by Rachel Kane
Val seems kind of the same way. Tired of being pushed by life, uncertain what to do next. Things ended on a strained note last night, and he’s not sure why. Maybe he said something wrong. Or maybe Val’s just not good at conversations. He doesn’t get any danger signals off Val, that’s for sure. Maybe that’s why he didn’t mind him calling that late. He even thought, just maybe, Val was interested in something else last night.
“Listen,” says Tag, “do you want me to talk to Mom and Dad? I know they want to see you. I could lay down some ground rules. Stuff they can’t talk about.”
Charlie hems and haws. “I don’t know, man. Will they listen? Am I going to sit there and have to hear about how a college drop-out can’t make it in today’s world?”
“Give it some thought, okay? It’s Christmas.”
You can’t argue forever, can you? “Fine. I’ll think about it. You wore me down.”
Tag gets up and stretches, his various clasps and zippers jingling. He’s dressed for outdoors, for exploring, with his muddy boots and his thick vest. Tapping the uninsulated roof of the bus, he says, “Are you staying warm enough?”
“Yeah, I bundle up.”
“I worry about you.”
“You have my permission not to.”
“Why don’t you come stay with me in the cabin? There’s not much room, but it’s warm.”
“What, and leave the bus? Look at this thing, man.” Charlie waves at the interior of the vehicle with pride. “How often do you get a chance to live in a school bus?”
Tag finds a little bit of torn vinyl on top of one of the seats, and picks at it. Charlie knows what’s going on in his head. He knows his brother is trying to be careful. After all, Charlie has already demonstrated he’ll run off if you push him too hard about something. Tag doesn’t want to lose him again.
Finally, Tag just shrugs. “Hell, if you’re comfortable with the irony of a drop-out living in a school bus, who am I to argue?”
“Exactly,” says Charlie. “It’s karma.”
It’s not the last time he’ll argue with someone today—or, rather, the last time he’ll try his best to avoid an argument. That’s going to come later, when he’s at work.
Right now, though, watch him: He’s on his bike, racing on an empty road, headed into the city. There’s time, he’s not in a hurry, he’s enjoying the rush of it. The landscape flashes by, the houses scattered around the highway, the lazy intersections nobody ever crosses. He’s a jet, a rocket, and the cold air is slapping his smiling face.
People act like being warm is everything. Even Tag, who spends all day outdoors, usually hip-deep in some swamp or other, measuring frogs and looking for baby gators, worries about whether Charlie’s warm enough. Who cares about warm, when you can have fast? When you can have the air turning into a solid mass, whipping through your hair, making your eyes water and your lips tingle?
That’s got him thinking about coffee with Val. The way the espresso made his mouth feel, like his lips and tongue could taste the energy of the caffeine.
Who is Val, really? What’s he all about? Is he just going to recede into the shadows, just a random guy Charlie met once upon a time, or is he going to stick around and be a friend? You can’t tell the future, but Charlie’s hoping he’ll stick around. A little while, at least. How often do you get to talk to an ex-CEO? He comes from a whole different planet than Charlie does, and that makes him interesting.
No, what makes him interesting is that he’s not sure what’s happening in his life. He’s unsteady. If Charlie was melodramatic—which he isn’t—maybe he’d describe Val as headed toward a crisis.
He hits a patch of rain and has to slow down a little; his bike tires aren’t great. That’s okay, though. He loves the feeling of the cold pricks of rain against his cheeks. Slow, fast, it’s all good.
Why can’t more people see that? There’s good in practically anything, if you let yourself really enjoy it. Sometimes it feels like he’s surrounded by people determined not to enjoy anything in their lives, always in pursuit of the next thing, the next level, the next step.
There’s Val again, in his thoughts. He can picture the guy puzzling over hashbrowns at a diner, poking his fork into them, wondering whether he likes them or not.
That’s the way more people ought to be. Experiment. Figure out what you like. In a lot of ways, Val just seems perfect. Val makes sense.
