Chapter 16
Charlie opened the door to Joe’s practice studio with enough force to leave a black mark where the knob connected with the wall. The noise startled Joe, who was seated on his drum stool, putting his drumsticks back in the box on the floor. Monte jumped, too, and then barked.
“Is it nine fifty-five yet?” Joe asked with a wide grin.
“Why, Joe? Why did you do this?” Charlie shouted.
The anger and force of his voice was enough to startle Monte and send him bounding down the stairs, probably back to the window to pine for his beloved Maxine. The color drained completely from Joe’s face. His was the look of a child, scolded but unaware of the offense.
“I don’t understand,” Joe said. “You seem angry.”
“That’s because I am angry, Joe. This is really sick and twisted, you know that?” Charlie waved the envelope in front of him like a flag.
“I don’t know what that is,” Joe said.
“Don’t play me like that, Joe,” Charlie countered. “I’m in the shower, and you decide to play a little joke on me. Why? Was it because of Rachel? Because I went to see her?”
“You actually went to see Dr. Evans?” Joe asked. “Why?”
“Why do you think? Because I don’t want to be a nut job like you or Dad. So tell me, is that what this is all about? Are you trying to make me into one?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Joe screamed the words with shocking intensity. His voice echoed throughout the room and seemed to hang in the air with the foreboding of a storm cloud. Charlie could now see that Joe was being pushed beyond his ability to control the stress.
“I’m talking about opening up a Word document on my laptop, printing out a list of names, and then slipping this envelope under the sofa. That’s what I’m talking about.”
Joe shouted even louder. “I don’t know what that is! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“That’s a lie, Joe, and you know it. Just admit what you’ve done and apologize.”
“I didn’t do anything,” Joe said, softly this time.
Charlie’s mind flashed with images of Anne Pedersen and Jerry Schmidt. Of Gomes, Yardley, and Mac, seated around Mac’s table, accusing him. He pictured Harry Wessner and the rest of the Magellan Team. Everything flooded him at once. But the most upsetting thought of all, though, a thought to which he couldn’t bear to give credence, was that Joe was actually telling the truth. He couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow it to be.
“Admit it now!” Charlie demanded.
Joe shook his head in denial. Charlie knew of only one way to get him to confess, and it sickened him to use it.
“Oh, just you wait until I tell Mom what you did. She’s going to be very upset and disappointed with you.”
“Stop it,” Joe demanded.
“Maybe she won’t even wake up unless you tell the truth, Joe. Tell me the truth, dammit! You put this envelope under the sofa.”
Joe’s face turned crimson. “Don’t you say that. I didn’t do it. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything!”
Click.
Charlie saw something shift in Joe’s eyes, as though an imaginary sequence of switches were being turned on. The result, he knew, had the potential to be disastrous. He knew he needed to stop pushing, to keep those switches in their safe “off” position, but he couldn’t.
“Forget about me. Don’t lie to Mom, Joe.”
Click. Click. Click.
The switches of Joe’s mind were dusty and cobwebbed from having been unused for so long. Joe’s treatment at Walderman had implanted some sort of mental lockbox over them, one of the many tools he’d been given that helped to keep his emotions balanced and his anger in check. Now Charlie was picking at the lock. Prying open the rusty door to that lockbox. Flicking his switches on, one by one, mindless of the consequences.
“Keep her out of this,” Joe growled.
“She’d want you to admit you’re lying….”
C-l-i-c-k.
Joe sprang. He leapt over the drum set and bounded for Charlie with outstretched arms.
“Give me that! I’ll rip it up! I’ll tear it apart! Give it to me now!”
Charging at him like a crazed rhino, Joe rammed full force into Charlie, pushing his brother backward. Charlie, stunned by the impact, landed painfully against the doorjamb, letting out a cry of equal parts surprise and pain. The envelope dropped from Charlie’s hand and floated silently to the floor.
Trying to counter, Charlie pressed his heels into the floorboards and drove the weight of his body into Joe. The move left Charlie off balance, though still standing. Sensing the advantage, Joe threw his massive weight hard left this time, keeping a firm grasp on Charlie’s jacket collar, and in one motion tossed Charlie sideways, as though he were throwing a pillow across the room. Legs and arms flailing, Charlie landed hard into a standing cymbal, knocking it over with a loud crash. The impact expunged all air from Charlie’s lungs, as though sucking it out with a vacuum, leaving him gasping madly for breath. Startled by the noise, Monte raced up the stairs and stood in the doorway, barking loudly but not daring to step inside.
Charlie had done it. All switches were on. Joe was no longer home, and he was the last person anyone wanted to fight when he was out of control. History had proved that. Joe couldn’t and wouldn’t stop. With Charlie winded, Joe climbed on top of his brother, pressing both knees mercilessly against his sternum. What little air Charlie could take in was now constricted by his brother’s weight.
“I didn’t do anything. Take back what you said about Mom!” Joe shouted, covering Charlie’s face with spit. He slapped at Charlie’s cheeks with alternating blows, each time demanding a retraction.
“Joe … please …” Charlie could barely speak the words. His vision began to go dark. “I’m sorry … I believe you….”
The first time Charlie experienced one of Joe’s rages, he was eight and his brother thirteen. It was the year Joe was diagnosed with epilepsy, and his doctors linked his hulklike tantrums to the condition. Treating the seizures put a stop to Joe’s dangerous and terrifying rages.
When fate dealt Joe another blow years later, and he was diagnosed this time with schizophrenia shortly after his twentieth birthday, Charlie thought his rages would return. But they didn’t. Joe had some lingering anger management issues, compounded by his paranoia, but it was nothing close to the brutal ferocity displayed when Joe angered during one of his seizures. Joe hadn’t had a seizure since his seventeenth birthday, and Charlie prayed he wasn’t having one right now. If he was, Charlie had every reason to believe his life was in danger.
“I believe you, Joe,” Charlie said again. “I’m sorry for accusing you.”
The pressure on Charlie’s arms lessened. Joe stopped swinging his fists and peered down at Charlie’s bloodied and already swelling face. Tears flooded Joe’s eyes. He stood up, then bent over to extend a hand to Charlie.
Click.
Something in Joe’s eyes changed. Realization? Switches were turning off in his mind.
“I believe you … please …”
Joe got off of him. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I’m so sorry,” Joe cried.
Charlie rubbed at his neck and shook his head from side to side, hoping to clear his vision. He was battered and bruised, but he’d live.
“It’s okay. It’s all right, Joe,” Charlie said. “It was my fault. I asked for it. I came after you.”
“Why?” Joe asked again.
“Because I thought you wrote this.” Charlie retrieved the envelope from the floor. He handed it to Joe. “Please tell me you did. I won’t be mad. I promise.”
Joe took the envelope, opened it, and read the list. Then he looked up at Charlie. The concern and worry showed on his face. “You said you went to see Dr. Evans, right?”
“Yes,” Charlie said.
“Why?” Joe asked.
“I thought she might have some answers.”
“Are you afraid?” Joe asked.
“Of what?”
“Of being like you,” Charlie said.
“I didn’t write this, Charlie,” Joe said. “You have to believe me.”
Charlie closed his eyes and paused. “I know you didn’t,” he said.
The two embraced. Charlie felt the thin trail of a single tear as it stretched down his cheek. He couldn’t remember when last he’d cried.