Whiskey & Charlie

by Annabel Smith

  “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised, Charlie. You’re a natural. I’ve seen how much your students adore you, especially the bigger boys. It’s great for them to have a positive role model.”

  Charlie was touched. He had never thought of himself as a role model. “Thank you,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” Deirdre said. “But tell me, did you just come to share the good news, or is there something else I can do for you?”

  “Actually, there is something else.”

  “Fire away then.”

  “I know I can’t have my old job back,” Charlie said. “I know Mary’s doing that now. But I wondered if there was…anything else I might be able to do?”

  Deirdre tapped her fingers on a stack of papers on top of her desk. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I’ve had funding approved for two new students—one intellectually disabled boy in fifth grade, and a second-grade girl with learning difficulties. I’ll need an integration aide to work with them. It’s one-on-one work, mostly within the classroom—more challenging than what you were doing before, but certainly within your capabilities. Would that interest you?”

  “Definitely,” Charlie said.

  “The only thing is, it’s not many hours—I’d have to check, but it’s possibly only eight, twelve at the most.”

  “That would be perfect for me with college,” Charlie said.

  “Well, great! That’s settled. It was lucky timing actually, because I was about to advertise.”

  “That’s it?” Charlie asked. “Don’t I need an official interview or something?”

  “Consider this your interview,” Deirdre said, smiling. “Come and see me the week before term starts, and we’ll sort out the details.”

  Charlie stood up. “Thank you so much,” he said. He felt a little stunned by how quickly things had happened.

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Deirdre said. “It’ll be great to have you back on board.”

  Charlie’s first horse had come in.

  x x x

  The second horse was Mike. He called while Charlie was in the car.

  “What do you think about meeting me at the Royston?” Mike asked.

  “I’m on my way to see Whiskey,” Charlie said.

  “Me too. I thought maybe we could grab a beer first.”

  “Before we see Whiskey?” Charlie asked. Sometimes, if Whiskey was tired, they left early and went for a beer at the pub around the corner. But they had never gone for a drink beforehand.

  “If you don’t mind. I’ve got some news. I don’t want to tell you at Rosehill.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said reluctantly. He was suspicious of the kind of news that needed a special one-on-one engagement to be told. He’d had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  “So what’s up?” he asked Mike before their beers had even been poured.

  Mike laughed. “Let’s at least sit down first. Not all news is bad news, Charlie.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, mine is good news anyway. At least I hope you’ll think so. The girls and I got our permanent residency.”

  Charlie was astonished. “Do you know for sure?”

  “One hundred percent. I found out this morning.”

  Charlie couldn’t take it in. He had known about the application of course—Mike had asked every member of the family to write a letter testifying to the nature of their relationship with him and the girls. Charlie and Juliet had printed out photos and labeled them, awkwardly elucidating their complicated connections: Holly and Chloe with Aunt Juliet (Michael’s half brother’s partner), etc. Mike and the girls had been to interviews, had had physicals, filled out endless paperwork. And then for months nothing happened. Whenever Mike inquired, the Department of Immigration told him the application was still being processed. Charlie had stopped asking about it. He had thought they would be refused permanent residency, and he didn’t want to think about what that meant for them, or for himself. The news that their application had been successful came as quite a surprise.

  “What did Mum say?” Charlie asked, still trying to take it in.

  “She doesn’t know yet.”

  “Rosa?”

  “I wanted to tell you first.”

  “You’re really going to live here permanently?”

  “We’d like to, if you guys will have us.”

  Charlie was overcome. He took a long drink of his beer. “Of course we’ll have you,” he said eventually. “We should celebrate,” he added.

  Mike raised his glass to Charlie’s. “We are.”

  Charlie laughed. “This is such good news,” he said, finally recovering himself. “Juliet will be so happy. Can I call her? Or do you want to tell her yourself?”

  “If it’s okay, I’d like to tell Whiskey first.”

  “Yes!” Charlie said. “Great idea.” It was absolutely right that he should be the next to know. After all, if it hadn’t been for Whiskey, Mike would never have come.

  x x x

  The third horse was Juliet. Charlie was at Rosehill with Mike when Juliet phoned him.

  “How long do you think you’ll be?” she asked.

  “I only just got here. Why?”

  Juliet never checked up on him.

  She paused. “There’s something I want to talk to you about. But there’s no rush. We’ll talk when you get home.”

  “Is everything okay?”

  She laughed. “Absolutely.”

  “What is it then?”

  “I don’t want to tell you on the phone.”

  “Why not? Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  “There’s honestly nothing wrong. But I can’t tell you now. You’ll understand when you get here.”

  “That was weird,” Charlie said to Mike after he hung up. And then, remembering himself, he said to Whiskey, “That was my girlfriend, Juliet.”

  “Is everything okay?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t know,” Charlie said. “She didn’t sound upset, but she said she needed to talk about something.”

  “Did she give you a hint?”

  “None at all.”

  “Do you need to leave right away?”

