The euthanasia had been Angela’s gift to her mother just before she left to spend the holiday with her tattooed (now ex-) girlfriend. Such a sentimentalist. “It’s the gift that keeps on giving,” Charlie said. “She puts out food for it once a week. Which is odd in and of itself.”
“She’s in denial. Tell her she doesn’t have a cat anymore.”
Being a dog person, Charlie considered an imaginary cat preferable to a real one, so he didn’t plan to mention the tragedy, fearing he’d have to drive her to the Humane Society to get a replacement. “I gotta go. Rick’s about to shoot Major Strasser.”
“What? Oh. Casablanca. Yeah,” she said wearily. “One thing: If you want to stay there, you’ve got to take on more of a caretaker role. That’s the only way this is going to work.”
“I’ll do what I can. But there is the matter of payment.”
“We’ll discuss terms later. Make sure she takes her meds.”
“What terms?” he asked, but it was too late. She’d already hung up. When Charlie returned to the living room, Rick and Captain Renault were strolling off into the foggy night. Kathleen was misty-eyed. “That was our favorite movie,” she said. “Thurwood and I must have watched it a dozen times together.” She hit a button on the remote and turned off the TV. “I heard you talking about my kitty.” She went into the kitchen and stuck her head out the back door. “Here, kitty, kitty!”
She returned to the living room. “Have you seen Bounce?”
“Never,” Charlie said.
“I think my daughter killed her. That’s just the sort of thing she’d do.”
“Well, Bounce must have been very old or very sick.”
“Yes, she was old and sick. I asked Angela to take her to the vet for surgery. But she won’t spend money on a cat. Not my cat, certainly.”
“If you know this, why have you been putting out food?”
“Well, something has been eating it. I thought she might have tossed Bounce out on the side of the road and she made her way home. You know how they have radar. But the food hasn’t been touched lately. Maybe she is dead. Maybe it’s rats.”
“Hmm.” Had Trouble … Nah. Ick. Probably. He shuddered, imagining the old trickster walking the streets with a rat trap stuck on his face. Which would serve him right, sort of. “Well, don’t feed the rats.”
“I miss Bounce. Now I’ve only got you,” Kathleen said. “And you should be working on the book right now. That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?”
Chapter Nine
Shortly after dawn, Charlie finished transcribing his dream of Lincoln Roberts, the black preacher who’d been beaten nearly to death for speaking truth to power in 1912. Unfortunately, he’d been Roberts, so he’d woken up at 4:00 a.m. screaming in pain and terror.
He shut his laptop and, with trepidation, climbed the dungeon steps. Kathleen had been through several mood shifts lately, so he wondered whether he’d see good Kathleen (cheerful and hospitable) or bad Kathleen (cranky, suspicious, even a little smiteful). She was in the kitchen, eating oatmeal. Charlie regarded her carefully, then glanced at the stove. None for him. Not good. Also, she happened to be glaring at him.
“Just remember, it’s his book, not yours,” she said by way of greeting.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Don’t you ‘yes ma’am’ me.”
“First time I ever heard that.”
“I know you’re a smart aleck and want to change everything.”
“No I don’t.” He planned to keep the title and Talton was still the book’s sole author, although that seemed increasingly unfair. Also, the footnotes were staying—some of them, anyway. But there was no point in arguing. He retreated to the dungeon and packed his duffel for a workout.
After a trip to the Y, he worked on his laptop in a Decatur coffeehouse. Shortly after noon, while sipping coffee and ignoring his gnawing hunger, he finished Chapter Three. He stared at the computer screen dumbly for a moment, then … Eureka! He now had the sample he needed to send to Fortress Publishing. Unfortunately, Joshua Furst was an old-fashioned hard-copy kind of guy, so he couldn’t simply send the chapters via e-mail.
He hurried back to Bayard Terrace and told Kathleen the good news.
She was unimpressed. “It’s about time,” she declared.
