Twilight Child

by Warren Adler

  “Why can’t you just have fun for a few years? Play around. There’s a million fish in the sea.”

  “He’s going to do it anyway, Charlie. You might as well throw in the sponge.”

  “You got it, Mom.”

  “But it’s dumb. Establish yourself a little first. Get a financial head start. If this is the girl you want, what’s wrong with a long engagement? But make sure it’s what you want.”

  “I am sure. And we’ve known each other three months.”

  “A lifetime, right? Next thing you know, you’ll have a kid. With that will come more financial pressure.”

  “And grandchildren,” Molly interjected.

  “I’m too young for that,” Charlie had answered.

  They had haggled for another hour until it became apparent that nothing was going to change Chuck’s mind.

  “You’re doing your thinking with your crotch.”

  Molly had finally interposed.

  “That’s not the issue in today’s world, Charlie. Let’s face it, Chuck has every right to make this decision. It’s not like he’s completing an education. He has a job. Marriage might give him a focus, stability. Certainly security.”

  “The voice of cool reason,” he had commented, but by then he had surrendered. Fresh young love was too powerful to be stopped. So he’d sit on the sidelines and watch it grow stale, see who got the last laugh. Could it be that he was arguing with himself, dredging up the old worry that what he and Molly had would one day grow stale? Odd, he thought suddenly, that he had never outgrown that fear.

  Leaving Chuck’s door, he flapped around upstairs for a while, then came back down to the kitchen and made himself another cup of instant coffee. He stood by the sink as he sipped it, watching the sodden gloom that the rain had cast over the yard. He glanced at the clock. It was ten. Forte probably wouldn’t get to the office until about now, he assured himself. Then he made a conscious effort to catalogue the chores he would do in the yard once the rain stopped, which did not look likely.

  But it did postpone confronting another point on his checklist, the crucial point: freedom from Tray, from imagining Tray, worrying about Tray, from missing Tray.

  Chuck’s death had thrown a lifeline between them. Before that, he had been your ordinary run-of-the-mill doting Grampa, and Molly had been Gramma. But there was still the sense for all of them that Chuck was merely “away” and not gone forever. They baby-sat on the evenings when Frances took courses, and had her over with the boy on weekends. Charlie had taken Tray to the local carnivals and to fish on the banks of the nearby creeks. Molly, of course, was more interested in improving his mind and had read to him from the many children’s books she had taken from the school library. He was still too young for the real give-and-take of manly communication. But Charlie had looked forward to the day when that moment would arrive.

  Of course, by that time he had had to be more than just Grampa. He had to be the lost Dad as well, and that had gone a long way to simmer down the gnawing grief over Chuck’s death. He had thought, at first, that Frances had fully accepted this new role for him, encouraging the relationship by letting Tray spend more and more time with Molly and him. After all, they were the only set of grandparents the boy had. Later, in retrospect, he decided that she welcomed the idea of Tray spending so much time with them because it gave her more time to quickly scout out a replacement for Chuck. More than anything, that memory brought back the terrible pain of what she had done to Tray and to them. It had been a deliberate act of betrayal. Pure and simple. Underneath it all, she was hard-hearted and selfish, interested only in herself. As for that Peter, he was beneath contempt.

  Some things they had done were, he was convinced, beyond the pale of decent human behavior. Like that first Christmas when he and Molly had sent Tray his Christmas gifts. They were, of course, handicapped by not being able to find out from Tray what he wanted. The truth was, they had been afraid to call for fear Frances would forbid it absolutely. So they had shopped the stores, piling up gifts, mostly toys and games, since Molly was no longer sure of Tray’s clothes sizes. They had had the stores send out the gifts, along with the usual handwritten cards, especially poignant because of the conditions imposed on them as absentee grandparents. The cards had not been easy to write, he remembered.

  Foolishly, he had set up his own tree in the living room as he had done every year since Chuck was born. As usual, they had loaded the base of the tree with gifts from each other. It wasn’t much fun dressing and lighting the tree, but they seemed to carry it out by habit, and Charlie had done everything he could to hide his tears and force his smiles. Molly, of course, did the same.

