The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (21 page)

Mr. Hunt stopped talking and bowed his head, probably remembering stuff they'd done together. I did the same thing to look respectful and mature, you know, and that's when I noticed I should've shined my dress shoes. I got worried Mr. Hunt might notice, too, and think I was being disrespectful. People get weird about things like that. I did the poor man's polish and rubbed the tops against the back of my calves.

Actually, he was staring at my tie.

“Looks like you spilled something.”

Sure enough—leave it to me to make an ass of myself—there was a glob of come, glistening smack dab in the center of the tie. Not only do I gotta strangle the weasel at somebody's wake, I've gotta show the evidence to her husband.
Hey, Mr. Hunt, look at my tie. Bet you can't guess what I was doing to myself in the bathroom, can ya?
I mumbled that I must've gotten something on me at the restaurant, rushed downstairs, tore the tie from my neck, rinsed it in the bathroom sink, and then stuffed it into the pocket of my suit.

When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine. Pastor Taylor said he didn't want to impose, but it would mean a lot to the Hunts if I served as a pallbearer at tomorrow's service. Mom called him back and said I'd be honored.

Saturday, October 20

Funeral directors are creepy. Being around dead people all the time must rub off on 'em—the pasty, ooohhh-doesn't-he-look-restful faces; suits just good enough to be buried in, but nothing too flashy or expensive; and the personalities of, well, corpses. Mr. Porter, the funeral director for Mrs. Hunt, was like that. If it weren't for the fact that I actually saw him blink, I'd've sworn somebody pulled
him
out of the box and propped him alongside his own casket.

We got to church early, so we stood in the narthex—which I learned in confirmation class is church-speak for
Jesus foy-yay
—until Mr. Porter stopped futzing with the flowers, walked toward us, and said we were welcome to wait in the fellowship room until just before the memorial. When he found out I was a pallbearer, he apologized and said some of the other pallbearers were already in the sanctuary (actually, it's called a nave—damn Pastor Taylor), offering their condolences to the family.

I walked in. The assistant pastor was lighting the altar candles and Pastor Taylor was speaking with Mr. Hunt and his mother, her arm clutching Mr. Hunt's waist. Rob was playing some “Come a Little Bit Closer” on the church organ and he was singing to some dark-haired guy with a mussed-up, longish haircut but with bangs along his forehead—the guy was Rob's kind of man. The grandmother shot Rob and the guy a dirty look. Rob got up and hugged the guy and they started laughing.

“Excuse me, Mr. Hunt,” the funeral director said, coughing softly. The guy with Rob turned around. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but this is Charles Stewart. Your brother asked that he serve as one of your sister-in-law's pallbearers.”

“Charlie,” Rob said like he was surprised to see me. “This is my uncle, Chris. My dad's little brother.”

Chris was anything but little. He was nearly as tall as me, and, Christ, he was built—huge shoulders and chest, thick neck, strong jaw, and a chin with a slight point. Chris's eyebrows were straight and so close to his eyes that it seemed like he was squinting. Chris had to be about thirty, but it was hard to tell. He looked much younger and
way
too hot for an old guy. I'd totally let him do me.

“Chris,” Rob continued the introduction, “this is Charlie, my boyfriend.”

“Hey, dude,” Chris said, smiling a big Crest Kids' grin that showed his molars. He shook my hand—his practically swallowed mine.

“And you, Robby,” Chris continued. I never dreamed anybody'd call him Robby. “Stop calling me ‘uncle.' I'm not that old, dude.”

“But you are,
Uncle
Chris,” Rob teased. “It won't be long before we're putting you in a nursing home. I got one picked out for you already.”

“Shut up, punk,” Chris laughed, tossing his head back. “Is he this bad around you?” Chris grabbed Rob by the wrist, twisting Rob's arm behind his back and then slamming his hips into Rob's butt pretending to hump him. “Because if he is, Charlie, this'll shut him up.”

“Christopher. Robert,” Rob's grandmother scolded. “Cut that out. You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Acting like that in church.” Grandma Hunt walked over to Chris and gave his ear a sharp jerk.

