The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second (12 page)

“Good to see you, Mrs. Stewart,” she said, the insincere flash of her dentures giving new meaning to fake smile. She handed Mom two laminated menus tucked under her flabby grandma arm. “That John Fisk sure is soaring in the polls. He's got my vote.”

“Well, he's got my vote too, Leona,” Mom said. The hostess looked back at her, confused. “We'll have a table for two. Smoking.”

At the table, Mom lit up and slid the pack of Virginia Slims to me. I shook my head.

“Suit yourself.”

She slipped the pack back into her purse, snapped it shut, scanned the menu, and complained—way too loudly—that maybe this place wouldn't be such a dump if they had screwdrivers or Bloody Marys.

“God, Charlie,” she said, staring at Leona across the room. “I wanted to tell that old gossip your father's cheating on me.”

Her face was hard. She sucked her cigarette and then stabbed the whole thing out in a tin ashtray.

“Is he?” I asked.

First sleeping around wasn't something I could imagine. Thinking about old people having sex—all of that flabby and sagging skin, the skinny legs that nearly give out after climbing a flight of stairs, graying hair in places it shouldn't be, dirty old men coming dust—that made me wanna retch. But if First was cheating, it would explain a lot: the Ps constant fighting, him missing dinner 'cuz of some “fund-raiser” or “campaign event,” First saying how great his campaign manager was, and what a shame it was she wasn't married.

“Is he what?”

“Cheating?”

“Please,” Mom said. She laughed, pushing the ashtray to the table's edge. “I'm not that lucky. There isn't another woman dumb enough to sleep with him.”

After we'd finished eating, Mom gave me money to pay the tab—she didn't wanna deal with Leona—and waited by the front of the restaurant. I met her there. She was on her cell phone.

“Hello. This is Mrs. Stewart. I'm calling to say that my son Charlie won't be in today. We're both sick of his father.” She snapped the phone shut, looking the happiest I'd seen her in forever. Her hand found mine and squeezed it.

“Come on, kiddo, you're not too old to play hooky with your mom.”

We spent the day shopping. Believe it or not, it was actually cool. I thought Mom'd make me get the stuff she wanted—dorky store-brand generic crap—but she didn't. She handed me about three or four pairs of designer jeans, a couple of chest-raping sweaters—the kind that normally only Vespa-riding, waistless Italian guys with thick sultry lips and eyebrows for days could pull off—some ties and dress shirts, and a bunch of designer underwear (the kind with ripped, way hung and way obviously gay models on the package and not the scrawny, feathered-hair dorks on the front of the Sears brand). She insisted I try everything on and hubba hubba-ed me 'cuz the jeans really showed off my butt. Okay, Mom checking out my ass was creepy, but she was right. I actually had a butt and not an ironing board. I was measured and fitted for a new suit (for church, graduation, and maybe homecoming, if I didn't press my luck) and a new sports coat and slacks. We even went to Foot Locker for K-Swiss shoes, 'cuz it was the only place we could find that carried size sixteen.

We stepped up to the watch counter in another department store and Mom asked which one I wanted.

“We shouldn't be spending this kind of money,” I said.

“Well, Charlie, we are.”

I felt guilty. Even though Mom said she wanted me to have all this stuff, I couldn't help thinking she was only doing this to piss off First. Normally, I wouldn't mind a little credit card therapy, but I hated the idea that Mom might be setting herself up for more fights with First—fights that would come on a monthly basis with way too much interest.

As much as I'd like to pretend that the Ps getting divorced wouldn't be a big deal, the idea of that happening actually scared me. Sure, I hated their fighting, but I didn't want to see what would happen when it stopped. Spending weekends at First's new bachelor pad with the fridge that never had anything in it but condiments and a half-empty box of Arm and Hammer. It'd be worse with Mom, though. I could see her drinking herself to sleep for the first few months, then maybe getting a job as a waitress and a string of dates with construction workers, car salesmen, and fourth-grade teachers still living at home with their elderly mothers.

Anyhow, I saw this cool wristwatch I wanted to get Rob, but seventy-five bucks was more than I'd ever spent on anyone. I bought it and felt guilty, like I should've been thinking about Mom and not Rob. I offered to get her something, but she wouldn't let me buy her anything but lunch.

