Twisted Ones

by Packer, Vin

  “He’s no different from any kid of yours,” Howard Berrey had answered. “He’s just got a good memory.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Berrey, but he had to read all that stuff first, to memorize it. Kid of mine can’t even read the funny papers.”

  Duke had no answer for that. It was true that Chuck read books like a hungry tomcat devoured mice; read anything he could get his hands on, and when he ran out of things, Chuck hiked himself off to the library. Sometimes he came back with as many as ten books, the absolute maximum he could check out. History books, books on geology, novels, books on art—hell, anything that was between covers.

  What’d he want to do all that reading for?

  It was probably Evelyn’s fault, though the good Lord knows when Duke Berrey met Evelyn, she didn’t know

  Paris was in France. It had to be Evelyn’s fault. All the while Howie Jr. was growing up, Duke had been home. He hadn’t accepted the sales job until after Howie enlisted in the Marines, and look at Howie. You couldn’t find a better kid. Howie’d read a book or two himself, but they weren’t his East and West, for Pete’s sake. Even if Chuck was bright, Duke wouldn’t worry if he wanted to be an engineer or something; if he wanted to read up on something that would help him careerwise in the future, but what kind of a job was Chuck going to be able to get when it came time? Some kind of teacher? Some kind of professor? Make beans for a salary?

  Anyway, Duke Berrey wasn’t going to worry about Chuck’s distant future that afternoon. There was the immediate future to ponder. There was tonight. Chuck was supposed to be at the studio by eight-thirty. Evelyn and Duke and Chuck were having dinner in New York with Duke’s boss.

  “I’d like to meet that boy of yours,” Mr. Carter had said, “Do you think that’s possible, Duke?”

  Duke Berrey had tremendous respect for Paul Carter. Here was a man who’d started at scratch, worked himself up the ladder one rung at a time until now he was president of Sterling Sporting Goods. No college degree, no fancy-pancy; just a hell of a lot of damn hard work and a love of sports. It was a pleasure to work for a man like Paul Carter, and more than anything, Duke Berrey hoped the respect was mutual.

  For a moment longer, he listened to Evelyn and Chuck giggle and babble in the kitchen, listened until he was sick and tired of it, and then strode through the hallway out there and stood in the entranceway, glaring.

  Charles Berrey looked up at him with a puzzled expression. He was never able to fathom his father’s moods. He liked his father much better than he liked his mother, but he knew that when it came to their feelings for him, it was the other way around.

  His mother said, “Well, what’s eating you?”

  “Let’s all play a game,” said his father, “Let’s all try to talk in words of one syllable for twenty-four hours.”

  That was funny. Charles Berrey had to laugh at that one. Maybe if he got the chance, he’d tell that one to Jackie Paul tonight. It was good irony, under the circumstances, he decided.

  His mother said, “I’m afraid that’s the only choice you and I have, Howard.”

  Charles Berrey watched his father’s expression. Was he angry at something? It was very difficult to decipher any meaning from his father’s expressions.

  “Chuck,” said his father, “do you remember who we’re meeting for dinner?”

  “That’s a hot one,” his mother said. “Does he remember.”

  “Mr. Carter,” said Chuck. “President of Sterling Sporting Goods.”

  “The boss, to you,” said his father.

  “The boss,” said Chuck giggling. He liked his father. His father was most amusing.

  “Has Carter got any kids?” his mother asked.

  “Three.”

  “Oh yeah? I never heard anything about them.”

  “Well, they haven’t been on television, if that’s what you mean, Evelyn.”

  “I’ll bet they haven’t,” said his mother.

  “What are you trying to say, that Paul Carter’s kids aren’t any good because they haven’t won any money on Cash-Answer? Is that your theory, Evelyn?”

  “That’s only one of my theories. I’ve got a lot of theories about Paul Carter.”

  “Like?”

  “Like how come he suddenly wants us all to have dinner in New York? Hah? How come all of a sudden old man Carter wants us all to come in and sit around at dinner with him, Howard?”

  “He wants to meet Chuck.”

