Page 28 of Pages of My Heart

Charlie

Charlie has one arm around his mother’s waist, supporting her, while Evie stands to his left, her tiny hand in his.

Donnie is there too, standing on the other side of his mother, their family united in make-believe grief.

Behind him, somewhere among the few attendees, is Thomas.

Before him his father’s coffin makes its agonizingly slow descent into the ground.

Charlie stares at the cheap pine box, his face immovable.

Blank. His physical facade concealing the turmoil raging inside his head.

“Hey Charlie, stop. Look.” Thomas grabs his elbow and points up the alleyway they’re passing. “There’s a fight going on.”

“Leave ’em to it. We’re already runnin’ late.” Charlie keeps walking without even glancing toward where the muffled grunts are echoing off the brick walls. But Thomas doesn’t. “Red, come on,” he says, turning back around. But Thomas’s frown has him taking a closer look at the scuffle.

“Charlie, isn’t that your—”

“Father,” he says, finishing Thomas’s sentence. “Yeah. Looks like the stupid drunkard is gettin’ the beating of a lifetime. And he fuckin’ deserves it. Now let’s go.”

Charlie moves toward Thomas, intent on grabbing him by the arm and dragging him away, when a flash of silver catches his eyes.

One of the two men beating on his father has a knife.

Charlie needs this to be over. He wants time alone with Thomas, although God only knows how he can have that today.

There is profound relief at his father’s passing, especially the knowledge that he can never lay his cruel hands on his ma ever again, but it sits alongside a myriad of mixed emotions—guilt and confusion, hatred and regret.

The undeniable gain is that now he can see his ma whenever he wishes, although both he and Donnie will need to ensure she is taken care of. The money she earns from ironing won’t be enough. Evie has her job at the factory, but soon she’ll be getting hitched and making a new home elsewhere.

It happens quickly—the knife slicing into his father’s stomach.

Once, twice. Then a brutal third time. The two men run as his pops, clutching at his wounds, falls heavy to the ground.

He and Thomas stand in stunned silence for a moment, then Thomas is dragging him into the alley, running toward the crumpled body.

Even at a distance Charlie can see the blood soaking through his father’s white shirt at a terrifying pace, spilling through desperately clutching fingers.

Then they are there, standing over his father’s body.

“Shit, Charlie! Should we call for help? It doesn’t look good.” Thomas bends over as if he’s about to administer aid, but Charlie doesn’t want that.

“No!” He pulls Thomas back.

His old man tries to speak, writhing in pain, eyes darting frantically, the whites too bright. Charlie’s body grows warm with excitement. With pleasure even.

“I hope you fuckin’ die in pain,” Charlie says, voice low and harsh. He gathers saliva in his mouth, then spits on his father’s face. It hits the corner of his mouth and across one eyebrow. “That’s for all the times you laid hands on Ma, you sick son of a bitch.”

His father is fading fast, spluttering, face turning a sickly gray.

“Charlie, if we’re not going to help, then we need to go.”

The quiver in Thomas’s voice doesn’t escape him, but this is a very special moment in time.

Every beating Charlie took at the hands of his old man flashes before his eyes—belts, rods, fists, broken bones and cigarette burns.

Hands squeezing tight around his throat.

His sister’s sobs. His ma unconscious on the kitchen floor more times than he can count.

Purple, blue, and yellow mottled skin. The muffled screams deep in the night as his father took whatever he wanted from his mother’s flesh.

All the times he was ridiculed for being too soft, too weak, too much like a girl.

It all rushes through him in this moment.

Thomas tugs at his hand, pleading now. “Charlie, please, let’s go . . .”

Charlie leans over his father and looks him straight in the eye as he answers.

“But I wanna be sure he’s dead.”

Once the coffin finally comes to rest, they each throw some dirt over the bastard and it’s done. As people approach his mother to give their condolences, Charlie turns to Evie.

“You okay, sis?”

