Authors: Vin Packer
CHARLES BERREY
At noon in Reddton, New Jersey, Chuckles was home from school for lunch.
This day in May, lunch was not the gleeful, teasing affair it usually was. Evelyn Berrey set the soup before her son without a word, and Chuckles did not even glance up at her. He was busy reading a book on baseball, which his father had bought for him. The relationship between mother and son had taken a sharp turn for the worst. Ever since that night a few days back, when Howard Berrey had very nearly broken her ribs, Evelyn Berrey and Chuckles had only the very bleakest sort of communication.
The way Evelyn Berrey saw it, Howard had turned Chuckles against her. After she had been knocked to the floor of the living room by her husband, there had been a false alarm in the neighborhood. The fire trucks had roared to the corner of Rider Avenue and Jones Street, and Howard had left her sprawled there and run out to see what had happened.
Searching for some small degree of comfort, Evelyn Berrey had pulled herself to her feet and hobbled in to see Chuckles. He was standing by the window, fussing with the screen. His hand was cut and bleeding, and on the floor his coat lay—with more blood on it.
Her first thought was that someone had come through the window and tried to attack poor Chuckles, but when she saw the coat, she realized that it was Chuckles himself who had come through the window. Where had he been, she demanded, at such an hour? Just where had he been? Just what was he doing, climbing in and out of windows at midnight, running around all bloody?
She was unable to elicit a word from the boy, but when Howard Berrey returned to report that someone had turned in an alarm on Rider Avenue, everything was all too clear.
And so it began:
“I’m going to turn you into the police,” said Evelyn Berrey.
“Do you want me to give it to you again, Evelyn?”
“Howard, are you completely out of your mind! He just turned in a false alarm!”
“Get out of here, Evelyn!”
“I won’t! I will not! I’m going to call the police. What kind of a smart aleck trick is this, hah? Is this another one of your bright ideas, Howard?”
“Chuck, answer your mother’s question. Was this
my
idea?”
“No,” Chuckles said. “I did it myself.”
“Why? What’s the matter with you? Look at you, all blood! Howard, is this your idea of a son?”
“Okay! He turned in a false alarm! All right!”
“All right?”
“Chuck, go wash your hands and put iodine on.”
“I’m going to tell the police, Howard!”
“Are you sappy or something? How the hell do you think it would look? ‘Quiz kid turns in false alarm.’ Put that in your goddam
Life
magazine!”
“You drove him to this!”
“Shut your yap! Kids turn in false alarms plenty of times.”
“Oh, I see. I didn’t understand that. Now that I understand that, I’ll just go off to bed and get a good night’s sleep. Thanks for helping me understand that, Howard.”
“Chuck, I told you to go wash your hands!”
“Maybe he wants to turn in another alarm before morning, Howard. I mean, kids turn in two or three alarms a night, don’t they?”
“Go turn yourself in, Evelyn.”
“I’m going to! To a hospital! And just find out how many of my ribs are broken!”
“They’re all broken, Evelyn. That’s why you’re able to stand there and yell at me so well.”
“From here on in, he’s your worry, Howard. You’re captain, from here on in.”
“It’s about time!”
“Just send him out to turn in false alarms and break windows and run through the streets at midnight, Howard. Like all kids.”
“Will you ever shut up?”
“Yes, right now. I’m through! He’s your worry. He can say what he wants to, do what he wants to—anything he feels like!”
“Get out of here. I’ll talk to him when he comes back.”
“That’s right, Howard! You take care of everything, dear. You just take care of everything, and Chuckles will
end up in hell!”
• • •
Evelyn Berrey had stormed out of the room and gone to bed. For three days since then, it had been the same. Chuckles barely spoke to her, and she spoke to him only when it was absolutely necessary. It was father and son now, teamed up against her. There was this “confab” and that “confab,” and Chuckles was catching ball out in the backyard with Howard nights after Howard got home, telling Howard ball scores from a hundred years back and completely ignoring Evelyn Berrey. Well, let him, she decided. Let Chuckles just wait and see how much his
father
understood him. He’d find out soon enough which side his bread was buttered on, and meanwhile, Evelyn Berrey could wait!
From the kitchen, she shouted in to him, “You eat every bit of that, Chuckles. And don’t read while you’re eating!”
No answer. Well, just give him time.
“And change your Band-Aid,” she added. “It’s filthy!”
