From another novel
Jan. 15th, 2023 11:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
asteralisonI was going through my other journal looking for something and found this small tidbit. It's an outtake from the other novel I wrote, that also doesn't have a title, because I'm terrible with titles. I figured I'd post it. Charles and Jamie outtake
He’d snapped at Carrie. It wasn’t that he wanted to snap at her, but he’d asked her to do dump the ingredients into the slow cooker and turn it on, so that they’d have dinner that evening, and she hadn’t done it. He’d even left her a note on her lunchbox to remind her. Worse than just forgetting, she had taken the bowl of seasoned meat and veggies out of the fridge and transferred them to the cooker, but had not turned it on, and the food was now warm, and would have to be thrown away. His mother had screamed at him, of course. She always blamed him when dinner was not on the table and screamed that now there was nothing to eat and that they’d all have to go to bed without dinner. That wasn’t true, and he knew he could make some pasta with tomato sauce, but he was tired too and at a growing thirteen, he was hungry and he’d snapped at Carrie when she whined that it was just that she’d forgotten and really he should have done it himself, never mind that the reason he hadn’t was that he’d been up at 4am to help with unloading at the supermarket, to earn some small bit of money under the table. He’d worked that morning, gone home for a quick shower and to change for school. There had only been two slices of bread left and he’d used them to make her lunch and not eaten himself. knowing Jaime would share his school lunch. That was when he’d left her the note, and asked her to start dinner while she was having breakfast, gone to school, and then to do some more work, weeding and lawn mowing after, and had just gotten home moments before her and their parents, it was 6pm. So he’d snapped at her when she demanded to know why dinner wasn’t ready, even though he knew she’d just come from the mall with friends and that she always got a snack there.
They’d been standing on either side of the kitchen table, the slow cooker behind him on the counter, his mother, father, and Carrie across the table, all angry with him. Again. It always ended that way, with them angry at him, no matter who was responsible for whatever infraction had been committed, who had caused whatever problem encountered.
His mother had told him to go to his room (only she’d cursed at him) and that they would go out to eat. He swallowed against his hunger pangs and decided he’d make himself spaghetti when they left.
But then Carrie who should have been triumphant at getting to go out to eat had lashed out at him, perhaps because she was angry that he’d snapped at her, it was such a rare occurrence. She’d called him Charles, and she and Jamie were the only ones who usually called him Charlie. She’d said that he was clearly not her brother, he didn’t even look like them. He didn’t know where that came from, except that the previous week he’d been explaining the weird genetics of cat coats to her, and some basic genetics had been part of his explanation?
He expected one or the other of his parents to scold her, but neither said anything, despite this being, to his 13 year old mind, an insult to both of them, but then he looked at them.
His dad, big and tall, with light brown eyes, and light reddish-brown hair. His mother, blue-eyed and still blonde. Carrie, a bit plump like their mother, with her blue eyes and light brown hair, almost blonde, and the smattering of freckles on her fair skin.
And then there was him. Dark brown almond shaped eyes with long dark lashes. Dark brown hair. Skin that tanned to a dark gold and rarely burned. His face thin, his build slender. He didn’t look like any of them, he never had.
He wanted one of them to say something, to tell Carrie that of course he was her brother, and what was she talking about? He wanted them to laugh and tell Carrie not be silly. He wanted his father to get angry and ask Carrie was she was implying, that their mother had cheated on him? But neither of them said anything, his mother just continued to glare at him, his father stared at the ground.
He turned silently and went to his room. He lay down on his bed, on his stomach. He heard them leaving for dinner, and he just stayed there, not bothering to go to eat.
Some long ago boyfriend? He’d seen his birth certificate, he’d found it one day in a pile of papers. His father was listed, as, well, his father, and his mother as his mother. He knew that technically, he was theirs… but?
He wasn’t like them, he never had been, in so many ways. He was an introvert in a family of extroverts, a quiet self-contained boy to their boisterous gregariousness. Their idea of fun was a bbq with their trailer park neighbors, Carrie running around with the kids, his parents drinking and smoking with the adults, while he’d much rather be outdoors, in the woods, camping with Jamie. Of course there were other reasons for that preference, and Charles blushed in the darkness, but even without that, it remained that he was not like them.
He’d always known how different he felt from his family, but hadn’t known how deeply he needed to belong to them. He cried for a while. He would have gone out to see Jamie, even though has mother had told not to dare leave the trailer, but he knew poor Jamie was out that evening, stuck sitting through an evening of Bible Study with Miss Beryl. Eventually he fell asleep, tears still wet in his eyelashes.
He woke disoriented, to a hand on his shoulder. His father. He stayed still, not knowing what his father wanted. The hand stayed, and eventually Charles wriggled and flipped over. His dad sat down on the bed next to him. Charles couldn’t really see his dad’s face, just his silhouette backlit in the light from the hallway. He didn’t think his dad was looking at him when he started speaking.