Last night, after they’d hung up, Charlie had thought about Val a lot. Had imagined him somehow finding the bus, knocking on the door. Just idle fantasy, wondering what it would be like, if Charlie had invited him in. A fantasy that had slid into something warmer, something urgent, as he imagined Val reaching for him, unbuttoning Charlie’s shirt.
But now he has to slow down even more, because he crossed the bridge and is officially in town. Now there’s traffic. Now everybody’s eager to get to the next place, the next thing, in their heavy trucks and cars, and nobody’s keeping an eye out for a guy on a bike.
Hashbrowns do sound good, though. Maybe he’ll order some for dinner tonight.
Wendy’s not speaking to him. That’s mostly okay. They’re in different parts of the Santa line, so whatever she’s thinking, whatever decision she’s made about him, he won’t have to hear about it for a little while.
The line is moving at a brisk clip. It’s early afternoon, and people are still at work; in an hour or so it’s going to be a madhouse, but right now, the machinery is in motion. He’s handing out candy canes, he’s smiling at kids, he’s letting toddlers ring the bell on his hat. Life is good. People are smiling.
Then he sees someone who isn’t smiling. She’s a young mom, holding the hand of a kid who can’t be more than five years old. She’s not carrying any bags, just the brochure they hand you at the beginning of the line, the price list, the options. It’s the brochure that she’s looking at.
Charlie knows you can’t always tell someone’s income, their social class, from how they look. Looks can be deceiving. Kids get messy, and even their best clothes can end up looking rough. But there’s something about this mom and her kid. He can tell they don’t have money. Maybe it’s the kid’s coat, the way it’s a little too small for him. Maybe it’s the way the mom’s own coat is looking threadbare at the elbows, like she has worn it for years and years. Or, he realizes with a look of recognition, the fact that she’s wearing the polo shirt from a fast food restaurant under her coat.
She’s tired, the kid is excited, and she looks at Charlie with a question in her eyes, when they get up to him in line.
“Are there any other cheaper pictures?” she asks.
Mr. Rumson’s warning in his mind, he shakes his head no. “I’m sorry, there aren’t. Sitting with Santa is totally free, though.”
She makes a little tsk sound through her teeth, like his answer wasn’t what she was hoping to hear. “I just…”
It’s the way her shoulders droop when she says it. Like he let her down…but like it’s okay, because she’s used to being let down.
“I’m really sorry,” he says.
“His daddy asked for the picture. Asked if I could send it to him.”
He doesn’t ask where the little boy’s father is. Something in her tone of voice lets him know it’s not something she wants to talk about. Not something she’s proud of.
The boy is still excited. He doesn’t listen to a word Charlie and his mom are saying, all he sees are the reindeer, the snow, the elves…and there on the throne, right up there on stage, the man himself, Santa Claus. This kid’s eyes are so wide.
The line is moving fast, and Charlie doesn’t have a lot of time.
The kid will be happy with Santa. He’ll sit on Santa’s lap, he’ll tell him what he wants, he’ll get a candy cane, it’ll be great. Charlie’s not worried about the little boy.
It’s the way his mom accepts the bad news, like it’s okay, it’s just another thing in a long, long series of disappointments, big and small. “All right,” she tell
s her son, her voice artificially bright, “you ready to see the big guy?”
“Hey,” says Charlie. “Look, if you want, you can get a picture with your cell, if you’ve got one. Or…or I could take it with my phone, and send it to you?”
She glances back at the brochure, then at him. Like it’s a trap. Like he’s trying to trick her into something. More trouble on the horizon.
“I can do that?”
He’s trying to smile but it’s a little bit of a grimace. You have to hope Mr. Rumson doesn’t have eyes everywhere, like the bad, pissy version of Santa, keeping track of who’s naughty and nice for his own nefarious reasons.
But it’s the first time she’s looked hopeful since she got in line. He points up at the girls at the camera. “Tell them Charlie said you could.”
