The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second

by Drew Ferguson

  At the Olympia, I got us a spot in the back, away from the windows and the rest of the customers. Rob collapsed into the booth, elbows on the table, his face in his hands. I pulled a handkerchief out of my coat—the one with shoulder pads so large it made the suit look like it was still on the hanger—and handed it to Rob. He dried his eyes, blew his nose, and took a menu from the waitress.

  Rob got a Monte Carlo that he didn’t really eat, just picked at, stabbing it with his steak fries and pushing it through the rivers of ketchup on his plate. When he seemed bored with that, he dissected it with his butter knife and started dumping whatever he could find on the turkey and ham—Sweet ’N Low, half-and-half, sugar, salt, pepper, A1 Steak Sauce.

  The waitress eyed us and I half-expected her to come over and bitch at us for acting like a couple of punks who wouldn’t eat what they ordered like normal, decent people. Rob broke down before she could.

  “That’s not her in there, Charlie,” he said, jabbing his butter knife in the direction of the funeral home. He sniffled and wiped his nose along the arm of his suit. “My mom’s not in that fucking box. It’s not her. She didn’t wear makeup, not makeup like that.” A tear dropped from his chin to the table.

  “I hate this town, Charlie. I hate everything about it. This wouldn’t have happened in Manhattan. This shitty little town.”

  Seeing him like that, raging, pissed beyond tears, one minute lashing at anything, too weak, too defeated the next—it was too much. I kept telling myself to do something, say something, but it was like my voice was trapped inside me. Here’s this thing that’s killing him, eating him from the inside, and I couldn’t do or say anything that meant shit. All I had were the empty, funeral-home “sorry’s” and “she’s in a better place’s.” What the fuck good would those do him?

  “She’s dead.” His body shook. “It hurts, Charlie. God, it hurts.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get you back.”

  I opened my wallet and threw money on the table, thanked the waitress—she’d overheard Rob and was tearing up—and took Rob back to the funeral home. Rob ran to his dad, threw his arms around him, and crumbled. Mr. Hunt held Rob close to his chest, buried his face in Rob’s neck, and sobbed. “That’s it, let it out. Let it all out.” It was the first time I’d seen Mr. Hunt lose control.

  It’s probably terrible to say this, but there’s something showy and selfish about grief. Everybody it touches gets this look-but-don’t-touch, if-you-have-to-ask-you-can’t-afford-it vibe. Like there’s a rule that says whoever’s suffering is one up on everyone else. It makes them different, special. Unreachable. No matter how many whispered is-there-anything-I-can-do-for-you offerings we make, there’s nothing in our words that’s strong enough to bridge the gap. Grief’s an island.

  Look at me—acting like I actually understand any of this crap.

  About an hour after Rob and I got back to Flagg and Son’s, I needed to take a leak. There was a first-floor bathroom, but a line of old men was waiting to get in. I figured they had to be at the funeral home window-shopping or hoping for some kind of morbid test drive. None of ’em had paid their respects, which was fine with me. Old people creep me out. They’re always yammering about how the world’s going to hell in a handbasket, how there hasn’t been any decent music since the Andrews Sisters, and how if men are wearing earrings, they might as well wear bras, too. They smell, too—the half gallon of Old Spice that still doesn’t cover the scent of mothballs, fifty years of smoking two packs a day, piss, iodine, and pending death. To get away from them, I pretended someone was calling me. I shouted, “Coming, Mom,” and found the bathroom downstairs.

  Nobody was there, which was great until Mr. Five-Incher decided not to cooperate. As soon as he was out of my fly, he decided to stretch out, so to speak. Even though we were in a funeral home, my little guy wasn’t really in the mood to do the respectful thing and settle down.

  What was I supposed to do? Wait until it went away? Like that’d happen. Go back upstairs, walk around, and, like a complete dweeb, pretend like I didn’t have a hard-on? Yeah, and when it got spotted—there’s no hiding ’em in suit pants—what would I say? Oh, don’t worry, I always get like this when I’m around dead people. That’d go over well.

