The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (22 page)

“I wanted kids,” he said. “She…your mother…she said she wanted them, too. And we tried.”

“What happened?”

“This is really something you should be asking her, Charlie.” First carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it under the faucet. He started making coffee.

“What happened?” I asked again, somehow knowing whatever it was that he was afraid to talk about was something I'd never learn from Mom.

“We had a miscarriage. We'd just ended the second trimester with no problems. When it happened, it was a complete shock.”

“I don't remember Mom being pregnant.” Honestly, I didn't.

“You had to be about three or four years old, and you were really excited about having a baby brother or sister. Afterwards, you kept asking about the baby…when it was coming. At first, I thought that was the hardest part.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, after the miscarriage, it was like there was this rift separating me and your mother. It wasn't anyone's fault, and I'm not sure either of us knew it was happening at first, but somehow we started pulling apart. Probably when we needed each other the most. Your mother wanted to get pregnant again. The doctors said another miscarriage was likely, but she wanted to try anyway. I couldn't.”

Dad—what's the point in trying to be cute by calling him First; Christ, even I'm not gonna be a smart-ass when someone's hurting like he was—Dad lowered his head as his hand worked the back of his neck. He sighed, poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat down at the table across from me. His face was slack and he looked weak, exhausted.

“I couldn't go through that again,” Dad continued, “even though she wanted to. It was just too terrible.”

I asked him what had stopped them from getting divorced back then.

“We found our way back to each other. It took time, but we did it. I couldn't risk losing either of you. I think it would've killed me. And now, in some ways, it feels like that all over again.”

I didn't know what to say, so I just got up, squeezed Dad's shoulder, and found my way to the apartment's guest bedroom.

The more I think about it (and that's all I've been doing for the last couple of hours), I can kinda see how First—I mean, Dad—ended up such a control freak with me. Still, it'd have been nice if he maybe told me this shit before. Maybe I wouldn't have been such a jackass to him.

Monday, October 22

Soccer practice sucked tonight. The team's really crappy without Rob. If we can't get our act together, we're gonna lose state. It's less than two weeks away.

Rob's still not back at school yet. Since Dad says I'm still technically grounded for mouthing off to Mom and I'm not supposed to basically have a life, I called Rob tonight to see how he's holding up. He said he was fine, but I could tell he was lying.

He sounded okay. Exhausted and maybe a little pissed, but he wasn't crying. I was the one who ended up doing that.

We'd been struggling through small talk—me saying I liked his family, Rob joking that, no, I
liked
his uncle; me admitting that, yeah, Chris was hot, but who'd want to date a guy who was thirty? At that age, it's complaints about bad backs, root canals, how their metabolisms weren't what they used to be, and how the price of a box of Just for Men hair coloring had gone up a buck.

Rob laughed, then asked, “Why haven't you been over, Charlie? I miss you.”

He didn't sound needy or upset, and I guess that's what killed me. I told him that I wanted to be there, wanted to hug him until he didn't hurt anymore. It's just that I was grounded, and—

And that wasn't any excuse. The last few days, I've been such a shit.

After I got off the phone with Rob, Dad hollered for me, and wanted to know who I'd been talking to. For a split second, I was half-tempted to make some comment about how I was talking to my heroin dealer and seriously, why did he always have to act like he suspected anyone I talked to was a drunk-driving, date-raping, Swastika-on-the-side-of-a-synagogue-spray-painting, kiddie-porn-loving, terrorist-funding, granny mugger. Then it dawned on me, Mr. Not So Swift on the Up-take, that maybe, Dad was just genuinely curious.

When I told him that I'd called Rob to see how he was doing, Dad started drilling me with all these totally random questions about Mr. Hunt and Mrs. Hunt before she died. Like:
Were there a lot of pills—prescription bottles at the house?
I guess. Mrs. Hunt
was
sick.
How many?
I dunno. A lot. I didn't count.
Did you ever meet a nurse named Julie Carter at the Hunts?
I guess.
Did you talk to her?
No.
What was she like? Did she seem honest?
I only saw her like once at the house and then at Mrs. Hunt's funeral.
Did she get along with the family?
Yes. No. I dunno. I heard her arguing with Mr. Hunt once. And at the funeral, she seemed, like, I dunno, she wanted to make a scene or something.

