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Charlie
(A Short Story)
Draft #2
Copyright 2013 Christina M. Guerrero
DEDICATION
Yes.
STORY BEHIND THE STORY
Loss.
NOTES ABOUT DRAFT TWO
First drafts emerge like dreams: sometimes vague.
Second drafts have more details and sharper images.
Ugh. The verb tenses are still not consistent.
Except for flashbacks, the story should be in the present tense.
Had trouble with the ending; this one is closer to what I imagined, but not quite there yet.
My husband, Charlie, is making love to me.
He’s making love with great enthusiasm: His face is joyful, his eyes closed, his mouth smiling, his sighs soothing.
I caress his dear skin, his slender shoulders, his neck, as he rumbles in pleasure.
Suddenly, without warning, I am not there. Just for a moment. I am not there, and I am alone, and I am only imagining his presence and his love and his desire. In my aloneness, I ache for him and his soul and his body, and have only my thoughts to sooth me.
During this moment, I see a complete history of this other world, this other place, this universe without Charlie. It is full of many colorful and beckoning and exotic things; yet it is somehow lifeless, like being at a gigantic amusement park by myself. Without Charlie, this other life is never complete. And I am surprised at how many tears my alternate self sheds as I seek but never find him.
Then, just as suddenly, I am back, and Charlie is there, this time looking lewdly at me as he moves slower and more intently. His huge hands are curving around mine as his eyes change: he has moved into SelfishLand, where only his needs matter. I close my eyes, but that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters at this point except Charlie and what he wants.
And as he pursues his goal, somewhere far away I know my alternate self is just a tiny bit satisfied.
* * * * *
Later, as we hold hands and walk around Paris, Charlie asks smugly, “Did I hurt you?”
I hesitate before answering. I am still warm and achey from the morning’s activities.
He stops, tugs on me; his face gets soft. “Little Miss Riley. You all right?”
I smile and giggle. He is such a snake and a flirt and a bit of a chauvinist, but only to a point. Then he is a big marshmallow.
I try to pull away, but he holds on tight to my hand and squeezes too hard. When he does that, he is full of emotions too intense to describe.
With great sassiness I say, “Did I look like I was hurt?”
He turns red; his eyes narrow. His hand squeezes harder.
Without warning, I remember a moment from that other universe. A tear falls down my cheek and I stare in embarrassment and surprise at him.
His eyes widen. “What? So I did hurt you? Offended you, too? I was too rough?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“No lies. Remember?”
“I know. No lies. I’m fine.”
He is around me now, almost the way we were in bed, holding me close, but not yet kissing.
“Then tell me what’s wrong.” His mouth makes that adorable pursing movement.
I cling to him, caressing the warmth of his neck, feeling his hair against my fingers. He is so tall against me and warm and strong. I hold on, hoping to send some of this to the other world.
Charlie clings to me too. He is strong enough to lift me straight up; he is so tall that our heads are even when I am about a foot and a half off the ground.
He says, “Are you already thinking about divorcing me?”
“I will never divorce you.”
“That’s what the first wife said.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t say something you can’t follow up on,” Charlie says.
That tone of voice, that dry humor, and undoubtedly that mouth is yet again pursed. For a while I am with him, and happy and achey and warm.
Then a faint glimpse of that other world again: always seeking, never finding.
I speak against Charlie’s right ear: “I had this awful vision of life without you.”
After a long embrace, he gently lowers me until I am standing on the ground again. He wipes another tear off my face, and then another. I hold his hand to my cheek. Who am I crying for? He is here, and we belong to each other. But I can feel her too. The me in that other place, without him.
“I’m here,” he says.
I squeeze his hand. “I know.”
“I’m not going away,” he says.
I laugh and cry. “That’s what you told the first wife.”
He turns red. “I know.”
“I didn’t tell you I loved you.” This emerges from someplace far away, some distant universe where strange rules applied, where love was not allowed. I did not understand, and did not want to. I tried to close my mind to this awful place.
Charlie moves closer and caresses my back. “You tell me that. Frequently.”
“No. Over there. I didn’t tell you I loved you. I was afraid.”
“Oh. The vision.”
“Yes. I loved you, and wanted to be with you. Forever. I loved your hands, and your eyes, and your laughter, and your ....”
Charlie turns red again and gently presses his hips against me.
“No, not that,” I say softly. “We never got that far. We didn’t because ... because ....”
More tears.
Charlie caresses my face. His voice is so soft when he says, “Riley. You’re here. With me. Everything will be all right.”