He went to the study and wrote a cover letter while printing the chapters and table of contents. Afterward, he handed a set of chapters to Kathleen and slid the other one into a brown envelope, then addressed it and taped it closed. He slipped on his jacket, bounced out the door and down the steps, then stopped as suddenly as if he’d hit a brick wall. He wanted to put his imprint on the book. Mark his territory, so to speak. He came back inside.
“What’s up?” Kathleen asked suspiciously.
“The title doesn’t work.”
“Don’t change it.”
“I’m not changing it. Just adding something to it.”
“That’s changing it.”
“I’ll show you.”
Minutes later, he handed her a new title page. She looked over her glasses and read aloud: “Flight from Forsyth: Ethnic Cleansing in America.” After a moment of mulling it over, she said, “I guess that’s OK.”
He walked the package down to the post office. After mailing it, Charlie cut across the alley to the coffeehouse, where Jean greeted him with a big smile. “How’s the writing going?”
“I sent the first three chapters to my publisher.”
“Cool. So you’ve got a publisher already.”
“Kind of. If they like it.”
“Well, good luck.”
Charlie thought about asking her out. Then he remembered he didn’t have a place to take her—or money, for that matter. He drifted to a seat by the window with his double espresso. Once there, he permitted himself to daydream. Really, could success be so far away? Where would he live when he hit the big time? A loft, of course. In a trendy, fashio-industrial section of town, preferably near—or in—an abandoned textile mill. And he’d wall in cozy little bedrooms for the kids to sleep in when they came to visit, which would be often, since he would fight for and win joint custody. But Saturday nights would be reserved for Jean. Or someone like her. Actually, since he’d learned she was bisexual, maybe Jean and someone like her. If the marriage thing didn’t work out, that is. Hey, an ascetic can dream, can’t he?
He finished his drink and returned to Bayard Terrace. It was a school day, and he needed to pick up the kids, but first he had to settle accounts. Susan was demanding money for the mortgage payment, and he didn’t want to be browbeaten by his wife on such a triumphant day. He showed his work log sheet to Kathleen, explaining what she owed him.
Her eyes widened in anger. “We’ve been through this,” she said. “I already paid you.”
“Yes, for a hundred and twenty-five hours, but I’ve worked another—”
“No. I paid you that money to edit the book, and you should be through by now. Not just a couple of chapters. I’m certainly not giving you any more money. Do you think I’m a fool?”
“No. I think you need to take your medicine.”
“Don’t you insult me! I’m not the one making up things!”
How did she know? She was just guessing, right?
He wanted to point out the contract’s terms, but his copy was a bloody mess and Angela now held Kathleen’s. Another problem: If his employer was too far gone mentally, it could invalidate the agreement, and he would lose all his rights. Charlie alone understood what the real deal was, but he had no time to explain or argue, not when the kids’ teachers considered him insane and Susan was ready to sic Family and Children Services on him—or even worse, Evangeline. So all he could do was bluff. “I’m not working on it, then,” he declared. “We’ll talk when I get back.”
“You should earn your keep, instead of asking for money. Start paying rent. I don’t have money anymore. My daughter took it. Where are you going? Come back here!”
* * *<
br />
It was too nice to stay inside that afternoon, so Charlie took the kids to Duck Lake Park. They walked around the lake, tailed by a mallard and his mate expecting more than the few crumbs they’d been tossed. Beck was playing Cupid. “Mommy asks about you all the time,” she told Charlie. “What you’re saying. And what you’re thinking.”
Ben followed after them in his haphazard fashion, hunting down pine cones and tossing them in the water. “About what?” Charlie asked.
“About our family.”
“I think about you and Ben. I think about writing. I think about doing my job as a father. That’s mainly what I think about.”
She squinted into the sun. “What about Mommy?”
He shrugged. “That changed. What does Mommy think?”
“Mommy thinks you’re crazy. But I’m not supposed to tell you that.”
“It’s not really much of a secret, now is it?”
“No, everybody thinks you’re crazy.” She giggled and grabbed his hand. “That’s all right.”
