The Incredible Charlie Carewe

by Mary Astor

  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!

  Walter chuckled a little at his daydreaming. But they were achievable dreams, not the muddleheaded emotional dreams of a father who looks at a tousle-headed youngster and visualizes him in the White House.

  Of course there had been slips—bad ones. Hard to describe, hard to figure. Twice he had withdrawn Charlie from schools in the nick of time before he had been formally expelled. And several times he had been obliged to cover for him in money matters. At the time these incidents had seemed exasperating because they were so hard to explain. Of course, some of them were due to the bad influence of some older boys. That disgusting drinking episode, for instance, could hardly be called Charlie’s fault. Any boy wants to experiment with a little hell-raising once in a while, just to get it out of his system. But it was the—he looked for the feel of a word—the timing that made it difficult to understand. Without effort, Charlie had sailed into the top five in his final year in prep school, and in one of his letters he had said, “I know how much it means to you, Dad, and more than anything in this world I want you to be proud of me, and you know I won’t let you down.” And then—and then during the final month he indulged in the most damaging activities imaginable. There was a small matter of a forged check to pay for some extracurricular books at the school bookstore. Unexplainable, because all expenses were paid for by Walter. Again, after one weekend at home, he simply didn’t arrive back at school until the following Thursday, saying he had been detained at home by serious illness. Poor kid, he’d got entangled in a whole complicated mess of lies, which he finally owned up to—admirably. Walter had discussed the possibility of too great pressures with the headmaster—perhaps these were the precipitating factors of his behavior. And Henderson had replied, “Pressure! Nonsense—it’s the fellows who are competing with Charles who are under pressure. Rarely have we had a boy with such potentialities of brilliance. It’s simply that Charles just doesn’t seem to care!” Of course Henderson was wrong, as only a dull pedagogue can be. Completely missing the point that Charlie’s attitude of not caring was a gentlemanly offhand modesty. It was not in Charlie’s make-up to show his emotions—to be ambitious in a wild-eyed, too, too eager manner. Study was simply too easy for him. He was sure that some of the thinly veiled suggestions of cheating were due to the fact that he had a photographic memory. Charlie had once described it thus: “I just look at the textbook in my mind.” Of course one time it had been cheating, because instead of the textbook he had been looking at someone else’s paper—in his mind.

  But it was foolish now to think of these things. They were in the past, no point in dwelling on them now. He stuffed the letter back in the file. Genius. The word insisted on coming into his mind. It was a word that sang with contradictory qualifications. It meant—dangerously gifted. Too exclusive. Immoderate ability. Acceptable queerness. It produced an emotion in him, a welling up of protectiveness. A resolution that his boy would never be left to the mercy of mindless clods.

  Firmly he pulled his attention back to his work. “Adams vs. Williamson. In the matter of final settlement of moneys and properties re: sale of La Junta Mining Corp.”

  Charlie sneezed. “Pardon me. That’s ticklish, Jane.”

  “Item: one highly bridged nose, slightly sunburned and peeling. Item: a pair of black brows, wide in the center, no grizzly beetling.” She traced his features with the tips of her fingers, finally, rhythmically losing them in the springy hairline. “So fine, so precious, so mine.”

  Charlie slept. Watching him, Jane continued the soothing movement, slowly her firm fingertips sliding from the hairline of his forehead back to the form behind his ear, the clipped hairs rough on her palm. His head lay heavy in her lap, his long legs stretched out beside her on the chintz-covered divan. Jane glanced at the little Sheffield clock on the mantel. Another half hour till daylight. A whole, lovely half hour, and then she would have to rouse him and send him back to the dorm. Brian wouldn’t be back till way late this afternoon. What a blessing his passion for fishing had turned out to be. How it used to make her feel sorry for herself! Being stuck in a university town wasn’t so bad, and she had, surprisingly enough, got along well with the wives of the faculty. She was proud of Brian’s position as professor of math, inasmuch as it lent her a dignity she could never have achieved on her own. But there was so little to do. Reading and entertaining and once in a while a movie. The usual chitchat of gossip. And then the Friday open-house afternoons for Brian’s students. Tea and sherry and platters of sandwiche
s. And the everlasting football talk. The boys liked Brian. He was not at all the stereotyped, stodgy math teacher, and he was quite as eager to dispose of classroom talk and formalities as they. The invitations were general, but the acceptance boiled down to his “pets,” as most of the boys preferred entertainment in less formal surroundings than the pleasant living room of the Brian Dexter cottage near the campus. And one day Charlie appeared. He explained that he had been in the habit of going home on the weekends, as he lived only a couple of hours away, but “for no reason” he had just decided to stay this time.

  She had hardly noticed him at first, until once in the middle of a heated discussion about this season’s team he had caught her in the act of a stifled yawn. His grin was enchanting, but he held her look a moment longer than was necessary to communicate, “I’m bored too!” There was a minute lowering of the eyelids, just enough to shade out the twinkle, and she felt a weakness in her bones; shivering, she got up to close the window, and he quickly went to help. She smiled her thanks, and said, “What a pity Brian’s never brought you here before. I’ve heard him speak of you many times, of course.” Charlie said, “How could I have lived here three years and never even seen you!” “It’s a big place,” she laughed.