Impending Armageddon

By Miriam Heddy

 

"Charles, perhaps it would be best to inform your father about the impending Armageddon."
—Larry Fleinhardt to Charlie Eppes, "Dirty Bomb."

 

"Well, listen, Dad, whenever I have a girlfriend, I will let you know by putting a note on the refrigerator."

–Charlie to Alan, "Vector."

 

"So what you're saying is that, in these alternate universes of yours, there's baseball."

 

"Hmm-hmm."

 

"In every one?"

 

"Oh, absolutely!" Larry offered, with all the conviction of someone who realized he would in no way be asked to back up that statement with any data. "And in some of them, the Dodgers actually win a few games."

 

The radio seemed to mock him and he turned it down for the moment, feeling only a little guilty that he'd all but given up with two innings remaining.

 

"Huh." Charles stood behind him and leaned forward, resting his chin on Larry's shoulder and peering down at his work, which actually had surprisingly little to do with baseball, and nothing whatsoever to do with string theory.

 

"So what is all this?" Charles straightened and gestured at the spread of folders, each of which had an illegible label on it.

 

Larry sighed. "Certainty."

 

Charles frowned.

 

"Death and taxes, Charles. They continue to mock even Heisenberg."

 

"Don’t you have an accountant?"

 

"No. I prefer to believe that I am still capable of elementary mathematics. And I'm somewhat insulted that you think otherwise."

 

"I was just thinking of the time involved."

 

"There is that, and I'm not saying I haven't considered it, because I have, and it always comes down to whether I'm willing to give up the joy of overseeing my own estate, such as it is, versus risking it all in the hands of someone who might very well be distracted with their own concerns—thinking about other things."

 

"Like baseball?" Charles asked, turning the game up again.

 

"Hmm. Yes. It's a matter of priorities and investment. And besides which, at the moment I'm working on my will, not my taxes, and I suspect an accountant would be less than useless."

 

"Your will."

 

"Hmm. Yes. And don't ask me what it says, because I'll probably tell you."

 

Charles didn’t ask and ­­Carrara struck out, taking Lowe with him at third, and Larry tapped his pen against the side of the table, wondering if it was out of ink at last. He'd had it for almost two months and was just starting to get a feel for it. It was just a Bic, and he had a whole package of them at home, but this one had just the right weight, and he suspected it was a fluke of the manufacturing process, but one was just not the same as every other.

 

"I'm leaving you the house, of course, and you're welcome to sell it, though I do hope you'll screen potential buyers and find someone willing to respect its unique history and the work I've put into restoring it."

 

"I—"

 

"I've got a savings account and some other monies which will be distributed amongst my other family members as well."

"Other family members."

 

"The legal ones, yes. I do owe them something, though not the house as I don't trust any of them not to sell it to the highest bidder, regardless of intent. I considered leaving the house to your father if only to save you the trouble, but I suppose I'm a little sentimental when it comes down to it. I have no doubt you think you don't need the money from the proceeds at this point, but retirement can be more expensive than you might at first suspect, and medical bills… well, I hardly want to think about those myself, and it's entirely possible I won't have to."

 

"I don't think I like where this conversation is going."

 

"Charles, I'm fine, and in all likelihood I will outlive you, especially given your penchant for stepping in front of snipers, and I do hope that you've learned your lesson on that front, by the way, because it was really an incredible error in judgment that is not offset in the least by your being right about where the sniper was going to shoot next. In fact, logic dictates that if you suspect someone is about to shoot a weapon, you do everything within your power to be elsewhere. I hope that Don has said as much and that I am merely belaboring the point."

 

"I'm wearing a vest now."

"Which does nothing to protect your sometimes alarmingly ineffectual brain, Charles, and though I'll admit that I'm somewhat attracted to the 'tough guy' image such equipment offers you, I much prefer to see you with only your natural padding kept as far as possible from the point of impact."

 

Charles shook his head and put a heavy hand on Larry's shoulder, and he reached up and clasped it with his own.

 

"Enough of that, yes. We understand each other's positions and will, I suspect, continue to do as we have done. So, that's it. The university's getting my library, of course, with the exception of a few books I've promised here and there. And—"

 

"Ahhh, I don't want to hear any more of this."

 

"Yes, well, naturally, it's a bit like reading the last few pages, isn't it? Nobody likes to read the ending, Charles, and I do realize that some of us like to pretend—"

 

"I'm not pretending."

 

"No, of course not. And I didn't mean to imply that you are. I was speaking of myself, of course, and my strong desire to turn off this damned game before the ignominy of their defeat is made final by the dulcet tones of Vin Scully."

 

The front door opened and Larry felt Charles' hand lift from his shoulder, hovering there with some menace, before settling there again in a slightly too firm hold that pinched his nerve rather unpleasantly. He leaned back to ease the pressure, so that his head was resting against the slight padding of Charles' belly, and he waited, knowing it was either Alan or Don—and more likely Alan from the defiant, tense grip of Charles' fingers which continued digging in near his neck in a ineffectual and counterproductive massage.