  They had gotten it into their heads that Christmas, being a time of family gatherings and reconciliations, might be the moment when Frances and Peter would relent, realize the stupidity and selfishness of their actions, and pull things together again.

  “Don’t put too much trust in it, Charlie,” Molly had warned.

  “Where’s that old Christmas spirit?”

  “You tell me.”

  When the packages arrived from the store, they were certain that their dreams had come true. That is, until they opened the note attached to one of the packages.

  “Dear Molly and Charlie,” the note began. “There is no easy way to do this.” Charlie had tossed the letter away without reading further. But Molly had picked it up and read aloud, with her clear teacher’s reading voice, making a superhuman effort to hide the emotion with sarcasm. “We know your heart is in the right place. But, at least for this Christmas, while Tray adjusts to his new conditions, we thought it best that we return your gifts. We’re not being Scrooge, but if only you could both leave Tray be for awhile until he gets his sea legs in his new situation, we think everyone would be the better for it. We hope this finds you both in good health. And, of course, Merry Christmas. Frances and Peter.”

  They had both looked dumbly at the packages. Then Charlie picked them up and took them out to the yard, where he dumped them in the big metal can in which he burned the trash, doused them with kerosene, and set them ablaze. Later, he dismantled the tree, chain-sawed it into manageable chunks, and tossed them into the fire.

  They spent that Christmas Eve hiding their tears in the darkness. Christmas Day was worse. On the following Christmas, they spared themselves the pain, treating the holiday as just another day. It was not a very pleasant way to live.

  Anger stirred him, and he went to the phone and called the lawyer. By the second ring, he got cold feet and quickly put the phone down. Hadn’t Molly warned him to be cool? All temporary, she had assured him. He cursed under his breath and in the mirror’s reflection discovered that his lips were moving silently. Story of his life, he decided, the silent curse. In his mind, he tore the checklist from the pad, crumpled it up in his hand, and flung it into the garbage. He wasn’t a damned inspector anymore.

  That had been another unexpected blow, robbing him of whatever hope his sixtieth birthday might have promised, which wasn’t very much in the first place. But he had never expected it to be the worst day of his life.

  Not that it had started badly. It was a Thursday, December 6, twenty-four hours short of the official Pearl Harbor Day. How did he know he was about to have his own day of infamy?

  Molly had awakened him in a special, loving way. Recent events hadn’t exactly done wonders for his libido, but Molly’s sweet patience had done the trick, and he had been grateful for both the effort and her own response.

  “Not bad for an old duffer of sixty.”

  Actually, years of activity had kept him in fair shape, although his gut wasn’t as flat as it might have been.

  “The Waterses wear well,” he had said, embracing her still-tight haunches. “So do their women.”

  “I can’t believe it. Where did all the years go?”

  “Down the tube.”

  “Just you and me, guy.”

  “Me and you, babe.”

  They had ju
st pulled each other through months of loss and despair, and this event in their bed had struck Charlie as perhaps the beginning of yet another chapter in their marriage. They had always been close in ways that they had never articulated to each other. There had, of course, been ups and downs, periods of doubts and reassurances, but the bond itself, the commitment, had never been in danger. It had, of course, occurred to him to be unfaithful, more as a test of manly power than anything more romantic, but he had never taken the plunge. He was dead certain she hadn’t. The bottom line in marriage was trust. One might say that their marriage had evolved into a true and loving friendship. By this time, it had even transcended habit.

  “You’re everything to me, Molly,” he had confided solemnly. It was something he could do only in the extreme intimacy of a loving embrace in their bed.

  “And you to me.”

  “At least we did one thing right.”

  She had dressed quickly and made him a big breakfast.

  “Orange juice tastes funny,” he had said.

  “It’s the champagne.”

  “Pulling out all the stops, eh babe?”

  “We’re marking the end of the sixth decade. That deserves some attention.”