Still no answer. His hand would get infected, and
then
he’d see who knew best! Howard never payed any attention to things like that. To Howard, iodine was the answer to everything. Put a little iodine on it, he always said, and then he forgot. Dirt, germs, stones—nothing could hurt if there was a little iodine on it. That was Howard for you. Get the bandage as filthy rotten as you liked! There was iodine on it, wasn’t there? That was Howard all over the place!
Evelyn Berrey said a little more gently, “Chuckles, I mean that about changing the Band-Aid. You’ll do that, won’t you?”
“Yes,” he said.
Just yes, ah? Well, Howard could pat himself on the back this time. This time he’d done a rip-snorting job. Chuckles was treating her like she was a hired hand. Congratulations, Howard, Evelyn Berrey thought, and many happy returns of the day. Just don’t come crawling to me when anything goes wrong around the place. This is your little castle now, Howard. Your castle. Your son, your everything. Take it and like it!
• • •
Charles Berrey sipped the pea soup wondering just how long it would take his mother to come to her senses. Didn’t she know that he had done it for her? She might be dead if he hadn’t done it. He read in the newspapers everyday about men murdering their wives, and she had already been knocked down when the fire engines arrived. It had happened in the knick of time. Didn’t she know that?
Now she was angry with him because of it. She had wanted to tell the police on him. If she was going to turn against him,
he
could show her. He would be on his father’s side. It wasn’t easy to be on his father’s side, because he was never quite sure what was expected of him, but he was
on
his side anyway. He remembered what his father told him the other night, when he came back from washing his hands and putting iodine on the cuts.
“It wasn’t right to do that, Chuck—turn in that alarm, but it wasn’t exactly wrong either.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t want you to call me sir, Chuck. I’m dad. Dad.”
“Yes, dad.”
“You see, actually it’s against the law to turn in an alarm. You know that. It puts folks to a lot of trouble. The firemen. It costs the taxpayer a lot of money.”
“Yes, dad.”
“I know why you did it. I was a kid once myself, you know. I know why you did it.”
“You
do
, dad?”
“Sure, Chuck.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why did I do it?”
“Well, because you’re a boy. It’s a boy’s prank. Once when Howie was your age, he let air out of all the tires on the cars parked down on Easton Street. It’s that kind of thing.”
“Yes, dad.”
“Isn’t it? You wanted to have some fun. Hmmm?”
“I guess so.”
“You see, it may seem like fun, but it causes a lot of trouble.”
“I’m sorry, dad.”
“It’s nothing to go down in the dumps about. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. All that television and
Life
magazine. It’s got under your skin. Your mother should know that.”
“Dad?”
“Yes, Chuck?”
“You won’t have a disagreement with her about it?”
“You see, there you go again.”
“I’m sorry. You won’t fight with her?”
“I’m not going to fight with her. But I’m not going to let her get on your back about it either.”
“I don’t mind.”
“There’s no reason for her to shout at you. You’ve been under pressure. And another thing, Chuck.”
“Yes, dad?”
“About what you said to your mother, you know—about the dictionary?”
“I said masticate, dad.”
“Hell, I know what you said! There’s no reason to repeat it. I’m just trying to tell you in a nice way that a boy keeps those things to himself.”
“It’s a misunderstanding, sir. I said—”
“Don’t sir me, Chuck. Didn’t I ask you not to sir me?”
“Yes, sir, dad. Yes, dad.”
“Now we’ll just forget about it. Everyone has a right to privacy. Just keep that stuff private, Chuck.”
“All right.”
“I was a boy once myself, you know. I know a little bit about my own kid,” said his father, smiling. “Don’t you let your mother tell you it’ll make you crazy either. She tried to tell Howie that. Women don’t understand, Chuck.”
“I see.”
“She’d like it if you were Little Lord Fauntleroy, I guess.”
“Who?”
“Oh, some kid sissy that used to be in the movies. You wouldn’t remember.”
“You mean in that novel by Frances Hodgson Burnett, written in 1886?”
“Chuck, why do you have to sound off about everything? Can’t you let anything go by? You’re not on Cash-Answer now. You’re in your bedroom, having a little ‘confab’ with your dad. You don’t have to sound off on everything under the sun.”
“I just wanted you to know I knew who Lord Fauntleroy was. I remembered just after you said it.”
“I wouldn’t care if you didn’t know who he was. I’d like it a lot better if you
didn’t
know something for a change.”
“I’m sorry, dad.”
“And stop apologizing all the time. You don’t have to apologize. It’s a free country.”