It’s puzzling to her, because nobody’s nice to her, nobody’s done her any favors in a long time, so she’s got a skeptical half-smile on her face, and she nods. “Thanks,” is all she says.
“Smile big for your mom up there, okay?” Charlie says, handing the little boy a candy cane.
“I’ll be docking your pay for the amount of a Basic Plan,” says Rumson.
Well, how about that. Rumson is Santa’s evil twin after all. Charlie’s not going to ask how he found out about it. Anybody could have told him.
Even Wendy.
“We didn’t lose anything off the deal,” Charlie says patiently. He’s polite, he’s deferential. There’s no sense in starting trouble.
The Basic Plan is about three hours of Charlie’s pay.
Someone tucked Mr. Rumson far away from the rest of humanity. His office is surprisingly small, in a back corner behind the main bathrooms. There’s a corkboard with xeroxed reports, there’s a narrow desk dominated by an aging computer, just enough room for this angry man to slide behind the desk and sit in his chair.
The back of the chair has a little bit of torn vinyl on it, with the white backing poking up. It’s like the seats on the bus.
They’re uncomfortably close together. Charlie is aware that he is just an arm’s reach away from the man. Rumson must know that too.
The manager reaches down, under the desk. It’s nothing, it’s a split-second, but Charlie has the awful feeling he’s adjusting himself. That the main reason Charlie was called in here was for this closeness, this feeling that he can’t escape.
But now Rumson’s hands are visible again. He taps his pen against his clipboard, clearly about to say something, but Charlie just needs this point to be clear between them, he needs him to understand:
“She wasn’t going to be able to buy a package, Basic or otherwise. She didn’t have the money. If you’d seen them—”
Hush, hush. He doesn’t care.
“I thought I was clear, Charlie. Frankly, I think you’re getting off easy this time. If it happens again…well, I don’t know if we can keep you on all season, if you’re giving pictures away.”
You didn’t see her. You didn’t see the pain in her eyes. She had nothing, and this was the smallest thing, it cost us nothing, but it made her day. Isn’t that worth anything? Isn’t it worth more than the damn twenty-two ninety-five we would’ve made off the plan?
There’s a kind of blankness to Rumson. What does he enjoy in his life? What does he do in his spare time? From the look of him here, squeezed behind his desk, it seems like the answer might be: Nothing.
It’s one of the fates Charlie has always feared. You’re told all your life, look at your brother, look how well he’s doing in school, did you see that his picture was in the paper, but not a lot of people turn out like Tag. A lot more people turn out like Rumson. Like a tree growing next to a boulder, its trunk twisting and turning, engulfing the rock, becoming something weak and bent because it isn’t allowed to flourish, there’s always something in its way.
“Okay,” he says, because you can’t argue with blankness, you can’t explain things to men like Rumson. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It had better not,” he says.
“He’s an asshole,” says Wendy, leaning against a pillar near the mailbox. “You just have to ignore him.”
The box isn’t as full this time. Charlie doesn’t bother with a trash-bag, he dumps them straight into his backpack. “I’m going to do what he says. I don’t really have a choice.”
“I hate him so much,” she says. “He reminds me a goldfish, one of those with those big, bumpy heads. The mall is his bowl, and he just keeps bumping against the sides, getting madder and madder. You should have told me you were in trouble. Maybe I could’ve put in a good word for you…or punched him in the fish-eye.”
The letters to Santa safely stowed away, Charlie gets back up. “I’ll be all right.”
Here’s the thing. Wendy was waiting, not right outside Rumson’s office, but nearby, and had grabbed Charlie’s arm as he walked back into the main area of the mall. He’s almost certain she was the one who pointed him out to Rumson.
“It’s just unfair,” she says. “I hate the way he treats you. It’s because he’s attracted to you. You do realize that, right? He’s practically got his hand down his pants every time you walk by.”
Charlie shudders, remembering their closeness in the office, the tang of Rumson’s aftershave thick and acrid in the air.
