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Way, way outside the brothel.
Remember that time when I said brothelfic really needed to be linear? Let's forget all about that now.
The title of this one comes from a Girlyman song, "Superior," which is about a parent and child (with a cameo by Lake Superior, yes, which contributes significantly to my affection for it, yes) and includes the lines: when I wake, it takes a minute to remember / why it's so quiet and still...
Quiet and Still
He watches the news every night and every morning, and reads the paper cover-to-cover. He watches for the small stories, the notices of crimes and deaths, charges filed and sentences handed down. He never sees their names, never finds their faces in grainy black and white. It's been seven years since he saw Charlie in person, nearly two since he saw Don; he wonders whether it would take him a moment to recognize them, whether he might not recognize them at all. He tells himself it's impossible that they could change so much, but he knows they could. Especially if they meant to.
Once, doing a little research online under the patient eye of a girl a third his age at the library, he stumbled across News Alerts: enter a name, and receive an email any time that name appears in the news, anywhere in the world. He asked the girl about it. She didn't know much, but took the mouse from his hand and clicked around at dizzying speed, until there was a screen before him, a cursor blinking in a narrow box. "Just enter a name," she said, and he froze up. After a moment he shook his head and hit cancel, saying he'd only been curious.
Later, alone, he found his way through the same steps, set up the Alerts, and once in a while he gets an email: when a local paper discusses an old minor-league baseball game, when a scholarly article cites one of two papers written by a once-promising undergraduate at Princeton. He does his own searching for them, online, and finds years-old archived email discussions on some mailing list of mathematicians with the subject line Princeton Lolito. He knows it's all gossip and mostly exaggerated, bitter and cruel or unaffected and amused, but he reads every word. It all tails off into silence after a few days of chatter, though; even then, no one knew where Charlie was or what had become of him.
He's used to this, or tells himself he is. It's been this way for a long time now, and mostly he doesn't think of his little boys, of what has become of his family. He thinks of the last excruciating years with Charlie, of the anger and the silences and the fights, of all the things he did wrong, trying to make Charlie settle down and grow up, and all the ways Charlie got hurt and got lost, fighting back. He thinks of Don, surefootedly going his own way, off to college, into baseball, until the night he called home and said, "Just let me try, Dad. I promise I'll take care of him." It was the first time his son had ever sounded like a man to him, and he clings to the memory when he has to remind himself that his little boys--whose diapers he changed and shoes he tied and school projects he helped with--are grown men now, and probably better off without him.
He doesn't let himself really worry until six months have gone by without a word. Six months and one day, six months and two days--he starts to think of calling around to hospitals and police departments--and then there's an unexpected email from an unfamiliar address, making his heart race. He opens it, his hand wobbling on the mouse.
He reads it again and again, but there's nothing more there: one of their rare phone calls, with all the silences and small talk and half-spoken words weeded out, leaving these few brief paragraphs. He reaches for the phone, thinks briefly about how late it would be there--but it doesn't matter. She's their mother. She wants to know. He dials ten long digits, the numbers blurring before his eyes, and on the third ring she says, "Hello?"
He feels the same faint pang as always at the sound of her voice, love and hurt both faded by time; there are only two things left between them that really matter anymore. "Margaret," he says. "It's me, Alan. I just heard from Don. The boys are all right."
The title of this one comes from a Girlyman song, "Superior," which is about a parent and child (with a cameo by Lake Superior, yes, which contributes significantly to my affection for it, yes) and includes the lines: when I wake, it takes a minute to remember / why it's so quiet and still...
Quiet and Still
He watches the news every night and every morning, and reads the paper cover-to-cover. He watches for the small stories, the notices of crimes and deaths, charges filed and sentences handed down. He never sees their names, never finds their faces in grainy black and white. It's been seven years since he saw Charlie in person, nearly two since he saw Don; he wonders whether it would take him a moment to recognize them, whether he might not recognize them at all. He tells himself it's impossible that they could change so much, but he knows they could. Especially if they meant to.
