The thick smoke crept deeply into his lungs as he dragged on the cigarette haphazardly dangled between his fingers. Though it had just been lit, the stub was already halfway up to his knuckles, the rust-orange glow on the tip of the paper an inviting catacomb of comfort as the smoke crept into his lungs.
Tattered, steel-toed boots cracked and popped on the stew of gravel and sand beneath the rubber sole of the shoes as he shifted. He brushed the sheen of sweat from his hairline and watched as the smoke flowed from his slightly parted lips and into the air. The hand in his pocket passed a folded envelope like a hockey puck between his calloused fingertips, worn from too much work at too young an age. The glue on the yellow parchment had not yet been broken. He already knew what it said.
He tapped the end of the cigarette with his pinkie, relishing in the familiar feel of its rolled paper between his fingers and watched as the familiar sun set down again before him. It was warm, the way it shone onto his skin and heated his bones. Calming.
The previous night, he had been sitting on the moth-eaten, itchy green loveseat in his childhood home, wind blowing ferociously outside, old window frames shuttering in beat with his heart. There was a tornado warning, and they should have been in the bathtub, but he couldn’t miss the fateful death lottery broadcast, so he drowned out the sound of the angry sheaths of rain with the volume on the television.
Sarah gripped his hand tightly as the three old men poured blue pills clad with slips of paper with birthdays into the metal basket used for bingo drawings. A congressman claiming to represent them, though he was far too old to be drawn himself, was called to pick the first number. The hand in his sisters was slick and warm with sweat as he reached in and called the first men to their deaths. Charles’ breath caught in his throat.
“September 14th,” the congressman said, but he did not release the breath from his lungs until the 59th number was drawn, and his fate was sealed. The old man plastered his birthday as if a grocery store sticker on the blackboard. He stood up and stepped out into the sultry dusk, air still heavy with the weight of the storm. Charles could hear faint traces of thunder from afar. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag, feeling a timid hand on the white tank top of his shoulder.
“We’re going to be alright,” his sister's strong voice said. He took another drag, not yet blowing out the first puff.
“Maybe.”
They moved to the porch, after a few moments in silence. The once lovingly cared for wood peeled like a rotting orange peel under his gripping fingers, traces of the damp planks splintering themselves mercifully into his hand. The pain grounded him as though he were a buzzing wire. In the vast openness above him, the same sun remained flooding over the broad field of willow trees sitting on dry, yellow grass like a protective mother only to be replaced by clear specks of light in the soil-colored sky.
“Do you remember when we used to make paper boats and float them down the river?” Sarah asked him, sitting close by, cream colored nightgown dotted with lilies rounding the watermelon-size lump in her midsection and flowing over the edge of the porch.
He paused, clenching his bare toes into the cool earth underneath them, moist soil flowing through them like strawberries crushed for jam. His torn jeans were rolled up to his knees so as not to get dirty, but he could feel the damp wood seeping through the fabric.
“Course’ I do,” he said simply, never looking away.
Closing his eyes now, he took one last drag of the cigarette before dropping it into the gravel and crushing it with his boot. He didn’t look back at the car, just tugged on the bag strap shammed together with tape and lose stitches on his arm and walked to the ominous red brick building across the road.
It was a miserable old shack, poorly maintained as though the person responsible for its care didn’t mind, maybe even hoped, that it broke down into shambles. He tapped his knuckles on the glass window still damp from the morning dew, wooden pane hiding spider webs in the peeling paint of the creases.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to the woman sitting behind the pane.
She looked up from whatever she had been occupying herself with and plastered a magazine imitated smile, pomegranate seed red lipstick cracking from the strain of it. He thought that it couldn’t be easy to be nice to a man heading to his death.
“Number?” She asked him, hands folded on the table.
“59,” he said. She passed him a document.
“Name?”
“Charles Dodger,” he ran a hand through greasy hair in a fruitless attempt to look presentable. For whom, he wasn’t sure, but it felt like the right thing to do. He signed the paper with a practiced loop and handed it back to the woman.
“Well, Mr. Dodger,” she said, placing it carelessly into a rusty filing cabinet, “Looks like you're on your way,” She grinned the plastic smile at him, handing him his bunk information. He entered the gate to the base.
Fort Belvoir had long been the pride and joy of the community of Fairfax. Well maintained and pristine around the edges, it was a shining symbol of all they aspired to be. He recalled when Chris’ father had told them about training at Belvoir in 1942 for the world war in front of the fireplace of his foyer. He spat into the dirt.
A large red brick mansion stood tall and proud past the gates. Large oak trees billowed to the second-story windows of the sturdy structure, casting deep black shadows over the moss green hedges lacing the foundation. His feet crunched on the pathway as he made his way through, preparing himself to be redirected to the back end, where he would find the dreary acres of scarce barracks and sand paved running tracks. The path curved around the large pond just ahead, lined with cream-colored asphalt and vibrant green grass, the smell of a fresh trim hanging in the air.
Charles had always been stocky, hardened from years of manual labor. He was sure at the young age of 19 that his palms would be forever tainted by the black ashen soot from the coal.
He had skipped out on shaving earlier. The sparse strands of hair were the only thing that signified the fact he was no longer a boy, and he wanted to hold that before it knowingly would be shaved as soon as he arrived in the barracks.
When he pressed on, he saw the guard standing at the gate, dressed in beige uniform and tie tied too tightly around his bulging Adam's apple.
“You’re one of the first ones here,” he said, speaking through the right side of his mouth, “none’ too keen t’ be here.”
“Got nowhere better to be I suppose,” he said.