“Poor Charlie. You really need someone to protect you,” she says. “Who’s going to keep you safe from all these big bad men?”
“Well, it’s been a long day,” he says, hoping the hint is clear. “And that meeting just made it longer. I’m going to head home.”
“Are you sure? After all that, maybe you need a beer. We could hit the Lantern…?”
If it were with anyone but Wendy, it might be tempting, but he’s convinced she told on him. Worse, he’s pretty sure she did it solely so she could show him sympathy afterward.
She’s got layers he just doesn’t understand. And he’s tired of trying to understand everybody. Tired of everyone having big expectations of him, waiting for him to fall in line.
“I appreciate it,” he says, trying to put a note of sincerity in his voice, “but I’m really tired. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Not too tired for your new sugar daddy, I bet. I can’t say that I blame you, really. If a rich guy wanted to take care of me, I’d probably let him.”
“He’s not—it’s not—” Charlie’s words dissolve in the acidly knowing smile Wendy gives him. She thinks she knows what he’s all about. If anything, it has made Charlie more interesting in her mind.
He doesn’t want to be interesting. He doesn’t want anything but to go home.
But when he goes outside, he finds out life has one more treat for him.
On the bicycle rack, he finds his front bike tire, safely locked to the rack with his chain.
The rest of the bike is missing.
8
Val
When I saw it was Charlie, I silenced my phone and set it back down. I didn’t think I could talk to him right now. Not after the day I’d had.
I made the mistake of telling Theo more about Charlie. Worse, I did it while Mother was in the room. Worse still, both Mother’s boyfriend and Theo’s were in the room too.
* * *
Here was my afternoon:
“Valentinian, how wonderful,” said Mother.
“I didn’t expect you to fly down so early,” I said.
“Now that you and your brother have destroyed the business your father worked so hard for, I thought you might have too much time on your hands, and need my company,” she said, accepting a kiss on her dry cheek.
“How is…your…health?” I asked.
It’s been hard to be around Mother since her diagnosis. She’s not a woman who enjoys showing weakness, and when her doctors found a small tumor on her MRI, she had immediately begun preparations for selling off our family estate. Things had settled down since then; Theo bought the estate, and her chemotherapy had been successful. But this woman who had al
ways been the backbone of the family, suddenly seemed very fragile to me.
I don’t know what to say around her. I seldom know what to say around anyone, I know, but I think I’m a little frightened of her now. Like if I say the wrong thing, the cancer might come back.
It’s the little tell-tale signs that bother me so much. Since her treatment, there’s a mild tremor to her hands. You can see it when she signs her name. And her hair didn’t grow back as quickly as she wanted, so she began shaving it off, tying scarves around her head, and although she meant it as an aggressive move to show the world she didn’t care about silly things like mortality…it still bothered me.
“Good to see you again, old man!” said her boyfriend Nick. Strong handshake, there. I glance over at Theo. Neither of us exactly like Nick. His enthusiasm is more than I can bear.
“Have Consuela add another place for lunch, dear,” Mother told Theo. “So nice to have Val with us. We’re a family again.”
“It’ll be good for Val to eat something other than spaghetti,” Theo said, which caused Mother to cast me a look.
“I’m sorry I told you about that,” I said.
I sat silently while we waited for lunch to be served. Theo always had news for Mother. A forest he and Micah were protecting. A land conservation deal they were working on. Always saving something. His voice loud and clear and confident.
In situations like this you have to hope no one asks you what you’ve been up to. I felt like I was back in school, hoping the teacher wouldn’t call on me because I hadn’t studied. What could I say? Last night I bought a mop, a shaver for removing pilling from blankets, two juicers and a system for learning Spanish.
“Nick has been very busy lately,” Mother said, patting her boyfriend’s knee while he looked at us proudly.
“We just had a major show for some damn fine young artists,” he said. “Underprivileged kids, but big hearts. Damn big hearts! People lined up to buy their work. It’s very encouraging for kids like that.”