In the food court, I started fiddling with the watch box, wondering what it'd mean if I actually gave it to Rob. Naturally, Mom figured out what was up.

“You really like him, don't you?”

“Who?” I asked. I looked at the table so she couldn't see how embarrassed I was. This wasn't the kind of chat I wanted to have with her. Weren't there supposed to be some boundaries between parents and kids? I knew what lines I wasn't supposed to cross. I pretended she never had sex with First and overlooked the maxi pad wrappers that'd missed the trash can and ended up on the bathroom floor. In return, she also ignored all of my bodily functions and my love life.

“Does Rob like you?”

“I dunno.” I tried answering, but my voice cracked.

“I mean, maybe…I think so.” I jammed the straw in my mouth and sucked my iced tea.

“He seems to. At least when the two of you are parked in the driveway.”

I spat, spraying tea all over the place.

“You've got to be more careful.”

I couldn't tell if she meant spitting my tea or what Rob and I had been up to. She handed me a wad of napkins.

“It just went down the wrong pipe,” I said, cleaning up the mess I'd made.

We didn't leave the mall until after school would've ended, and Mom drove me to the Binkmeyers' house. She told me to wait in the car while she discussed something with Bink's mom. They chatted for, like, ten minutes, but I couldn't hear them. They hugged and then Mrs. B waved for me. I got out of the car.

“Charlie, it looks like you'll be staying here for a few days,” Mrs. B said, giving Mom another squeeze. “Your mom and dad need time to figure things out.”

“Whaddja do now?” Bink asked as I stepped inside. “Tell everyone you wanna be a girl?”

I laughed, but Mrs. B cuffed the back of Bink's head and told him not to be such a schmuck. Just because someone's gay doesn't mean they want to be a woman, she said.
Look at Truman Capote. He didn't want to be a woman, though you wouldn't know it from the way he talked—that lisp!—or the way he dressed sometimes. Still, he was very successful. At least until he started popping pills and telling outrageous stories about his friends. Then everyone hated him.

Mom came back later with my stuff—my new clothes, my book bag (
Thank God this was in it—holy crap, imagine if one of them read it!
), toothpaste, toothbrush, deodorant, zit pads, and shaving cream and razor (in case I miraculously needed to start shaving). She slipped some money into Mrs. B's hand, saying there was no sense in me eating the Binkmeyers out of house and home.

I followed Mom out to the car, telling Mrs. B that I wanted to say good-bye to my mom, you know, in private, and Mrs. B said she didn't understand why teenaged boys acted like they would die if anyone saw them kissing their mothers. In her day, sons…who knows, gave their mothers sponge baths, full body massages, and…I stopped listening.

I climbed into the car next to Mom.

“So, do I get to know what's going on?” I asked.

“Things between your dad and I aren't going so well.”

“Really?” I said, arching my eyebrow. It was a lame joke, but we laughed anyhow.

“Sometimes, Charlie,” she said, “when you're with someone for a while, you find out that they aren't who you thought they were. That you aren't who you thought you were. Without ever knowing when or how it happened, you realize one day that the two of you've grown so far apart that the two of you are practically strangers.” She lit a cigarette and laughed softly to herself. The smoke curled at her lips. “Listen to me talking. What do I know? Whatever happens, Charlie, I don't want you to worry.”

She tried to be upbeat, but the way “I don't want you to worry” sounded, she might have said something as equally uplifting and inspiring like, “we need to talk,” “you may want to sit down for this,” or “the doctor would like to schedule a time for you to come in and discuss your test results.”

Mom squeezed my knee.

“So, what's gonna happen now?”

“We're going to talk. But whatever happens after that, I want you to remember that I love you very much and I'm doing what I think is best.”

“C'mon, Mom,” I said, my voice catching on the tears I was trying to fight. “You're making it sound like you're walking out on me.”

“Charlie, I'm not going to leave you. I'd never do that. Neither would your father.”

I snorted and wiped my eyes and nose across my shirt-sleeve.

