Saints of Augustine

by P. E. Ryan

  This is you, Perrin. This is your life. Shaking in your shoes in front of some crappy apartment complex, worried about being offed because of your dope debt. You’re a real winner.

  He got out of the car and walked up the flight of concrete steps, nervously tapping the envelope against his thigh.

  The Santa Claus look-alike behind the cage at the pawn shop had refused to give him more than fifty dollars for the stereo. Charlie had taken the money and had fumed all the way home about what a bad deal it was; an hour later he’d gotten over feeling cheated and had gone into hyper-drive worrying about what he owed, and had driven back to the pawn shop with his Game Boy. That had garnered him another measly thirty dollars. Then there was the forty dollars he had left over from his most recent paycheck from the Danforths. That gave him a hundred twenty dollars to put into the envelope. That plus what he’d handed Derrick the other day in the driveway came to a grand total of a hundred eighty dollars—far short of being even half of what he owed. But it was better than giving Derrick nothing at all.

  He walked across the landing toward the apartment, hoping the door wouldn’t open. He heard the bass thump of a stereo. D, he’d written on the slip of paper folded around the money, here’s all I have right now. I’ll get the rest to you as soon as I can.—C. He bent down and worked a corner of the envelope under the door. It wouldn’t fit. With his other hand, he peeled up the rubber weather strip that ran along the bottom of the door and slowly worked the envelope beneath it, hoping Derrick and whoever else might be inside wouldn’t notice this slow intrusion. If the door opened now, he would have to be ready to say something. He pictured Derrick—or worse, Wade—opening the door, catching him hunched over like this, and snatching the envelope out of his hand. Counting it. Sneering. What are you trying to pull here, Perrin? You afraid to knock because your payment’s so light?

  He could see only the last half inch of the envelope now, and peeling back the rubber strip a little more, he tapped the envelope until it disappeared.

  No reason to stick around a moment longer. He stood up and walked quickly across the landing, then back down the stairs to the parking lot. He fully expected to hear his name called as he climbed into his car. But no one called his name. The door to number fourteen never opened. He started the car, backed out of his spot next to the Eclipse, and drove away.

  Work it out, he thought, shutting off the engine in front of Kate’s house. Turn on the old Perrin charm, as if there were such a thing. He angled the rearview mirror so that he could get a good look at his face. His eye looked terrible; it wasn’t as dark now, but the cheek beneath it was starting to turn yellow. And his hair looked as if he hadn’t combed it since he’d gotten out of bed. Nothing to be done about the eye, but he dragged his fingers through his hair, smoothing it down, and then tried out a few expressions in the mirror. The I-screwed-up. The I’m-happy-to-see-you. The I-screwed-up-and-I’m-REALLY-happy-to-see-you. The Why-the-hell-haven’t-you-come-to-the-phone-when-I-called? Scratch that last one. Better to just look sorry and glad to see her, ready to work things out.

  He crossed the lawn to the front porch and knocked on the door.

  Mr. Bryant answered.

  “Well, Charlie, what a surprise!” He offered his wide hand, and Charlie shook it earnestly.

  “Hi, Mr. Bryant. Is Kate home?”

  “Sure she is,” Mr. Bryant said. He winced when he noticed Charlie’s eye. “Ouch, that’s a real mouse you’ve got there. Been in a fight lately?”

  “Only with myself.”

  “Ha ha. Come in.”

  Charlie stepped into the foyer and stood next to a cabinet full of owl figurines.

  “Kate!” Mr. Bryant called toward the living room. “Charlie’s here.”

  He knows we’re having trouble, Charlie thought. He’s on my side. The person who rounded the corner wasn’t Kate but Mrs. Bryant. She held a section of the newspaper in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other.

  “Charlie,” she said evenly, “does Kate know you’re here?”

  “Of course she does,” Mr. Bryant said. “I just hollered for her. How’s the squad, Charlie? You fellows putting together a winning team this year?”