“Robby started it,” said Chris, smirking and massaging his ear.

“I don't care if he started it or not, Christopher,” she said, tugging his coat into place and straightening his tie. “You should be on a leash and a leather collar with metal studs.”

“Left it at home, Ma,” Chris smiled. “If I'd thought of it, dude, I
so
would've worn it.”

“Mom would have loved it,” Rob said, “but Dad would still have told you to at least wear a blazer.”

Duh
. That's why Rob's dad didn't freak about us dating, and why Rob got pissed about getting two stag tickets to homecoming. Guys liking other guys was normal in his family—at least it wasn't something they got worked up over.

“A blazer to a funeral,” Grandma Hunt said, tut-tutting. “Nearly thirty and can't afford a nice suit and tie. They don't have decent clothing stores in Chicago? Just Sears? If only you got yourself a real job. Acting, I swear if your father was alive—”

“He'd drop over dead. I know.”

Pastor Taylor, Mr. Porter, and Mr. Hunt walked over to us.

“When shall we expect the other pallbearers?” Mr. Porter glanced at his watch. “There are a few things I'd like to go over with them.”

Pallbearers should be allowed to wear cleats and work gloves. Carrying a casket may look easy, but even with five other guys, it ain't. Even though I only held one little section, it was still heavier than it looked. It wouldn't've been bad if everybody was the same height, but we weren't, so everybody struggled to keep the box level. Then there's the cemetery itself. The ground's not flat. I kept trying not to stumble over twigs and branches or slip on some dearly departed's headstone, and my dress shoes got zip for traction because of all the dew.

The graveside service was mostly okay. Mom and I stood in the back, where we really couldn't hear too much of what Pastor Taylor was saying. When Pastor Taylor was nearly finished, I'd noticed the nurse who Mr. Hunt had fired was next to us. Rob turned around, saw her, and waved. He whispered to his dad, then pointed her out. Mr. Hunt seemed pissed. He said something to Chris, who walked over to her.

“Julie,” he said, “you're not welcome here. It's best if you left.”

“Look, Chris,” Julie said. Her voice was cold. “Paul kicked me out once. We both know what happened after that. I just want him to see me and remember what he did to her.”

“Great timing,” said Chris. “He's seen you. Now get the hell out of here.”

Mr. Porter, seeing the commotion, broke away from the grave and came to Chris's side.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Hunt?” Porter asked. He placed a hand in the small of Chris's back, I guess to stop him from making a scene.

“No, dude,” Chris said. “This lady's leaving.”

Julie puffed her chest and acted like she planned on standing there until they dragged her away, but she finally sighed and stomped off. Chris and Mr. Porter returned to the rest of the family. Mom asked if I knew what that was about. I shrugged.

It did seem kind of weird, though. I mean, I remember Mr. Hunt and Julie getting into an argument, and yeah, it seemed serious at the time, but that was, like, weeks ago. I don't know. Maybe Mr. Hunt thought Julie was there to rub it in. Like he expected her to say that if he had just listened to her about the ventilator and the other stuff, then maybe Mrs. Hunt would still be alive.

I don't know. That'd be a pretty crappy thing to say to a guy at his wife's funeral.

 

 

Sunday, October 21

Almost as soon as we left the funeral luncheon, Mom and I started fighting. Christ, I didn't even have my seatbelt on yet. She'd asked me if I'd caught up on the schoolwork I'd missed. I guess I must've sighed or rolled my eyes, or just didn't see why she needed to be like First all of a sudden and act like the weight of the free world rested on my stupid pre-calc assignments.

“Look,” I said, making this whackin' big, world-weary sigh that even I have to admit deserved me getting my ass slapped back into last week. “It's bad enough getting college brochures as stocking stuffers from one parent. I can't handle both of you breathing down my neck. Just lay off for, like, two seconds, okay?”

Mom didn't say anything at first, and that's when I knew I wasn't up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle. No, I was in an ocean of shit, in a piss-poor canoe with no life preservers, and I was sinking fast.