“I had a younger brother, Johnny. He died when we were kids, drowned in the lake near our house. He was a good kid.”
Charles hadn’t known this. His father’s voice was very quiet, un-inflected, and somehow Charles knew it was to hide his emotion.
“We were real close. He was just a year younger than me, and we were like you and Jamie, always together, always outdoors, riding our bikes, or swimming or playing hockey on the lake in the winter.”
Not quite like him and Jamie, but he understood what his father was saying. Close brothers.
“When your mom was pregnant with you, we decided that we’d have juniors. A boy would be Robert Charles and a girl Marie Charlene, because your mom would have liked to be Marie rather than Mary.” His dad chuckled. “We even figured we’d call you Bobby, rather than Charles or Chuck, and a girl Marie.”
That hadn’t worked. He was John Charles, called Charles, and Carrie was Laura Caroline. His parents were Chuck and Charlene. Then suddenly he realized. John Charles. Johnny. He blinked.
His dad continued speaking. “When you were born, we called you Bobby but when you were a few days old, still in the hospital, I looked at you. You had dark hair and eyes, and… you looked like Johnny. I see him in you more and more as you grow up. He was 10 when he died, but he would have been tall and skinny like you, you both have those slanty eyes, and your hair flops down on your forehead just the way his did.”
He heard his dad swallow.
“So I told your mom that we’d have to call you John Charles, like Johnny. She said that was fine, she had been hoping for a girl, so she didn’t really care.”
He added, inconsequentially. “I was Robert Charles, for my mom’s dad. He was John Charles for my dad’s dad. That’s why we both had Charles as a middle name.”
He sighed. “I thought we’d call you Johnny, but in the end I couldn’t. Johnny was… Johnny. You were Charles.”
He reached out and squeezed Charles’s shoulder, a very rare gesture of affection. Before he left he placed a small square on Charles’s bedside table.
He paused at the door. “I brought you some food. There’s a burrito in the fridge if you want it.”
Charles heard him walk down the hallway and go into his room. He turned on his bedside lamp and picked up the photograph. Two grinning boys posing with their bikes, one very clearly his stocky, sturdy dad, and the other… small and lithe, and dark, with a smile that Charles recognized as his own, and shock of hair, too long, almost hiding one eye. His uncle.
Years later, the first time he was listed as an author on a paper, his PhD advisor asked him what name he wanted to use, since his publications would follow him around his whole career. Charles Edwards? Charles had shaken his head, and said he’d use J. Charles Edwards. Nobody ever called him John or used that name, but he treasured that small connection to his unknown uncle, and the memory of a rare moment of kindness and understanding from his father.
He’d snapped at Carrie. It wasn’t that he wanted to snap at her, but he’d asked her to do dump the ingredients into the slow cooker and turn it on, so that they’d have dinner that evening, and she hadn’t done it. He’d even left her a note on her lunchbox to remind her. Worse than just forgetting, she had taken the bowl of seasoned meat and veggies out of the fridge and transferred them to the cooker, but had not turned it on, and the food was now warm, and would have to be thrown away. His mother had screamed at him, of course. She always blamed him when dinner was not on the table and screamed that now there was nothing to eat and that they’d all have to go to bed without dinner. That wasn’t true, and he knew he could make some pasta with tomato sauce, but he was tired too and at a growing thirteen, he was hungry and he’d snapped at Carrie when she whined that it was just that she’d forgotten and really he should have done it himself, never mind that the reason he hadn’t was that he’d been up at 4am to help with unloading at the supermarket, to earn some small bit of money under the table. He’d worked that morning, gone home for a quick shower and to change for school. There had only been two slices of bread left and he’d used them to make her lunch and not eaten himself. knowing Jaime would share his school lunch. That was when he’d left her the note, and asked her to start dinner while she was having breakfast, gone to school, and then to do some more work, weeding and lawn mowing after, and had just gotten home moments before her and their parents, it was 6pm. So he’d snapped at her when she demanded to know why dinner wasn’t ready, even though he knew she’d just come from the mall with friends and that she always got a snack there.
They’d been standing on either side of the kitchen table, the slow cooker behind him on the counter, his mother, father, and Carrie across the table, all angry with him. Again. It always ended that way, with them angry at him, no matter who was responsible for whatever infraction had been committed, who had caused whatever problem encountered.
His mother had told him to go to his room (only she’d cursed at him) and that they would go out to eat. He swallowed against his hunger pangs and decided he’d make himself spaghetti when they left.
But then Carrie who should have been triumphant at getting to go out to eat had lashed out at him, perhaps because she was angry that he’d snapped at her, it was such a rare occurrence. She’d called him Charles, and she and Jamie were the only ones who usually called him Charlie. She’d said that he was clearly not her brother, he didn’t even look like them. He didn’t know where that came from, except that the previous week he’d been explaining the weird genetics of cat coats to her, and some basic genetics had been part of his explanation?