“Well, ya'll new boys should be alright, not much out 're but dust n’ weeds.” There was a pause, the guard’s expectation of his reply was obvious, but Charles said nothing, resisting the urge to pull out another cigarette.
“Best you be on your way,” he said, pointing a finger towards the forest “Barracks r’ just along that there forest line along the oaks.”
“Thank you, sir,” he said, dragging the soles of his boots to kick up pillows of sand clouds.
The barracks were arranged somewhat like rows of sardines. In the first few rows, the white paint seemed maintained enough, windowsills intact and clean. In the rush of the war, more shacks had been built to sustain more men, but now Charles could see that the rows in the back were not in the same condition. The old paint peeled in varied shades of white; large strips over the rotting wood laced with deep green stripes along the visible grain. On the break between the wood and drainage pipe, large nests of carpenter bees dangled like apples.
Glancing once more at the paper in his hand, he remained still in front of a barrack.
#616.
He carefully placed a boot on the step, which gave off a sickly creak as though the rotted wood would buckle under his weight. The handle was rusty, and when he went to open it his hand came back caked in orange grime.
The floor inside the barrack was a yellowed Linoleum. In the corners of the room, it peeled up to reveal the black wood underneath. Two bunks were pressed into the right wall, and another pair on the left. Sunlight streamed through the small window in the center of the left wall, illuminating the dust clouds in the air. In one of the corners of the room, the tap-tap of water droplets fell into a metal bucket from the roof.
Charles chose a top bunk in the corner of the cabin and sat, booted feet dangling over the edge. He placed his sack next to him and dumped out its contents onto the scratchy sheet; six-packs of Marlborough’s, two pairs of boxers, a lighter, and his tattered childhood copy of The Fantastic Mr. Fox. They were going to give him army issue clothes, so he didn’t bother bringing any. They were all old and torn anyway, stained with black soot, and sweat. He draped his jacket on the bedpost and leaned against the wall, book in his lap.
The cabin itself was sweltering. His white shirt clung to his skin even when he tried to cool himself off. To ease his mind, he began to read the book from the yellowing first page.
Down in the valley, there were three farms...
He had barely gotten through the first few pages by the time the handle on the barrack door began to squeak. More sunlight had begun pouring through the window, and the suffocating heat had gotten worse as the morning chill had waned into unrelenting heat. Charles looked up from his book to see the man who walked in.
Standing in the doorway, the boy looked incredibly pleased to be where he was. His thin, blonde hair was pushed back with so much gel it looked as though he had spilled a bucket of oil onto his scalp. His waist was no wider than a ruler, and even though he was wearing a baggy shirt, his ribs made strong indents in the fabric.
“Morning,” he said, smiling.
“Morning’” he responded, taking his eyes back to the book.
“Damn, we get a whole bed here all to ourselves!” he said, placing his hands on his hips and observing the rusty cot.
Charles raised an eyebrow at the peculiar man, “You got a name?” He asked.
A wide grin spread over his face as he approached Charles’ bunk, stretching out his hand in front of him, “Ben,” he said, “Ben Miller.”
Charles offered his own hand with much less excitement, but wagered a gentle smile, “Charles Dodger.”
Ben sat down on his own bed and stared in amazement at the frame and sheets, bouncing slightly as he ran his fingers over the thick threads. Charles straightened the edge of the page he was reading.
“Where are you from, Charles?” Ben asked, his head peeking out from the bunk.
“Fairfax,” he didn’t look up.
“I hear Fairfax is nice,” he said, clearly misunderstanding the gesture.
“I’m from Emporia.”
That caught his attention. Ben Miller was clearly not one of fortunate upbringings, but he didn’t seem the type. Emporia was the poorest city in Virginia, often the type of place his mother would have threatened him with when he misbehaved.
“That so,” he answered.
“Yeah. Never had to go to school, Dad always said helping with my siblings was much more important.”
Charles grunted in acknowledgment, and the room became quiet. The wood creaked and moaned, wailing at the thought of holding them any longer. He resumed his book, fully aware of the bright pair of eyes watching him.
“You have something to say?” Charles asked, sounding angrier than he was.
The smile melted from Ben’s face, and with a second of hesitation, he flipped on his back, folded his hands behind his head, and looked at the top of the ceiling.
Charles watched him for a moment, traced his long legs up the thin frame of a man stuck between a child and adult. Unlike Charles, he clearly hadn’t had the opportunity to develop properly. He supposed some boys were just built to be scrawny.
Ben pushed a strand of gelled hair from his face, and from the top bunk, Charles could make out a soft jaw and soft, blue eyes bright like a bird’s. The door opened with a jolt, and Charles cleared his throat as though someone who wasn’t there had seen him looking.
A large, black man walked through the door, broad shoulders and tall as the tallest bunk in the barrack. Dark eyes remained focused straight ahead, seemingly unaware the two of them were in the room at all. The man dropped his clean looking duffel bag on the bottom of the corner bunk and climbed onto the top one without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.
Ben was nearly bursting at the seams, rubbing his hands together as though this man were a new one to impress himself onto. Charles knew enough about men who pretended they were the only one in the room. His father had been the same way, nose upturned in the face of anyone less than him, his deep navy army jacket crisp on the edges. When they had gone to the city as a family, something they rarely did, there was a homeless man on the curb, dressed in a torn wool blanket and shaggy cap. Casually, his father had told Charles and his sister to avoid people like that. He called them lazy, good for nothing bums who leached off the hard work of others. Charles didn’t think he agreed with him, really. He guessed dad was just like that.