  “She said not to. But I’m worried now. I’ll come again tomorrow afternoon,” he said to Whiskey apologetically.

  Whiskey smiled. Charlie stopped for a moment to enjoy it. Whiskey had relearned so many things since he’d moved from the hospital to Rosehill. But after so many months of seeing Whiskey’s face without expression, the novelty of seeing Whiskey smile still hadn’t worn off for Charlie.

  When he got home, Juliet opened the front door before he had time to get the key in the lock. She kissed Charlie, wrapped her arms around him, but Charlie pulled away. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing’s the matter, I told you that.”

  “Why did you call me then? I rushed back here.”

  “I told you not to rush. Don’t worry so much, Charlie.”

  “I am worried. It must have been something important.”

  “It is important. But it’s nothing bad.”

  “Come on, Jules. I don’t like guessing games.”

  “Don’t be a stick in the mud, Charlie. Can’t I have a little fun?”

  “Not at my expense,” Charlie said irritably. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “I found something today,” she said, smiling mysteriously.

  “What kind of something?”

  “Something pretty.”

  “What’s happened to you?” Charlie asked. He’d never seen her act so stupidly. “Are you drunk?”

  “I’m perfectly sober.”

  “Are you going to tell me what you found?”

  “Maybe you could tell me.”

  “How can I tell y
ou? I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, I’ll give you a clue. I found it in your wardrobe.”

  “Found what?”

  “In your sock drawer, to be precise.”

  Charlie swallowed. “You found that?”

  Juliet nodded, suddenly serious.

  He looked at her carefully, trying to read her expression. Things had been so good between them since that day when they had come close to breaking up. But Charlie had botched the first proposal so badly he still hadn’t worked up the confidence to have another shot at it.

  “What do you think?” he asked. He felt shaky.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Not the ring. I mean, what do you think about…us?”

  “Is that your marriage proposal?” Juliet asked him.

  “No,” Charlie said. “Yes. I don’t know.” When he had rehearsed this moment in his head, he had planned to say something profound, something romantic. “Does it fit you?” he asked, confused.

  “I don’t know,” Juliet said seriously.

  “Haven’t you tried it on?”

  Juliet shook her head.

  “Why not?” he asked desperately.

  “I was waiting for you to put it on my finger,” she said to him.

  “Is that true?”

  She nodded.

  “You want to wear it?”

  “Very much.”

  “So you want to be my…wife?” Charlie had trouble getting the word out.

  “Is that your marriage proposal?” Juliet teased.

  Charlie laughed now, relieved. “I think that’s as close as you’re going to get.”

  “Ask me again,” Juliet said.

  “Would you like to be my wife?” Charlie asked her. He couldn’t keep the smile from his face.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Is that your acceptance?”

  “It’s as close as you’re going to get.”

  “Say it again then.”

  “I’d like to be your wife, Charlie,” Juliet said.

  Charlie wasn’t much for poetry, but he thought it was one of the loveliest sentences he had ever heard.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Of course I’m sure.”

  Charlie held her beautiful face in his hands and kissed her.

  “I suppose we should do the ring thing then,” he said. And then remembering, he asked sheepishly, “Where is it?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Ideally, it would have been in my pocket,” he said, but it didn’t matter.

  “There you are then,” Juliet said. She pushed the box into the pocket of his jeans.

  Charlie took the box out of his pocket and opened the lid. “Do you really think it’s beautiful?” he asked her.

  “I really do.”

  He took her left hand and pushed the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. She held out her hand. “Do you think it suits me?”

  “Do you think it suits you?” Charlie asked. He wanted so much for her to like it.

  “I love it because you chose it,” Juliet said. “And I think it’s beautiful.”

  “Are you really going to be my wife?” Charlie asked, suddenly overwhelmed by what had unfolded.

  “I really am,” Juliet said.

  x x x

  The last horse in Charlie’s Yankee was Whiskey.

  Since Charlie had gone back to college, he’d been dropping in to see Whiskey before class. One morning, Charlie and Juliet were at Rosehill particularly early, before Whiskey was even awake. They sat without talking until he began to stir. Charlie waited for Whiskey to look at him before he spoke.

  “Hi, Whiskey, it’s me, Charlie—your brother.”

  They knew the damage to Whiskey’s temporal lobe had affected his memory for words and names. Introducing themselves each time they saw Whiskey was a way of jogging his memory and was also supposed to alleviate any anxiety he might feel if he failed to recognize someone. Charlie had felt foolish at first, introducing himself to his own brother, but they all did it, even Rosa, and after six months, Charlie didn’t even think about it anymore.

  “This is my girlfriend, Juliet,” he said after a moment. He still couldn’t get used to the word fiancée.

  “Hi, Whiskey,” Juliet said, squeezing his hand. “You’ve had a nice long sleep. It’s overcast and humid—a typical summer day!” she said cheerfully, opening the blinds.