I am feeling warm again, and eager to be alone with him. He realizes I am not making eye contact; he tugs on me and we return to the flat without a word. Once inside, we know nothing but the joy of each other. When we are finally quiet and still, the light outside is significantly dimmer.
On the floor, on our clothes, we play handsies as if we have never encountered each other before.
“I did not know I was in love,” I say. “In that other place.”
Charlie is silent. He stares at our entwined hands.
I say, “I did not know until after we parted. That was why I never told you. Then I knew, and I wanted to tell you, but you had forgotten me.”
“Forget you? I could never forget you.”
“In that other place you said that you did.”
He runs a very long index finger across the little palm of my right hand. “Maybe I had a reason for saying that?”
“Maybe.”
“Even if I did come close to forgetting you ... something would remain. Your eyes. Your hair. Something.”
Charlie’s mouth tightens and turns upside down, then relaxes.
“What,” I say. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. There are lots of people I’d like to forget. But not you.”
A familiar feeling wiggles in my soul: the feeling of Charlie; the feeling of him being mine, and my soul mate, and my true love. It's a good feeling, like sunshine mixed with a fresh breeze mixed with a good night's sleep.
“Not me,” I say. “Not even if things went bad?”
“No. Not even then.”
We are quiet for a while. My thoughts turn to intimacy; I think about our time on the floor just after the walk: Charlie saying ridiculously suggestive things and making me laugh as we enjoyed each other’s bodies. The joy on his face was once again so gleeful.
I smile, thinking about his smile.
“What,” Charlie says, wiggling my hand.
“The happiness on your face when you’re making love. You look so sweet.”
“You’re sweet. And I’m happy because I waited too long, and now I’m enjoying it.”
“ ‘It’? That’s all I am to you? An ‘it’? THAT particular ‘it’? I’m just a body part?”
He rises up on one arm, leans over and frowns in a mocking way. “No. That’s not what I meant.”
His mouth purses and I want to tell him how adorable he is, but I remain silent.
Charlie says, “I’m enjoying being married to you, and being close to you. Do you know how long I had to wait?”
“I know.”
“Precisely?”
“I know it was two hundred and sixty-one days.” Tears fill my eyes again.
Charlie shakes his head. "I count the first day as one. I say it's been two hundred and sixty two. But. I’ll accept that answer.”
“We will never agree about that.”
“No.” Charlie’s face is kind again. He says, “Maybe you’re remembering the wait and it’s giving you nightmares. I wish your employer had been able to let you go sooner.”
"Me too. But we're together now." I caress his dear face. His skin is smooth, except for his heavy stubble, which at first is attractive, and then blurry as tears fill my eyes once more.
“What,” he says over me.
“Nothing.”
He squeezes my hip. “I hate the other Charlie. He sounds like a coward.”
“What about the other me? The other Riley? She’s a coward, too. But those weren’t our names.”
“Why was she a coward? And what were our names over there?”
I try to remember. “I don’t know the names. I heard us talking to each other, and understood we had different ways of referring to each other, but nothing specific. And I was a coward because I did not tell you I loved you. I thought I liked you very much. Then there were these strange rules. I was always thinking about them. And then ....” I squeezed his hand, to confirm he was there next to me.
“We were both adults?” Charles asks.
“Yes!” I am startled at my passion. “Well into middle age! We were graying and had so much combined life experience! Yet somehow we could not, or would not, reach out to each other. And then I was alone, and you said you did not know me.”
Charlie’s eyes are over mine; he is thinking; his dear face fills my world as he says, “They think about us.”
“What?”
“They do.”
“How could they?”
“If we think about them ... wouldn’t they think about us?”
“But how--”
He vanishes in a flash, and I am aware of this, but only for a brief moment, and then I vanish, too.
* * * * *
The loss is beyond any human description. It just is. It's there, and it's IT, and it is just itself. A huge terrible loss.
I look up, still trying to recover from the latest round of weeping.
“Charlie, you okay?”
I look suspiciously at the assistant director. Why would she be asking me this? I dried my eyes after sobbing silently in the bathroom at the house that was doubling as a movie set. I re-applied my makeup. I put in eyedrops. In the bathroom, I looked fine. Before the weeping spell, I had been laughing with her about the movie business.
But I had seen the strange little bulb in there. Probably a camera. There was a lot of drug activity in the neighborhood.
Principal Actor Number One's personal assistant peeked around a corner. “Hello, ladies. Hey, Charlie. We’re going for a coffee run. Want any?”