Ben decided, on his own, that apparently greeting the man across the room was a poor decision. Charles levied him a lazy glance before training his eyes on the sun cresting through the morning dew of the windowpane.
“The only reason we can afford a school like this is because of your grandfather’s legacy, don’t mess it up.”
His legs were sticking to the weathered leather in the Cadillac, brown handle suitcase strap gripped tightly in his hands. Charles watched the cards go by in the window and wondered about his roommate. It didn’t concern him, really, either way he was going to be miserable.
“We got a reputation to uphold here. A legacy. I ain’t gonna draw on for long here, son, cause’ I know you don’t want to hear it but listen. Go to mass when they tell you to. Sit in the pews and keep your mouth shut. Ask questions when you have em’, but don’t be annoying,” he picked up the paper dixie cup in the holder and spat brown tobacco into it. “And don’t forget this, alright? You’re there for an education. Have some fun with the girls, but don’t let them consume you.”
Charles ran his fingers over the seams in the handle as a yellow Beetle passed them in the right lane.
“You’ll do great. I know ya’ got it in you, son. I give you this crap because I care.”
The car stopped. He told his dad he loved him and then went into the main office. When Charles found the headmaster, he shook his hand and answered his questions and followed him to his dorm room.
Quietly, in case someone was already inside, he unlocked the door and did a once over. There was a large, Victorian style window in the middle of the far wall. On either side was a wooden bedframe with a white mattress and shelf above it. Each side had a caramel-colored desk and matching wardrobe. Charles found himself gently running his hand over the woodgrain as the soft leather of his shoes travelled silently across the hardwood floor. After settling himself in and choosing the bed to the right of the window, he pulled the sheets over the mattress and made quick work of his suitcase.
Less than an hour later he heard the door creak open. The boy that walked through was thin, but not the sickly kind. His clothes fit him properly, fine wool fabric of his vest tucked into pleated khaki pants. His hair was a light shade of blonde, large tufts of curls hanging far over his forehead and into his eyes. Awkwardly, he stood in the doorway and stared at the floor.
Charles ran a hand over his chin and smiled at him.
“Hi,” he said as the boy sat on the bed opposite, “I’m Charles.”
“Chris,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a reciprocating side smile. Charles’ face got warm. He liked Chris’s smile. It had potential. His teeth were white and shiny, and the creases of his mouth turned with his face. Charles felt a little lighter on the mattress.
“What do you like to do?” Charles asked, feet dangling over the bed.
“I like to skip stones,” Chris said.
“Flat or round?”
“Flat,” he answered without hesitation.
“Oh no see you’ve got it all wrong, the round ones let you grip it better.”
“No,” Chris made the skipping motion with his hand, “It won’t skip across the water if it’s round, it’ll just sink.”
“Well, I never said I was good at skipping them, maybe I just like to watch them sink.” Chris walked over to the other bed and rolled his suitcase to the end. Then he took off his suit jacket and hung it on the bedpost and sat on the naked mattress.
Chris giggled, his eyes shining, and Charles followed suit.
“Does your Mama ever play music?” Chris asked.
“What kind of music?”
“I don’t know, my Mama plays music all the time, says it’s good for my soul or something.”
Charles’ smile wavered, “you believe her?”
“She’s right most of the time. Mas are supposed to be right most of the time.”
He nodded and went back to trying to answer the question, conjuring an image of his mother holding him gently in her arms and humming a song.
“I think she liked this one singer, um,” Charles clenched his eyes and tried to remember her voice singing the words, “something about the Mona Lisa.”
Chris clapped, “Nat King Cole!”
“Yeah, that sounds familiar, that must be it.”
Charles watched Chris’ hair bounce happily as he started to open up with large gestures, rambling on about music and his favorite artists. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had cared enough to share so much about themselves, and he watched Chris with a broad smile on his lips.
The creak of the door woke Charles from his daze. Confidently, another man strutted into the cabin.
“Morning boys,” he said, as though he didn’t actually believe it to be. Charles nodded to him.
“Fine day outside,” Ben piped from below.
Ignoring him, the new man stood in the center of the cabin, muscular arms crossed around his skin tight green tank top, “alright, how many of you here volunteered.”
Ben stood up from the bunk and smoothed his hair, “I did.”
The man looked him up and down, glancing at him like a piece of meat hanging in the butcher’s shop. The hair on Charles’ arms prickled.
“How old are you, kid?” he said, the gray patches of his hair catching in the light.
“I’m eighteen, just.”
“You don’t look eighteen,” he said dismissively, then moved his glance to Charles, who had his boots crossed on the bunk.
Ben interrupted, “Well, I am. I can carry two barrels of bourbon down the stairs.”
“Two whole barrels?” the man laughed, the side of his mouth falling askew almost like a snarl.
“Hey, would you cut it out,” Charles hissed.
“And what’s your name, pretty boy?” he tilted his greasy head.
“What’s yours, fat head?”
“Paul,” Paul said, “Don’t go calling people fat heads around here, kid, you ain’t gonna like what they have to say back.”
“That so?” Charles quipped.
“You bet your ass it is. And how old are you?”
“Just shy of twenty,”
“You look a lot older than twenty.”
“Don’t you be getting your hopes up,” Charles teased, biting the corner of his cheek. His mother had always told him he was too much of an instigator.
“Sometimes, honey, you need to let people be cruel and nasty, because if you tussle with them you ain’t no better than they ever were.”
Charles never took that particular philosophy to heart.
“You calling me a fairy?” He crossed his arms and took a step closer.