  “Oh, sure. Sure. Just wants to meet Chuck,” said Evelyn Berrey. “He’s had eight years to meet Chuck, and twenty-two years to meet Howie, and he’s never got around to either before now.”

  Charles Berrey was pleased. What his mother was saying was true. Mr. Carter had asked them to dinner because of him. Charles Berrey was pleased because he had done something for his father. It was never easy to do anything for dad; in fact, when before had he ever done one thing that dad really approved of? You see, the difficulty was one of basic communication between himself and his father. They had enormous trouble exchanging ideas. It was perplexing.

  “Shut your yap, Evelyn,” said Howard Berrey. “Just shut your yap!”

  “Maybe Carter would like Chuck to plug Sterling, hah? Just a little plug, hah?”

  “Evelyn, Carter’s just taking an interest in Chuck,” said Howard Berrey, “and I’m damn honored.”

  “Oh, honored. Honored! He’s got three kids of his own to take an interest in, hasn’t he? But he’s big-hearted, Carter is. Old big-hearted Carter. Going to ride to Glory on Chuckles’ coattails.”

  “Shut up, Evelyn. I’m warning you!”

  “His own kids are flops. Flops!”

  “At least they don’t wet their beds every night,” said Howard Berrey.

  That was the last thing he had wanted to say. He stood in helpless silence while his son ran from the room. He stood sick inside of himself, hating his own guts, not even caring that Evelyn Berrey, opposite him, was calling him the biggest goddam bastard of all time.

  • • •

  At five-thirty that afternoon, Charles Berrey heard his mother say: “Well, you’ve got to go in and talk to him, Howard. That’s all there is to it.”

  Charles was sitting in his room on the bed, with the door shut, but in the Berrey house, the walls were so thin you could hear right through them.

  He had been reading Ironside’s book, British Painting Since 1939, but he quickly pushed it under his pillow. He hopped off his bed and went across to his knife rack. His father had begun Charles Berrey’s knife collection last Christmas by presenting him with a standard hunter’s knife and a Japanese sword. For his birthday, his father had given him an Indonesian knife with a guarded blade, which Charles learned was for rice-cutting. His brother Howie had sent him a straight-bladed knife used by the Temme in Africa for sacrifice. While he was not very enthusiastic about this collection, Charles had learned to feign fascination. Best of all, Charles liked the little chipped flint knife he had bought with his allowance from the Musuem of Natural History. It was the kind used in the Neolithic period, and it did not look as frightening or dangerous as the rest.

  When his father came into the room, Charles Berrey was pretending to examine one of the knives, as though he had been absorbed in this occupation all along.

  His father said, “Hi, fella!”

  “Oh, hi, dad.”

  “I thought we could have a little confab, Chuck.”

  “Sure, dad,” said Charles Berrey. “I was just looking over my cutlery.”

  His father sighed. “You always find another way to say it, don’t you, Chuck?”

  “Knives are cutlery, dad.”

  “Table knives, Chuck. People don’t call other knives cutlery.”

  “On the contrary,” said Charles Berrey, “all knives are cutlery. Why, the cutlass was named for that purpose. That was a sword used by sailors on war vessels.”

  “Chuck, I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

  “I wasn’t arguing, dad.”
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  “It beats me why you just can’t say knives. Why do you have to show off and say cutlery? People say knives. And people say ships, not vessels. Did you ever hear a sailor say he had to get back to the vessel?”

  “No, sir,” said Charles Berrey pushing his glasses back on the end of his nose. “No, sir.”

  “Now you’re mad, I suppose.”

  “No, sir, I’m not angry.”

  “Chuck, is it so hard for you to say the same things eveveryone else says? I just said ‘mad.’ You said ‘angry.’ Now would it have killed you to say, I’m not mad.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Chuck, don’t sir me, son. I mean, why does everything have to get so formal between us?”

  “I don’t mean it to, dad.”

  “I know you don’t, Chuck. Oh, God, I don’t know.” His father sank down on the bed and cracked his knuckles. “Chuck,” he said, “I came in here to tell you I was sorry for saying that back in the kitchen.”

