“It was kind of what made me think that maybe I could write and illustrate my own project. Mine and Charlie’s story. I’m no writer; not really. But Corbin Wale...he doesn’t really have many words. The drawings are the whole story. But it’s not a kids’ book. It’s just... He doesn’t need words, I guess.”
Nothing had ever made Simon want to read a book more.
Jack set Two Moons Over down reverently.
“Too late now, I guess. Whatever.”
Simon had so many questions, but it didn’t seem like the moment to quiz Jack on the particulars.
“You could d-do it anyway,” Simon said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed and Simon’s heart started to pound. He shook his head and waved his words away. Jack started to speak, but changed his mind. He rubbed at the stubble on his chin thoughtfully.
A flurry of barks and whines from the living room sent Jack lurching out of the room. Simon followed, closing the door to the studio behind him.
Bernard and Rat were fighting in front of the fireplace. Well, Simon wasn’t quite sure you could call it fighting when a hundred-and-eighty-pound dog was sitting on top of an eight-pound dog and the eight-pound dog was barking aggressively while the hundred-and-eighty-pound dog whined, as if sad his friend didn’t want to be sat upon.
“Bernard,” Jack laughed. “Come here, ya lug.” He gestured and Bernard sighed—if it was possible for a dog to sigh—and shifted off Rat. The second she was freed, Rat jumped up, skinny legs shaking, ready to do battle, and hurled herself at Bernard. Bernard yawned and threw a heavy paw over Rat, looking for a cuddle.
“Ridiculous,” Jack muttered fondly. “Wanna sit?”
Simon sat on the couch next to Jack. Somehow sharing a couch felt more intimate than sitting next to each other in the kitchen and Simon sat on his hand to keep it from twitching.
Jack opened his mouth to speak, but instead Rat let loose a volley of barks. This time, though, Bernard got to his feet too, looking toward the door.
The door opened and in stepped a man who looked enough like Jack that Simon assumed this must be his brother. The dogs circled the man a few times and then settled down again. Clearly he was a familiar presence here.
“Charlie,” Jack said, resignedly.
Simon scrambled to his feet, heart pounding. Jack was quite a large man, but Charlie was huge.
Charlie’s eyes widened.
“Oh, hi. Sorry, I should’ve called. I didn’t mean to interrupt...”
Simon glued his eyes to Charlie’s dirty boots.
“Charlie, this is Simon. Simon, my brother, Charlie. Simon’s been helping me out with the animals.”
“Right, sure,” Charlie said. “Nice to meet you.” He held out a large hand to Simon and Simon shook it. He thought maybe, since he’d just been talking to Jack, he’d try to say it back, but the words all came out garbled.
His neck got hot and he pulled his hand back, inching toward the door.
“Hey, you don’t have to leave...” Simon heard Charlie say, but he was already out the door.
Chapter Six
Jack
A week later, Jack and Charlie sat, eating meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. Charlie always cooked absurdly balanced meals.
“He’s not weird,” Jack was saying. “He’s just shy.”
Charlie raised an eyebrow.
“You scared him away with your hugeness,” Jack grumbled.
“Mmhmm,” Charlie said.
Jack bit at his lip. “He’s...great. Sweet. I didn’t expect him to be... I don’t know. Cool.”
Charlie snorted. “Cool? What are you, fifteen?”
“Shut up. He’ll probably turn out to be an asshole just like everyone else.”
Charlie’s eyes grew serious.
“Not everyone will let you down, Jack.”
Jack sighed. “Yeah, well you won’t let me down even when I beg you to.”
Charlie just kept coming over every day, helping without being asked. He cleaned the kitchen, did laundry, and brought groceries and sometimes meals. He asked Jack how his leg was and talked about people they knew who’d come into the hardware store. He gave the dogs baths that ended with him soaked to the skin. And, vexingly, he still left Jack’s notebook and pens on his bedside table, a glaring reminder.
Still, every time he showed up, Jack was so glad to be distracted from mindless television or shamelessly spying on the house across the field. But within minutes of his arrival, Jack was snapping at him. He needed him—fuck, he knew he needed him—but he resented every moment of it.
Jack took a bite of meatloaf and it was so very familiar. His brother had made it the same way since he was seventeen. A week after their parents died, Charlie had cooked meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas for dinner, as if, with a well-balanced meal, he could somehow restore to their lives the balance that had been upset.
“Charlie? How did you know how to make meatloaf?” Jack asked, suddenly realizing he couldn’t remember him ever cooking before their parents’ death.
Charlie looked at him flatly. “I didn’t know how to make it; I learned. Mom had those recipe cards of her mom’s, remember? In the yellow plastic box.”