“Maybe y'all should take a cigarette, this cabins hot as hell and I don’t need your fucking arguing to heat it up,” the mysterious man scolded from the corner, now sitting up on his cot.
“And who do you think you are?” Paul spat, saliva falling from the side of his mouth.
“I’m just a man trying to get on in here like any of you, now for God’s sake, shut the hell up and get some rest before the drill sergeant comes here and starts whooping our asses.”
Paul snorted but flopped down on his bunk and stared up at the ceiling.
When he was five, Charles got in a tussle with a boy named Joshua from down the street. Beaten really badly, he had a busted lip and sprained wrist and came home running. Sarah was on his heels, wailing about having seen her brother with his fists in the air.
Mama took him by his uninjured wrist and led him to the bath. She scrubbed his bruises and the dirt from his skin, gentle but firm enough to be a warning to never get into a fight again. The light brown sponge squished across his back, smelling like lavender and mint. He picked at the yellowing tiles of the tub while she did her work. She didn’t ask any questions about what happened, but after she had toweled him off, she sat him down on the couch and made them both sweet tea.
He sat, waiting with his injured wrist out. When she came back with a tray of tea and saw his arm on display, she set it down with a clack and sat softly beside him. Taking his arm, she pulled out a roll of bandage and wrapped his wrist, taking longer than needed to be gentle. When he flinched near the end, she pulled him close to her chest and stroked his hair, blonde but starting to brown at the roots.
A comfortable silence filled the room as the grandfather clock ticked in the dining room and a late summer breeze batted at the curtains over the open windows.
“Darling, I don’t know what that boy said to you, or what he did,” she rested her lips on his forehead and whispered the rest of her words like a prayer, “but you can’t go out there hurting yourself over silly things. People are gonna call you things your whole life; God I hope you don’t have to suffer those names, but I know you will. You’ve got to pick your battles, and pick them good, cause if you don’t you’re gonna be making waterfalls where there should only be streams.”
She placed her hands on either side of his face and looked into his eyes, “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
Charles didn’t- not really. He was a child, his only knowledge of the evil in the world, the names Joshua had called him and the sound of Mr. Edgar fixing his car much too early on Saturday morning. Regardless, he nodded to his mother, and she wrapped her arms around him and whispered into his ear
“May God bless you”
That afternoon, loud, army green busses skidded to a dramatic halt at the entrance of the barracks. Charles was lined up on the sand track with his squad. Ben shifted excitedly on his boots, making small puffs of sand every time they landed.
The bus barely had time to stop at all before the doors were opened and recruits were shoved out of them by the general, dressed in army greens and a big, floppy sun hat. The bus was for recruits that didn’t live as close by or couldn’t get a ride to Fort Belvoir on their own. It also signaled, to those already there, that it was time for attendance.
Charles could hear the roaring shouts of the general. His voice was about two octaves deeper than what Charles assumed was his actual voice. The recruits from the bus stumbled their way into the lineup with their various backpacks and suitcases still on them.
“Attention!” the general, Clain- as it said on his tag- growled, in a sort of sing-song voice that reminded Charles of an angry parent addressing their child. “Whether you chose to be here or not, you damn well are. This ain’t gonna be an easy eight weeks, and when each of you gets out of here, you’ll be different men.” The General tilted his unusually wide nose upward into the wind like he was a fox catching the scent of wounded prey down the stream and crossed his arms.
The general was a short man. It would almost be funny, if only his square looking face wasn’t so precise and clean cut. His beige military shirt was tucked tightly into his waistband supported by a thick, black leather belt.
There was suddenly a loud crash, and a recruit fresh off the bus clamored to pick up his pack scattered all around in the dirt.
“Soldier!” The general said, and Charles could feel the venom under his tongue.
“Sir, yes sir!” the boy shouted, his eyes wide and panting as he held the mess of items in his arms, carrying the pile of spilling things like a sack of rice.
“Did you drop that bag?”
The boy swallowed, and Charles could see his Adam’s apple bob frantically, “Sir, yes, sir!”
“And just what are you going to do about it?”
He froze for a moment and shifted his arm to catch a book falling from the side. “What you tell me, sir!”
The general stomped the ground twice, “You are a soldier now, recruit! You have to know how to make some decisions for your own goddamn self! Your momma isn’t here to tell you to wash the dishes!”
There was a snicker that came from Paul, who was the end of their bunk line. It was hardly even a snicker, more like the sound of a starting lawn mower.
“You think this is funny, boy?” The general asked, whipping around and marching over to Paul. The other boy looked relieved.
“Sir, no sir,” Paul said.
“I didn’t think so,” the general scoffed, clambering back to the front of the troops. “Go, eight laps around the track! Now! Go!”
Charles looked for Ben, who was already sprinting ahead of the group, and started to follow.
There was something about Ben that intrigued him. Somehow he managed to be both incredibly confident in every action he took while also probably weighing ninety-five pounds. He wondered if Ben had any family, and if so, what they thought about their son volunteering for a war that would surely end up taking a boy as fragile as he was.
Maybe it was that confidence sprung purely from Ben’s blistering naivete that piqued his interest. Ben didn’t come across to him as the type of boy that grew up getting thrown around on asphalt and having his briefs pulled up into his ass, yet he embodied the stereotype that those boys suffered from. The jealousy of his innocence drove at Charles like a nail through soft wood.
The puffs from two hundred pairs of boots clouded the air with thick dust, and Charles could already feel a layer caking itself to sweat stinging his skin by the second lap. Some of the less fit men had already begun to fall behind. Charles watched the general make them drop and do pushups out of the corner of his eyes.