“Tell me about it. The guy's like quicksand.” I was trying to sound tougher than I felt. “It's like he's always there. Always pressing in around me. It's like he won't let you breathe.”

“I know,” Mom said, patting my leg, “that's something we're going to talk about.”

She kissed me good-bye, told me to call her if I needed anything, and promised to call. I watched her back the Jeep out, and I stood in the driveway waving to her until she rounded a corner and vanished.

I didn't want her going back to First without me. It wasn't 'cuz I thought he'd hurt her or anything. For all his faults, First wasn't that kind of guy.

I just didn't want to be alone.

It's almost midnight. I'm in the bathroom. It's the only time I've had peace for, like, the last five hours. I forgot what a madhouse this place is—a family of seven and me in a three-bedroom house with one bathroom. It's amazing no one's killed anyone.

I'm out of here. Someone's at the door.

 

 

Wednesday, September 12

If I don't get this down now, I'm not sure I'll get another chance. We're practically living on top of each other. I'm sharing Bink and Aaron's room, sleeping on a rollaway mattress we dragged up from the basement. Bink says Aaron'll be gone soon 'cuz he keeps talking about joining the Marine Corps, which has Mr. and Mrs. B less than thrilled. Neither of them is shy about showing it, either.

At dinner last night, Bink's parents double-teamed poor Aaron, saying no son of theirs—especially one they sacrificed for to put through college—was gonna throw away his degree and become part of the military-industrial complex, go overseas, and kill brown people's babies.

Don't get me wrong; I love the Binkmeyers to death, but I'll go out of my skull if I have to stay here much longer.

Have I mentioned that unless you're a total exhibitionist, it's impossible to find a place to choke the chicken? Wherever you go, somebody's always around. You can't walk, like, three feet without tripping over one of Bink's little sisters. If you manage to get to the bathroom and it's empty, someone's pounding on the door thirty seconds after you've locked it. And the basement? Forget it. Well, even if it didn't look like it'd been repeatedly shelled with mortar fire, if I went near it, Mrs. B'd think I scarfed the Swiss Army knife Aaron got back in Boy Scouts and was planning on using the corkscrew to disembowel myself.
But, Charlie, you have so much to live for. Look at Liberace…actually he's not a good example, either. Completely tacky, a friend of Nancy Reagan, and he had AIDS.

There wasn't even time to spank it in the shower. To save time, Mrs. B basically has “her boys” on rotation—one in the shower, one on deck, and the other brushing his teeth. When Bink was showering and Aaron was brushing his teeth in his boxers, I was between them, cupping my hands in front of my crotch to hide an overeager Mr. Five-Incher.

“What're you so embarrassed about, Stewart?” Aaron said, absently scratching his furry stomach. I couldn't let my eyes wander. Not even when Bink stepped out of the shower naked and dripping wet. Even a quick peek would've sent me over the edge. It's already killing me to share a room with the two of them. I've always thought Bink was hot, but honestly, Aaron's better looking. He looks tougher, thicker, and not as dopey as Bink. You'd date Bink; you'd beg Aaron to crush your head between his thighs.

God, I hope there's a sub in choir today. Five-to-one I end up dying of blue balls before Mom and First sort things out.

Thursday, September 13

I wish I could say I wasn't a perv, but last night, just when I thought the Brothers Hot were finally asleep and I could milk one out in relative privacy, Aaron's mattress started squeaking like crazy. The room was pretty dark, but I could still kinda see him tossing off. Aaron started to come and Bink threw a pillow at him, telling him to cut it out. He was trying to sleep. Aaron wiped himself with a pair of boxers he swiped from the ground and then kicked 'em past the end of his bed, right near my face.

Okay, I grabbed the boxers. And, yeah, figure out the rest. Without going into too many details, let's just say when I woke up, Aaron was working the boxers from my fingers.

“I'll take those,” he said.

I buried my head under the sheets, wishing I were dead. I hope Aaron thinks he kicked them onto the rollaway.

Whom am I kidding? We both know he knows I fell asleep with my nose buried in the cotton crotch like it was some kind of security blanket. I should've taken it as a sign.

Come stains are a poor substitute for a good old-fashioned Oracle at Delphi.