 

"Larry—are you staying for supper?"

 

"Thank you—yes—if it's not too much of an imposition." He moved his head from side to side until at last Charles eased up a bit, though his fingers remained in place.

 

"No, no, of course not. No."

 

Larry considered again that it was really quite fascinating the way he and Alan could still engage in this polite chit-chat over brisket. Margaret never did bother with it, prone, as she was, to telling him he was staying over and then asking him to help with the meal while she hovered, somewhat frighteningly for such a small woman. Though Margaret was also far subtler than Alan in her interrogations of his intent, and the price of sitting down for a meal was thus considerably higher—at least until she was at last satisfied he was not planning to steal away her son. It was rather ironic, then, that he did so, and it was with no disrespect to her memory that he was rather glad of it.

 

"What's this?"

 

Alan had pulled a gaudily wrapped package from his bag and was holding it out to Charles.

 

"Housewarming gift. I know, it's late, but—"

 

"Housewarming?" Charles took it with his free hand and shook it gently. Larry wondered if he was going to open it one-handed, just to make some sort of point to his father about… well, Larry wasn't quite sure, but it surely had something to do with him, at any rate.

 

Charles did at last use both hands, opening the wrapping carefully, revealing…"a—magnetic notepad? This is a—"

 

"For the refrigerator." And Alan looked pleased with himself—dangerously so. "So you'll have someplace to leave that note."

 

"Note?" Charles sounded puzzled, and Larry looked at Alan, seeing what could only be described as a wolfish glee that was rather disturbing in the context of gift-giving.

 

"When you have a girlfriend."

 

"When I… oh. Oh."

 

And Charles made a sound like he'd been suddenly squeezed too hard, and Larry realized it was a choked-off laugh, and saw that it had not escaped Alan's notice either.

 

"Well, thanks. I'll—I'll just put it on the refrigerator right now. Oh, and look! It comes with a pen on a string. How convenient."

 

And this time, the laugh escaped, and Larry looked down at his Last Will and Testament folder with a certain amount of healthy fear. This was not going to go well. Not well at all.

 

"Larry—"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Can I get you a beer?"

 

"Yes—thank you, Alan."

 

But Alan hovered in the doorway to the kitchen a moment longer. "I suppose he didn't happen to mention that he said he'd leave me a note when he got a girlfriend."

 

"Ah—no. He did not mention that. No."

 

"Hmm So—Pilsner or whatever Don left?"

 

"He'll have the Pilsner, Dad."

 

"That sounds fine, yes."

 

And the hand was back on his shoulder again, joined by another on the other side, so that he suspected any attempt to leave now would be met with some resistance on Charles' part. Not that he planned on leaving, no. The Dodgers had, at last, succumbed to their own over-confidence, and Larry had no intention of following in their example.

 

Alan returned with their beers and went into the kitchen to cook the brisket, leaving Charles and himself alone in the dining room, well-aware of his presence on the other side of that wood door.

 

"So, nice weather we're having," he whispered.

 

"What?"

 

"Just practicing the social niceties, Charles. Small-talk is often the only thing that stands between small men and their own destruction at the hands of the mob."

 

"My father's not an angry mob."

 

"No," Larry agreed, "But he does have potential, I think. And given his professional history, I imagine he knows where to hide a small, non-vocal body. Tragic, though I suppose, looking at it another way, it could save you the cost of funerary expenses."

 

"Larry, I might just have to save him the trouble."

 

The kitchen door swung open and Alan was smiling. "Your brother, Don—"

 

"Oh, that brother."

 

"Charles," Larry warned, though it was really no use. Alan and Charles were firm in their course, and there was apparently no swaying them from it. He could only hope that Don's arrival might ameliorate some of the tension in the room. Though it was entirely possible that Don would merely escalate tensions beyond hope of repair. Larry silently said goodbye to dessert, mourning a little because he'd noticed a pie in the refrigerator that looked like it came from the bakery around the corner, which did an excellent apple and an above-average peach. He hadn’t been able to tell which it was without breaking the seal, but his hope had been with the peach.

 

"Yes, that one. The FBI agent, your brother. He called and said he was coming but he might be a little late. And no, he doesn't need your help, he wanted you to know, though he said he might talk to you about something tomorrow, if you're free. But I'm sure he'll tell you about that when he gets here."

 

Alan's glance in his direction was just short of a glare, and Larry forced himself to sit up a little straighter, though the movement caused Charles to again tighten his death grip on Larry's shoulders, which were now going a little numb.

 

"Charles, why don’t you have a seat?"

 

Alan went back into the kitchen and Charles' face was set into a very forced and unattractive smile.

 

"I'm fine."