“You want me to leave you alone?” Mom asked, staring through the windshield and refusing to look at me. “Fine.” Her voice had the flatness of a TV show's jury foreman reading a death sentence. “I get it, Charlie. We're horrible parents for having any expectations for you.”

“That's not it,” I said, groaning, stubbornly folding my arms across my chest, and rolling my eyes. For some reason, even though I knew I should, I couldn't put the emergency brakes on my clichéd, teenaged persecution complex.
Look at me, I'm poor pitiful Charlie. Watch my nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-I'm-going-to-eat-some-worms pouty indignation.

“Then what is it?” Mom said. The lines around her mouth tightened and the skin from her throat to her chest looked prickly and red. She drummed one thumb along the top of the steering wheel.

“It's just that you guys never fricking let up.”

“Watch the mouth.”

“Whatever…”

And that's when I got cracked across the chops. Mom hadn't hit me since, I dunno, I was a kid and she caught me trying to jam a bent-up paper clip in an electric socket. My lower lip started quivering like I was a toddler who'd taken a spill and was just waiting for someone to ask if I was okay before I started bawling.

“Charlie, I love you, but I will not allow you to talk to me that way.”

“So, you haul off and smack me?”

“You know what? I can't deal with you. Not when you're like this. Maybe you'd be better off staying with your father for a few days.”

“Mom,” I whined, but she'd already stopped listening. When she pulled into our driveway, she got away from me so fast it was like she thought I was radioactive.

I chased after her, shouting that I was sorry, begging her not to send me off to First's. It didn't do any good. She went inside, closing the front door—even though I was right behind her—and called First.

Here's a shocker—when First picked me up, there weren't any lectures from him about being a snotty little ingrate or how if I had mouthed off to him like I did to Mom, he would've carved me into chum and fed me to the bottom-feeders in Lake Michigan. All I got was, “Bad day, huh, kiddo?”

“Yeah,” I said. “It's been a real winner. You?”

“About the same.”

When we got to First's place, I dumped my stuff in the doorway.

“Here we are,” First said.

“Yeah,” I said, taking in the place. “Here we are.”

First's apartment wasn't exactly a swinging bachelor pad, unless your idea of a swinging bachelor pad is a pre-fabricated, pre-furnished rental unit decorated by some overweight, middle-aged empty nester whose design aesthetics were driven by such postmodern concepts as “cozy,” “homey,” and “comfy.” The place was all overstuffed couches, Ikea end tables, and painter-of-light-by-numbers English cottage drywall decorations. If it weren't for one of First's suit coats draped over a stool in the breakfast nook, the rental unit could have doubled for a model home or a chiropractor's waiting room. Rental plants, soft lights, muted colors, striving suburban middle-class blandness.

We ate dinner together in the kitchen. Between bites of microwaveable lasagna (
All the flavor of Italy! Now with twice the sodium!
), I watched him, wondering what his life would be like if he and Mom actually did get divorced. It wasn't pretty. I could picture him frying a gray, round eye steak, cutting his hand as he opened a can of French cut wax beans. Still, the idea of him dating was practically impossible to imagine.

Seriously, what was he gonna do? Go to a bar and hit on women half his age? Or would he just spend the rest of his life being
that
guy—the divorced dad who bitched about how his ex was breaking his balls, passed out every night from a six-pack stupor, and wasted whole weekends futzing around in the garage?

“Are you and Mom talking?” I asked, actually hoping, for his sake, that they were.

“A little,” he said, sopping the sauce on his plate with a piece of garlic bread. “Why? What's on your mind?”

I shrugged, trying to make him think that I didn't care one way or the other. I wasn't up for any “very special episode” father-son bonding moments. That'd be like giving him an engraved invitation to micromanage my life all over again.

“Did you guys ever split up before now?”

“What did she tell you?” He sounded curious, not defensive.

“She didn't say anything. I just heard you guys talking one night and it sounded like this isn't the first time you guys wanted to get…” For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to say “divorced.”

“Let's just say the last time was different.”

“Different how?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes narrowed, and his thumb and middle finger stroked his eyebrows against the grain. He looked like he was debating with himself about what to tell me. When he finally spoke, his voice was tentative, all stop-start, stop-start hesitation.