  So, I hate admitting this, but I did what needed to be done. I made sure the bathroom door was locked, pushed my suit pants and underwear below my knees, spit in my palm, and with no sense of decency or shame, I jerked off.

  By the time I was done with my DNA dump, the visitation was almost over. The crowd in the viewing room had thinned out. I went past the floral sprays—crosses, hearts, and wreaths, the arrangements in baskets, floral pillows—and stood next to the casket for the first time.

  Rob was right. It didn’t look like her. Mrs. Hunt looked waxy and fake, like the mortician guessed at what she might’ve looked like once. I’d been trying to do the same thing since I met her. It was only when either Rob or Mr. Hunt was talking to her that I’d maybe see a glimpse of who she’d been. A twinkle in her eyes. Something in her hands, maybe. But that was it. Everything else is just what I imagined.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Rob’s dad.

  “How are you, Mr. Hunt?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve known this was coming for longer than Rob has.”

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? A Coke?”

  “No, thanks,” he said, folding his arms in front of him. “You would have liked her, Charlie, if you’d gotten a chance to really know her. The two of you were a lot alike. She could talk her way into or out of anything. Had a mouth on her that went a mile a minute, but she always meant well. She had a good heart and she loved Rob.”

  Mr. Hunt stopped talking and bowed his head, probably remembering stuff they’d done together. I did the same thing to look respectful and mature, you know, and that’s when I noticed I should’ve shined my dress shoes. I got worried Mr. Hunt might notice, too, and think I was being disrespectful. People get weird about things like that. I did the poor man’s polish and rubbed the tops against the back of my calves.

  Actually, he was staring at my tie.

  “Looks like you spilled something.”

  Sure enough—leave it to me to make an ass of myself—there was a glob of come, glistening smack dab in the center of the tie. Not only do I gotta strangle the weasel at somebody’s wake, I’ve gotta show the evidence to her husband. Hey, Mr. Hunt, look at my tie. Bet you can’t guess what I was doing to myself in the bathroom, can ya? I mumbled that I must’ve gotten something on me at the restaurant, rushed downstairs, tore the tie from my neck, rinsed it in the bathroom sink, and then stuffed it into the pocket of my suit.

  When I got home, there was a message on the answering machine. Pastor Taylor said he didn’t want to impose, but it would mean a lot to the Hunts if I served as a pallbearer at tomorrow’s service. Mom called him back and said I’d be honored.

  Saturday, October 20

  Funeral directors are creepy. Being around dead people all the time must rub off on ’em—the pasty, ooohhh-doesn’t-he-look-restful faces; suits just good enough to be buried in, but nothing too flashy or expensive; and the personalities of, well, corpses. Mr. Porter, the funeral director for Mrs. Hunt, was like that. If it weren’t for the fact that I actually saw him blink, I’d’ve sworn somebody pulled him out of the box and propped him alongside his own casket.

  We got to church early, so we stood in the narthex—which I learned in confirmation class is church-speak for Jesus foy-yay—until Mr. Porter stopped futzing with the flowers, walked toward us, and said we were welcome to wait in the fellowship room until just before the memorial. When he found out I was a pallbearer, he apologized and said some of the other pallbearers were already in the sanctuary (actually, it’s called a nave—damn Pastor Taylor), offering their condolences to the family.

  I walked in. The assistant pastor was lighting the altar candles and Pastor Taylor was speaking with Mr. Hunt and his mother, her arm clut
ching Mr. Hunt’s waist. Rob was playing some “Come a Little Bit Closer” on the church organ and he was singing to some dark-haired guy with a mussed-up, longish haircut but with bangs along his forehead—the guy was Rob’s kind of man. The grandmother shot Rob and the guy a dirty look. Rob got up and hugged the guy and they started laughing.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Hunt,” the funeral director said, coughing softly. The guy with Rob turned around. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but this is Charles Stewart. Your brother asked that he serve as one of your sister-in-law’s pallbearers.”

  “Charlie,” Rob said like he was surprised to see me. “This is my uncle, Chris. My dad’s little brother.”

