along on Charlie's Tuesday afternoon walk with the physical therapist tech, and he was...proud. Impressed. The man has suffered a stroke two days before, and now he was training for a marathon. There were no aluminum walkers, no crutches, no canes; if anything, the tech had to ask him repeatedly to slow down. Charlie carried on simultaneous conversations with Don, the PT tech, and Amita, who they were walking to the fifth floor office of Dr. Lincarli; she was making good on her promise to gather as much information as she could. The only thing Don found a little unusual about that was that Charlie was not going with her. It made him a little nervous, but he finally decided that maybe Charlie had heard enough medspeak for a while, and let it go. If his brother was content to let Dad chase down dieticians and send Amita to beard the lion in its den, that was fine with Don.

Charlie still slept a lot, sometimes dropping off in the middle of a sentence, and the terror would push at the edges of the relief, then. Don was always afraid that when he woke up, Charlie wouldn't be able to talk anymore, or would have lost his ability to walk. They all tried very hard not to talk about the elephant in the living room -- Charlie's missing numbers -- but as they sat in the room on Wednesday morning, awaiting release papers, Charlie started a conversation that would almost kill them all.

He had just awoken from a brief nap in the large chair, so he felt pretty good. Amita was covering her own class, since she was back in the area, but Alan and Don were both perched on the edge of the bed. Neither one had wanted to sit out this trip; both had spent too many hours dreading the possibility of its never happening. Charlie picked at the knee of the jeans Alan had brought him to wear home. "When I see Dr. Martin tomorrow afternoon, I'm going to ask if I can go ahead and fly up to Edmonton Saturday," he announced, and Alan jumped off the edge of the bed and started pacing.

"Don't be ridiculous," he fumed, fear disguising itself as anger. Far from allowing Charlie to fly away, he was still in the 'how much for a roll of shrink-wrap' stage. "Larry doesn't want you endangering your health just to eat rubber chicken and listen to a speech you helped write!"

Charlie looked up, his face a study of stubbornness and affront. "Look, I know I'm not 100 percent, yet. I could change the flight, so instead of going in the afternoon I could go in the morning. That way there would be time for a long nap before the banquet." Alan threw his hands in the air and turned his back, and Charlie continued to present his case. "I'm sure Amita would go with me, so I wouldn't be alone."

Alan whirled around again. "Absolutely not. The air pressure could...I don't know, do something, and shoot a blod clot to your brain..."

Don chose that moment to enter the fray and forever-after regretted it. "Besides," he interjected, "that's a lot of money. Not only would you have to buy a last-minute ticket for Amita, you'd have to change your own. There's a penalty for that, you know. You could end up spending the 400.00 you're already out two or three more times! Come on Charlie," he wheedled, "add it up!"

Utter silence descended upon the room.

Alan stopped pacing and stared aghast at Don, who swore under his breath and watched the blood drain from Charlie's face. "I'm sorry," he started, but Charlie stopped him with a growl.

"I can't seem to do that, you thoughtless son of a bitch," his brother glared at him. "How much is 400.00, plus 400.00 more, plus 400.00 more?"

Don couldn't believe he could still talk around the foot lodged firmly in his mouth, but he managed. "It's three times 400," he mumbled, and Alan groaned and dropped his head to study his shoes.

Surprisingly, that answer seemed to be exactly what Charlie wanted. "Oh," he responded, all trace of bitterness gone. "1,200.00, then." He looked uncertainly between Don and Alan. "Do I have that much?"

Alan lifted his head and shot a murderous look at Don before he pulled together a tight grin for Charlie. "Yes, I'm certain that you do. But I'm not concerned about the money. At least do as you suggested, and discuss it with Dr. Martin."

Charlie seemed to think for a moment and then deflated like a balloon. "Never mind," he said morosely. "I probably need to save my money. Millie's going to have to fire me."

Don thought he couldn't feel any worse, but he kept finding new lows the rest of the day. Charlie was silent and detached. Although the trip home had obviously exhausted him, still he roamed the Craftsman like a displaced ghost, fingering the collection of math books in the solarium or staring absently at the numbers on the television remote until Don wanted to scream.

At least when Amita showed up late in the afternoon, armed with reams of research, Charlie feigned interest in her discoveries long enough for Don to escape. He didn't know how to help his brother. Ever since the fast food illustration the day before, he had been trying to think of a job that didn't need math, himself. He thought he had it once, when he noticed a house painter's van across the street, but then he realized the man had to calculate a bid by determining how much paint he would use, and how many hours he would work. It was all good and well to tell Charlie just to be patient, and the numbers would come back; but what if they didn't? How could someone who was declared a mathematical prodigy at the age of 3 deal with not being able to balance his checkbook at 30?