  “I hope so,” Charlie said, smiling. “We haven’t started practice yet.”

  “You were the best floor general in the conference last year. How many assists did you average per game?”

  “About nine.”

  Mrs. Bryant cleared her throat. “I meant, did Kate know that Charlie was coming over?” she said, staring suspiciously at Charlie’s bruised eye. “She hasn’t wanted to talk to him on the phone, so I’d be surprised if—”

  “It’s all right, Mom,” Kate said, suddenly appearing around her mother’s shoulder. “I’ll see him.”

  Mr. Bryant looked confused. “You two haven’t been on the outs, have you?”

  “Dad,” Kate said, “it’s all right.”

  “Well,” he said jovially, “you take it easy on our boy Charlie, here. Looks like somebody’s already been beating up on him.” He winked at Charlie and smiled.

  Charlie felt a cautious smile crimping his own mouth and offered it to Kate.

  “Why don’t we go outside?” Kate said. She walked between them and out the front door.

  “Well, good night, Mr. and Mrs. Bryant,” Charlie said.

  “Say hi to your dad for me,” Mr. Bryant said. “Tell him to come by the Rotary. We haven’t seen him in a while.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  Mrs. Bryant’s voice sailed past Charlie’s face like a hot wind. “Kate, if you need us, we’re right in here.”

  Charlie ducked out of the house and heard the door shut behind him.

  Kate had walked into the middle of the front yard and was standing with her arms folded, looking up at the clear night sky.

  As Charlie came up next to her, he said, “What was that all about? Your mom looked like she wanted to call the police.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you been talking to her about me?”

  Kate looked at him, nodding her head slightly. “Yes,” she said. “I have. She’s been a really great help, too. She’s been a great listener.”

  “What do you mean? Last I heard, she was driving you crazy. You two were doing nothing but fighting. What exactly did you tell her?”

  “Charlie, did you really come here to talk about my mom?”

  Charlie swallowed. “No.”

  “What, then?”

  His feet shifted around on the grass. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “How’ve you been?”

  “Great,” she said, sounding anything but great. “What happened to your eye?”

  “Stupid accident. It doesn’t hurt.”

  She looked both irritated and worried. After a long pause, she said, “What are you doing here, Charlie?”

  “You wouldn’t talk to me on the phone. I wanted to know how you were.” He watched her glance at the house, as if contemplating going back inside. “Listen, Kate, things have been really crazy, lately. Really difficult for me.”

  “Were you high the other night, when we were supposed to go out to dinner?” she asked in a calm voice.

  Charlie lifted his shoulders. He let them drop. Be honest, he told himself. Put it all—or most of it—on the table. “Yeah, I was. Just a little, though. There was a lot going on that night. Stuff you don’t know about.”

  She unfolded her arms, stepped back from him, and sat down on the grass. Charlie sat down next to her. He waited for her to ask what kind of stuff, but she didn’t. He’d just have to come out with it. “My dad’s been kind of…messed up lately.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Yeah. Ever since my mom died, he hasn’t been himself. He hardly ever leaves the house. And he’s been…he’s been drinking at night. Sometimes more than at night. Actually, he’s been hitting it pretty hard.”

  She brought her knees up in front of her and held on to them, her head turned away. When she looked at him aga
in, her eyes were damp. “And this is why you’ve been getting high? Because of your dad?”

  “Yeah. Well, I mean, not just that. But yeah.”

  “You know, Charlie, you can’t blame your dad for what’s going on with you.”

  “I’m not. I’m just trying to explain why I’ve been such a mess lately.”

  “Because your dad drove you to it?”

  “Sort of.”

  “So he makes you smoke? He tells you it’s okay?”

  “No! He doesn’t know about it.” This was getting out of hand. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Does he make you lie to me, too?”

  “No. Kate, you’ve got to listen to me. The other night when we were supposed to go out, when I…stood you up…I got home from work and my dad had had way more to drink than usual. He cut his thumb and it started bleeding everywhere.”