“Uh. Yeah. Get me a soy latte, please.” I reach for some cash.
“Don’t worry. The production will cover it. What’s Charlie short for?”
“Charlotte.”
“Cute. Be back in a bit.”
The AD speaks into a walkie-talkie. Had she forgotten her original question? I had no intention of answering it. But she remains occupied with her business, and soon we are walking to the set.
I move quickly, not wanting to convey any of my supreme disappointment at life. I think only of him ... of his eyes and his face and his smile. I don't think about the fancy movie set, or the trailer they tried to give me, or the recurring background actor role on the TV show, or the scandalous amounts of money they are paying me for the privilege of having me "on retainer due to needs not yet determined by production." I told my agent to bump the compensation down, and he told me not to be ridiculous, and to ask for more. I did not tell him that my treasures were beyond this life, in another life that had vanished, where love lasted and was not interrupted.
For just one moment I want to run away, back to Riley, back to him, back to his wonderful eyes and face and smile and hands. His hands -- such works of art. We used to sit and hold hands and talk softly. And now ... he said he had forgotten me. Terrible words. I wanted only him, before whatever made him forget me.
I am still following the AD, trying to move, reluctantly moving, being a good little human being, doing my damndest to show I give half a rat's fart about what is going on around me. I follow her to the set, where Principal Actor Number One stands there, looking rather distinguished. He smiles pleasantly and nods.
I nods back, indicating that sure, I'm fine.
I am not fine. I have not been fine since the day Riley vanished.
The day progresses on, but I am elsewhere. Back when we used to chat. When we first met, in our neighborhood, and got to know each other. Before he mysteriously moved away.
I thought only of his hands, and the warmth of his skin, and wished I could hug him, and be with him.
But he said he had forgotten me. What more could I do except keep going?
* * * * *
I catch my reflection in the mirror in the living room. My beard is growing out again, to about the length it was when I last saw her. I close my eyes, remembering how she used to touch it and say, "You got it trimmed--"
My cell phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. I press the darn thing and hold it to my ear. "Hello?"
“Well hello, Prince Valiant!”
The voice sounds like loud screeching static. “What?” I say sharply at the phone, trying to make sense out of the nonsense.
“Hello! It’s me. Your cousin!”
“Just a damn minute. Have to adjust my hearing aide.” I put the phone down, wiggle the stupid volume on the stupid aide, pick up the phone and listen carefully. “Now what?”
“It’s me." Now she sounds better. It's my cousin. The one who calls me Prince Valiant. She can't just call me Riley. She's got to remind me about the name's origin every time she calls. I can't stand it. How long has it been now? More than fifty years, according to my calculations. Out of everyone in my family, she's been the most helpful and loyal. But she's such a pain about the name
“Oh,” I say. “You. Good. You still coming over? We’re having stew, biscuits, salad and wine for Sunday dinner.”
“Yep. On my way. How are you feeling?”
“I am feeling just fine.”
“How’s your hearing, and your healing?”
“My hearing is still compromised. Fifty percent loss. Still aching all over. Probably won’t ever quite go away.” I am more calm now, yet a bit disturbed. The car accident happened more than a year ago, but it broke up my relationship, stole some of my hearing, stole some of my mobility, and took a part of my face. Throw in late middle age, and it was a chore to move on.
“I’m really sorry about all your losses. Not to minimize them ... but your spirit is intact. And you seem to have made many friends during the past year. Lots of them women. You're telling me a handsome, charming man like you isn't enjoying that?”
I feel guilty. I couldn’t stop the flirting, even in the hospital. It just came naturally, as it has all my life.
“That, I have,” I say.
“We will be there shortly. Later, Prince Valiant.”
“I’m getting a bit too old for that silly nickname.”
“You have a wonderful Gaelic name. Riley means ‘valiant.’”
“Yes, I know. You have informed me of this at least eighteen thousand, two hundred and fifty times.”
“Why do I get the feeling that is an exact number?”
“Probably because it is.”
“And I bet your mouth is making that cute little moue.”
“Moo to you. Bye, now.”
I end the call, then slowly stand up and painfully search the house for my girlfriend. But the place is empty.
I have a feeling the place will be empty more frequently. She was giddy when we first started dating. Now, after only a few months, she is becoming more irritated and getting more impossible to understand.
That guilt rears its head again. I think of her. Charlie. The neighbor near my old place. She had been kind to me, and stood by me.
