“You can? Where?”
“The art and music department. You see, last year it was the children’s wing, they patched that up. And the year before, it was here, practically above my desk. So next time it’s art and music’s turn.”
“I’ll have to come back in January and find out if you were right.”
There was a brief silence; then Louise said quietly, “That sounds as if you’re going away some place. Will you be gone long, Mr. Gowen?”
“No.”
“We’ll miss you.”
“No. I mean, I must have given you the wrong impression. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You didn’t give me the wrong impression, Mr. Gowen. I simply jumped to a wrong conclusion. My dad says I’m always doing it. I’m sorry.”
“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go anywhere.”
Charlie could feel Ben behind him again: Stop downgrading yourself, Charlie. Give people a chance to see your good side before you start blabbing. You’ve got to put up a front, develop a sense of self-preservation.
“In fact,” Charlie said, “I can’t even leave the county without special permission.”
Louise smiled, thinking it was a joke. “From whom?”
“From my parole officer.”
He didn’t wait to see her reaction. He just turned and walked away, stumbling a little over his own feet like an adolescent not accustomed to his new growth.
For the next three nights he stayed home, reading, watching television, playing cards with Ben. He knew Ben was suspicious and Charlie tried to allay the suspicion by talking a lot, reminiscing about their childhood, repeating jokes and stories he heard at work.
Ben wasn’t fooled. “How come you don’t go to the library any more, Charlie?”
“I’ve been a little tired this week.”
“You don’t act tired.”
“A man needs a change now and then. I’ve been getting into a rut spending every night at the library.”
“You call this a nonrut?” Ben gestured around the room. Since their mother’s death nothing in the house had been moved. It was as if the chairs and tables and lamps were permanently riveted in place. “Listen, Charlie, if anything happened, I have a right to know what it was.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your older brother and I’m responsible for you.”
“No. No, you’re not,” Charlie said, shaking his head. “I’m responsible for myself. You keep telling me to grow up. How can I, with you breathing down my neck? You won’t allow me to do anything on my own.”
“I won’t allow you to make a fool of yourself if I can help it.”
“Well, you can’t help it. It’s over. It’s done.” Charlie began pacing up and down the room, his arms crossed on his chest in a despairing embrace. “I made a fool of myself and I don’t care, I don’t give a damn.”
“Tell me about it, Charlie.”
“No.”
“You’d better. If it’s not too serious I may be able to cover up for you.”
“I keep uncovering and you keep covering up. Back and forth, seesaw, where will it end?”
“That’s up to you.”
Charlie paused at the window. It was dark outside, he could see nothing on the street, only himself filling the narrow window frame like a painting that had gotten beyond control of the artist and outgrown its canvas. A layer of greasy film on the glass softened his image. He looked like a very young man, broad-shouldered, slim-waisted, with a lock of light brown curly hair falling over his forehead and twin tears rolling down his cheeks.
Ben saw the tears, too. “My God, what have you done this time?”
“I... I ruined something.”
“You sound surprised,” Ben said bitterly, “as if you didn’t know that ruining things was your specialty in life.”
“Don’t. Don’t nag. Don’t preach.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Charlie told him, while Ben sat in the cherrywood rocking chair that had belonged to his mother, rocking slowly back and forth the way she used to when she was worried over Charlie.
“I don’t know why I said it, Ben, I just don’t know. It popped out, like a burp. I had no control over it, don’t you understand?”
“Sure, I understand.” Ben said wearily. “I understand you’ve got to put yourself in a bad light. Whenever things are going all right you’ve got to open your big mouth and wreck them. Who knows? This woman might have become interested in you, a nice relationship might have developed. God help you, you could use a friend. But no, no, you couldn’t keep your trap shut long enough even to find out her name... Don’t you want a friend, Charlie?”
“Yes.”
“Then why in hell do you do these things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s over with, it’s finished. There’s not much use discussing it.” Ben rose, heavily, from the rocking chair. “I suppose this means you won’t be going to the library anymore?”
“I can’t.”
“You could if you wanted to. If it were me, I’d just sail in there one of these nights with a smile on my face and pretend the whole thing was a joke.”
“She knew it wasn’t a joke.”
“How can you be sure? You said you turned and walked out. If you didn’t stick around to watch her reaction, you can’t tell what it was. She might have gotten a big laugh out of it, for all you know.”
“Stop it, Ben. It’s no use.”
“It’s no use always looking on the black side, either. You’re a good-looking man, Charlie. A woman could easily flip over you if you gave her a chance. If you held your head up, squared your shoulders, if you thought white instead of black for a change, if you put on a front—”
Charlie knew all the ifs, including the one that was never spoken: If you got married, Charlie, some of your weight would be lifted off my back.
The following afternoon, when Charlie got home from work, there was a letter waiting for him, propped up against the sugar bowl on the kitchen table. Charlie received few letters and he would have liked to sit with it in his hands for a few minutes, wondering, examining the small neat handwriting. But Ben came out of the bedroom where he had changed from his good gabardine suit into jeans and T-shirt.
“There’s a letter for you.”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you going to open it?”
“If you want me to.”
“If I want you to?” Ben said irritably. “For Pete’s sake, what have I got to do with it? It’s your letter.”
Charlie didn’t argue, though he knew the letter wasn’t really his. He had nothing that was privately, exclusively his own, any more than a five-year-old child has. The letter might as well have been addressed to Ben, because Ben would read it anyway, just as if Charlie, in his times of trouble, had lost the ability to read.
Charlie slit the envelope open with a table knife and unfolded the small sheet of stationery:
Dear Mr. Gowen:
I wanted to tell you this in person, but since you haven’t appeared at the library, I must do it by letter. I was deeply moved by your courage and forthrightness on Monday evening. Very few people are capable of such honesty. Perhaps I’m being too presumptuous but I can’t help hoping that what you did was an act of trust in me personally. If it was, I will try to deserve this trust, always.
Very sincerely yours,
P.S. About that reference book on architecture, I have arranged for you to borrow it for a month, if you’d like to.
“Well,” Ben said, “who’s it from?”
“Her.”
“Her?”
Charlie’s left hand was clenched into a fist and he kept rubbing it up and down his jaw as if he were testing it for a vulnerable place to strike a blow. “She... she misunderstood. It wasn’t like that. I’m not like that. I’m not any of those things she said.”