  “Why didn’t you call and at least tell me that?”

  “I was going to. But—I couldn’t. I didn’t want to tell you he was drinking. I was embarrassed.”

  “So you got high instead. While I sat in my room waiting the whole night.”

  “I took a couple of hits, that’s all! Then I just crashed for a few minutes and accidentally fell asleep. It’s been really hard for me lately, Kate.”

  “Well, maybe you need some help.”

  “That’s what I’m asking for. A little understanding. I’m really sorry I stood you up—”

  “I mean help as in counseling.”

  “What?”

  “Substance-abuse counseling, Charlie.”

  “That’s pretty radical, isn’t it? We’re not talking about major drugs, here. Just a little pot.”

  “I think sitting down with someone professional and talking about it might be a good idea. For your dad, too, from what you’re telling me.”

  “Whoa! I’m just trying to apologize. I’m not looking for a lecture.”

  “I know,” Kate said. Her eyes were still damp. “I don’t want to lecture you. But you can’t just lay all this on your father, like he’s caused all your problems. That’s not fair to either one of you. And it’s not fair to me. You have to take some responsibility for your actions. You have to own some of this.”

  It sure was starting to sound like a lecture. He ground his teeth and felt his head bobbing slightly. “I’ll work this out,” he said.

  “I want you to. I want everything to be okay with you, and with your dad. But I don’t think I want to do this anymore, Charlie.”

  He felt as if a basketball had smacked into his other eye. “Huh?”

  She sniffed loudly and wiped a hand against her nose. “It isn’t any fun to date someone who’s stoned half the time he calls you, and who may or may not show up when you have a date.”

  “One time!” Charlie said, feeling the panic return to his chest. “That only happened one time!” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true.

  “Three times this summer, actually. Maybe I’m uptight, but I’m counting. Have you ever made plans with someone, and then just sat there for hours, wondering what happened to them—if they forgot about you, if they got in a car wreck, if they’re okay? Or wondering if maybe you’re a fool for sitting there, all dressed, waiting for someone to show up? It’s not just that it’s boring to sit around and wait like that. It’s humiliating, Charlie.” She bent her head forward, staring at her bare feet for a moment. Then, brushing her hair back from her face, she said, “I think you really need friends right now. You’re going through a hard time, and I want to be your friend and help you get through it. But I don’t want to keep dating, Charlie. Not right now, anyway. It’s too—”

  “Too what?” he asked, feeling his own eyes tear up. “Too much trouble?”

  To his horror, he saw her nod her head gently. “Yes,” she said.

  “It’s because I’m not smart enough, isn’t it? It’s because I can’t talk about books with you.”

  “No, Charlie. Don’t change the focus here. You’re a smart guy. You just need to work on some important things, and I really think some…narrowing down…would be good for you.”

  “So, what, you want to break up with me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I want to be your friend.”

  “I’ve got plenty of friends!” Actually, given the path the last year had taken, he didn’t have any. “You think school’s going to start and you’re just going to trip over some guy who isn’t any trouble at all, some guy who’s perfect?”

  “No. I have no idea. But let’s just take a rest for a while, okay?”

  He wiped angrily at a tear that had spilled over and was running down his cheek. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

  “You can be a really great guy, Charlie. But you’ve got to focus right now. The last thing you need is a girlfriend who’s getting upset because you didn’t call. And the last thing I need is a boyfriend who’s high.”

  It upset him even more to see that her eyes were dry now. She looked so resolved, so adult. “Did—did your mom put you up to this?”

  “Please, Charlie! Don’t insult me.”

  “Well, maybe you don’t know,” he said desperately. “Maybe you’re not the expert on what we need. I mean, you’re not a shrink yet.”

  She looked at him, focused on his bruised eye, and almost smiled. Then she leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you in a few days,” she said softly, and stood up.

  His face and neck were burning. He stared forward at the houses across the street, his entire body rocking slightly. When he turned around, she had already reached the porch and the front door was closing behind her.