  Chris was anything but little. He was nearly as tall as me, and, Christ, he was built—huge shoulders and chest, thick neck, strong jaw, and a chin with a slight point. Chris’s eyebrows were straight and so close to his eyes that it seemed like he was squinting. Chris had to be about thirty, but it was hard to tell. He looked much younger and way too hot for an old guy. I’d totally let him do me.

  “Chris,” Rob continued the introduction, “this is Charlie, my boyfriend.”

  “Hey, dude,” Chris said, smiling a big Crest Kids’ grin that showed his molars. He shook my hand—his practically swallowed mine.

  “And you, Robby,” Chris continued. I never dreamed anybody’d call him Robby. “Stop calling me ‘uncle.’ I’m not that old, dude.”

  “But you are, Uncle Chris,” Rob teased. “It won’t be long before we’re putting you in a nursing home. I got one picked out for you already.”

  “Shut up, punk,” Chris laughed, tossing his head back. “Is he this bad around you?” Chris grabbed Rob by the wrist, twisting Rob’s arm behind his back and then slamming his hips into Rob’s butt pretending to hump him. “Because if he is, Charlie, this’ll shut him up.”

  “Christopher. Robert,” Rob’s grandmother scolded. “Cut that out. You two should be ashamed of yourselves. Acting like that in church.” Grandma Hunt walked over to Chris and gave his ear a sharp jerk.

  “Robby started it,” said Chris, smirking and massaging his ear.

  “I don’t care if he started it or not, Christopher,” she said, tugging his coat into place and straightening his tie. “You should be on a leash and a leather collar with metal studs.”

  “Left it at home, Ma,” Chris smiled. “If I’d thought of it, dude, I so would’ve worn it.”

  “Mom would have loved it,” Rob said, “but Dad would still have told you to at least wear a blazer.”

  Duh. That’s why Rob’s dad didn’t freak about us dating, and why Rob got pissed about getting two stag tickets to homecoming. Guys liking other guys was normal in his family—at least it wasn’t something they got worked up over.

  “A blazer to a funeral,” Grandma Hunt said, tut-tutting. “Nearly thirty and can’t afford a nice suit and tie. They don’t have decent clothing stores in Chicago? Just Sears? If only you got yourself a real job. Acting, I swear if your father was alive—”

  “He’d drop over dead. I know.”

  Pastor Taylor, Mr. Porter, and Mr. Hunt walked over to us.

  “When shall we expect the other pallbearers?” Mr. Porter glanced at his watch. “There are a few things I’d like to go over with them.”

  Pallbearers should be allowed to wear cleats and work gloves. Carrying a casket may look easy, but even with five other guys, it ain’t. Even though I only held one little section, it was still heavier than it looked. It wouldn’t’ve been bad if everybody was the same height, but we weren’t, so everybody struggled to keep the box level. Then there’s the cemetery itself. The ground’s not flat. I kept trying not to stumble over twigs and branches or slip on some dearly departed’s headstone, and my dress shoes got zip for traction because of all the dew.

  The graveside service was mostly okay. Mom and I stood in the back, where we really couldn’t hear too much of what Pastor Taylor was saying. When Pastor Taylor was nearly finished, I’d noticed the nurse who Mr. Hunt had fired was next to us. Rob turned around, saw her, and waved. He whispered to his dad, then pointed her out. Mr. Hunt seemed pissed. He said something to Chris, who walked over to her.

  “Julie,” he said, “you’re not welcome here. It’s best if you left.”

  “Look, Chris,” Julie said. Her voice was cold. “Paul kicked me out once. We both know what happened after that. I just want him to see me and remember what he did to her.”

  “Great timing,” said Chris. “He’s seen you. Now get the hell out of here.”

  Mr. Porter, seeing the commotion, broke away from the grave and came to Chris’s side.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Hunt?” Porter asked. He placed a hand in the small of Chris’s back, I guess to stop him from making a scene.

  “No, dude,” Chris said. “This lady’s leaving.”

  Julie puffed her chest and acted like she planned on standing there until they dragged her away, but she finally sighed and stomped off. Chris and Mr. Porter returned to the rest of the family. Mom asked if I knew what that was about. I shrugged.

