The Millionaires

89

“So? What’d they say? Are we done?” Charlie grills me the instant I set a toe in his bedroom.

“Take a wild guess,” I answer.

Sitting up in bed and readjusting the bandage on his shoulder, he nods to himself. He knew it was coming. If they didn’t fire us, they’d be fools. “Did they say anything about me?” he asks.

At the foot of the bed, I dump the boxful of his desk toys all over his childhood comforter. “They wanted to make you a partner, but only if they could keep your Silly Putty. Naturally, I told them it was nonnegotiable, but I think we can counter with some Matchbox cars. The good ones, of course, not the crappy knockoffs.”

As I say the words, he’s completely confused. The result, he expected. But not my reaction. “This isn’t a joke, Ollie. Whatta we do now? Mom can’t support two apartments.”

“I totally agree.” I leave the bedroom and return two seconds later dragging an enormous army-green duffel bag. With a grunt, I heave it on the bed, letting it bounce next to him. “That’s why we’re downsizing to one.” As Charlie whips open the zipper, he spots my neatly folded clothes inside.

“So you’re actually going through with this? You’re really moving back in?”

“I hope so – I just spent twenty-three bucks on my last cab ride. Those things’ll cost you a fortune.”

Narrowing his eyes, Charlie picks me apart. “Okay, what’s the punchline?” he asks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, no, no,” he insists. “Don’t play that game show with me, Monty. I was there when you found that apartment and moved into your own place. I remember how proud you were that day. In college, all your friends lived in the dorms, and you had to live at home and commute. But once you graduated… once you signed that lease and took your first step on the yellow brick road of success… I know what it meant, Ollie. So now that you’re moving back in, don’t tell me you’re not devastated.”

“But I’m not.”

“But you’re not,” he agrees, still searching my face. It may be a temporary move, but it’s a good one.

“So you think this room can still sleep two?” I ask, motioning to the pyramid of speakers where my old bed used to be.

“Two’s fine – I’m just happy it’s not three,” he says suspiciously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, your girlfriend Beth called earlier. She said your phone was disconnected.”

“And…”

“And she wants to speak to you. She said the two of you broke up.”

This time, I don’t respond.

“So who broke up with who?” Charlie asks.

“Does it matter?”

“Actually, it does,” he says, touching the hairline scab that still hasn’t faded from his neck.

“Since when’re you so somber?”

“Just answer the question, Ollie.” He won’t say it, but it’s clear what my brother’s after. Life is always a test.

“If it makes you feel any better, I was the one who broke it off with her-”

“Ohhhh, Lordy, I’m healed…!” Charlie shouts, raising his shoulder in the air. “My arm – it works! My heart – it’s a pumpin’!”

I roll my eyes.

“Mmmmm, baby, can I get a hallelujah!?”

“Yeah, yeah, she’ll miss you too,” I say. “Now how about helping me move the rest of my stuff?”

He looks down and grabs his shoulder. “Ow, my arm. Cough, cough, and more cough – I can’t breathe.”

“C’mon, you faker – get your butt outta bed – the doctors said you’re fine.” I yank the covers aside and see that Charlie’s fully dressed in jeans and socks. “You’re really sad, y’know that?” I say.

“No, sad is if I was wearing sneakers.” Hopping out of bed, he follows me into the living room and spots my other duffel bag, two huge boxes, and some milk crates full of CDs, videos, and old photos. That’s all that’s left. The only piece of furniture is the one I brought over last night: my dresser from when I first moved out. That belongs here.

“Where’s your Calvin Kleinish bed?” Charlie asks.

“Mom said she kept my old one in the basement. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“Fine?” He shakes his head, unable to accept it. “Ollie, this is stupid – I don’t care how good an actor you are – I can hear the pain in your voice. Now if you want, we can pawn some of my speakers. That’ll give you at least another month to-”

“We’ll be okay,” I interrupt as I grab the other duffel. “We’ll definitely be okay.”