Dad's face got this very serious look when I mentioned Julie arguing with Rob's dad. “What's this about?” I asked.

Dad ignored my question. “Do you remember what they were arguing about?”

“Sorta,” I said. “I think they were talking about Mrs. Hunt's treatment.”

“Do you remember what they said?”

“Not really. I don't think they agreed with each other is all.” I was beginning to freak out, 'cuz Dad had slipped into his old First-as-grand-inquisitor role all over again. It was like he wanted me to tell him something—God only knows what—so he could use it, God only knows how.

“Seriously, you're wigging me out. What's going on, Dad?” I asked. My knee shook and I prayed Dad couldn't see it trembling through my pant leg.

“Don't worry,” Dad said, smiling. “It looks like it's nothing. Mrs. Carter stopped by our office today looking to stir up trouble. Sounds like she's just got an axe to grind.”

“About what?” I asked, my voice chipping like bone china.

“Who knows? She told me she thought Mrs. Hunt's death may have been an assisted suicide, but it sounds like she's just got a bug up her ass about the family.”

“So what happened?”

“Mrs. Carter didn't think I was taking her seriously, so she asked to see Fisk, so I showed her to his office.”

“And?” I asked, drawing the word out so I didn't sound nervous.

“I'm not sure. Fisk left before I could ask him what he thought. Why? Is there something you're not telling me?”

“No,” I said, a little too quickly.

“Don't worry, kiddo. There are some people out there who just get off on stirring up a shit storm.”

Don't worry.
Right
. Fuck, I don't know what to do. Dad's probably right; the whole thing's probably nothing. I mean, seriously, you'd have to be a total flaming bitch to try and ruin someone's funeral like Julie did.

Still, what if it's true? It's not like Mr. Hunt had a reason to be ordering all those prescriptions. Who am I kidding? It's probably true. Mr. Hunt fired Julie 'cuz he knew she'd never let him end her suffering. Christ, your
own
dad killing your mom. Like
actually
planning it, getting all those pills, forcing her to take them. That's
way
too fucking intense.

Fuck. This is my fault. How could I have been so stupid? Shit. I should've said something about the pills to somebody. If I had, I dunno, maybe Mr. Hunt could've gotten help. Maybe someone could have talked him out of doing it and fucking things up for him and Rob. If I had, Mrs. Hunt would still be alive—at least for a little while longer.

Shit. I seriously don't know what to believe. Part of me wants to call Rob back right now, but if this blows over or it turns out to be nothing, I'll look like a total ass. Fuck Julie Carter.

Tuesday, October 23

The thing about guys my age I'll never understand is how they freak about two dudes messing around, but give them some kind of excuse—doesn't matter how lame it is—and they're practically elbowing each other to be first in line at the butt and balls buffet.

It starts with junior high sleepovers. No worries, it's only natural to check out who's got pubes. And jacking off with a bud—hey, just to see who shoots first. By high school, pretty much anything goes—towel snapping; grab-assing; wagging your dick in front of a teammate's face and joking how he's got better lips than any chick, as long it's clear that if a real fag looked at you, you'd
sooo
kick his ass; and getting wood during the football team's elephant walk only 'cuz you were imagining that it was Kim Green's hand on your crank.

Sure, it'd be easy to say these guys are a bunch of homos-in-training. But these are the guys who knock out knuckle babies any time a girl with a big pair of tits or a nice ass saunters through the Pit. It's not really a sex thing. To them, dicks are toys. They want to show 'em off.

I guess what got me thinking about this is the Crosstown Classic. It's this race a bunch of seniors started years ago. Guys form teams of three and in the middle of the night they run across town (
duh
), wearing only shoes, socks, a bandanna, and a jockstrap. The race starts at the Crystal Lake Country Club, goes along Route 14 with a check-in at Dollar Video, and it ends at Twin Ponds, the nine-hole public golf course in town.