  Hell of a day it had turned out to be. Hell of a week. His father had nearly bled to death over a pizza, he’d had to pawn what few electronics he owned to pay a fraction of his dope debt, and his girlfriend had dumped him. And he’d run into Sam, and had actually been glad to see him, as awkward as it was—until Sam had blown him off. He might as well have said “screw you.” And what had Charlie ever done to him?

  He was tired of thinking about it. All of it. He just wanted to get away from everyone. No man is an island? Ha! Eat my dust, world. And once I do get my island, you can all stay the hell away from it.

  When he came into the house, his dad was sitting at the kitchen table doing the crossword puzzle. There was no glass—or bottle—in sight. Charlie pulled the orange juice from the refrigerator and swigged from it.

  “Not from the carton, son,” his father said. “Use a glass.”

  Charlie stared at him over the top of the orange juice carton. His father was actually dressed. He was still wearing his bedroom slippers, but he had on pants and an untucked button-down shirt—the furthest he’d gotten from pajamas in weeks. He’d even combed his hair. On his thumb was a single, clean-looking Band-Aid.

  Charlie was in such a bad mood that it irked him, seeing his father suddenly in better shape. He didn’t want to see anybody in better shape.

  “You know, I’ll drink from the damn carton if I feel like it. I’m the one who went to the store and bought it.”

  His father stopped in the middle of a word he was writing in the crossword puzzle. He laid down the pen and sat back in his chair. “That’s uncalled for, Charlie. You need to check that tone of voice. And the language.”

  “Maybe it is called for. I don’t know where you’ve been for the past six months…for the past year…but you don’t get to suddenly step back in and tell me what to do. I’m the one who takes care of you.”

  “Now just cool it, Charlie.”

  “You cool it! I can’t remember the last time you said anything as a…as a…father to me. You hardly see me because you’re drunk half the time! You didn’t even notice I had a black eye!”

  His father looked over at him, focusing. “When did you get that?”

  “Two days ago!”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Oh—go to hell!”

  “Charlie!”

>   He slammed the orange juice down on the counter, launching some of it through the spout. His father was getting up from his chair. Charlie stepped around him and stomped through the living room, down the hall to his bedroom. He slammed the door behind him.

  Instinctively he went straight to his stereo and his headphones. But, of course, the stereo was gone. The headphones lay uncoiled like a dead snake on the floor, in the square indentation of carpet where one of the speakers used to be. “Damn it!” he hollered, throwing himself down on his bed.

  A few minutes later, he heard his father tapping a knuckle on his door. “Charlie?”

  Charlie lay staring up at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling heavily, as if he’d just been running line drills. “Please leave me alone.”

  There was a long stretch of silence. Then his father’s voice came through the door again. “I will, Charlie. I’m going to let you calm down. But we can’t have that kind of behavior. It’s not healthy.”

  What do you know about healthy behavior? Charlie thought. “Fine,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

  “You just calm down now.”

  “I’m calm.”

  Another pause. “All right, son. I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Good night.”

  Charlie didn’t move from the bed. He couldn’t. He hated himself. When had he become such a grouch? When had he turned into the guy who let everybody down? He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he only lay there wishing he could sink down into the bedspread and vanish, or at least wake up in the morning as a different person.

  The first sound of breaking glass was faint, as if someone had brushed a hand against a wind chime.

  The second was louder: a shatter that opened his eyes and made him sit up on the bed, wondering if he’d fallen asleep and had dreamed it.

  He scrambled to his feet and went over to the window. When he drew back the curtain, he saw the silver Eclipse idling in front of the house. Two figures were standing on either side of the Volkswagen. Both were holding baseball bats.

  “No,” Charlie said softly, his heart pounding. He watched one of them walk around to the back of his car and swing the bat against a taillight. The other one—Derrick, he saw, recognizing the fishing hat—was poised directly in front of the VW, raising the bat over the hood. “No!” Charlie said, letting go of the curtain.