  Whiskey blinked. His eyes followed her as she went over to the calendar they had hung on the wall. “It’s March fourteenth today,” she said. “It’s a Wednesday. Meredith will be here to do your physiotherapy this morning, and later on your wife, Rosa, will be back, and your mother.”

  She sat back down, smiled at Whiskey. Charlie reached over and took her hand.

  The door opened.

  “Here’s your breakfast,” Juliet said, taking the tray and bringing it over to Whiskey’s bed.

  Charlie adjusted the bed, raising it slowly so as not to startle Whiskey.

  “All right, what have we got here?” Juliet said, looking at the tray. “Would you like some yogurt and fruit?”

  Whiskey tapped his finger twice for yes.

  After Whiskey had been fed, Juliet went to get herself a coffee. “Do you want to listen to some music?” Charlie asked when she was gone.

  Whiskey tapped twice.

  Charlie took a CD out of his bag. It was a compilation he had made for Whiskey, of music they had liked as boys. He hadn’t been able to find any of their original seven-inch singles, not in Whiskey’s collection, nor his own. They had long been lost or broken, he supposed, or thrown out in one of their mother’s famous purges. But with a lot of help from Marco, Charlie had managed to download most of the songs he was looking for from the Internet. Charlie had been carrying the CD around with him for several days, taking it to Rosehill and home again, waiting for the right opportunity, wanting to be alone with Whiskey when he played it for the first time.

  The opening track was the Peter Gunn theme. Charlie thought about the first time they had heard it, when they were seven or eight years old, and their dad brought it home from the pub. Bill had done this once or twice before—coughed up fifty pence for records that had lost their currency on the jukebox. The last one had been Art Garfunkel’s “Bright Eyes,” which Charlie and Whiskey didn’t like and never played. The record they’d been waiting for was Joe Dolce’s “Shaddap You Face.” So they were disappointed when their father brought home “Peter Gunn,” a song they had never heard of. But their disappointment didn’t last long. With its sinister bass line and sudden crescendos, listening to the record made them feel like spies, like villains. Hearing the horn solo again, Charlie still felt the thrill of it. But when he looked at Whiskey, his eyes were closed. Twenty-five years on, the pull of memory was so strong for Charlie; it cut him to think his brother didn’t feel it at all.

  Heavy-hearted, he turned the CD off without even waiting for the song to end. But as soon as the music stopped, Whiskey opened his eyes, tapped his finger several times on the bed. Charlie had never seen him make this gesture before.

  “Do you want it back on?” he asked. Whiskey tapped twice.

  Charlie got up and started the CD again. A minute or so into “Peter Gunn,” Whiskey looked straight at Charlie and repeated the gesture he had made before, tapping his finger several times in quick succession. For months they had been using the same code, in which one tap meant no, two meant yes. Charlie did not know what these repeated taps meant.

  “Would you rather I turned it off?” he asked, wondering if he had misinterpreted Whiskey before.

  But Whiskey tapped once decisively. Charlie tried hard to think about what Whiskey might want. He felt panicked that he did not understand. He wished now that he had played the CD when J
uliet was there. He tried to calm himself, to think it through from Whiskey’s point of view.

  “Do you want some different music?” he asked. Another single tap.

  “Do you want me to turn it up?” he asked desperately. He was sure it couldn’t be that, but he had run out of ideas.

  Whiskey tapped twice.

  “You want it louder?” Charlie asked. He couldn’t believe it.

  Two more taps. Charlie jumped out of his chair and turned up the stereo. “How’s that?” he asked.

  Whiskey tapped several times. “More?” Charlie asked, incredulous. Whiskey kept tapping.

  Charlie laughed. He turned the stereo as loud as it would go. Then he stood by Whiskey’s bed, held his brother’s hand, and danced a strange, awkward dance of elation as the tears ran down his face.

  Zulu

  “I can’t believe the girls are turning eight,” Juliet said on their way to the twins’ party at Whiskey and Rosa’s. “I keep thinking about the day they arrived, when I went to pick them up from the airport, and they were sitting there sucking their thumbs, like two little lost lambs.”

  “How old were Holly and Chloe in those days?” Oscar demanded from the backseat. In those days was his latest expression.

  “They must have only just turned six.”

  “And how old was I?”

  “You were three.”

  “Now I’m four,” Oscar said. “Turning five,” he added, in case his first point had not been understood.

  “Thank goodness you’re early,” Rosa said, coming out to meet them. “We haven’t done the balloons.”

  “I’m very good at blowing up balloons,” Oscar announced.

  “Well, that’s wonderful. But we also need someone to tie them. Whiskey always used to do it, but it’s too…” She gestured rapidly with her fingers. “What’s that word?”

  “Fiddly?” Charlie offered.

  “Yes. Too fiddly for him now.”

  “I can tie them,” Charlie said. “Oscar, you can be the chief blower.”

  “Let me carry something,” Rosa said, taking the cake from Juliet. She peeked into the box. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

  “It’s a butterfly,” Oscar pointed out.

  “Oscar helped me choose it,” Juliet said.