  “Real class.” He had smacked his lips. He had always been proud of her refinements. “Think you’ll ever get me to cross over the border from redneck land?” It was not really a big bone of contention between them. They knew who they were and where they had come from.

  “Tonight we’re going to the Chesapeake for dinner,” she had promised. It was one of Baltimore’s most popular restaurants.

  “I’ll go on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you don’t have those idiot waiters and waitresses sing me happy birthday. And no candles.”

  “You think I want people to know I live with an old duffer?”

  “You’re right behind me, wise guy.” She was only two years younger.

  He had kissed her good-bye deeply and sweetly, actually feeling good for the first time in months.

  The guys in the plant also remembered, which had really touched him. He had found a card pasted on the door of his locker signed by all the other inspectors, and Barney Harris, his coworker of many years, told him he had invited some of the boys to join them at the Friendly Tavern to down a few brews and pay their respects to an older man. It was something to look forward to. He remembered almost feeling on the cusp of some kind of a renewal.

  At least that was the way he had felt all morning. People slapped him on the back, wished him happy birthday, made a joke or two about his age, and offered good wishes. It was nice to feel noticed. He hadn’t really made any enemies in the thirty-five years he had worked at the plant. Hell, he wasn’t really what you would call a good ol’ boy, but he hadn’t been standoffish either, like some. Not until lately. And that was by Charlie and Molly’s own choice. Maybe someday, if the hurt ever subsided and the reminders faded, they might be able to pick up where they had left off. That is, if anyone was left by then. Many of their friends were retiring and heading south. In any event, it was nice having the boys remember.

  He had lunch in the cafeteria, and the guys stuck a candle in a chocolate cupcake and did the one thing he had banned from his impending night out with Molly—sang happy birthday. They hammed it up, of course, embarrassed to have shown any kind of mushy sentiment. It was funny as hell. But from that moment on, it was downhill all the way.

  After lunch Harry Evans, the top supervisor of his section, called him into his office. They had known each other for years, and it had rankled Charlie to see the man jump across the worker-management line. But they had maintained a good working relationship, and it wasn’t unreasonable to expect Evans to offer a greeting on his birthday. There was a lot of feel-good stuff going on at the plant these days. The recession had actually brought the remaining senior workers closer together. They weren’t really competing with each other anymore. The objective was to stay on the job.

  “Sixty years. You old son-of-a-gun,” Evans had said to him after first asking him to sit down. That was the first sign of anything really unusual. Evans was a bulky, jolly man with thick shaggy eyebrows, deep-set, rheumy eyes, and a well-earned drinker’s nose.

  “Just another day,” Charlie shrugged.

  “I’ll say this, Charlie. You don’t look it.”

  “My wife told me that this morning,” he said, blushing.

  “And I bet that’s not all.” Evans broke up in laughter. Charlie, slightly resentful of the intruding personal image, smiled thinly.

  “Well, I got you a birthday present, hoss,” Evans had said.

  Charlie was beyond promotion and wages were fixed. He was genuinely puzzled and had no idea what response was required.

  “New company policy. You hit sixty, you get a bonus. Early retirement. No penalty. The full deal.”

  It had been a company policy for months, an optional choice. He had already decided not to take it.

  “I’m not ready for that, Harry,” he had replied, slightly relieved. He was not looking for any changes in his life. He’d had more than enough of those in the last few months.

  “I’d say you’re right about that, Charlie. You’re not ready to pack it in completely, and I know you won’t. It’s only the plant that you’ll be leaving.”

  “Leaving?”

  His heart had begun to thump wildly against his rib cage.

  “Mandatory. First of the year for all people in your category sixty or over. You lucky son-of-a-gun. The full deal. No penalty.”

  “But I don’t want it, Harry.”

  “Are you crazy, Charlie?”

  “What the hell would I do?”

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me. You’re home free, Charlie. Think of it as a kiss, not a kiss-off.”

  “Why?”