When he ordered them to drop, the men fell to the ground with pain in their eyes, clear to anyone that cared to look that they wished they had fled to Canada.
✯
Charles stood in the classroom, pants slipping stubbornly down despite the belt he had drilled extra holes into. His tie hung around his neck, dangling over the zipper of his slacks. With a rough swallow and a clench of his eyes, he remained focused on the nun standing in the front of the classroom.
“You have been told before the consequences of writing with your left hands,” Sister O'Brien said, her hooked nose catching the glow of sunlight through the open window, “the bible teaches us that the left is Satan’s side. The hands which write left are prepared to only write for wickedness and evil.”
Charles glanced down at his hands, pale flesh folding into strong and untouched bones. He liked his hands, how soft they were, how he could run his fingertips over cotton, and it wouldn’t make a sound, how cool they felt over the railing of the outdoor balustrade and threaded through warm moss and dirt without picking up any debris. They didn’t seem at all devilish or capable of evil. He couldn’t imagine himself hurting anyone in a hundred years. The boys next to him remained still, laser focused on her words.
“Fret not, for there is still a path for you to follow,” she took a piece of chalk and wrote on the board.
Writing with your right hand; the way God intended
“Do you understand?”
“Yes Sister O’Brien,” the boys recited, but Charles’ mind raced with questions, and he was too late to respond.
“Good,” underneath her title she wrote.
Matthew 25:33
“Does anyone know what Jesus says about the left side in Matthew 25:33?” The mole on her eyebrow pulsed from the vein of anger that lay under it.
They all shook their heads, and she wrote with swooping grace while she recited the bitter words.
And he placed the sheep on the right, but the goats on the left.
“May I ask, sister,” Charles interrupted, looking confused and a little distraught, “What does that have to do with writing words? He’s talking about sheep and goats, we’re boys.”
His surrounding classmates froze, knowing exactly what mistake Charles had made by questioning anything Sister O'Brien said. She was the cruelest of the nuns, everyone knew that. Charles himself had never actually been punished by her before, or even brought in for “corrective” lessons. He had only been at the school for a week and a half.
“Because” she said, licking her bottom lip as if to distract herself from the anger that churned inside her, “this is what God has written, clear as could be, that the left side,” she gestured to the left side of the classroom with sharp angles in her forearm, “Is one of the devil and misbehavior. Cain was left-handed, and you know the horrors he committed.”
Too young and curious to know any better, Charles pressed on, “just because one person does a bad thing doesn’t mean someone that is similar to them will do the same.”
Something snapped in Sister O’Brian, like a feral dog that broke its leash tied to a post. “Enough of these questions! I have allowed it long enough,” she strode over to her desk and picked up the worn leather strip. Over its years of constant use, the end had begun to fray. The older children were known to scare the younger boys, rumors of blood on the ends of the ropes and shackles in the basement.
“Why did you ask that?” Chris, next to him, whined. Charles stood frozen in fear as she approached with the worn strip of leather.
“Stick your hand out, boy, come on,” she hissed, gesturing for his arm.
Charles gulped back the pounding in his chest and stretched out his bony arm for her. With this, she struck the smooth skin, and he squeezed his eyes shut with the searing pain of it. She hit him again, and again, making him count every lash. Behind the veil of fire that flooded through his arm, he heard faint whimpers coming from his mouth, totally detached from his mind as he made them.
Many things could be said about Charles’ father, but one thing he never did was hit his son. He supposed he was spoiled that way, learning pain and brutality only when he was much older allowed him to have a somewhat pleasant childhood. He realized with blistering clarity that the marks now made on his baby soft skin marked the end of his youth.
When she completed her task and hustled them out of the room, Charles walked with his head bent and hot tears streaming down his face.
“I should have told you not to ask questions to sister O’Brian,” Chris said guiltily, blue eyes following closely to shield his face from the prying eyes of their classmates.
“I asked a simple question,” he answered, hearing the shakiness in his own voice, “that’s all I did, Chris.”
“I know.”
“I’m going to wash up,” he said and walked idly into the abandoned locker room without looking back.
When he managed to keel into an abandoned shower stall, Charles slunk down the yellowing tiles and wrapped his arms around his bony limbs. He gnawed at his lip, tears welling up behind sealed eyelids and sat there hurting. He wished his dad had never dropped him off and he wanted his mama. A mess of stubborn tears fell down his reddened cheek.
Minutes ticked by like the echoes of a long-rusted clock, sounds of light sniffles bouncing off the dust covered windows and long rusted shower handles. He ran his finger obsessively over the red skin of his forearm and shifted on the floor. With a perk of his small ears, Charles could hear the newly familiar feeble gate of footsteps tapping in the distance. He picked his head up from between his knees and furiously wiped his eyes of the wetness.
“Charles,” his name whispered in a warm voice.
He swallowed the remainder of his tears as Chris stood timidly, as though he were afraid Charles would strike at him, behind the putrid green and moldy shower curtain.
The corner of Charles’ lip twitched at him, the edges of his swollen eyelids ticking upward. Chris sat cross legged on the ground and leaned his head on Charles’ shoulder, cream colored hair smelling of wax crayons and spruce wood tickling his neck.
Charles closed his eyes as he soaked in the smell as the minutes ticked by, the only sound the hum of the heater and drip of a loose faucet.
✯
They slept and had some meals and trained and slept again like there was nothing else in the world but their little camp and the war towards which they were running.