“Yes, dad.”
“We’ll play some ball tomorrow, want to?”
“Yes. I want to.”
“We’ll make out okay, Chuck, you and me. You just try to get a grip on yourself and not think you have to know all the answers. Okay?”
“Certainly. I mean, okay, dad!”
“Now, go on to sleep,” said his father. “All right.”
“Well, what are you doing over there?”
“Just checking my rack, dad.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your rack. I told you time and time again. Those knives aren’t going to fall out of there.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I only want you to know this rack is secure,” said his father. He slapped the rack with his palm. “See? It’s secure.”
“I see.”
“And anyway, what if a knife did come out of there? What would it hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’d just fall on the floor.”
“Yes, I see.”
“Get a good night’s sleep, son.”
“Thank you, dad.”
“We’ll play some ball out behind the house tomorrow!”
Charles Berrey sat at the dining room table, sipping his soup and going over the conversation with his father in his mind. He believed he had devised a plan that would
really
please his father. It might put an end to all the arguing between his mother and father as well. It was a very simple plan, inspired by what his father had said about not knowing all the answers all the time. Next week on Cash-Answer, he would give the wrong answer to the question Jackie Paul asked him. He would miss.
Then everything would get back to normal. His father would go back on the road, and there would be no more arguments. That way, he wouldn’t be a quiz kid any longer. But neither would he have to catch fly balls out behind the house until his palms ached. In a gesture of sudden resolve, Charles Berrey bit into his egg and olive sandwich, and began masticating it.
PART FOUR
BROCK BROWN
It was Memorial Day eve. At six o’clock it began to rain. Brock pushed his coat sleeve back with his fingers to see the time. He sighed, leaned over and took the keys from the ignition and put them in his pocket. Then he rested his elbows on the steering wheel and watched the raindrops dribble down the windshield.
“You can’t blame me for being surprised,” said Carrie Bates. “I guess everyone in Murray’s was surprised.”
She sat beside him in the front seat of his car, her books on her lap, her long fingers with the blood-colored nails, playing with the charms on a gold bracelet she wore around her arm. Her long black hair spilled shining to her shoulders. She was wearing a black sweater, a black skirt, and a black sweater-jacket, with black socks and loafers that were a dark brown color. Brock wondered why she had not tried for more contrast—a white sweater, maybe, or a yellow one, with matching socks. He was wearing sky blue against navy, no other colors.
“I’m glad you asked to drive me home,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to get to know you better. You’re hard to know, Brock.”
“I’ve been out this way two or three times before,” said he.
“By yourself?”
“Sure.”
“That’s what I mean about you. Way out in the country by yourself. You’re a lone wolf or something.”
He said, “Are you going away too?”
“What do you mean?”
“For the weekend? Memorial Day? Clara and my father left this noon.”
“Yes, we’re going tonight. Daddy likes to drive late at night. Besides,” she laughed, “Mother wouldn’t miss Cash-Answer. Do you watch it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, what do you
do,
Brock?”
“I stay out of trouble. Nothing special.”
“You’re a funny guy.”
“I’m all shook up.”
She gave a whoop of laughter. “All shook up,” she said. “That’s a riot!”
“I am.”
“You don’t know how much of a riot it is to hear
you
talk like that.”
“Why not
me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Boy cat, all shook up.”
She laughed again.
Then there was silence for awhile. She continued to pull at the charms on her bracelet, and Brock sat in the same position—his elbows resting on the steering wheel. She was beginning to get restless now. She couldn’t figure him out at all. When he had walked over to her, back in Murray’s, she had thought it would be the start of something crazy and beautiful and wonderful. Leaving like that with him, while Derby Wylie and everyone gaped after them with unabashed, wide-eyed amazement, Carrie Bates had visualized a succession of fabulous scenes-to-come: Brock and she swimming out at the quarry this summer, while the crowd lolled around on multi-colored beach towels, watching them, whispering; Brock and she whipping past them in his convertible, her long black hair flying in the wind, he, in sunglasses—immaculate, handsome, mysterious to everyone but her; the two of them dancing in a dark corner under the Japanese lanterns at the Sykes High prom; the pair of them sitting in the back booth in the rear of Murray’s, involved in an intensely serious conversation—scene after scene after scene, Carrie and Brock…. But on their way out here to this back-country road, he had said practically nothing; and now?
“You have a good roof,” she said, touching the top of the convertible with her fingers. “It doesn’t leak in the rain.”