Once, doing a little research online under the patient eye of a girl a third his age at the library, he stumbled across News Alerts: enter a name, and receive an email any time that name appears in the news, anywhere in the world. He asked the girl about it. She didn't know much, but took the mouse from his hand and clicked around at dizzying speed, until there was a screen before him, a cursor blinking in a narrow box. "Just enter a name," she said, and he froze up. After a moment he shook his head and hit cancel, saying he'd only been curious.
Later, alone, he found his way through the same steps, set up the Alerts, and once in a while he gets an email: when a local paper discusses an old minor-league baseball game, when a scholarly article cites one of two papers written by a once-promising undergraduate at Princeton. He does his own searching for them, online, and finds years-old archived email discussions on some mailing list of mathematicians with the subject line Princeton Lolito. He knows it's all gossip and mostly exaggerated, bitter and cruel or unaffected and amused, but he reads every word. It all tails off into silence after a few days of chatter, though; even then, no one knew where Charlie was or what had become of him.
He's used to this, or tells himself he is. It's been this way for a long time now, and mostly he doesn't think of his little boys, of what has become of his family. He thinks of the last excruciating years with Charlie, of the anger and the silences and the fights, of all the things he did wrong, trying to make Charlie settle down and grow up, and all the ways Charlie got hurt and got lost, fighting back. He thinks of Don, surefootedly going his own way, off to college, into baseball, until the night he called home and said, "Just let me try, Dad. I promise I'll take care of him." It was the first time his son had ever sounded like a man to him, and he clings to the memory when he has to remind himself that his little boys--whose diapers he changed and shoes he tied and school projects he helped with--are grown men now, and probably better off without him.
He doesn't let himself really worry until six months have gone by without a word. Six months and one day, six months and two days--he starts to think of calling around to hospitals and police departments--and then there's an unexpected email from an unfamiliar address, making his heart race. He opens it, his hand wobbling on the mouse.
Dear Dad,
I guess it's been six months now. I know I said I'd call, but work's been hectic. Charlie and I have mostly the same shifts, so I never have much time free when he's not. I tried a couple of months ago to mention you, but he gets just as worked up as ever, so I didn't push it. He still needs to have one person he's not mad at, and I'm it. I'm borrowing a friend's computer to send you this--we share one and I'm sure Charlie would find out if I sent it from ours. I'll try to check this mailbox in a few days, if you want to write back.
We're doing all right here. We're both healthy, paying the rent, staying out of trouble. We're still at the same jobs as the last time I talked to you, and we both have some friends here. Everybody loves Charlie. We work a lot, nights mostly. Charlie gets a little down sometimes, but we're okay. Sometimes I think he's happy, and I know he's as safe as he can be. I'm looking out for him the best I can.
I guess I don't know what else to say. I think we might be making some kind of change soon. Charlie seems restless. He's been doing math more and more the last couple of years, like he used to. He doesn't say anything about going back to school, but we were at a library the other day and I could almost see him thinking about it. It's a little scary to think of him jumping back into that, but he's not fourteen anymore, right? This is what he's meant to do. I know it still feels weird for a spring to go by without getting ready for a new season, and it's not like I was ever the Charlie of baseball.
Anyway, forward this to Mom if you're still in touch at all. Like I said, I'll try to check in a few days if you want to write back.
Your son,
Don
He reads it again and again, but there's nothing more there: one of their rare phone calls, with all the silences and small talk and half-spoken words weeded out, leaving these few brief paragraphs. He reaches for the phone, thinks briefly about how late it would be there--but it doesn't matter. She's their mother. She wants to know. He dials ten long digits, the numbers blurring before his eyes, and on the third ring she says, "Hello?"
He feels the same faint pang as always at the sound of her voice, love and hurt both faded by time; there are only two things left between them that really matter anymore. "Margaret," he says. "It's me, Alan. I just heard from Don. The boys are all right."