The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second

by Drew Ferguson

  “Charlie, what are you doing—Jesus, your face. Are you okay?”

  Mom was behind the bar, changing out a register, but when she caught my reflection in the mirror behind the shelves of booze, she flipped. Her face lost its color. She dropped the drawer she’d been holding and, don’t ask me how, managed to grab me by the armpits and nearly heaved me over the bar’s side.

  “What happened? Who did this?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. Mom’s hands cupped my head and she tilted my face into the light, rolling it from side to side. One of her fingers pulled my lip down, checking to see if I still had teeth.

  She told her boss she needed to leave and hustled me out. What surprised me was once we were out of earshot, Mom didn’t yell at me like I thought she would.

  “Did you bike here?” she asked.

  I nodded, pointing to where I’d dumped my ten-speed. Mom tossed me the car keys and had me open the back of the Jeep. We fought to get the bike far enough inside to close the hatch.

  “We’re going to the emergency room,” Mom said, slipping her hand into the small of my back. I shook my head. “You sure?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. I nodded and my teeth felt like the flippers in a pinball machine. “Let’s go home then.”

  In the car, Mom stabbed her key in the ignition and the speakers coughed to life, playing “Push It” by Salt-n-Pepa.

  “God, I used to love this song.” Mom turned the volume down and fished through her purse for her smokes. “Every time I hear it, it reminds me of the night your father and I—never mind. At least, Charlie, I kept you from being a cliché. Christ, your father wanted ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.’ The 18-minute version. Wishful thinking, if you ask me. I made him change CDs.”

  “Huh? I don’t get it,” I lied. Who wants to hear about their parents bumping uglies?

  “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

  I sighed, wondering if anybody’s parents ever meant that. Like, did they keep a list somewhere? This is where babies come from, the man from Nantucket had a dick so long he could suck it, Aunt Edna wasn’t at Thanksgiving last year because she was in rehab, not ’cuz she was “tired.”

  “So,” Mom said, ignoring me as she slid the car into gear and backed out of her parking spot, “if we’re not going to the emergency room, should we stop by the grocery store? Get a couple of steaks for those shiners?” I shook my head. Tilt! Tilt!

  She didn’t ask what happened until after we’d gotten home, I’d soaked in the tub (she went all out, using the fancy bath beads that looked like opals and smelled like lilacs), and I was wearing one of Dad’s bathrobes. The whole thing made me feel a little girly, but it was nice. Mom came into my room, warm milk—I always thought it was kinda gross—and painkillers in tow.

  “Don’t tell your father.” She shook a codeine-spiked Tylenol from its brown plastic bottle into my palm. “He’d probably accuse me of giving you heroin.” I popped it in my mouth and I couldn’t help thinking about Mrs. Hunt. I took a swig of milk, handed the glass back to Mom, and curled up on my bed.

  “It’s no steak,” she said, folding a damp washcloth into a roll and resting it on my eyes, “but I suppose it’ll do.”

  I ended up spilling my guts. Verbal diarrhea. How I knew about Mr. Hunt’s fight with the nurse, the pills, how I felt like shit for not telling anyone, the Crosstown Classic, my fight with Rob. Mom didn’t say anything and I kept babbling; then I guess I zonked out.

  When I woke up a few hours later, I heard Mom downstairs talking to Dad. They weren’t arguing or fighting and Dad wasn’t pleading with her to take him back, so it took me a few minutes to realize I wasn’t dreaming the whole thing. Mom must’ve called Dad shortly after I passed out, ’cuz from what I could barely hear of their conversation, they weren’t talking about Rob’s near-perfect attempt to beat the ever-living piss out of me. They were talking about the charges that Fisk had filed against Mr. Hunt.

  I dropped my aching ass to the ground and dragged myself alongside the heating vent on my bedroom floor for a little quality eavesdropping.

  Dad was in the middle of some thought I couldn’t quite follow. “…it may be his show, but that doesn’t mean it will wind up on stage.”

  “I’m not following you,” Mom said.

  “I might be able to stop the case from ever going to trial. Hunt’s attorney’s right. Fisk is just using Hunt for publicity.”

  “So if there really isn’t a case, why did your office file charges?” Mom asked. I wanted to know, too. I pressed my ear against the vent’s metal grate even harder, waiting for Dad’s answer.