“I’m fine, Charlie. And so is Ma. You don’t need to go worrying about us, all right? It’s better this way and you know it.”

She gives his hand a little squeeze and he forces himself to nod.

“You must want to speak to Tom.” At the mention of his name, Charlie glances over Evie’s shoulder to where Thomas is standing off on his own and finds the man’s eyes already on him.

“Why don’t you invite him over for the afternoon?

Listen to the radio. Ma and I are visiting Aunt Lydia, and Donnie says he’s going out to get drunk. ”

Charlie feels uneasy at Evie’s suggestion. It’s as if she knows how badly he needs to be with Thomas. “Why would I do that?” he stutters, defensive. Too defensive.

“Um, because he’s your best buddy? Jesus, Charlie.”

“Right. Sorry. Well, uh, yeah . . . maybe. But only if you and Ma will be okay.”

“We will.” Evie looks to her left. “See, Tom is waiting. Invite him now.”

Charlie kisses Evie on the cheek and wills his nerves to settle down. He needs to stop being so suspicious of everyone or he’ll end up delusional. Of course it’s normal to spend time with a friend in these circumstances. Evie is simply being thoughtful.

Charlie reaches for his father’s neck.

“Charlie, stop!” Thomas yanks on the back of his shirt, pulling him away.

A strong arm spins him around and then Thomas’s big hands are gripping him around the biceps, shaking him a little.

“You’re better than that. I want him dead too, but not like that!

Let’s just get the hell out of here before the coppers show up. ”

Charlie looks down at his father lying next to them.

His body is mostly still now, but his eyes are open, and a gurgling noise sounds in his throat.

Without second guessing himself, Charlie pulls Thomas in and kisses him hard on the lips.

Thomas appears too shocked to really respond, but it doesn’t matter.

Charlie needs this. At the sound of his father’s violent wheezing, Charlie ends the kiss to find the old man’s eyes wide with shock.

With disgust.

Charlie’s mouth twists into an ugly but satisfied smile. “I love him,” he declares to his father, “and there ain’t a fuckin’ thing you can do about it.”

His father gives one last gasp and then his body goes lax.

And just as people say, his eyes turn to stone, like someone extinguishing a light.

All the breath rushes out of Charlie and in its place he is filled with a perverse sense of hope.

Thomas puts two fingers to his father’s throat, feeling for a pulse, and then nods to confirm.

He’s dead.

Robert Miller is dead.

His bastard of a father is fucking dead.

Charlie has seen all he needs to. He grabs Thomas’s hand and they run down the alley, only letting go as they reach the main road, where they slow to a brisk walk.

An hour after the funeral, Charlie is in his old bedroom with Thomas.

Even though he doesn’t expect anyone to return for many hours, he’s bolted the door.

He’s not sure why he’s done it, because if anyone were to arrive home and discover the locked bedroom door with Thomas inside, it would undoubtedly appear suspicious.

Maybe he hopes it will keep the ghost of his father out.

They lie on his old single bed, Charlie’s head resting on Thomas’s chest. Few words have been spoken, but none are needed. The police haven’t found the men that murdered his father and he’s fine with that. More importantly, neither he nor Thomas have been implicated in the crime.

Thomas keeps him calm by repeatedly stroking a hand through his hair, the rhythm and tenderness sending him back to his early childhood, a time when he felt cherished. Occasionally, Thomas presses his lips to Charlie’s forehead or squeezes him a little tighter.

As the sun sets and the room darkens, Charlie whispers, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

He lifts himself, propping his forearm on Thomas’s chest so he can look at his face. “For stopping me from being the one to end that old bastard’s miserable life. Was it hard for you to do that?”

“To stop you? No. To stop myself?” He brushes back a lock of hair that has fallen over Charlie’s forehead. “That was the hardest damn thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Charlie kisses Thomas with all the tenderness he can muster. They will never be completely free to love each other, but they are freer now than when Robert Miller walked the earth. And for that, he is thankful.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, my darling.”