Alloy

He never lets her see him so bothered, but this time she catches him unaware. He doesn’t notice that she has come upon him from behind, barefoot, quiet as a summer’s breeze. She enters the kitchen from the screened-in porch and sees him huddled over a page of the morning paper. He clenches his fist, and when he releases his grip the paper is wrinkled; it looks damp to her. She stops, fascinated. He touches his fingertips to his forehead. From her position, she can’t discern that his eyes are closed.

Don’t you know what it means when they braze the joints? Charlie asks them in that condescending way he has. Even at twelve he hates Charlie Schoenberg. They release the liquid brass into the hollow. It dances around and fills the joint to make it stronger. That’s why I can go faster than any of you. They all hate him. Charlie beats their champion, Mark Meyer, on his red Schwinn, three times, and then says he’s finished with them. Come find me when you’re ready to make an investment, he says. He pedals away.

Schoenberg and his partner, Devon Reese, have just started an airline, the newspaper says. It’s not enough to own a multimillion-dollar investment firm these day, he thinks. How many houses are enough he wonders, looking around the drafty old kitchen with its faded, thirty-year-old linoleum. He swallows, ashamed, and lays the newspaper down on the dinette table. He barely hears the happy shrieks of the kids outside, undoubtedly waking the neighbors. They’re playing in the sprinkler. It’s a blue plastic mushroom that shoots water in pulsating showers. The boys love it.

Americans are clumsy, Charlie says. They can’t manufacture anything anymore. If you want a good bike you got to go to Italy. They are in the usual after school cluster listening to the new kid lecture them about his bike. Again. It’s from a town near Milan, he says. Most of them don’t even know where Milan is. Charlie Schoenberg could have said Uganda and they would’ve reacted the same way. Quiet. Eyes wide. The frame is steel tubing alloyed with carbon and manganese. There’s an internal Cinelli crown in the fork, and the walls are point eight millimeters thick. Point eight! They call it Aelle, he says, trying to impress this data upon them. They are more impressed by his audacity.

She has not moved. She’s transfixed, wondering what’s causing his turmoil. He sighs and looks up at the light fixture. (Oh. She reminds herself that she needs to replace one of the bulbs). His gaze floats to the living room, to the oak veneer bookshelves. The blue encyclopedias have lost their sheen. The yearbooks are piled on top of each other along with Curious George and Travels with Babar.

It’s all about geometry. Sixty percent of a person’s weight should be centered over the rear wheel, Charlie says. It completes the triangle of activity. He is good in geometry. He’s excellent. He is excellent in everything. Geometry, world history, college-level calculus. He says he is so good in cross-country because he rides his Italian bicycle everywhere and does a lot of hill work. It strengthens his legs and cardiovascular system. Charlie Schoenberg is going to letter in cross-country again. He rides his bike even though his father bought him a car. 

The yellow-orange vinyl on the dinette chair is peeling; a layer of spongy foam is exposed over the fraying edge. He sees that his wife hasn’t wiped all the crusty oatmeal and scrambled egg from the corner of the table. He looks back to the living room where his diploma and certificates hang inside black Lucite frames. She is very proud of them. She's proud of everything he has achieved, but he doesn't know why she should be.

Entrepreneur and Fortune have featured Charlie Schoenberg — now Charles Schoenberg — at one point or another. And other magazines, too. Charles Schoenberg is a brilliant entrepreneur and raconteur, they say. Charles has attained almost a cult status in the world of finance. There’s talk of him opening a new grocery chain in addition to the airline. It will specialize in healthy foods for athletes. Charles was recently quoted in the Wall Street Journal. My store will be better than Whole Foods. We’re going to focus on revising the food pyramid. Always with the geometry.

Somewhere along the way he stopped looking for articles about Charlie because they were always there. 

He has never used an accountant. He fills out his 1040 form early every year and usually manages to get a few hundred dollars back. His wife is frugal with their money, and the boys are learning to set aside a portion of their allowance as savings. They spend the rest on bubble gum and trading cards. Why can’t he give them more?

It’s peaceful outside. The boys have ridden their bicycles to the neighbor’s. The older boy can ride a two-wheeler, but the younger one will want him to come outside and give him a lesson. He wants to get rid of the training wheels. She watches him glance at the newspaper again and suddenly feels like a spy, stealing into his moment of private reflection.

“Are you okay?” she asks. She has startled him. He nods and she pretends she hasn’t been spying. “What’s that?” She points to the newsprint. The bottom of her tee shirt brushes against his ear. It’s stained with faint blotches of grape juice. He shrugs. “Nothing,” he says, but she draws her head closer. She homes in on a small item near the feature he was reading. “Oh, the poor man,” she says, shaking her head. He frowns and reads along with her. “Charles Schoenberg’s only son was killed in a drug related incident,” she says softly. “You knew him, right?” She feels sorry for Charles. She thinks he feels the same. 

The sound of shrieking boys and bicycle bells has returned. He pushes the chair back and stands up. “I remember him,” he says. “But I never really knew him.”