  “I’m not saying Fisk doesn’t have a case. He can make one. It’s just not a strong one. Even if Paul Hunt turns out to be guilty, getting a conviction will be tough. His lawyers will push for a jury trial. They’ll call a series of sympathetic witnesses that Fisk won’t be able to get aggressive with on cross without running the risk of coming across as a monster. I can’t imagine any jury that wouldn’t have at least one juror who either hasn’t gone through what Hunt did or at the very least can imagine being in his situation. Knowing that, Hunt’s attorneys will play hardball. They will probably argue the only way that the state can get what it’s after is to let Hunt plead to some minor charge with no time.”

  “So, Charles, how do you fit into this?”

  “I’m going to the boss tomorrow. If I can lay it all out for Ed, show him just how much of a waste of time and money this is for our office, he may pull the plug. Since he’s stepping down as state’s attorney, Ed doesn’t have a dog in this fight, at least not politically. If he sees it my way, maybe he’ll work to get the charges dropped.”

  “You’re not doing this because of tonight, are you? You know, Charles, if you are, you can’t keep protecting Charlie.”

  “It’s not about Charlie,” Dad said. My stomach soured, and for a split second, I was like Charles James Stewart the First, he’s my hero—not! “If getting the case dropped helps Charlie with his…friend…that’s neither here nor there. It’s about doing what’s right. Look, you and I know what a loss can do to a family. I don’t see any reason for my office to step in and make someone else’s loss worse.”

  I found myself nodding, and then decided I was too old to be listening in on the Ps’ convos.

  A few weeks ago—hell, at any point in my life as a teen—if someone told me I’d be proud of my dad, I would’ve told him he was more full of crap than a septic tank. But you know what? Little by little, it seems like he’s turning out to be an almost-cool guy.

  Mom and I just got back from church. I didn’t want to go, but she insisted since it was Reformation Sunday, which is supposed to be a big deal for Lutherans when we celebrate Marty Luther pissing off a pope and getting himself some hot nun action. And what a celebration—the toneless “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God” garbage, Pastor Taylor’s anti-Catholic tirade about cardinals and bishops turning St. Peter’s into a wall-to-wall brothel of naked Catholic boys (that got my attention), and then Pastor T doling out the wafers like poker chips, waving his hand abracadabra and mumbling “Body of Christ, shed for you.”

  The wafer stuck to the roof of my mouth. I tried working it free with my tongue, but gave up when I started thinking about how the wafer was supposed to be Jesus. He was in my mouth and He didn’t taste like chicken; He tasted like envelope paste.

  Monday, October 29

  Feeling better? You look like crap.

  —Ever consider a job writing greeting cards, Bink?

  I did. Hallmark didn’t like the samples I sent. Outside: Here’s to your speedy recovery. Inside: Because we’re tired of you bitching about how it hurts.

  —I’m surprised they weren’t impressed.

  What can I say? Some people don’t have any taste. Speaking of which, have you seen Rob yet? Word has it he still wants to kill you. Dana says his uncle’s staying with him and that his dad’s checked into a hotel to give him some space.

  —I’m surprised he didn’t kill me Friday n
ight.

  Well, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

  —But you saved me. My hero.

  Did you hear that?

  —What?

  The sound of my eyes rolling into the back of my head.

  —Cute.

  What will you do when you see him?

  —Dunno, but I gotta think of something fast. Choir’s next period.

  As for my big brilliant plan about seeing Rob in choir—the one where I basically avoided getting shivved by him in a hallway by wandering into third period late—well, it didn’t work.

  As soon as study hall let out, I headed to the boy’s bathroom by the chorus room. And since Fickle Fate likes to keep me around as her personal chew toy, Rob was at a sink, washing his hands. Before I could hightail it out of there, Rob spotted me. For a second, I thought he was glad to see me—bluish eyes widening to a twinkle, his mouth nearly to its “hey, pup” beam, but that didn’t last. It was like a switch in Rob’s brain flipped and he now wanted to satisfy his taste for blood by going back to me for seconds.

  “Nice face. Hope it hurts,” he said. He stepped toward me, feinting a jab, and I jerked back. “Wuss.”