He expected one or the other of his parents to scold her, but neither said anything, despite this being, to his 13 year old mind, an insult to both of them, but then he looked at them.
His dad, big and tall, with light brown eyes, and light reddish-brown hair. His mother, blue-eyed and still blonde. Carrie, a bit plump like their mother, with her blue eyes and light brown hair, almost blonde, and the smattering of freckles on her fair skin.
And then there was him. Dark brown almond shaped eyes with long dark lashes. Dark brown hair. Skin that tanned to a dark gold and rarely burned. His face thin, his build slender. He didn’t look like any of them, he never had.
He wanted one of them to say something, to tell Carrie that of course he was her brother, and what was she talking about? He wanted them to laugh and tell Carrie not be silly. He wanted his father to get angry and ask Carrie was she was implying, that their mother had cheated on him? But neither of them said anything, his mother just continued to glare at him, his father stared at the ground.
He turned silently and went to his room. He lay down on his bed, on his stomach. He heard them leaving for dinner, and he just stayed there, not bothering to go to eat.
Some long ago boyfriend? He’d seen his birth certificate, he’d found it one day in a pile of papers. His father was listed, as, well, his father, and his mother as his mother. He knew that technically, he was theirs… but?
He wasn’t like them, he never had been, in so many ways. He was an introvert in a family of extroverts, a quiet self-contained boy to their boisterous gregariousness. Their idea of fun was a bbq with their trailer park neighbors, Carrie running around with the kids, his parents drinking and smoking with the adults, while he’d much rather be outdoors, in the woods, camping with Jamie. Of course there were other reasons for that preference, and Charles blushed in the darkness, but even without that, it remained that he was not like them.
He’d always known how different he felt from his family, but hadn’t known how deeply he needed to belong to them. He cried for a while. He would have gone out to see Jamie, even though has mother had told not to dare leave the trailer, but he knew poor Jamie was out that evening, stuck sitting through an evening of Bible Study with Miss Beryl. Eventually he fell asleep, tears still wet in his eyelashes.
He woke disoriented, to a hand on his shoulder. His father. He stayed still, not knowing what his father wanted. The hand stayed, and eventually Charles wriggled and flipped over. His dad sat down on the bed next to him. Charles couldn’t really see his dad’s face, just his silhouette backlit in the light from the hallway. He didn’t think his dad was looking at him when he started speaking.
“I had a younger brother, Johnny. He died when we were kids, drowned in the lake near our house. He was a good kid.”
Charles hadn’t known this. His father’s voice was very quiet, un-inflected, and somehow Charles knew it was to hide his emotion.
“We were real close. He was just a year younger than me, and we were like you and Jamie, always together, always outdoors, riding our bikes, or swimming or playing hockey on the lake in the winter.”
Not quite like him and Jamie, but he understood what his father was saying. Close brothers.
“When your mom was pregnant with you, we decided that we’d have juniors. A boy would be Robert Charles and a girl Marie Charlene, because your mom would have liked to be Marie rather than Mary.” His dad chuckled. “We even figured we’d call you Bobby, rather than Charles or Chuck, and a girl Marie.”
That hadn’t worked. He was John Charles, called Charles, and Carrie was Laura Caroline. His parents were Chuck and Charlene. Then suddenly he realized. John Charles. Johnny. He blinked.
His dad continued speaking. “When you were born, we called you Bobby but when you were a few days old, still in the hospital, I looked at you. You had dark hair and eyes, and… you looked like Johnny. I see him in you more and more as you grow up. He was 10 when he died, but he would have been tall and skinny like you, you both have those slanty eyes, and your hair flops down on your forehead just the way his did.”
He heard his dad swallow.
“So I told your mom that we’d have to call you John Charles, like Johnny. She said that was fine, she had been hoping for a girl, so she didn’t really care.”
He added, inconsequentially. “I was Robert Charles, for my mom’s dad. He was John Charles for my dad’s dad. That’s why we both had Charles as a middle name.”
He sighed. “I thought we’d call you Johnny, but in the end I couldn’t. Johnny was… Johnny. You were Charles.”
He reached out and squeezed Charles’s shoulder, a very rare gesture of affection. Before he left he placed a small square on Charles’s bedside table.
He paused at the door. “I brought you some food. There’s a burrito in the fridge if you want it.”
Charles heard him walk down the hallway and go into his room. He turned on his bedside lamp and picked up the photograph. Two grinning boys posing with their bikes, one very clearly his stocky, sturdy dad, and the other… small and lithe, and dark, with a smile that Charles recognized as his own, and shock of hair, too long, almost hiding one eye. His uncle.
Years later, the first time he was listed as an author on a paper, his PhD advisor asked him what name he wanted to use, since his publications would follow him around his whole career. Charles Edwards? Charles had shaken his head, and said he’d use J. Charles Edwards. Nobody ever called him John or used that name, but he treasured that small connection to his unknown uncle, and the memory of a rare moment of kindness and understanding from his father.