  It did seem kind of weird, though. I mean, I remember Mr. Hunt and Julie getting into an argument, and yeah, it seemed serious at the time, but that was, like, weeks ago. I don’t know. Maybe Mr. Hunt thought Julie was there to rub it in. Like he expected her to say that if he had just listened to her about the ventilator and the other stuff, then maybe Mrs. Hunt would still be alive.

  I don’t know. That’d be a pretty crappy thing to say to a guy at his wife’s funeral.

  Sunday, October 21

  Almost as soon as we left the funeral luncheon, Mom and I started fighting. Christ, I didn’t even have my seatbelt on yet. She’d asked me if I’d caught up on the schoolwork I’d missed. I guess I must’ve sighed or rolled my eyes, or just didn’t see why she needed to be like First all of a sudden and act like the weight of the free world rested on my stupid pre-calc assignments.

  “Look,” I said, making this whackin’ big, world-weary sigh that even I have to admit deserved me getting my ass slapped back into last week. “It’s bad enough getting college brochures as stocking stuffers from one parent. I can’t handle both of you breathing down my neck. Just lay off for, like, two seconds, okay?”

  Mom didn’t say anything at first, and that’s when I knew I wasn’t up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle. No, I was in an ocean of shit, in a piss-poor canoe with no life preservers, and I was sinking fast.

  “You want me to leave you alone?” Mom asked, staring through the windshield and refusing to look at me. “Fine.” Her voice had the flatness of a TV show’s jury foreman reading a death sentence. “I get it, Charlie. We’re horrible parents for having any expectations for you.”

  “That’s not it,” I said, groaning, stubbornly folding my arms across my chest, and rolling my eyes. For some reason, even though I knew I should, I couldn’t put the emergency brakes on my clichéd, teenaged persecution complex. Look at me, I’m poor pitiful Charlie. Watch my nobody-loves-me-everybody-hates-me-I’m-going-to-eat-some-worms pouty indignation.

  “Then what is it?” Mom said. The lines around her mouth tightened and the skin from her throat to her chest looked prickly and red. She drummed one thumb along the top of the steering wheel.

  “It’s just that you guys never fricking let up.”

  “Watch the mouth.”

  “Whatever…”

  And that’s when I got cracked across the chops. Mom hadn’t hit me since, I dunno, I was a kid and she caught me trying to jam a bent-up paper clip in an electric socket. My lower lip started quivering like I was a toddler who’d taken a spill and was just waiting for someone to ask if I was okay before I started bawling.

  “Charlie, I love you, but I will not allow you to talk to me that way.”

  “So, you haul off and smack me?”

  “You know what? I can’t deal with you. Not when you’re like this. Maybe you’d be better off staying with your father for a few days.”


  “Mom,” I whined, but she’d already stopped listening. When she pulled into our driveway, she got away from me so fast it was like she thought I was radioactive.

  I chased after her, shouting that I was sorry, begging her not to send me off to First’s. It didn’t do any good. She went inside, closing the front door—even though I was right behind her—and called First.

  Here’s a shocker—when First picked me up, there weren’t any lectures from him about being a snotty little ingrate or how if I had mouthed off to him like I did to Mom, he would’ve carved me into chum and fed me to the bottom-feeders in Lake Michigan. All I got was, “Bad day, huh, kiddo?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s been a real winner. You?”

  “About the same.”

  When we got to First’s place, I dumped my stuff in the doorway.

  “Here we are,” First said.

  “Yeah,” I said, taking in the place. “Here we are.”

  First’s apartment wasn’t exactly a swinging bachelor pad, unless your idea of a swinging bachelor pad is a pre-fabricated, pre-furnished rental unit decorated by some overweight, middle-aged empty nester whose design aesthetics were driven by such postmodern concepts as “cozy,” “homey,” and “comfy.” The place was all overstuffed couches, Ikea end tables, and painter-of-light-by-numbers English cottage drywall decorations. If it weren’t for one of First’s suit coats draped over a stool in the breakfast nook, the rental unit could have doubled for a model home or a chiropractor’s waiting room. Rental plants, soft lights, muted colors, striving suburban middle-class blandness.