“I’m glad you think so.” Charlie watched Ben run up to the dock with an armful of pine cones and heave them all into the lake. “What else does Mommy think?”
“I can’t tell you. But if you want to come back, that would be OK. You didn’t have to leave.”
Another mixed signal from Susan. No surprise there. “Well, actually, I did. But I don’t expect you to understand.”
“I understand,” she said firmly. “You’re being stupid and hateful.”
“No. It’s hard to explain, but this is something I have to do.”
“Do you think you’ll ever come back?”
It was his turn to squint into the sun. “There’s always a chance.”
She frowned as she pondered this. Ben ran by with another load of cones to throw in the water. “You dropped one!” Beck shouted, and went running after him.
* * *
After dinner that night, Charlie gave Susan $150—all he had left except for a few ones and a twenty tucked behind his driver’s license. “Cash?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him like he’d gotten the money from the old woman’s jewelry box. “You’re living like a street person. And I need more than this.”
He dug out the twenty and slammed it on the table. “All I got.”
Susan rolled her eyes and picked up the money, which only served to harden Charlie’s attitude. He left, mumbling to himself about “never coming back, not for a long time.”
His stance was quite unfortunate, considering what happened to him when he returned to Bayard Terrace. Kathleen greeted Charlie by accusing him of stealing her salt and pepper shakers and pawning them.
“If you can’t give them back,” she shouted, “at least give me the money you got for them!”
Clearly, Kathleen was losing her battle with dementia. He went into the study and used his cellphone to leave a message for Angela: “Kathleen is off her meds and out of control.”
“I heard that!” Kathleen shouted from the living room.
A little while later, Charlie was brewing coffee. Kathleen came up behind him and hissed, “Get out of my house.”
He turned to face her, jumping back when he saw the butcher knife in her hand. “Kathleen! What’s gotten into you?”
“Don’t try to trick me. That’s what you all do. Try to sell me a new roof and take my house! You can tell your boss and the other Irish Gypsies that I’ll not put up with it. I’m calling the police!”
“I’m not a thief. We have a deal. Thurwood’s book, remember? I just sent—”
“Get out!” She stepped toward him, pointing the knife at his crotch.
It was one thing to be an ascetic, quite another to be a eunuch. He raised his hands, but only belt high. “No problem. I’ll just get my computer.”
Facing her as he backed away, Charlie went to the study and grabbed his laptop. As he retreated through the living room, holding the computer like a shield, he wondered if his extended warranty covered knife fights.
Once he was out, Kathleen locked the door behind him. Charlie stood on the sidewalk and looked at his van, now his home as well, and wondered if he could make enough as a handyman to survive. He called Angela again. No answer; he left another message, this one sounding forlorn. He circled behind the house and slipped into the dungeon to get his stuff. No telling when he’d be back, especially since he could hear Kathleen on the phone upstairs, and it sounded like a 911 call. So much for the printer.
He had just pulled out of the driveway when a police cruiser turned onto Bayard Terrace. “No cops!” Charlie hissed. After the squad car passed by, he watched in the mirror to see if it would turn and follow him. It pulled into Kathleen’s driveway instead.
He went to the coffeehouse. Jean wasn’t there. He sat in a corner nursing his brew and waited for Angela to return his call. His spirits sank further as he considered his plight. What was he supposed to do? He thought about Beck’s invitation to return to Thornbriar. He sensed a trap. Was he being tempted to renege on the contract?
All these attempts to sidetrack him were the devil’s work, of course, and Charlie wasn’t about to let Satan have his way. There was no turning back. Even if he’d been fired by his earthly boss, he had to finish the book. Now he understood why the contract had been worded so harshly. Because God couldn’t trust people to do something unless their lives depended on it, and maybe not even then. Charlie vowed to be someone his grungy, vengeful God could believe in. Having done that, he went back to work.
