The Incredible Charlie Carewe (6 page)

At that moment Charles was feeling brilliant. He was adding a valuable item to the index: “Thou shalt not lose thy temper.” It was practically like a lecture with illustrated slides they had sometimes in school. The subject was “the danger of letting one’s emotions run away with one” and Dad said, “You obviously lost your temper when you were wrestling with Roger, and as a result he was seriously hurt.” But the best part of it all was that, as long as he remained quiet and attentive, Charlie could watch his father
become
what he was talking about. His face got redder and redder, he began to walk faster up and down the library, and once he pounded the desk with a crack that must have hurt his hand. It was very interesting.

“We are lucky as a family,” he intoned, “to have a position in the community, a reputation of soundness and integrity. Do you understand how valuable these things are, son? They are not acquired easily. We have fine friends such as the Thornes, or we would be in grave trouble.” Walter took a breath, paused and pinched his chin, thoughtfully. He realized he was talking over the boy’s head, because that blank stare just wasn’t registering anything like comprehension. He sought in his mind to find the proper button to push that would awaken a response, a reaction of
some
sort. Pride? Certainly he remembered himself as a boy being full of pride, and he was as quick to fight for it as anyone. There were plenty of bloody noses around at that period in his life and he would hotly defend his right to administer a few telling punches when somebody got out of line. This had been a natural phase that was replaced eventually with more acceptable behavior. If Charlie had only come up with some explanation for what had caused the fight, it would be simpler. Obviously, it seemed to Walter, the boy had been overwhelmed by a passion which had surprised him with its force. Something animal and lustful that lay buried—deeply, thank God, in most decent people. Well, he thought, reasoning doesn’t seem to work, I’ll have to throw some kind of scare into him. He began quietly, solemnly:

“Just suppose, Charlie,” he said, “just suppose this boy had been—well, someone not in our—uh—
class
. Do you realize the boy’s father could file a complaint, a suit for damages, haul us both into juvenile court? And there would be
absolutely nothing I could do
.” He hammered the desk again for emphasis. “A Carewe boy,
mugged
, with a number attached to his name that would remain for life.” As Charlie’s eyes widened, Walter quickly dismissed the picture. “Of course, we’re lucky, don’t forget that. Bill Thorne is my friend, he knows it was a terrible accident; neither of us wants that sort of thing to happen.” It had worked, even though he felt that fear techniques were drastic and usually unnecessary. He sat down at the desk and lighted a cigarette. Surprisingly, he noticed he was somewhat shaken, and didn’t trust his hands to light a pipe.

He blew out the match with a quick hiss of the smoke, continuing: “You’re no different from other human beings, Charles. We all of us have to keep watch on our passions for our entire lives, otherwise they will control us instead of our controlling them.” How to explain that they could be channeled, used as fuel for ambition, to overcome wrong? “Most of them are a kind of hangover from the Stone Age, I guess—when all we had was our fists to claim what belonged to us. But just take a look at those fists of yours—they almost claimed a boy’s life.”

Charles caught the expression on his face and mirrored it. He heard the tone of his voice and became an echo. Looking at his hands, he said solemnly, “A boy’s life,” and his voice was an awed whisper.

His father rose and, putting an arm about the boy’s shoulders, walked him to the door. “Don’t dismiss it too soon, Charles—think it over—think it over.” And Charles went out of the room shaking his head, still looking at his fists, a perfect picture of bewildered remorse.

Charlie was having a wonderful time. He had acquired a new toy that delighted him with its effectiveness. It contained innumerable ways of getting attention—of the pleasant kind. Heretofore there had been times when kids or grownups looked at him too suddenly, with widened eyes and open mouth, and it made him want to scratch himself or get out of the way. Now, as a result of a few words that his dad had said in the library, he had found a whole new world. To himself in the mirror above the washbasin in his bathroom he said, “Dad, I’m grateful to you.” His voice slipped a little and he relaxed his throat and tried it a tone lower: “Dad—
thank
you.” While he was about it he studied his face, staring hard, and by concentrating a little his eyes filled. “That’s enough, that’s enough,” he whispered. More would look babyish.