One night later in the month, the faint chirp of crickets drifted through the warm breeze. Light had long left the windows, and Ben had lit a candle next to his bed so he could read. Charles closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He could use a cigarette but he didn’t have many left.
Eventually he jumped off the bed and haphazardly grabbed the pack on his way to the small awning of the barrack, silent aside from the small creak of the closing door. Charles’s hair stood in odd directions from the humidity, itching the back of his neck. Finally, alone, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to think.
“I know all the constellations,” Ben’s gentle voice said from behind him, “My dad taught them to me.”
Charles looked at him curiously and took his first long drag, nodding slightly.
“The sky always looks so spectacular at night, it’s almost like seeing into a whole nother world no one has ever seen before.”
“I learned a few from a friend in school,” Charles added, tapping the end of the cigarette on the railing.
Ben gaped at the night sky like it was the most spectacular thing he’d ever seen. Charles watched his eyes trace constellations, dancing in the starlight like beads of water in a puddle.
“One time, right after Debra and Suzie were born, before the family got too big, Dad brought us to the McCormick observatory,” Ben picked at the peeling metal from the railing, “I love my sisters, but there's a lot of them,” the corner of his mouth twitched.
“I got a sister,” Charles said, almost like a confession.
“What's she like?” Ben asked, looking excited.
“She’s a pain in my ass.”
“Come on, I could name something about each of my sisters and I have seven of them.”
Charles’ eyes opened wide, “seven?”
“Yeah, two older and five youngers. No brothers though, but it's ok,” his shrugged.
“How did they feel when you volunteered?”
Ben’s eyes darted to the ground and back. “They were real proud of me, wanted me to become a war hero. My Dad was awfully glad about it. Yours?”
“My Dad’s dead,” Charles admitted, taking another drag of the cigarette.
“Oh,” he paused, “mom?”
“She’s around,” he offered, which was an admittedly weak answer.
“That’s good. My mom’s the best, really, on my eighteenth birthday she let me have a drink with her and dad.”
Charles snorted and took another drag. Ben didn’t seem to notice as the air grew silent again. The cigarette was dwindling down to a stub in his fingers, and he wanted to take another one.
“You shouldn’t smoke, you know. Some people are saying it's bad for you.”
Charles raised an eyebrow and thought it was ironic that they were training to fight in a war, but ben was worried about his lungs.
“Mom made dad quit when she found out.”
“I ain’t quitting so you can give up on that now.”
Ben gave a huff, “you should come with me to mass Sunday.”
Charles stiffened and breathed through his nose, “rather use up my free day getting some sleep, but thanks.”
“No, Charles come on,” Ben pleaded, “Father Lenus is really great.”
Charles crushed the spoiled butt into the wood, “I’m good, really. Glad we had this talk.”
Ben’s face turned sour, “He’s really nice, not too preachy.”
Charles made a choked laugh, the inside of his stomach churning, “you head on without me, then.”
With a huff, Charles could hear his footsteps tread heavily into the barracks behind him.
The next morning, Charles was ripped from his sleep by Ben vigorously shaking the bed frame like an incessant toddler. “Fuck off,” Charles said, immediately trying to shove him away.
“No,” Ben replied, sitting down next to him with what little room was left on the mattress, “You’re coming with me.”
The thought of going to church made him want to crawl out of his own skin. He swallowed thickly and sat up, pressing his hands firmly into the mattress.
“I said, get off.”
“And I said no,” Ben leaned closer, crowding his personal space more than Charles would be comfortable with on a normal day. He felt trapped.
“Fine, I’ll go, just get your ass off me,”
Ben grinned and swung his legs off the cot. Charles let out a sigh of relief and tried to will his labored breathing down.
“Come on!” Ben called, already pulling on his boots.
“You are insufferable,” he muttered, clumsily stumbling to the latrine while trying to not be seen. “I’ve got to piss, is that alright with you?”
Ben nodded and sat poised on his already made bunk. He was dressed in a worn looking button up and slacks.
Charles hobbled to the stall, locked it with trembling fingers, and leaned against the door. His breath came quickly, and he closed his eyes and rubbed his face.
He stood against the door for a long while, leaning. The tile was a square pattern of yellow and white, like poorly kept teeth. He kept standing there and breathing and trying not to fall.
When his legs stopped wobbling, he went to the sink and rinsed off his face with cold water. Then he dressed himself in the clothes he arrived in a few weeks ago and walked with Ben to the church.
It was hardly a church, more like a storage building that had been half-assedly remade into a vaguely church-like-structure. The only thing that indicated its purpose was a rotting brown cross above the door. Charles rolled his eyes and fiddled with his sleeves.
Ben practically pranced through the door, gesturing for him to follow in one sickeningly innocent gaze. Despite himself, Charles’ throat began to shrink, and his stomach rolled like a barrel down a hill. It was a cold day for fall, a more than cool breeze wafting through his hair and unshaved morning stubble. His back began to sweat.
Ben put his hands on his hips and tapped his wrist where there was no watch.
Charles steeled himself on the railing and pushed forward.
As soon as the incense, smelling like something burning and rotting with the memory of old woods hit his nose he wanted to vomit. Eyes were glazed over the entire sermon. Charles put his entire focus on the half open window that looked out over a patch of grass. He watched with rapt attention as a baby bird flung itself around, looking frail as it lunged it’s feeble wing into the dirt. Its mother was nowhere in sight, and he thought that was odd. When the bird finally began to slow it’s thrashing it lay on the grass cold and alone and he looked back at the priest.
He was young, and the pieces Charles actually heard were no better or worse than anything he had heard from the kind before. One of his hands was balled tightly into a fist while the other fingered a cigarette in his pocket.