  “It’s all right, dad. I didn’t mean to have such severe reaction.”

  His father sighed again, staring at his large hands, while Charles Berrey pulled his chair out from his desk and sat on it.

  “Did I say something wrong again?” said Charles.

  “You don’t say anything wrong, Chuck. It isn’t that you say anything wrong, for Pete’s sake. Look, Chuck,” his father said, “I’ll try to demonstrate something. In my business, one demonstration is worth a thousand words. Now, look …” His father thought for a moment. Then he stood up. “Chuck,” he said, “Come over here and punch me. Punch me right smack in the belly as hard as you can!”

  The boy regarded him momentarily with a puzzled frown. He got off the chair and walked across to the father. With his fist raised, he paused questioningly.

  “Go ahead, Chuck! Sock me right in the belly, hard!”

  Charles Berrey did as he was told.

  His father winced. “Ow!” he said, “That hurt!”

  “I’m sorry, dad.”

  “No, now—wait a minute. I said, that hurt! It hurt, Chuck. Do you get that? Now, if I hadn’t expected it, and you’d just walked up and pounded on me that way, it might make me mad. Do you understand, Chuck?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “So I’d be mad at you, see? And if you were to come to me later and apologize to me, I’d say: ‘Well, Chuck, I didn’t mean to get so mad.’ Do you see, Chuck?”

  “Y-yes, I think so.”

  “In other words, son, I wouldn’t go into all that stuff about severe reaction. I’d just plain say right out that it had made me mad.”

  “Yes, dad.”

  “Okay, Chuck?”

  “Yes. Okay.”

  “That’s all there is to it, Chuck,” said his father smiling. “You just say what you mean.”

  “I see,” said Charles Berrey.

  His father sat back down on the bed, more relaxed now.

  He said, “How do you like being in the limelight, kid?”

  “All right.”

  “You know, Chuck, your mother and I are damn proud of you.”

  “Thank you, sir … dad.”

  “Now, it was your decision to go on again this week, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ll make it, kid. I’m not at all worried about that.”

  “What are you worried about, dad?”

  “Worried? Well, Chuck, I’m not worried. You can’t call it being worried. I just want to have a chat with you.”

  “All right, dad.”

  “For instance, tonight. Jackie Paul’s going to ask you a few questions before you go into the Contemplation Chamber, right?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, right!”

  “Oh, you know—routine questions. What do you do for a hobby. What are you going to be when you grow up. That kind of stuff.”

  Charles Berrey giggled. “I guess it’s pretty plain what I do for a hobby.”

  “You mean read, Chuck?”

  “Sure,” Charles laughed.

  “Well, now, Chuck, you weren’t reading when I came in. You were playing with your knife collection, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, dad.”

  “Why don’t you say something about your knife collection? I bet Jackie Paul doesn’t even know you have one. Or any of the people watching television. They must think you’re all books.”

  “I see,” said Charles Berrey.

  “I’m not telling you what to say, Chuck, but people already know you read a lot. People already know that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And remember when you were a kid you used to want to be a ball player. Remember that?”

  “Sort of,” said Charles Berrey.

  “You mean you don’t remember that? Remember how we used to throw ‘em out in the back yard? You and me and Howie?”

  “Yes, I do, dad.”

  “Well, tell ‘em that, kid. I mean, you have a lot of sides to you. You’re no darn bookworn, for Pete’s sake, Chuck.”

  “All right, dad.”

  “I don’t want you to get the idea I’m trying to influence you, son, but you want to make a good impression.”

  “I see.”

  “Okay?”

  “Sure, dad.”

  “That’s what counts, Chuck—the impression you make.”

  “All rights.”

  “Good!” said his father. He stood up and reached out to ruffle Charles’ hair. Charles Berrey backed into his knife rack and jumped away in a sudden motion, as though he had been burned.

  “What’s the trouble?” said his father.

  “Nothing.”

  “That knife rack’s secure.” His father said. He walked across and patted the sides of the rack. “That knife rack’s okay, Chuck.”