“Charles, where are you?” His mother’s voice came from his bedroom. He was about to whisk the moisture from his eyes, when he stopped, and in a muffled sound called, “In a minute, Mum.” Snatching up a piece of Kleenex, he blew noisily into it and timed his exit so that he would still be rubbing his nose hastily and then jammed the tissue into his pocket. It worked.

“Why, Charles baby, have you been crying?” With genuine concern she drew him over to the big embrasure at the window and pulled him down beside her. “Now tell me, what’s upset you—you seemed so flip and unfeeling this morning at breakfast——”

The answer to this wasn’t quite clear, so he played it safe, saying nothing, keeping his eyes down.

“Now listen to me, dear. I talked to your father, and he’s really very pleased with you. He said that you understood completely now—that you just didn’t realize what had happened, that it was just too important for you to grasp.”

“But, Mother, what have I done?” He pulled away from her and buried his face in his hands, which gave him a chance to listen more closely for the next cue.

Beatrice felt close to tears herself at her son’s apparently deep contrition. But he was too young, too young to suffer so much.

She spoke quietly and with a delicate control. “Listen dear, listen to Mum. We’ve had a close brush with tragedy, but we all know you didn’t mean to hurt Roger so badly, and that you’ve had a great lesson. You see,” she continued thoughtfully, “we’re all human, but it goes a little harder on people like us, when something like this happens. When one member of a family like ours makes a mistake it affects us all. We have to be more careful than most people, even in other things—little things. That is why Dad and I have made such careful plans for you children, that you should go to the right schools, be with the right people, and learn to do the right things, so that we can keep on being a fine example to others. It’s our duty, Charles—do you understand?”

He was making her a little uncomfortable, staring at her now, the dark lashes of his eyes twinkling with his tears.

“I’m just a leftover from the Stone Age,” he said hollowly.

Beatrice bit her lip, to suppress a smile. “Well, cave man,” she said, “you’ll grow up to be a Carewe and a gentleman, don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, Mum dear. I love you very much.”

Almost overcome, Beatrice held him close for a moment. “It’s near dinnertime, my pet; take a nice hot bath and change your linen, and you’ll feel better.”

In the “nice hot bath” Charlie lay with his hands locked beneath his head, under a lavish blanket of soapsuds, working on a pleasant puzzle. He was on the edge of understanding something. . . . Meditatively he raised first one dripping foot and then the other, carefully lifting a fragile cone of suds with his big toe. “Have to do lots of thinking,” he said aloud, “lots and lots and lots of thinking.” It was a new exercise for him, and he was thoroughly enjoying it, because it promised whole new avenues of freedom from boredom. And boredom, lately, had become a very irritating companion.

He knew that there was a key somewhere to the new toy, that would unlock, oh, maybe the answers to just about everything. All he had to do was to keep looking at it, the way he did at a math problem or a piece of mechanism. It soon became completely clear, and he always arrived at a result that was correct and simple, while others around him were still fussing with the silly word “Why?”

When that word was directed at him it made him—itchy—irritable. He used it often enough himself, because it was a good way to argue.

There was no “why” connected to this key, dancing and gleaming with promises—there now—almost got it! He had learned that it was the proper thing, and therefore the rewarding thing, “not to make a fuss.” When he was young and he bellowed over a cut toe, people would keep saying, “Don’t make such a fuss.” Instead, if he said, “It’s nothing,” he got
lots
of attention. “Are you sure, you poor, dear boy—you are
so
brave.”