  “To make way for the younger guys, the ones with the growing families. They don’t want old gray-heads around. Hell, in two more years I’m taking the boat. With joy, Charlie. With joy.”

  “My work was never better—” Charlie stammered. “I mean, it takes years to train a good quality-control inspector. Not a piece of pipe goes out of here out of spec. I’m one of the best in the business.”

  “What the hell has that got to do with it?”

  “I’m good at it, that’s what. And not easy to replace.” He felt belligerence begin and a flush rise to his cheeks.

  Evans pulled his chair closer to his desk and leaned over it. His breath smelled of sour booze. Lifting a fat finger, he jabbed it in Charlie’s direction.

  “Let me tell you about your so-called work. It ain’t personal, Charlie. But half the workers in this plant, more than half, are as obsolete as the Model T. You included. The Japs can do the work of our entire department with one newfangled robot. You’re yesterday, Charlie. Not you. But the work you do. Same goes for me and the others. A little chip no bigger than the head of a pin can do your job. You’re dead, man. Prehistoric.” He had gotten beet red in his face. “Take the money and run, Charlie. You got no choice.”

  “No appeal procedures?”

  “It’s all agreed. Frozen in.” He shook his head. “You should be jumping up and down and dancing for joy. The way I’ll be doing. What the devil you think you been working for all these years? For the piece of paper, man. The discharge. Get out and see the world. Hell, you still got the stuff to pull down a paycheck in a whole new job. Learn computers, Charlie. That’s where it’s at. Otherwise you’re obsolete. Like the P-47. Remember the P-47?”

  No point in sitting there listening to all that talk about his present usefulness. He got up.

  “It’s still hush-hush, Charlie,” Evans told him. “Don’t say nothing to anyone. It’s going to be announced just before Christmas. I just thought that seeing how long we know each other, it would be nice to have given you this tidbit on your birthday.” He shook his head. “I swear I never expected this reaction. Never.”

  “Yeah,” Charli
e had said, rising, perfunctorily taking Evans’s sweaty fat hand.

  “Congratulations.”

  “Yeah.”

  Charlie turned, felt a weakness in his knees, but managed to limp out of Evans’s office.

  “Happy birthday,” Evans called to him, just before he shut the door.

  He hadn’t gone back to the floor. He couldn’t even remember getting to his locker, where he changed into his heavy jacket and just walked out the door, an act of irresponsibility he had never committed in his life. It was as if a volcano had erupted inside him and the molten lava covered everything, body and mind, and there was just no way that the outrage, the explosive anger, the indignity and insult and humiliation could get outside of himself.

  Even as he drove, he was conscious that he had little control over his actions. He was like a guided missile, carefully set and programmed, speeding toward an irreversible destination. It was not simply the idea of obsolescence. He had known that for years. Nor was it the aftermath of Chuck’s death. He had begun to weather the storm. Perhaps he had even gotten used to Tray’s absence. It was, in fact, beyond analysis, then or now. He had simply lost his insight, as if he had died and didn’t know it, had disappeared and, since he was a nonperson and obsolete, he was also unseen, invisible even to himself. What, then, was left to lose?

  Yet there was a certain cunning in living through it. He drove by rote and soon he was pulling into his own garage and ransacking the shed in the yard. Without any conscious mental effort, he removed the little pull wagon that had been Chuck’s and then Tray’s and wiped it off with a rag until the name he had stenciled on the rear was clearly visible. Three Charlies, it read. Have to repaint it again, he thought, as he carried it to his car and slid it into the back seat.

  He drove the thirty miles to Columbia as if he had driven it every day. A few weeks after Tray had left, he and Molly had gone there. Curiosity, they told themselves. It made them feel like fugitive aliens in a hostile land, crossing into forbidden territories with no hope of acceptance. They had driven the car slowly past the neat, large, two-story colonial where Frances and Tray now lived with her new husband. More than words, the house told them how terribly deep the chasm between their lives had become. One glimpse and they hurried away. Inexplicably, Charlie had felt ashamed, failed, but he did not convey his feelings to Molly.