There was already a hot line of sweat under his coat and an oily sheen was sliding down his brow. Ben was watching Father Lenus with shoulders back and seated poise, nodding.
It was odd how invested he seemed to be, or maybe it really wasn’t. Maybe he was just fucked up.
When the father smiled at him and reached to shake his hand at the end of service, Charles kept his hand in his pocket. Lenus’s round eyes softened as his hand retreated and gave him space, “thank you for coming.”
“Ben dragged me,” he said.
Father Lenus smiled fondly, “I’m not surprised, really,” he shook his head and gave a laugh, like he had told a particularly funny joke only he understood. “I’ll be here if you need me, son. I only want to help. These times can be tough.”
Charles didn’t like how the man looked at him as though he were a wounded animal that needed to be wrapped in bandages. The brick in his stomach eased as he walked away, following Ben out of the church and into the chilly air.
He scooped lima beans onto his plate from the buffet table, sliding the metal portioned tray across the wood.
“I hate lima beans,” Chris wrinkled his nose.
“They’re not so bad.”
“Tastes like cornstarch.”
Charles paused and glanced at him, “what does cornstarch taste like?”
“Plain.”
They walked to the nearest bench and sat down across from each other, resting their elbows against the table and rolling up their sleeves.
“Now that we’re friends,” Chris smiled, taking a forkful of potato, and shoving it into his mouth, “I think we should call each other nicknames.”
“You already go by Chris.”
“Ok, maybe I just want to give you a nickname.”
Charles shrugged and took a bite of the beans. They pressed into a paste between his teeth.
“How about Charlie?”
“My sister calls me Charlie.”
Chris pouted, “is that exclusive?”
“I suppose it’s not.”
They continued their meal, chatting in various spurts of motivation and stopping to take bites.
“Charles Dodger?” Sister O’Brian’s voice echoed through the dining hall. The room grew dead quiet.
“What did you do now?” Chris whispered, and Charles stopped chewing.
“Charles?”
“Here, ma’am,” he called back timidly, raising his hand.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”
He exchanged a look with Chris as though they would never see each other again, and he stood, each step ricocheting off the walls and into a room. He felt like a psych ward patient, being observed for the risk of doing something to hurt himself.
The hallway was long, and in the span of several minutes, he was in the headmaster’s office.
“Charles,” he said, voice grim.
“Have I done something wrong, sir?”
“No, no. Please sit,” he gestured to the chair. He sat.
The headmaster reached forward and fiddled with a stapler on the desk, clock ticking like some kind of warden in a prison declaring the length of his punishment.
“Your mother called a few minutes ago.”
“Is she alright?”
The headmaster removed his glasses and set them on the table.
His father's funeral was smaller than usual for an army captain. His mother, dressed in a lacey black dress and thickly heeled shoes, had wanted it to consist of “only family and friends.”
Charles wanted to take Chris with him. The topic of his father’s death wasn’t particularly upsetting to him. If anything, it bored him. He didn’t dislike his father, not at all. James Dodger was a good man, a solid role model and a demonstration of everything Charles should be.
“You look just like him,” his mother said when he walked out into the cemetery with a suit and his hair brushed.
It was true, he’d seen pictures of what his father looked like at his age. They had the same whisky eyes and chestnut hair, similar build, and facial expressions. It’s no wonder, really, that mama had trouble looking him in the eyes after James died. She could never really shake the idea she wasn’t looking into her husband’s.
Chris had been allowed to come; it hadn’t taken much convincing.
He stood next to Charles in a black suit that fit him exactly right. His hair was straightened and gelled, but Charles couldn’t stop looking at it. There was something so wrong about it. He was so unsettled by it that he didn’t even remember most of the funeral, just Chris’ hair, parted with a far too earthy smelling gel and pressed with a hot iron.
He stuffed his hands into his baggy pockets to resist the urge to swipe it back into place.
Sarah was standing between him and their mother. Her eyes were gleaming from tears, and she gripped mama’s hand so tightly Charles could see the white stress lines where they met.
Slowly, his father’s mahogany casket was lowered into the cool earth as soldiers played amazing grace on bagpipes. The air was dry, as the air was often in the summertime. It wasn’t particularly hot or cold. In fact, it felt exactly like any other day.
Once the coffin dropped, his mother broke into hysterics. The general his father worked for came over to comfort her, a firm hand on her shoulder.
A new priest that Charles had never met before stood at his father’s headstone and prayed. Chris bowed his head, followed by the remaining members of the funeral party. Charles closed his eyes and tried not to feel suffocated by the smell of hair gel.
After the burial there was a small brunch in the park over. His mother, an inky veil draped over her red rimmed eyes, held his hand limply and led him over to the new priest. He was having a conversation with the general and some of his father’s friends Charles had never once met before. It was particularly unusual to think that his parents had lived whole lifetimes before him and Sarah.
“Excuse me, father,” she said, placing her other hand delicately on his wrist.
“Mrs. Dodger,” he said, voice oozing with sympathy.
“This is my son, Charles.” Charles nodded. “He is attending St. Gregory’s for his first year right now.”
The father’s pale, green eyes carefully observed his face. He was an older man, most likely in his mid-seventies. Red and gold robes bobbed slightly over his bulbous stomach and draped down so neatly that the garment was obviously tailored to fit him.
“Charles, it’s so nice to meet you,” his voice was deep and warm, the type you would expect to hear narrating an old black and white film his father had stored in the shed out back. “I’m father Abaddon, I was recently transferred to your school for next semester.”
