Charlie asked, shielding his eyes from the harsh morning glare.
“Almost eleven.”
“Jesus Christ. I was sleeping.”
“Try waking at a normal hour.”
His head looked like it’d been trampled by the business end of a harvester, deep pillow marks grooved into his puffy face, the kind you get from passing out and remaining in the same position for hours. He whisked me inside and then shut the door, sealing us in musty darkness.
Charlie hadn’t redecorated since his mom died, and the house retained that old-lady feel, all décor left over from the 1970s—paisley print sofas and wagon-wheel coffee tables, shitty paintings that you could buy for a quarter at any garage sale up here, because at one time or another every retiree in New Hampshire tries their hand at painting. The spice rack that hung by the sink housed herbs that had to be at least thirty years old. Don’t know why he needed spices. Charlie didn’t cook.
Charlie scratched his naked, pink belly, which slung over his gray sweats like a jumbo canned ham, before retying the drawstring, as if that would make a difference. He’d started to inherit that classic drunkard’s face, where the head seems to swell a bit, pulling back roots at the temple, nose blossoming, complexion permanently rosy, entire visage swollen like a bad allergic reaction. Charlie used to be a good-looking guy, but he was seriously slipping.
Still not fully awake, Charlie dragged his bare feet to the cupboards, swatting aside bags of chips and packages of cookies, other junk foods, searching for the coffee tin. “Where were you last night?”
I sat at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “Had to pick up my brother from the police station.”
“What’d he do this time?”
“Does it matter?” I rearranged the salt and pepper shakers, fingered the saucer he used for an ashtray. “Jenny and Aiden are moving to Rutland.”
“Vermont? When?” Charlie filled a pot under the faucet.
“Soon as Brody finds a house.”
Charlie chuckled as he sifted coffee grounds. “I wouldn’t sweat it. That dipshit couldn’t find his own ass with both hands.”
“Supposedly he’s got this manager’s gig waiting for him down there. Foreman position. Been in the works a while, I think.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Charlie flipped the switch. The rich smells of brewing coffee wafted over the small room. “Either way, you’ve got plenty of time.” He dug out the sugar, spooned some into a bowl. “Can’t buy a house overnight. Gotta get a loan. There’s a mortgage and pre-approval, realtors, banks, short sales, foreclosures, haggling on a price. It takes a long time, man. Fisher’s going through it right now, trying to sell his mother’s house.”
“Fisher’s back?”
“No. Still lives in Concord. Just up here helping with the sale. Taking forever.” Charlie leaned against the counter. “If they haven’t even started looking yet, could be a year or more.”
“But it’s going to happen,” I said. “Eventually. Even if it’s a year or more, it’s still going to happen.”
“This was your problem back in high school,” Charlie said. “You undersell yourself.”
“We didn’t go to high school together.”
“Like you weren’t back every weekend. Man, you never left this place.” Charlie winked. “But you should’ve.”
“And gone where?”
“You were the smartest guy I knew,” Charlie said. “You read actual books, took school serious, got good grades. And you were creative too. Remember that story you wrote? The one about your parents going on vacation and leaving you with your brother, and he locked you under the porch with nothing to eat but spiders?”
“I was goofing around.”
“It was funny as hell. You gave me that story up at the reservoir, and in the fall I passed it around to everyone in class. We busted our guts over it. You could’ve been an author or something. Nobodythought up shit like you did. You had talent.
“Almost eleven.”
“Jesus Christ. I was sleeping.”
“Try waking at a normal hour.”
His head looked like it’d been trampled by the business end of a harvester, deep pillow marks grooved into his puffy face, the kind you get from passing out and remaining in the same position for hours. He whisked me inside and then shut the door, sealing us in musty darkness.
Charlie hadn’t redecorated since his mom died, and the house retained that old-lady feel, all décor left over from the 1970s—paisley print sofas and wagon-wheel coffee tables, shitty paintings that you could buy for a quarter at any garage sale up here, because at one time or another every retiree in New Hampshire tries their hand at painting. The spice rack that hung by the sink housed herbs that had to be at least thirty years old. Don’t know why he needed spices. Charlie didn’t cook.
Charlie scratched his naked, pink belly, which slung over his gray sweats like a jumbo canned ham, before retying the drawstring, as if that would make a difference. He’d started to inherit that classic drunkard’s face, where the head seems to swell a bit, pulling back roots at the temple, nose blossoming, complexion permanently rosy, entire visage swollen like a bad allergic reaction. Charlie used to be a good-looking guy, but he was seriously slipping.
Still not fully awake, Charlie dragged his bare feet to the cupboards, swatting aside bags of chips and packages of cookies, other junk foods, searching for the coffee tin. “Where were you last night?”
I sat at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “Had to pick up my brother from the police station.”
“What’d he do this time?”
“Does it matter?” I rearranged the salt and pepper shakers, fingered the saucer he used for an ashtray. “Jenny and Aiden are moving to Rutland.”
“Vermont? When?” Charlie filled a pot under the faucet.
“Soon as Brody finds a house.”
Charlie chuckled as he sifted coffee grounds. “I wouldn’t sweat it. That dipshit couldn’t find his own ass with both hands.”
“Supposedly he’s got this manager’s gig waiting for him down there. Foreman position. Been in the works a while, I think.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Charlie flipped the switch. The rich smells of brewing coffee wafted over the small room. “Either way, you’ve got plenty of time.” He dug out the sugar, spooned some into a bowl. “Can’t buy a house overnight. Gotta get a loan. There’s a mortgage and pre-approval, realtors, banks, short sales, foreclosures, haggling on a price. It takes a long time, man. Fisher’s going through it right now, trying to sell his mother’s house.”
“Fisher’s back?”
“No. Still lives in Concord. Just up here helping with the sale. Taking forever.” Charlie leaned against the counter. “If they haven’t even started looking yet, could be a year or more.”
“But it’s going to happen,” I said. “Eventually. Even if it’s a year or more, it’s still going to happen.”
“This was your problem back in high school,” Charlie said. “You undersell yourself.”
“We didn’t go to high school together.”
“Like you weren’t back every weekend. Man, you never left this place.” Charlie winked. “But you should’ve.”
“And gone where?”
“You were the smartest guy I knew,” Charlie said. “You read actual books, took school serious, got good grades. And you were creative too. Remember that story you wrote? The one about your parents going on vacation and leaving you with your brother, and he locked you under the porch with nothing to eat but spiders?”
“I was goofing around.”
“It was funny as hell. You gave me that story up at the reservoir, and in the fall I passed it around to everyone in class. We busted our guts over it. You could’ve been an author or something. Nobodythought up shit like you did. You had talent.
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