“But if you don’t have a job-”

“Believe me, there’re plenty of good ideas out there. All it takes is one.”

“What, you’re gonna go selling T-shirts again? You can’t make money doing that.”

Letting the duffel slouch to the floor, I put a hand on his good shoulder and stare him straight in the eye. “One good idea, Charlie. I’ll find it.”

Charlie looks down at the way I’m bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Okay, so we’re past the College Ollie, and the Banking Ollie, and the easily forgettable Dying to Impress Ollie with its very own Removable Soul. So which one’s this? Entrepreneur Ollie? Go-Getter Ollie? Working at Foot Locker in a Month Ollie?”

“How about the real Ollie?” I ask.

He likes that one.

Crossing back into the dining room, I can already feel the energy rumbling through my stomach. “I’m telling you, Charlie – now that I have the time, there’s nothing to get in the-”

Cutting myself off, my eyes dart to the torn-open envelope on the edge of the table. Return address says Coney Island Hospital. I know the account cycle. “They sent us another bill already?” I ask.

“Sorta,” Charlie answers, trying to brush past it.

That’s it – something’s up. I go straight for the envelope. As I unfold the bill, it’s all the same. Total balance is still eighty-one thousand, payment due at the end of the month is still four hundred and twenty dollars, and payment status is still “On Time.” But at the top of the bill, instead of saying “Maggie,” the name above our address now says “Charlie Caruso.”

“What’re you -? What’d you do?” I ask.

“It’s not hers,” he says. “It shouldn’t be on her shoulders.”

Standing there with his hands in his pants pockets, he’s got a calmness to his voice I haven’t heard in years. That being said, taking over the hospital bill is easily one of the rashest, unnecessary, and uncalled for things my brother’s ever done. That’s why I tell him the truth. “Good for you, Charlie.”

“Good for you? That’s it? You’re not gonna grill me on the details: Why I made the change? How it’s gonna play out? How’m I possibly gonna afford it?”

I shake my head. “Mom already told me about the job.”

“She told you? What’d she say?”

“What’s to say? It’s illustration work down at Behnke Publishing. Ten hours a day doing drawings for a line of technical computer manuals – boring as watching shoe polish dry – but it pays sixteen bucks an hour. Like I said, good for y-”

Before I can finish, the front door slams behind us. “I see handsome men!” mom’s voice calls out as we spin around. She’s balancing two brown bags of groceries in a double-barreled headlock. Charlie races for one bag; I race for the other. The moment she’s free, her smile spreads wider and her thick arms wrap around our necks.

“Ma, careful of my stitches…” Charlie says.

She lets go and looks him in the eye. “You say no to a hug from your mother?”

Knowing better than to argue, he lets her put a wet one on his cheek.

“Charlie told me he hates your hugs,” I jump in. “He said he hopes you don’t give him another.”

“Don’t start – you’re next,” she warns. She plants one on me and fights her way out of her winter coat. Noticing the crates and boxes all over the floor, she can barely contain herself. “Oh, my boys are back,” she coos, following us to the kitchen.

Charlie starts stuffing groceries into the cabinets. On the counter, I take a long hard look at the Charlie Brown cookie jar. I’m already biting the inside of my lip. For almost five years it’s been my most regular habit. I’m dying to open it. But for once, I don’t.

Charlie watches me closely. It’s okay, he says with a glance. Everyone needs a day off. Including you.

“And guess who I got a present for?” mom asks, grabbing my attention. From one of the shopping bags, she pulls out a blue plastic bag. “I saw it in the yarn shop – I couldn’t resist…”

“Mom, I told you not to buy me anything,” I moan.

She doesn’t care; she’s too excited. Reaching into the bag, she takes out a needlepoint canvas and holds it up. In thick, red stenciled letters are the words, “Bloom Where You’re Planted.”

“What do you think?” mom asks. “It’s just a little coming-home gift. I can put it in a frame or on a pillow – whichever you want.”

Like most of mom’s needlepoints, the slogan is mushy and oversentimental.