Don spent most of Thursday away from the house, determined not to do any more damage. He knew he should probably check in with Megan and Colby again, but he dreaded that phone call. So, he stuck close to home, doing three loads of laundry and scouring the apartment as if he expected company. He finally gave up around four and headed to the house, anxious to get a report from Dr. Martin and hoping to hell that Charlie hadn't talked him into letting him fly to Edmonton. He relaxed marginally at everyone's upbeat demeanor; especially when Charlie reported proudly that he had called the airline and been bumped from supervisor to supervisor until he talked someone into refunding his non-refundable ticket. "Maybe I can find something else to teach," he finished somewhat wistfully. "I like to talk." Don, standing at the stove with his father, exchanged a look with Alan and didn't comment.

Amita had spent most of the day with them, although she had just left for campus, and Charlie was definitely more chipper when she was around. Her positive attitude, her certainty that they had all dodged a bullet, was like a balm. He tried to stay awake when she was there, so he was very tired by the time she left. Chopping tomatoes for a salad, Don noticed that he was nodding at the kitchen table. He was just about to suggest to his father that they let him nap for a while before dinner, when the front doorbell chimed. Alan's head whipped around, and Charlie's head jerked up. Don headed for the swinging door into the house proper. "I got it," he assured his father. "You promised Charlie that lasagna several days ago; I wouldn't back away right now if I were you."

Charlie had risen from the table and moved to the counter, to take over the tomatoes, when Don pushed back into the kitchen. "It's the paper boy," he informed his father. "He's collecting for last month. I would have paid him, but I'm living in a cash-free society."

Alan chuckled and wiped his hands on a towel, reaching into his jeans for his wallet. "It's 24.00, I think…"

Don nodded. "Yeah, that's what he said."

Alan fingered through the bills and huffed. "Charlie, I've just got 50s. Can you break one for me?"

"Sure." Charlie set down the knife and the tomato, wiped his hands on his jeans and took out his own wallet. Flipping it open, Don watched him withdraw several 20s, 10s and singles. He stared at the wad of money for a moment and then turned to meet his father, who had moved across the kitchen floor and stopped directly in front of Don. Charlie pushed the entire conglomeration into Alan's hands. "I…don't know how to break a 50," he said softly. "Is this enough?"

That quickly, Don was back to terror. The tableau struck him as one of the saddest things he had ever seen. He was surprised at his father's calm demeanor. "Here, Charlie," Alan started, and he began to count bills into his son's hand. "This is the 50 I'm giving you." He held up two more bills. "There are several ways to do it, but this is the easiest. I have two of your 20s here. Two times 20 is?"

"40," Charlie smiled.

"Good." Alan smiled back and looked at the money in his hand. "I see you have a lot of 1s here, and I need some. Count them with me. We'll start at 41, because we know that we have 40 already."

Charlie looked fascinated, his eyes glued to his father's hands. "41," he said as the first dollar made an appearance. "42," he and Alan said together as another was added to the two 20s Charlie was holding. Don watched in silence as they counted to 47, and then felt himself joining in. "48," they chorused in unison. "49." As the three said "50", Charlie broke into a huge smile.

"That's it!" he crowed happily. "You need 50!"

Alan smiled, and took the two 20s and ten 1s from Charlie, pressing the rest of the money back into his hand. "I never got to teach you that before," he said, then reddened a little and moved toward the front of the house. "That poor boy is still waiting. I'll be right back."

Charlie grinned at Don, and the terror was back to relief. Maybe Charlie could learn about his missing numbers; jumpstart his right hemisphere. Maybe Amita had been right to take a proactive stance from the beginning.

Charlie interrupted his musings, excitedly opening his hands to show Don the money.

"How else?" he asked, and Don's brow furrowed in confusion.

"How else what?"

Charlie almost threw the money at him. "Dad said I could make 50 some other way," he explained impatiently. "Can you show me?"

Don smiled, and looked down at Charlie's hands. He picked out a bill and held it up. "This is a 10, Chuck. All those 1s we just counted make this much. You could have used one 10 with your two 20s."

"And five times 10 is 50, right?"

Don nodded happily, finding it hard to speak. He was 35 years old, standing in a kitchen teaching his 30-year-old brother how to make 50, and life was as sweet as it had ever been. He saw Charlie frown a little then, and his grin broke. "What, Buddy?"

Charlie gestured toward Don's jeans. "I need some help with math, I'm not stupid. You just put my money in your pocket."