Control by William Goldman

be? ”
    “ Not afraid! ” Theo repeated. And then a third time, loudest of all: “ NOT. . . A … FRAID !” And as Charlotte, stunned, rolled up on one elbow she had never seen eyelids move like Theo ’ s were moving now, because you could not force them to flutter that quickly, no one could bid them to.
    “ Theo, Theo listen, ” Charlotte said.
    But he was clearly not in a listening mood. His mouth began to work, and finally he was saying “ Burr ’’ or “ Bear ’’ or was it “ Burden ‘‘ he was repeating over and over?
    Charlotte at last understood. Or at least had a good idea, because when he ’ d read her his poems, many of them were simply meant to be love lyrics, the outpourings of a delicate creature with too much emotion to know quite where to store it all. But many others had a deeper ambition, they dealt with Him and behavior, and most of all, morality, and torment, and the word he was saying now, that word was “ Burn. ” “ Burn ” repeated, but softer until it was a whispered litany, “ … burn … burn … ” Charlotte knew about his headaches, he had told her, and his black moods were no secret from her either, but this now was undeserved, because he hadn ’ t done anything, she ’ d done it all: “ I seduced you ’’ she wanted to say, though she didn ’ t because he was not in a mood to believe it, because, as she watched, and she couldn ’ t be totally sure but as she watched he rubbed his eyes, or she thought he was doing that, rubbing them, except he was rubbing too hard, and as she saw that rubbing them was probably less what he had in mind than tearing them from his sockets she grabbed his small hands and he ripped free but she was back again instantly, tearing his fingers away and he ripped free again and slapped her, slapped her again, and in an instant they were where they had been not all that many minutes before, battling, physically testing one another except before it was a preamble to as close as she could ever come to anything ecstatic, whereas now it was turning into something quite different, a fight for life, for dear life, her dear ’ s.

 

     
     

    4
Haggerty’s Kid
     
     
    Haggerty knew before he was fifteen that he was going to marry the Rafferty girl down the block. She was Irish, she was Catholic, her father and grandfather had been cops too, she understood.
    She wasn ’ t a genius, but she was smarter than he was; she wasn ’ t a beauty, but he never forgot her fifteenth summer when her breasts arrived along with strange thoughts in his head. They held hands and necked and went to Coney Island and she swatted his thick fingers when he got fresh. She was saving it, Helen Rafferty said. For what, ./or what Jesus? Haggerty said. For when it ’ s legal, she told him. Helen that could be years. Years. She ran her hands along her body. Worth the wait, she assured him.
    They married while Haggerty was at the Police Academy and their first night she demanded to know, after, if it was or not worth the wait and he hurriedly answered yes, absolutely, but inside he was momentarily troubled because it turned out she was more sexually adventurous than he was. That trouble soon gloriously disappeared. He loved her a great deal, as much as he thought was safe. More even.
    But her true value didn ’ t come till later. The first time he was badly mugged walking a tour, she didn ’ t ask about it, didn ’ t weep. She tended him, got him going, no questions at all. She understood not to ask. And the first time he was shot—no, the first time he was badly shot—again her eyes did not moisten. Forthright, let ’ s improve this, let ’ s get that working again, on with the next. She understood.
    If their marriage was serene, so was their daughter, Elaine, pretty enough, but not too pretty to cause conceit, quick enough in school but not too quick to cause envy. Helen called her their pink child. Pink skin, favorite color, pink; personality the same. Never a