Charlie, Darling

The heat was so sweltering Charlie was certain, much like the blue puddle that had just minutes ago been a popsicle, his skin would melt into something that could never be saved again. He’d be left as bones and muscle, and the sun would kill roast his organs to nothingness. It wouldn’t have been so bad the A/C unit hadn’t died a week ago before things got too hot, but it did die. And he was left boiling in his own skin.

It was better to stay outside, he reminded himself. Better to stay away from his sister’s crying baby. Already, he could hear his sister trying to quiet the wailing that had broken out, but he knew it wouldn’t work. Beth wouldn’t be able to get that baby to shut up. She never could.

Part of him thought he could offer Michael, Beth’s overconfident husband, some help with trying to fix the air conditioner, but unlike Michael, Charlie didn’t fancy himself a handyman. He knew his limits, and there was no way in hell he’d help fix the thing. But if he were to try, he would have at least done some research before pulling out a toolbelt and insisting that he could fix a problem he knew nothing about.

The baby’s crying was growing louder.

“Charlie, darling!” Beth called out. Charlie tried to ignore her, opting to stare down at the melted popsicle puddle, but before he could tune her out entirely, she waddled out of the room with the baby in her arms. “Charlie, hold him, will you?”

She didn’t give him a chance to refuse, thrusting the baby into his arms as if he was just there to care for her crying brat. Within ten minutes, she took back the baby and left Charlie alone to himself. He, unsure of what to do in this heat, thought that perhaps he could take a walk to clear his mind. After all, sitting in silence wasn’t helping him. If anything, sitting in the sun just made him think about how miserable he was to be outside.

He slipped on his foam flip-flops and pretended that he couldn’t feel the sweat dripping down his back under his shirt. He had already begun to regret his decision by the time he was halfway down the block. This wasn’t something he wanted to do, but it was better than listening to the baby cry, witnessing Beth slowly unravel as she juggled this life she had never wanted, or watching Michael violently hammered a wrench against the air conditioner unit. A walk was all that could be done on a hot Thursday.

Even away from the house, he could imagine Beth calling out to him. She’d always been the one to reach out to him. Hearing her voice was painful sometimes.

—Charlie, darling. You know Michael McMortem from work, don’t you? What would you say he was like?

—I dunno.

—He’s asked me to dinner.

—Oh.

—I know I promised to visit Mama with you, but he’s only free tonight.

She never changed. He never changed. Michael never changed. The only thing that ever seemed to change was the functionality of the house. Even the baby had failed to change much over the single year it had been alive.  

Just like them, the gas station just three blocks away from the house had barely changed. It was the same as always—dingy under the too-harsh fluorescents and reeking something awful from the cigarettes and shit that had accumulated out back. When he walked in, it was just to kill time, but just like always, Charlie found himself perusing the aisles with scrutiny. Since he was already here, he might as well take the time to buy a snack. There had to be something here that he could chew on while he avoided going back to the house and hearing Michael sling swears at the air conditioner.

As his eyes scanned over the different corn nuts that he could choose from, the door’s bell chimed when two men burst in. Laughter pealed from them like they had nothing better to do but have a good time.

They split. The shorter of the two made a beeline towards the coffee while the taller walked around aimlessly. Charlie tried not to stare. He didn’t want to come off as rude. He just needed to figure out what he wanted to buy. Corn nuts? Trail mix? Chips? There were gummy worms that he could mindlessly eat. Michael wouldn’t demand any either because they were “too sweet.” Beth might want a couple if he got home before eating them all, but sparing three or four wouldn’t kill him. He grabbed a pack and began to walk over to the register.

“You work here?” the taller man asked. Now, Charlie had no excuse not to look at the man.

“No,” Charlie answered flatly.

“Oh, sorry. You just seemed to know your way around here pretty well.”

“Sure.”

“Any suggestions for something to keep cool?”

“A popsicle, I guess.” But of course, both of those would melt before too long out in this heat. Charlie couldn’t imagine this man being happy about any sugary juice dripping down his arm, staining his stiff salmon shirt or navy shorts. His hair was neatly shorn on the sides with a carefully styled messy bleached mop on top. Charlie’s hair, on the other hand, was becoming shaggy and could probably use some care. Maybe he’d let Beth try her hand at cutting it.

“Not a bad idea,” the man mused. He looked a bit like a Henry. “But I’d hate for it to melt on me.”

The kind of Henry that knew exactly how charming he looked. The kind of Henry whose actions were calculated and smooth. Definitely the kind of Henry who would disappear one day, only to be replaced with an older, grey wolf version who lets his hair get grey without a complaint because he knows his face structure will more than make up for the silvery hair.

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for the suggestion.”

“Yeah.” Charlie cast a look over to the coffee machine where Maybe Henry’s friend was struggling with the stack of plastic lids. “I’ll be going.”

“Bye.”

Charlie just nodded. The cashier had gone out back to smoke, so he left a five-dollar bill and a note explaining that he had taken a bag of gummy worms. The cashier wouldn’t care. He never cared whenever Charlie did this. This was normal.

He was a half a block away from the gas station—bag of candy still unopened—that he heard the footsteps. He stopped dead in his tracks. What else could he do? Run? He had never been a fast runner.

“Hey, guy!” He knew that voice well enough, so he turned around to see Maybe Henry running towards him.

“Hey.”

“Here,” Maybe Henry said, holding out a popsicle. “They come in packs of two.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” With that, Maybe Henry walked away. Nothing else.

Charlie himself turned back and began walking once more. Maybe he should have asked for Maybe Henry’s name. Maybe he should go back and introduce himself. Maybe, maybe, maybe. There were just too many things he could have done that he hadn’t, and he could imagine how they would go perfectly.

—I’m Charlie.

—Henry.

It would be great if his name really was Henry. It just had to be. Charlie and Henry. It would roll off the tongue perfectly if Charlie let himself say it aloud.

—Seriously, thanks for the popsicle.

—I just thought you’d need something to cool down.

Henry probably worked an office job. No, he was a recent college graduate, not much older than Charlie. He was a grad school student. He spent his weekends going out to the beach and not surfing. He was smart and funny and so, so charming.

—What about hanging out sometime?

No. Charlie would never manage it. He could barely say anything to Beth, let alone Henry. Maybe Henry. But maybe he could. It wasn’t like there was much else he could do in this town. And Henry was handsome in a kind of rugged, kind of preppy way. He probably put more effort into his hair than Michael and Charlie both.

Maybe he could ask.

But he couldn’t.

Maybe.

No.

“Chuck, help me out here, yeah?” Michael’s voice rang through Charlie’s ears. Chuck. Chuck and Henry—it was deplorable. And worse, Charlie was back home with his sister and brother-in-law. He hadn’t even realized he had come back this way. “Hand me that washer.”

Charlie stared at the scattered parts and tools blankly. He didn’t know which was the washer. He couldn’t tell Michael he didn’t know. He could only stare.

“Right there, idiot,” Michael grumbled, snatching a little metal circle.

“Charlie, darling!” Beth shouted from inside the house. “Could you unjam the typewriter for me?”

He opened his mouth to object, to insist he couldn’t, not when there was a popsicle to be eaten, but instead of saying anything, he looked down at the bare stick he held in his hand. At his feet and down the road was a trail of bright pink that would have led him back to where Maybe Henry had stopped him.

He dropped the stick, hung his head low, and dragged his feet on the way into the stuffy house.