"Welcome to Suckville. Population: Two inhabitants, Charlie said with little humor, knee-deep in a sea of cardboard boxes.
"Can you please stop complaining and check that box over there?"
"I've already checked.
"Are you sure...?"
"Yes, Oliver, I'm sure," he says, carefully pronouncing each syllable. For the ninety-fifth time, I'm sure.
It's been three hours since Charlie met me at the Junk and Yard converted from Duckworth's garage. For the first hour, we were hopeful. The second hour we started to get impatient. Now we are just fed up.
"What about those?"
Charlie glances at a stack of brown boxes stacked between a few rusty lawn chairs and a broken barbecue.
-I. Find out. They," he says.
"And what was inside?" I issue the challenge.
His ears turn completely red.
—Let me think... Ah, yes, now I remember; it was another box full of well-thumbed science fiction novels and computer textbooks as outdated as dinosaurs…" Ripping off the lid of the box on top of the others, he pulls out two books: a paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451, damaged by humidity and a faded manual titled The Commodore 64: Welcome to the Future.
I stare at him and point to the other boxes in the stack.
"And what about the ones below?"
"That's all right…I'm out of here," Charlie announces, flying toward the door. He stumbles and stumbles onto one of Gillian's large canvases, but for once doesn't land at his feet again. He crashes into two separate stacks of boxes and regains his footing, but only after he has knocked over the entire stack. Dozens of books are scattered on the floor.
"Charlie, wait!" I follow him into the living room and find Gillian hunched over the arm of her father's wicker chair. She has her head bowed and her elbows rest on her knees. When she looks up I see that her eyes are red, as if she had been crying.
-What happen? -I ask-. You are well?
She nods silently, but that's all she seems willing to say. In her hands she holds a blue wooden frame with a tiny Mickey Mouse painted on it in the lower right corner. The photograph is old and shows a fat man standing by a swimming pool... and proudly displays his one-year-old daughter. He has a crooked but beaming smile; he is wearing a floppy beach hat and bright pink swimming trunks. Even the Mole-Man had his day in the sun. In the picture, the little girl is clapping her hands as he holds her to her chest, arms tight around her body. As if he had no intention of ever letting go.
I don't know Gillian Duckworth very well, but I know what it's like to lose a parent.
I kneel next to her and make an effort to get her attention.
"I'm sorry we're intruding on your father's life like this…"
"It's not your fault."
"Actually, it is." If we hadn't made you angry, we wouldn't be...
"Listen, if I hadn't done it now, I would have done it six months from now. Besides," she adds, looking at the photograph, "they never promised me anything. He is about to say something else but he doesn't. She just looks at the photo, shaking her head slightly. I know it sounds pathetic, but it just makes me realize how little she knew him. She—she Keeps her head down and her curly black hair cascades to the side of her neck.
"Gillian, if he makes you feel any better, we have the exact same picture in our house…I haven't seen my father in eight years.
She looks up and our eyes finally meet. She wipes away her tears with the back of her hand. There is a tiny space between her lips. She reaches out her hand and I pat her shoulder gently, but she has turned away. She buries her face in her hands, and as the tears begin to well up, she cries to herself. Even though I'm kneeling next to her, Gillian does everything she can to make this moment private to her. But finally... as I'm learning lately... we all need to open up. Leaning to the side, Gillian rests her head on my shoulder, wrapping her arms around my neck, letting the rest of her out. With each stifled sob, she barely makes a sound, but I feel her tears wet my shirt.
"Okay," I tell her when her breathing calms. It's okay to miss him.
Looking over her shoulder, I see Charlie watching us from the kitchen. He's looking for the twinkle in her eyes... the tremor in her voice... anything to show that Gillian is acting. But that never happens. And as he watches Gillian collapse, even he can't take his eyes off her.
Noticing that I'm looking at him, my brother turns around and pretends to go through the kitchen cabinets again. When Gillian's sobs subside, he walks over to us.
"Who wants to watch TV?" Charlie interrupts. We can…" He breaks off and acts like he's surprised. Sorry I didn't mean...
"No, it's fine," Gillian says, sitting up in the wicker chair and regaining her composure.
"What are you doing?" she asked him with a look. I'm not sure if he's jealous or if he's just trying to calm her down, but even I have to admit, she knows how to use that moment of distraction.
"Come on," Charlie adds, putting on a nice-guy voice and waving in the direction of the TV. No more sorrow... time to relax with some inconsequential entertainment.
Gillian looks at me to check my reaction.
"Actually, I think it's not a bad idea," I agree. Just to clear the mental palate of her...
-Well said! Charlie says walking past us. Leaping from the rug, he lands neatly on the couch, cross-legged on the low side table. Gillian follows me into the living room, her fingers locked in my hand.
"That's it...there's room for everyone...one big happy family," Charlie teases as he grabs the remote. He points to the TV and presses the button but nothing happens. He pushes the button again. Nothing.
"Did you press 'On'?" - I ask.
—No, I have pressed «No sound»... the sad thing is that I still hear your voice.
Charlie spins the little contraption and opens the battery compartment.
He looks at Gillian raising an eyebrow. The party is over.
-It is empty.
"Oh yes, that's true," she says. She was thinking of putting in some new batteries.
"Don't worry," I say. Charlie, didn't you say there were some in the closet?
"Yes," he says coldly, not taking his eyes off Gillian. There is a full box. Of every imaginable size.
I quickly go to the closet and return with a handful of fresh double-A batteries. Gillian has already manually turned on the TV, but Charlie is concentrating on the remote. He puts the batteries in and tries again. Nothing happens.
"Maybe it's broken."
-In this house? Gillian asks. Dad fixed everything.
"Okay, pass me that thing," I say to Charlie, sitting on the edge of the low table. It's time to use the trick I used to use with my old walkman. I take out the batteries again, take the remote to my lips and blow hard into the compartment. To my surprise, I hear
a quick, fluttering sound... like when you blow hard on a blade of grass or the edge of a sheet of paper.
Charlie slowly tilts her head. I know what he is thinking.
"Maybe it's broken after all," Gillian says.
"Impossible," Charlie replies. He has wide eyes and that hungry look on his face. In any other home, a broken remote is just that. But here… as Gillian said, Duckworth fixed everything. Let me try," Charlie says.
But I'm already ahead of myself. I insert two fingers into the battery compartment and feel around looking for the source of that sound. There is nothing there.
Charlie has risen from the sofa and stands anxiously next to me.
-Break it.
Gillian shakes her head. "Do you really think he…" "Break it! Charlie repeats.
Fingers still inside the knob, he yanked hard at the back. But he doesn't give in. There is not enough leverage.
"Here," Charlie says, handing me a pencil. I introduce it in
the battery compartment and pry hard. There's a snap… the plastic breaks… and the entire back of the remote snaps off, falling into Gillian's lap.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Charlie says.
I'm not sure what he's talking about. Then I look down. Inside the remote, held in place by two thick staples, is a sheet of paper folded so small and tight that it is the length and width of a crushed cigarette. The Secret Service guys may have gone through all the other hideouts, but there's no doubt none of them thought to watch TV.
Gillian opens her mouth.
-What is? Charlie asks. He removed the staples with the tip of his pencil.
With a yawn, the folded paper slowly opens. The arousal is so intense that I can barely...
-Open it! Charlie yells.
I open it quickly and from inside the first sheet of paper another smaller, glossy sheet falls to the floor. Charlie lunges for her.
At first, it looks like a bookmark, but there's a puzzled look on Charlie's face.
-What does it say? -I ask.
-I have no idea.