He left the coffeehouse when it closed at midnight and retreated to his van, parked at the back of the lot behind the building. He took out the middle seat and set it upside down on the back one, then crawled into his sleeping bag, all the while hoping the cops wouldn’t find him. Using his parka as a pillow, he curled up, pulled the sleeping bag tight around his neck, and dozed off.
He woke from a terrible, useless dream: black farmers calling each other racial epithets to a hip-hop beat, then shooting at each other from mule-drawn wagons. He looked at his watch: 3:13 a.m. The timing was off. Everything was off. His nocturnal transmission had been hijacked. Had losing his place in the world destroyed his channel into the past?
On the other hand, maybe he could get back to leading a semi-normal life.
Then he reminded himself that he was living in a van.
But at least it was his van. With difficulty, he managed to empty his mind and fall asleep.
A while later, a rap on the window awakened him. He looked up and saw a figure standing at the van’s side window, crowned by a halo provided by a parking lot light. At first, he was afraid. Then he realized it was Jean. She spoke, her voice muffled by the glass: “Are you homeless?”
What a disheartening question. And rude, somehow. What could he say? He was what he was: a middle-aged man sleeping in a van. Trespassing. And now ashamed. He rubbed his head, leaned over, and opened the sliding door. She plopped on the van floor and looked him in the eye. “How long?”
His mind was as blurry as his vision, but the crisp air forced his world into sharp focus. He was too forlorn to be cute or clever. “My boss pulled a knife on me last night. And I’m broke.”
Jean, who knew about Charlie’s living and working arrangements, seemed unsurprised. “Why? The violence, I mean. I figured you’re broke.”
“She was off her meds.”
She nodded sagely. “I know how that is.”
“I gave all my money … for child support.”
She gently touched his chest. He felt an impulse to kiss her, but that would ruin the only adult relationship he had left. She saved him from a bad decision by climbing out of the van. “I’ve got to open up,” she said. “Come inside. I’ll give you some coffee and a muffin.”
The tall woman tromped off in her hiking boots. Charlie pulled on his own boots and clambered from the van. It was 6:00 a.m. Traffic was sparse. He pissed from the back end of the parking lot onto a wooden fence in a luxurious, arching stream. When do
ne, he admired his accomplishment. That was the shame of modern life: People no longer took pride in their work.
Charlie brought his laptop into the coffeehouse and set it on a corner table under a track spotlight. Jean was scurrying to get the place up and running. A couple of regulars stood at the counter, stamping their feet, gently razzing her. When she was caught up, Charlie ordered coffee.
“On the house,” Jean said, her voice just above a whisper.
“It’s OK. I’ve got a credit card.”
She laughed. “Less trouble for me to give it to you, then. Here, take a muffin. Cranberry-walnut. I have to throw it out, otherwise.”
“Thanks. I’ll make it up to you.” He returned to his table, opened his laptop, and plugged in, realizing that he’d been reduced to scrounging for power and food. The beggar bit into his muffin and stole a glance at Jean. She was heartbreakingly beautiful, inside more than out. Why must the woman he desired see him scraping bottom? They could never be together now. He felt that he was no longer a man to her, just a stray she’d befriended.
He was typing away when he felt a firm, gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re so tense,” Jean said. “You never stop working, do you?”
“Got a job to do,” Charlie mumbled. “Everything depends on it.”
She leaned down, kissed the back of his neck, and walked away. It hadn’t felt like a come-on—more like an act of grace. She was an angel, and this was a holy place. He sensed that no harm would come to him in her abode. A minute later, she slipped a CD in the player. The music was organic, Eastern: a wooden flute and a bird that chirped on cue. Charlie wasn’t paying complete attention. It sounded like a man was climbing a mountain and crying about the love of a woman. Either that, or his feet hurt.
Dawn brought a storm. Fat raindrops smashing sideways pushed people into the coffeehouse and kept them there. Charlie kept working, looking out the window just as a lightning bolt struck nearby and rattled the building. It reminded him of that night at the Pancake Hut, when all this madness started.
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