Beasley shrugged, turning to switch on his iron. “You never asked.”
Charlie stood there, wringing his hands into fists, feeling the explosion build in his chest. Beasley must remain a bump, must remain a bump. He stomped back to his desk, grabbing a piece of paper. On it he wrote, “Get me out.”
Was that it? Was he finished? Good-bye, Chicago? Good-bye, Brenda? Charlie turned the paper over like it was top secret math. “I’m taking the rest of the day off,” he growled, switching off his equipment.
“It’s only eleven thirty.”
“I need to bring some people some sandwiches.”
“Why don’t you quit altogether?” Beasley asked. “That’s what failures do.”
“Because it would give you pleasure,” Charlie seethed, jamming his arms into his coat. “Because it would make you right.”
He charged out, slamming the door so hard it wobbled back open again.
13.
The long stalemate broke on a glorious morning in May, and I cannot take any credit. Just before noon, who should show up at Dubie’s Music, decently dressed and carrying a bag of sandwiches from the neighborhood deli?
“Is this okay?” Charlie poked his head in the door. “Is now a convenient time?”
“Mother?” I called, without taking my eyes off him. “Did you set this up?”
“What’s that, Brenda?” she said, emerging from the office with her arms full of files. Immediately she broke into a smile. “Why, Charlie, how nice to see you again.”
She was innocent, I had to admit it. No actress in all of Hollywood could fake guilelessness as well as she wore it right then.
“I brought us all sandwiches.” Charlie raised the bag. “I hope you don’t mind.”
“Mind?” my mother fawned. “Charlie, you are always so thoughtful.”
“What about your ladies’ group?” I asked.
“I can miss one Monday, for Pete’s sake,” she said. “Hold on a minute.”
She went back to the office and we were alone. Frozen with uncertainty, I didn’t say a word. He hummed to himself, key of F. I examined my fingernails. Had he always been that skinny?
“I can leave, if you’d rather,” he said.
“Don’t be dumb,” I said. “You brought a sandwich. You might as well eat it here.”
He stepped closer, holding something out. “I also brought this. Sorry it’s late.”
A chocolate bar, big as a license plate, with a special Valentine’s Day wrapper. I imagined it was the one he’d left at his dorm those months before. I took it, but lacked the self-possession to so much as say thank you. In fact, there were two oratories I could have delivered—one a snippy rehash of slights past and time passed without him showing up, the other a repertoire of tender conversations I’d had with him in my head. That was the one I wanted to say, but lacked the courage to say. So I made not a peep.
“Heeeeere we go,” my mother sang, shuffling her feet in tiny steps as she carried in a folding card table, opened it in the middle of the piano area, and pulled two benches up. “Fine dining at Dubie’s Music.”
Of course she hogged one side completely, so I had no choice but to sit beside Charlie. He was careful as a surgeon, holding strict posture so as not to touch me inadvertently. “How’s business?” he asked.
“Slow,” I said.
“That’s not quite accurate, dear,” my mother corrected. She leaned toward Charlie. “Brenda had a sale every day last week.”
“You don’t say,” Charlie marveled.
He reached for a napkin, and that was when I saw his hands. All over, I could see little brown sores. “Holy cow,” I blurted, not thinking. “What happened to you?”
“I’m sorry,” Charlie tucked his hands under the table. “Just minor burns.”
“Let me see,” my mother demanded, snapping her fingers. “Come on.”
Charlie raised his hands for her to inspect. She turned them over, slid his sleeves up to show his wrists, pursing her lips in disapproval. “How in the world did you do this?”
“They have me doing different work over at the university now.”
“No more math?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Soldering. I’m not very good at it, but I’m trying.”
His smile was so modest it galled me. Your hands are covered with scars, I wanted to shout, and grab them and lotion them smooth. What monsters did this to you? But all I did was hold my sandwich, showing as much compassion as a tree limb.
“What do they need soldering for?” my mother asked, letting his hands go.
“I’m not allowed to say.”
“Then it must be important.”
Charlie shrugged.
“My father does soldering,” I volunteered, surprising myself. “He has a whole setup in the basement.”
“Is that right?” Charlie asked. “Does he ever get burns?”
“Not that I recall,” my mother said. “All I really know is that Frank Senior has spent many happy hours down there.”
Then she turned and gave me the high beams, so I would understand exactly what she was doing next. Interpreting silence for approval, she took a deep breath and sallied forth. “You know, Charlie, if you ever thought a little extra practice would help . . .”
“That’s exactly the problem,” he said. “I’m only allowed to solder when my supervisor is there. If I could work another few hours, I think I’d improve much faster.”
“Well then, it’s settled,” my mother said.
“Excuse me?” Charlie replied, focusing. “Did I miss something?”
“You come for dinner this week, and we’ll eat early so you can get down to that workshop and sharpen your skills. You’ll be an ace in no time.”
Charlie made his surprised expression, the wide-eyed one that always softened my heart. He put his sandwich down, and stared off into the middle distance. He was humble, that Charlie Fish, but he had dignity too. “That is generous of you, Mrs. Dubie. But I would not want to intrude on your household if I was not entirely welcome.”
“So it’s really up to Brenda,” she said, all brass and tacks. With that she took a big bite of her sandwich, and both of them became quite busy not looking at me.
One time as a kid at the community swimming pool, there was a dare among us girls to see who would go all the way down and touch the drain. It was not that hard, if you started with a good big breath. But what I remembered afterward was the pressure of it, the squeeze that water exerted on my lungs—or maybe the pressure was outward, the air inside me wanting to come out. In that moment at the folding table, I had the same feeling: there was a pressure on me, and something inside was trying to escape.
“It’s my mother’s house,” I said. “Anyone she invites is welcome by me too.”
Charlie turned and faced me, and I suspected he wanted more. He deserved more too. I just didn’t know how to give it yet.
“Then it’s settled,” my mother announced despite her mouth being full, but not without fixing me with a glare like her eyes were flamethrowers. If Charlie noticed, he was too polite to let it show. “You come Thursday, I’ll roast us all a chicken. And after lunch I’ll see if I can find some ointment for those burns.”