“I watched Cash-Answer just last week,” he said. “It doesn’t seem a week.”
“My mother’s crazy about that little eight-year-old.”
“Time fugits,” he said, sighing. He leaned back. “Tempus flys.”
“Brock?”
“What?”
“Speaking of time … I have some packing to do before dinner. We ought to start back.”
“Where are you and your folks going, anyway?”
“Just to Rochester. My uncle lives there.”
“Clara and my father went to the Adirondacks.”
“Hadn’t we ought to start back?”
“Well … Well, it’s a long way back.”
She laughed. “I guess we’ll make it.”
“I always have.”
“Is anything—bothering you, Brock?”
“I’m all shook up,” he said.
Again she laughed, but for the first time, she was beginning to wonder if there wasn’t something wrong with him. What had he brought her way out here for anyway? Just to mope around?
“Everything makes you laugh, doesn’t it, Carrie?” he said.
“Not everything. I just can’t figure you out.”
“I had a little talk with the head-shrinker a couple of days back. He couldn’t either.”
“Who?”
“Mannerheim. Ye old head-shrinker.”
“He’s not a real head-shrinker. He just teaches it.”
“He’d like to get me into trouble, I think.”
“Brock, do you know that it’s after six?”
“It isn’t my fault that it’s raining, Carrie. You can blame a lot of things on me, but not the weather, for Pete’s sake.”
“I’m not blaming anything on you. But I have to get back. We eat at seven, and I have to pack before dinner.”
“Go ahead then. Go ahead.”
“I’m suppose to walk back, I suppose!”
“I’ll walk with you, when the rain stops,” said he. “There’s no sense getting soaked.”
“Walk! Oh, come on, Brock. I’m not joking.”
“I’m not either.”
“Are we out of gas or something?”
“There’s nothing wrong with the car. It’s after six.”
“So what?”
“Im not supposed to drive after six, Carrie. That’s the law. I’m only a Junior Operator.”
“Brock, are you out of your mind?”
“Do you think I’m going to break the law?”
“Do you think
I’m
going to
walk
home?”
“We’ll try to get a ride. When it stops raining, I’ll help you.”
“Brock Brown, you take me home! Right now!”
“I’m not going to get soaked to the skin! Are you kidding?” said the boy. “Look at that road! Mud!”
“You’re crazy! You’re crazy!”
“Shook up! All shook up, Carrie.”
“I will get out of here! I’ll get out of here right now!” She slammed her hand down on the handle of the Chevy’s door, opening it. “You’ll hear from my father, Brock Brown!”
“You’re behaving like a child, Carrie.”
“You—
nut!”
she said.
She left the door of the car open and disappeared behind the car. Brock Brown reached out quickly, catching the handle and pulling the door closed before any more rain dribbled onto the slip covers.
For a moment, he saw Carrie in his rear-view mirror, going along in the rain, carrying her books under her arm. Then she veered sharply to the right, out of the mirror’s range. Brock sat back, shaking. It was all right now. It was going to be all right. She was gone.
The rain had been like a miracle. It had come to clean the dirty thoughts out of his mind. If it hadn’t rained, he might be right out there now, in the fields with her, walking right into Mannerheim’s trap. He had known on the drive out that he was not that kind of guy. The moment she had gotten inside of his car, he had known that, but he would have tried, if it had not been for the rain. One thing disappointed him terribly. It was the way she had reacted when he told her that he was not going to break the law. She had said: Do you think I’m going to
walk
home? What if it hadn’t rained? Would she have still said that, still not cared one damn that he was not the kind of guy who broke laws? If so, she was worse than he had ever imagined.
What if it hadn’t rained? That was one thing he hadn‘t counted on.
He had planned to say, “Well, Carrie, it’s after six o’clock. You know what that means. I can’t drive the car any more.”
“I know,” she might have said. “Something told me you’d be the kind of fellow that would respect the law.”
“How’d you know that?”
“Well,” she might have said, “my mother knew your mother. You’re a Brock, after all.”
“That’s all right, Carrie. Don’t worry about it. I’ll hike a ride out here tomorrow and pick up the car.”
“You don’t mind, Brock?” she might have said.
“Come on, Carrie. I’ll take the books. We’ll get a ride on the highway.”
“You’re a wonderful guy, Brock. A wonderful guy!”
And then? Even then, even if everything had worked out according to plan, Brock wondered if he could have gone through with it.