  “I know it is.”

  “You jumped like one of those knives was going to pop out and fall on you.”

  “They could fall,” said Charles.

  “Fall out of there?” his father chuckled. “Now, come on. How could those knives fall out of there? They’re held tight.”

  “I guess they simply make me anxious now and then.”

  “You mean they bother you now and then?”

  “That’s right,” said the boy, “they bother me.”

  “Well, don’t worry about it, kid,” his father said.

  “I won’t, sir.”

  “One more thing, Chuck.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tonight when we meet Mr. Carter … Tell you what, Chuck, let’s spoof him a little. Want to?”

  “Spoof him?”

  His father laughed. “That’s right, spoof him a little, Chuck. Let’s tell him you got a B on your last report card.”

  “B in what, dad?”

  “Oh, anything. I mean, let’s just say you got a B. He’ll think you got all A’s, you know? I mean, you did get all A’s, but let’s spoof him.”

  “Tell him I got a B?”

  “Say you got a B in English or something. English! That’d spoof him. Say you got a B in English.”

  “That’s my best subject, dad.”

  “They’re all your best subject, for Pete’s sake,” said his father. “You never got a B in your life, did you?”

  “No, sir. Never.”

  “So say you got one, Chuck. In English. I mean, that’s irony, you know? You with your big words, you know irony?” “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, wouldn’t it be ironical if you were to get a ? in English?”

  “Yes, sir. I suppose it would.”

  “Mr. Carter must think you’re all books and good marks, and it’d spoof him if you told him you actually got a B.”

  “Yes, sir. Dad. I guess it would.”

  “Want to do that, Chuck?”

  “Sure,” said Charles Berrey. “I want to do it.”

  “Thatta boy!”

  “What about mom, though?”

  “I’ll fix mom, don’t worry. She’ll play along. I’ll fix her!”

  The boy hesitated
as his father opened the door of his room.

  Then he said, “Dad?”

  “What, kid?”

  “When you fix it with mom, dad. I mean, you won’t terrorize her?”

  “I won’t what?” “Nothing.”

  “Terrorize, for Pete’s sake? Terrorize!”

  “I mean, make her mad. That’s all.”

  “Where do you get a word like terrorize?” said his father.

  “I meant make her mad, dad.”

  “You’ve got to learn to say things the way other people say them,” said his father, “You’ve just got to, Chuck.”

  “I’m trying, dad. I’m making every effort.”

  “Oh, Chuck, for Pete’s sake! Every effort!”

  “I’m trying, dad,” said the boy, “I meant to say I’m trying.”

  “Well, don’t go and bawl on me!”

  “I won’t!”

  “And don’t shout, Chuck.”

  “I’m sorry. I apolog—I’m sorry, dad.”

  “Okay, kid. Let’s just forget it. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the boy. “Yes, okay, dad, sir.”

  “Okay,” said his father, “Okay, kid,” and he shut the door behind him.

  Charles Berrey stood alone, his glasses steamed up, and behind them, his eyes were filled with tears that began gradually to slide down his cheeks. He wiped them away angrily with the palms of his hands. He was bawling, just the way his father said not to; crying like some kind of baby; and even worse, he had wet his pants again.

  Chapter Three

  REGINALD WHITTIER

  “That would make it exactly fourteen days after my period,” Laura Lee told the boy, “I might not even have been ovulating.”

  It was the same day and the exact hour that Brock Brown was getting into the green Mercury in Sykes, New York, and Charles Berrey’s ears were being cleaned by his mother in Reddton, New Jersey.

  This was taking place in New England, in a small Vermont town famous for insurance companies and Red Clover Junior College. The setting was in complete contradiction to the conversation taking place between the slim, solemn nineteen-year-old boy and the short eighteen-year-old girl with the close-cropped, wind-blown, sun-colored hair. Auburn, Vermont, was a town typical of the state—sedate, unexciting and plain. And Whittier’s Wheel, the antique shop where the pair was holding this conversation, was as archaic and old-fangled in its appearance as the attitudes and opinions of its proprieteress, Miss Ella.