  “Yeah,” I said, doing one of those tight-lipped, chin thrust things the jocks do when they’re trying to act like they mean business. Only it didn’t make me look tough. It just proved what a dork I was.

  “Jesus, you’re a pussy.”

  Rob body-checked me, making sure his elbow got me good and hard in the ribs, and pushed his way out of the bathroom.

  “Rob, look. I’m sorry.”

  Rob stopped, the muscles of his back tensing. “Sorry? That’s rich. Charlie’s sorry. Big fucking deal. That’s not going to bring my mom back. It doesn’t make it easier to stop hating my dad because he may have killed her.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want her to suffer—”

  “That’s your excuse? You don’t know shit, asshole. Fuck you, Charlie. Seriously, fuck you.”

  The rest of the day was cold shoulders from everyone. I got treated like I was radioactive. In AP Bio, Marshall was his usual mix of complete wannabe and mouthy little bitch—Friday night was awesome. I still can’t believe we did the Crosstown and didn’t get busted. We are sooo righteous. Stewart, man, Rob totally kicked your ass; you were bawling like a little girl.

  Soccer practice was a bust. State’s this weekend and we don’t have our crap together. Coach kept yelling that we needed to get our heads in the game, but the team was too busy waiting for the Stewart-Hunt rematch, where after one hit to my glass jaw, I’d get my lights permanently snuffed out.

  Tuesday, October 30

  Dirty looks from Rob in choir, during passing periods, in the locker room. It seems like the whole world is on his shit list, not just me. I wish I could do something to get off it. Mom and Mrs. B say to give it time. He’ll come around. It’d be nice to believe that was true, but it’s not gonna happen. If I were Rob, I’m not sure I’d know who to trust or if I could even trust anyone again.

  I hung out again at Bink’s house after practice. The team still sucks little green apples. Mrs. B was her usual tidings-of-comfort-and-joy self. Maybe this is just a bump in the road for you and Rob, like the poets Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud. Well, not exactly like them. They were horrible to each other—knife fights, Verlaine shooting Rimbaud in the wrist. Still, Charlie, you look a little like Rimbaud, you know. How was it that Verlaine described him? An angel in exile. Quit it, Ma, nobody wants to hear about two dead French fruits.

  Mr. B wasn’t much better. Think about it this way, Charlie, you’ve got it easy. When it comes to mating and courtship, Mother Nature is ruthless. And then Mr. B launched into lectures on brood parasitism—birds dumping their eggs into other birds’ nests; sexual cannibalism—some male spider from Australia would be nailing his eight-legged hottie when he, and here’s a great idea, does a somersault so she can sink her fangs into his abdomen; and filial cannibalism, which is when Mommy Hamster dines out at the all-you-can-eat baby hamster buffet. Jesus, why can’t I have parents who aren’t freaks? Bink’s sisters were the only ones saying anything that made sense. Boys are gross. Yeah, Neil’s farts smell like burning matches. Yeah, boys are stoo-pid.

  But these last two days, it’s been Bink and me out on his back porch, mostly. Him smoking and glancing at the kitchen’s screen door every once in a while to make sure the Ps weren’t watching. And me, I just griped, practically non-stop, about how things were over with Rob and how it hurt so much. Sure, Bink acted like he was listening. I knew he wasn’t. He was imagining a million different ways to shut me up (gag, chloroform, cutting out my tongue, sewing my lips shut, frontal lobotomy, smothering me in my sleep).

  Tonight, though, I was three-boxes-of-Kleenex, celebrity-tear-jerker-interview awful. Over everyone’s plates of polish sausage, canned green beans, and Betty Crocker scalloped potatoes, I started in on my usual I-love-Rob-I-love-him-not-I-wanna-know-what-love-is-I-don’t-know-how-to-love-him verbal circle-jerk.

  “Some of us are trying to eat here,” Bink said, gulping down the lime Jell-O (it goes with everything, according to Mrs. B) he’d been swishing and gargling through clenched teeth. With his eyes clamped shut, Bink nudged the sausage on his plate to the edge like he was worried that processed meat might turn him into a pole smoker.

  “Quit playing with your food, Neil,” Mrs. B said, shooting Bink a look that could strip wallpaper. “Why do I even bother with plates? I should put out troughs or tie feedbags to your necks.”