At some point my cousin had interrogated me: why was this woman coming around, being so nice? I explained we were neighbors, and I needed help, and she was assisting. I hid the fact that I thought I was falling in love, and that Charlie appeared to be more than delighted with my presence. I did not want anyone to know. It was something just for me, and it was so new anyway. My fiancee had left me. But I was single, and naturally interested in all things female, and Charlie was so wonderful.
But then my cousin asked if I wanted to buy this place with her. A steal, due to The Recession That Never Seems To End. And during all the negotiations and conversations and financial arrangements, my friends neatly got me out of the house, and everything moved, and into the new place ... too far for just a brief visit from Charlie.
My only excuse for my wishy-washiness: pain and pain pills. I was out of it on and off. I just wanted to rest. At some point my cousin asked me to be reasonable and consider the consequences of getting together with this Charlie, who appeared to be at least ten years younger than me. I did not consider a damn thing, but I did put her aside for a long time. I was in too much pain, and there were new women to flirt with in the new place, and suddenly I was dating this new girl, and I did not want to contact Charlie only to say hi and goodbye. I wanted her forever.
The guilt wiggles again. If I want her forever, then perhaps I should do something about it?
The phone rings. It is my girlfriend. She is here and she is current, and she is my present. She is often irritated, and sometimes okay, and always beautiful, and occasionally helpful. Not the best cook.
Charlie cooked wonderfully. Made fantastic cookies.
I almost let the call go to voicemail. But the last time I did that, we had an argument that lasted a week. I chicken out and answer, “Well, hello.”
“Riley. What is this word on your shopping list? Dildo? What the hell? Typical man, making everything about sex!”
“What?”
She yells, which makes my hearing aid crackle. “The LIST! THE SHOPPING LIST. THE GROCERY STORE DOES NOT SELL SEX TOYS!”
I smile. Nothing like a redhead when she’s fired up. “It says ‘Alpo.’ Alpo. The dog food? Calm down.”
Long silence at her end. Then, quietly, “Oh.”
I can’t help chuckling. “I look forward to your return.”
“Oh, go take a cold shower. Geez.”
I end the call, and almost immediately forget her. Charlie is still on my mind.
I go to the front door and look out, north, toward where she is. The TV show website said they are filming somewhere in that direction.
When I saw her on TV my cousin noticed and said, “She was up to no good. Why would someone like that want someone like you?”
I had entertained the same thoughts, but only briefly. I said, “I was sick and she visited me. Like it says in the Bible. What’s wrong with that?”
Somehow that shut up my cousin for a while.
I smile, then move to a mirror in the foyer.
I remember standing near the same mirror with Charlie, back in my old house after one of her visits, and imagining us married; her in a gown, myself in a tuxedo; on a honeymoon. She had mentioned an interest in Europe; perhaps Paris or London or someplace exotic in Spain. Having a wonderful time. Just talking. We could sit and talk for hours, and it was good and fun.
I check the mirror one last time. I am still middle-aged. Not bad looking. I had heard Charlie on her phone once, when she thought I was out of hearing range: “Riley is a nice man. Very easy on the eyes.” I could say the same about her.
That guilt again. The ongoing guilt. A guilt that nags, and tells me that I should do something about my love for Charlie, before she vanishes completely. But what?
I feel it as my girlfriend drives up. As she steps out, obviously exasperated about something. As I help her with the groceries, as we put them away, as we cook and eat dinner, and as we socialize with my cousin.
Later, as we chat and watch a movie, and then when we fall asleep.
I wake up and stare into the darkness, then go back to the front window and look out into the dark sky, wondering, thinking.
I have a vague memory from The Time Of The Pain Pills. Something about telling Charlie I don’t remember her. I can't remember anything else. Sometimes, like now, I want to find her and ask her ... did this happen? Then I think about my cousin, asking why would Charlie be interested in me? Charlie is beautiful, and she is on that TV show, and she undoubtedly lives some fancy life somewhere. What would she do with me, and my plain, simple life, and my damaged face and body and spirit?
The only thing I know for sure is what I've observed in photos and videos of her. She had a brilliant smile on her face up until a few months ago. Then, around the time I moved away, not one instance of her smiling. She looks thoughtful, serious, strained ... and, I think, quite sad.
That guilt is back again. And, along with it, feeling like a coward. I know I should at least reach out. But I have been procrastinating. And I know iI will continue to procrastinate. In fact, I may wait and contact her when I think I'd be able to handle being rejected, if that were to happen. Yeah, I might do that. I might.
Somewhere out there, in another universe, I am not a wishy-washy coward, and I am with her, and we are together, and we are very happy.
* ~* END *~*
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