“It’s a beautiful day, Brock.”
“It’s almost night, Carrie.”
“But it isn’t dark.”
“No, it isn’t. Do you think I would have brought you out here in the dark? You’ve got the wrong fellow, Carrie.”
“I know that. I know you wouldn’t have. Let’s sit down here in the fields, for a minute, Brock.”
“It’s clean out here, Garrie. Good clean air, and not even dark.”
“I knew you weren’t like the others.”
“I’m not perverse, Carrie. But I’m not Derby Wylie’s kind either.”
Still, there would have been the dirty pictures in his mind. What was wrong with a girl like Carrie Bates, anyway? You just had to walk up to her in Murray’s and wham-o! What if her mother knew about her? That would be something, if Mrs. Bates knew. In the car on the drive out, the first thing Carrie had tried to do was to get some of that rock ‘n’ roll on the radio. At least he had taught her that much.
“I don’t like bad music,” he had said.
She said, “Brock Brown, you went roaring out of the parking lot just the other afternoon, with that kind of music playing loud as a band!”
“I realized my mistake. I turned it off. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re funny,” she said.
“Anyone can make a mistake,” he told her.
It was all right now. When the rain stopped, Brock would walk to the highway and get a ride back home. He had the whole weekend to himself—three days!
His hand was in the pocket of his navy blue jacket. His fingers felt the key there. He remembered something Clara said to him that noon, before she and his father left. It was vile!
“Well, keep your nose clean, Brock!” she had said.
It was one of the dirtiest things anyone had ever said to him.
What kind of a world was it anyway? There was Mannerheim telling him to do dirty things to girls or he would be a pervert, and there was Clara talking that way about snot (she might just as well have said the word right out!), and then Carrie, not caring if he broke the law, not respecting him because he would not drive after six.
Why didn’t he throw the key away? What did he want with the Rubins’ key? He wasn’t a goddam Nazi or something. He even liked Mrs. Rubin, even though her flower pots did leak. Throw the key away, then. Throw the key away, he thought.
Brock Brown sat there like that in his car, in the rain.
When the door on his side opened suddenly, he was startled.
“I am
not
going to walk home! You take me home!”
Carrie Bates looked odd with her hair wet and stringy, with rain dripping off her nose.
He said, “If you want to wait until the rain stops, I have some tarpaulin in the back seat.”
It would still be all right. Even if the rain stopped, everything was too wet now. But he wished she hadn’t come back like this. He was tired of her now. He didn’t want Carrie Bates for anything.
She said, “You put your car keys in and take me home, right now.”
“Go around to the other door and get in the back,” he said. “When the rain stops, we’ll get a ride.”
“You’re not crazy! You’re just plain stupid! You’re a stupid nut! Now, come on, Brock!”
“Carrie, I’m not going to break the law for you or anyone else. Now, get in back. Look what you’re doing to the seat. Shut that door, and go around and get in back!”
He didn’t even realize what was happening then. Carrie Bates bent over and scooped up mud from the road. She brought her hand up to his face, and pushed the mud down it, across his nose and his chin, down to the powder blue short-sleeve shirt he wore under his jacket. There was wet mud all over him. For a moment he simply sat there, realizing this. Then suddenly, he leapt from the car and caught ahold of her. Her books slipped from her arm. He pushed her backward, and she fell screaming to the dirt road. Brock fell on top of her.
“Don’t!” she said, “Please!” she said.
But it was too late. There was no headache this time. There was something far more immediate and demanding. He struggled with her there in the mud, with the rain pouring down on them. His thumbs finally found her neck, pressing against it until she was still … Later, he took his jackknife from his trousers pocket.
• • •
After, when Brock Brown tried to run, he kept slipping and sliding and falling to his knees. “Like a little pig!” he said aloud, “God, like a little pig!”
He sat down in the mud, holding the jackknife in his hand. He looked ahead of him at his car, parked there with the door open and the rain getting the slipcovers wet. He looked at himself; light against dark, navy and light blue, but he was filthy now, and wet, and there was another color—blood red. Very carefully, he reached in his pocket for two things—the handkerchief and the Rubins’ key. With a smile, he threw the key away. Then he wrapped the knife in the handkerchief and put it back in his pocket. The police would want the knife. It was evidence, and it was against the law to withhold evidence. His smile broke to laughter, and his laughter gave away to deep, shaking sobs … Boy cat, all shook up … Boy cat, all shook up.