“Just that semester, sir?” Charles asked. Priests were never there for only a semester. Usually, they would commit for at least a few years, if not more.
Something flickered over Father Abaddon’s eyes, as though they were covered in a thin sheet, and someone had given it a shake. “Yes, well, I don’t like to remain in one place for very long,” he chuckled through gritted teeth, “the world is yet to be seen.”
Charles forced a smile along with him and resisted the urge to scamper back to Chris’ side.
Chris came over that night, Charles had insisted. His mother didn’t seem to care, she just walked immediately into her bedroom and shut the door. He grabbed Chris’ arm and led him to the porch.
They sat down together on the wood and let their legs, too short to reach the ground, dangle off the side.
“I don’t like your hair like that,” Charles said as he watched the willow trees sway gently with the sunset.
Chris closed his eyes thoughtfully, letting his head droop down and swing, “I don’t either, really.”
“Then why’d you wear it that way?” Charles asked.
“I don’t know,” Chris opened his eyes to watch the sunset with him, “My Dad gels his hair back when he goes to things like this.”
Charles knew lots about Chris’ family but had never met his father. He only came over when he was at work because he and Chris’ mother were fighting all the time.
“It smells weird,” Charles wrinkled his nose.
Chris furrowed his eyebrows, “You saying I smell weird?”
“I’m saying the hair gel smells weird.”
Chris shrugged and kicked his feet against the side of the porch. A moment passed, the crisp dusk air blowing through Charles’ unbutton suit top.
“What was your dad like?” Chris asked.
Charles had to think for a moment, “He liked to play baseball in the backyard,” he gestured to the closest and shortest willow, “that tree was first base.”
“I don’t really like baseball,” Chris said.
“How could you not like baseball?” Charles asked, as though he had confessed to a terrible crime.
“I dunno, just don’t. Why don’t you like the smell of my hair gel?” he raised an eyebrow.
Charles swallowed and stared at him.
Just then, from the inside of the kitchen came a loud bash of cabinets and pots.
Charles was up in a second, “Ma?” he called, opening the back door.
No answer.
“Ma are you-” he froze in the doorway. His mother was lying on the floor, convulsing furiously in a pile of broken glass. Her skin was the color of notebook paper and the air smelled thickly of whine.
“Ma,” Charles ran over and grasped her hand, “Ma it’s gonna be ok.”
Chris stood in the hallway watching, eyes wide.
“Help, Chris, get help,” Charles gasped frantically. Chris was off on the last word, dialing on the land line before it was fully off the receiver.
“Charlie, what’s going on?” Sarah whimpered, blearily stumbling out of her room clutching her teddy bear.
“Ma,” Charles tried again, trying to help her sit up, “Ma please,” hot tears burned his eyes.
Down in the valley, there were three farms.
“Shh, Sarah it’s ok,” Chris said, pulling her close to him and stroking her hair, “Everything’s ok.”
Charles didn’t move from the floor, not even when the doctors arrived and took her away. His hands were flat on the tile and bleeding through cuts from the glass shards.
Chris gripped his shoulder gently, “you gotta get up Charlie,” he said, leading his dizzy friend to the couch and sitting him down. “Look what you did to your hands,” walking to the kitchen, he returned a moment later with a bowl of warm water, towel, and tweezers. Chris gently took Charles’ hands and placed them on his knees.
He cleaned Charles’ hands, keeping them warm and painless as he plucked each shard. Not a word was shared, all Charles could think about was the time his mother had cleaned him in the bathtub after that first fight with Joshua.
Sarah watched the whole time from the other side of the couch, somehow as entranced by Chris as her brother was, silent tears streaming down her face.
“Oh, Michael,” Paul sang, a smile dancing on his lips as he disassembled his rifle for the sixteenth time that afternoon.
“What,” he replied dryly, reassembling his.
“Would you believe it? Some of these color TV sets sell for $599, kids these days got it so easy.”
Michael snorted, though his expression didn’t change. They had been chatting about technology, and how Ben and Charles had never experienced “the good old days.”
“Yeah well, at least we have the polio vaccine,” Charles sneered.
Paul stood frozen with his gun gripped tightly in his hands.
“They have a color TV in my uncle's house,” Ben said innocently, “I used to watch Howdy Doody with Dawn and Maria.”
“And what are they up to?” Charles asked, trying not to let his mind think on what bullseye of Paul’s he had just hit.
“Dawn is thirteen now, and Maria’s eleven,” Ben said without even thinking, like he rehearsed the ages of his sisters daily in anticipation of this question.
“What about your Daddy, Miller?” Paul asked, taking out a tooth pick clumsily from his pocket and placing it between his teeth.
“Works in construction, building stuff,” he said with pride, a broad smile appearing on his lips.
“And you?” Paul looked at Charles.
“He was in the army,” he said while reloading his rifle.
“Was?” Michael asked, looking up briefly.
“Dead now.”
There was an awkward silence in the group, the simple sound of rifles being disassembled, reassembled, and shot the sounds that filled the air. No one replied and Charles was glad for it.
The sound became rhythmic, something he didn’t even have to think about. Instead of a burden, the noise became a metronome that kept his fingers playing. It was a good distraction, soothing and ever present. Often he found himself drifting away to another place, thinking of his family and Sarah. Mostly, though, he thought of Chris. What would he think of this? Charles loading a gun.
He let out a huff through his nose because he knew exactly what Chris would think of this, in fact Charles had been informed multiple times just how much Chris hated what he was doing here. Looking briefly up to the sky, he thanked whatever would listen that he had been the one drafted.