Over crappy pizza and way-too-greasy fries, Bink asked me if I wanted to run with him Friday night. Bink was gung ho on doing it, mostly 'cuz it'd be something he could brag about thirty years from now, instead of having to explain what it was like being the QB for the world's worst high school football team ever.

“Dana doesn't know you're running, does she?” I asked.

The Crosstown Classic was the kinda thing that'd make Dana douse her bra in lighter fluid and race for the nearest blowtorch. Of course, she'd first have to lecture everybody about “male privilege” and how guys can run nearly naked through the streets and only get “boys-will-be-boys” shrugs. But, God forbid, if a woman makes a peep about how it's her body and she can do what she wants with it, they're burning her at the stake.

Bink mopped a blob of grease from his chin and stared at me, eyes narrowing. “No, and she's not gonna, is she, Charlie?”

“Who all's on your team?”

“Me and you. That's it so far,” Bink said, stuffing his mouth with half his slice. He then asked if I thought Rob would be on our team. Rob, I said, probably wasn't at the stage in the grieving process where you run across Crystal Lake in a jock.

Bink wanted to know what guys I thought could join “our” team. I suggested Jon Bales (daydreaming about watching the muscles of his ass as I ran behind him). Bink said somebody already had him. Bink suggested Eric Degrassi. Too fat, I said. He'd get us busted. Lance Willford? “Back acne” is what I thought, but said he was too slow. Joan Hawkings, I offered. It's gotta be a guy, Bink said. She's close enough. Stuff a sock in her jock, no one'd know. Chan Lin? Bink closed his eyes and shook his head in disbelief. He was right. There was no way we'd convince a Laotian Mormon to give up his Jesus jammies.

I was about to give up and back out when Bink suggested Steve Marshall. I said no. Hell, I practically shouted it. There was no way I was running with that perverted little midget, but Bink wasn't having any of it.

So now, short of a terminal illness, I'm gonna spend Friday night freezing my ass off. I wonder how you catch malaria.

Wednesday, October 24

So I finally saw Rob today. I haven't talked much about what's going on there, not 'cuz I haven't been thinking about it—hell, I'm barely sleeping 'cuz it's the only thing I can think about. I guess the reason I haven't written anything here is 'cuz I dunno what the hell I'd say. It's like every time I try to sit down and figure things out, I just get more confused and end up tearing page after page out of this damn thing. Then there's part of me that's completely paranoid—like I'm afraid I'll write something down, and then Dad, in one of his First-esque moods, will find this, read it, and it'll turn out that something I wrote will cause a frickin' damn universe of trouble.

Anyhow, the whole Nurse Julie thing really has been eating me up over the last few days, and I finally decided it was something I ought to tell Rob about. If nothing happens, well, Rob and I can just joke about what a crazy bitch Julie is; and if something does happen, well at least Rob can't accuse me of holding out on him. So, after school today, I lied to Coach Mueller about not feeling well, skipped practice and rode my ten-speed over to Rob's house. (And for the record, driving lessons with Dad have reached a
Rules of the Road
détente—hey, I know my Roger Moore-era Bond films. If I had to guess, I'm betting the main reason he's stopped riding my ass about tailgating school buses is because he's secretly mainlining Zoloft.)

When I got to Rob's house, he was in the front yard raking leaves. I was expecting him to look like crap, his eyes all puffy and bloodshot, huge bags under 'em. Actually, he looked kinda hot with his hair mussed and shaggier than I'd seen it, bangs drooping, a shadow of blue-black stubble along his jaw. I started getting a chubby, which was
sooo
wrong.

“You're late,” Rob shouted at me. I dumped my bike along the driveway. Rob tossed the rake and I caught it by the handle. “It's time for my coffee break.”

“Listen, Pedro,” I said, hoping Rob'd catch on to the fact that he was the only white person on his block that was outside doing yard work. I think in Turnberry, it's practically illegal not to hire Mexicans to do the crap work. “Mr. Hunt's not paying you to take coffee breaks. He'll call immigration if he catches you slacking.”