  “I’m not playing with my food, Mommy,” one of Bink’s sisters bragged.

  A glob of potatoes plopped from Bink’s fork to his plate. It sounded like someone having a rough go of it on the toilet.

  “All right, you two. Enough. Behave. We have company.”

  “C’mon, Mom,” Bink said, crossing his arms. “Company? Charlie practically lives here. And, you wanna know what really sucks?” Bink’s eyes darted from Mrs. B to his dad to see if either of them would smack the taste out of his mouth. “You treat him better than you do us.

  “Charlie whines and you drop everything. Most of the time it’s cool, since it means you stop harping on me about my grades or Dana. And, lately, it’s stopped you from wigging out about Aaron getting his head blown off in Afghanistan. Which, let’s face it, normal parents wouldn’t talk about that in front of their kids.”

  Bink’s sisters started bawling, snot greasing their lips like melted butter.

  “But you know what?” Bink asked, continuing. “I’m sick of it now. Forget Charlie for once, okay? What about us?”

  Red-faced and shaking, Bink stopped. Mrs. B glared at him like he’d wiped his ass on the Torah. Mr. B’s hands were folded, thumbs pressed together so hard they’d gone white.

  “Finished?” Mr. B asked. He leaned forward and Bink flinched.

  “Yes,” Bink said, trying to sound defiant.

  “Then eat what’s on your plate.”

  Nobody wanted to be at the table anymore, but we ate, staring at our plates and chewing like we’d forgotten how to swallow and were just going through the motions of mashing wads of wet cardboard between our gums. Mrs. B said there was chocolate cake for dessert, but I said I should be getting home. Mom would be expecting me. I think she nodded. Bink didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at me.

  Wednesday, October 31

  Bink and I, we’re cool again. During study hall today, he apologized for being a dick last night. The only reason he got pissed was that I was sounding like Dana. Ouch. He just couldn’t take it. Can’t say that I blame him really. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

  Thursday, November 1

  Believe it or not, Rob stopped by last night. Not for a hot grudge fuck that would’ve had my arms pinned to the green felt of a pool table (naturally, Rob’d hold the pockets for more leverage), ’cuz a half inch of slate’s got no give. No, Rob and a bunch of guys from South were out front, egging and TPing our house. It was too dark to see who was pili
ng out of Rob’s Beamer, but I recognized the voices of a couple of guys on the soccer team—Bales, Collins, Weir. Dumbasses. I should’ve called the cops, not ’cuz I was ticked about getting TPed, but because they were begging to get caught. They didn’t care about slamming car doors, leaving the headlights on, or that Weir was on his cell phone, telling some chick he had a bone he wanted to bury. They might as well’ve taken out a full-page, four-color ad in the paper announcing their plan, trained searchlights on our house, and invited the entire U.S. Marine Corps Band to march across the lawn playing “Stars and Stripes Forever” loudly enough to make the neighbors think they were double-timing it to Baghdad.

  What I should’ve done is gone downstairs, taken their damn toilet paper, and trashed our place myself. A group of retarded quadriplegic fifth-grade Girl Scouts in wheelchairs could’ve done better. They really were that bad. It was just eggs and toilet paper—no boxes of Uncle Ben’s Minute Rice emptied onto the grass (try cleaning that crap up after a thunderstorm), no smoked kippers tossed into the basketball net, no fertilizer burning misspelled obscenities in the lawn, no bags of flaming dog shit on the front porch, no pigs’ feet in the mailbox. Amateurs.

  I sat in the dark, wondering why they even bothered. It’s not like Mom’s yard was this wooded wonderland and I’d spend three months cleaning crap from tree limbs. There was just one skinny sapling in the middle of the yard, a two-foot-tall pine tree that’d been dying since Dad planted it last summer, and the basketball hoop I’d backed into during one of Dad’s first “driving lessons.” You see this? It’s a rearview mirror. It’s there for a reason. Do you have any idea how many children are backed over each year by people who don’t check the rearview mirror? Do you even know what they do in prison to people who kill children in vehicular homicide incidents? Even though they wouldn’t need more than a four-pack of Charmin to do the house up in style, Rob and his friends seemed to be having a riot. I went down, flipped the porch light switch, watched Rob and crew scatter, and then went to bed.