But there was a subtlety about the events of yesterday and today that was still eluding him. He had been going ahead with his “don’t make a fuss” routine, and it had boomeranged. He’d got nothing but those silly O-faces that his sisters put on, his mother had got icy with him, and Dad had been thoroughly dull until he became angry; and that was interesting to watch because for some reason it was not directed at
him
. Then suddenly it had come to him, he “got” what was expected of him. He laughed as he thought of the way it was with animals, dogs or horses, when you were teaching them tricks. For a long time they seemed stupid and stubborn, and then all of a sudden they got the idea, and they could do the trick just beautifully. And this was the key! Now it lay shining and cunning in his palm. No effort, no “itchiness,” no boredom. You just were clever and watched and listened with a kind of third ear and you could find out what people
expected
you to do, and then you did it and, oh boy! Life would be one sweet song! He slapped his hands into the water, splashing the suds over the side. “ ‘Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum——’ ” His voice took on the recent new deep note. “ ‘Sixteen men——’ ” he shouted, and then quickly put his hand over his mouth. “Careful, dummy!” he whispered to himself, and reviewed the situation. He wondered how long he would have to act “shocked and suffering.” And with the new key he answered himself: “Just as long as it works!” Simple, simple, simple. He got out of the tub and dried himself. Vigorously he scrubbed his teeth. Long ago he had learned the value of his smile and what it got him, and that his much-admired “mouthful of teeth” was important. Stretching his lips apart, he grinned at himself in the mirror, crinkling his eyes into merry slits. With his new wisdom, he knew he would use it exactly at the right time, and
not
when somebody O-faced at him and said, “Why are you grinning like a jackass?” He did a little jig and made a few boxing passes at the rack of bath towels. Then he snatched his comb, parting his hair carefully, settling the unruly curliness of it, and as a final touch he ran two fingers through the piece above the temple, drawing down one curly strand for a look of carelessness. He took a hand mirror, working it so that he could see how he looked with his eyes cast down. He slacked his shoulders a little, gave a sigh, and muttered: “A disgrace to the name of Carewe.” That was it. Try it through dinner, don’t talk, just listen closely, and don’t seem to listen.

The change in Charlie in the next few years was a bit awesome to Walter. He felt he had no right to claim full responsibility for having hit the note that would make a man out of a boy. It would have been old-fashioned and somewhat pious bad taste to refer to the guidance of God. His ancestors had had no hesitance in using the phrase often and resoundingly; but today it seemed linked with a kind of conceit to feel that God should concern himself with such small matters. Especially since He seemed quite unconcerned that the nation’s economy had had the props knocked out from under it; that there were miserable things like bread lines and apple sellers. It was the greedy have-nots who had caused the whole thing, he thought. What they “had not” was not so much money as sound judgment, the good breeding that is cautious of extremes, knowing instinctively that a money market that showed graphs like a high fever was a sick market, and the only sensible thing had been to sell out, to turn one’s back on it. Humbly, Walter attributed his judgments, his acts, not entirely to his own acumen, but to the accumulation of his inheritance of sound solid principles. It was breeding, pure and simple, and it was this breeding that had come through in Charlie. He was as fine and spirited as a blooded race horse, and that unfortunate accident had only served as a kind of shock that made Charlie aware of his true self. Terrible thing, he mused, such rotten luck. The last he’d heard of the Thornes was that they were in Europe, in search of another “cure” for Roger, something about his eyes. Bill assured him that there was no connection, as it was months before Roger began to complain of these occasional temporary blind spells. Some inherited deficiency, no doubt. He turned back to the old letter from the university that had led to affectionate musings about his son.

There was a feeling of apology in the letter, and of regret. They were disappointed that they could not award Charlie the honors they were sure he would have received if it had not been for—and here the letter went round and round, avoiding in pleasant phrases the fact that they simply couldn’t
prove
that Charlie had cheated in his finals, but even one with so high a scholastic record of brilliance could not possibly have known so much about a subject that he had commenced only that year. He had come out with flying colors—too flying. His explanation, that he had been fascinated by the subject and had done some cramming on the side, had been accepted reluctantly, but they wanted Mr. Carewe to know that they weren’t a bunch of damn fools and were going to keep a sharper eye on one smart-aleck Charlie in the future.

“Just a stupid lack of appreciation of the boy.” The letter had again caused a knot of anxiety to form in his stomach and Walter swallowed his own words as a palliative. As an isolated happening, it was not worthy of much attention. As a matter of fact, the whole thing had been forgotten and Charlie was launched into his final year. It was now October and everything was going splendidly. The very fact of his feeling of relief showed an over-anxiety, a tenseness, that periodically assaulted him. He felt if he could just get Charlie safely through the growing-up years, protect him, stand between him and the consequences of his occasional high-spirited shenanigans, he would become a man who would accomplish great things, in whatever field of endeavor he chose. What a lawyer he would make! Not the dull efficient plodder like himself, but a trial lawyer, a criminologist for example. With his unusual ability to say the right thing at the right time, his almost uncanny ability to charm, why he could twist a jury around his little finger!