 

"Well I am not, and as ridiculous as this situation is, I'd like to retain, if not my dignity, then at least what's left of my posture."

 

"What? Oh."

 

"Yes, and thank you. Why don't I continue my work and you can do yours and somehow, I imagine we'll get through brisket without incident and then I can at last return to my home while I am still very much alive to enjoy it."

 

"I could come over tonight. Later."

 

"Later? Well, that would be cowardly, Charles. But yes, you can come over, of course, if you want to and are motivated by more than an adolescent desire to give your father what for."

"What for?"

 

"It's an expression. At least I think it is. My point, in any case, is that I would be most pleased to continue to enjoy your company this evening, especially if you somehow manage to bring along that peach pie I expect your father will not serve this evening."

"It's apple."

 

"Disappointing." He nodded, deciding that it was in keeping with his day. Still, he had some cheddar in the fridge and it would make a fine breakfast, assuming, as he did, that Charles wouldn't sneak out of the house until after Alan had retired to bed.

 

How Charles excused himself to Don was his own problem, and not something Larry was going to spend time worrying about. It was bad enough that Charles insisted on maintaining the fiction (long after they all knew it was such) that they were "just friends."

 

He could always buy a peach pie tomorrow, though, like the pen, it wouldn’t be quite the same.

 

"I think I have a headache," Charles sat down and all but whined, staring at the far wall, and Larry closed his eyes, feeling the beginnings of his own headache starting at his shoulders and moving upward along his shattered nerves. It was probably a sign of just how compatible they were, that Charles was able to share his problems with him so… thoroughly.

 

"Have another beer," he suggested, blinking until the pain started to recede into the background where he tracked it along with the sounds of Alan's cooking, the clatter of the pan coming out of the oven and plates coming down from the second shelf beside the refrigerator.

 

"I haven't finished this one."

 

Larry turned and grabbed Charles' beer, draining the remaining third of it. "There. Now get two more and an analgesic and—"

 

"And?"

 

Charles stood up and looked at him, his head cocked at an angle, eyebrows elevated, lower lip a little wet and pink. Larry let his eyes linger over the pleasing familiarity of that face, still so young but already troubled by thoughts far too large to be contained or repressed. Though Charles did try. Already, Larry could and did trace out where the lines would fall, in the furrow between his brows and at the corners of his dark eyes.

 

"And I love you," he said, forcing the words out, because he didn't say them often, and they didn't come very easily.

 

But Charles' hand came up to rub at his face, a somewhat disturbing mirroring of Larry's own habitual gesture, and then he smiled, entirely too brightly for someone complaining of a headache, and Larry frowned.

 

"Oh, no. He's thought of something."

 

And Charles nodded, showing a grin that, much like his father, had more than a bit of the wolf in it. "Yes, yes, I have."

 

"Do I want to know? No—of course I don't."

 

"I thought of what to write on that notepad."

 

"Oh, no. No. That's not—Charles, I realize this may seem like a good idea right now, but—"

 

"Oh, don't worry. I'll wait until you leave."

 

"Charles? Please don't do this. Please. I beg of you."

 

"What?" Charles held out his hands, palms up, face entirely, falsely innocent. "You don't even know what I'm going to write."

 

"Nor do I want to. I really don't. And I'm sincere about that. Leave me in ignorance. Or better yet, take a moment and reconsider any rash action and where it might—no, of course you're not listening."

 

Seven hours later, in bed, he rolled over, completely unable to sleep because of that damned note.

 

"I surrender."

 

"You do? You completely give up?"

 

"Completely, totally, yes. Yes, I do. I have reached into the bowels of my brain and come up with nothing you could write that would account for the look of unrepentant, if juvenile, mania on your face when you arrived here tonight. And that fact alone is troubling."

 

"The bowels of your brain?"

 

"It's three in the morning, Charles. And you have me at a disadvantage."

 

"Hmm. Yes, I do."

 

And he really had spent considerable time working the problem, arriving at the conclusion that Charles was somehow unaware of the doctrine of mutually assured destruction and its implications for close-knit families of exceedingly stubborn men. And he had yet to figure out just how to share that insight with any of those exceedingly stubborn men, though he'd somehow hoped that Charles, as the youngest, would be most malleable. Unfortunately, Charles seemed to take after Margaret in ways that continued to surprise him.

"I wrote—"

 

"No—never-mind." He put a hand over Charles' mouth, suddenly realizing that yes, there was indeed a moment of no return—a point at which he could and should stand firm and neutral if he had any hope at all of resuming his once only slightly awkward membership in the Eppes family. "Let that be your little secret." He almost said, "Let me be your little secret," but it was far too late for that, as Charles had now twice given in to his impetuous need to confront his father and damn the consequences.

He removed his hand from Charles' mouth and rolled over onto his front, hoping that now that he'd confronted the problem, sleep would come.

 

"Hmph. Are you sure?"

 

"No—yes. I'm sure. You didn't—"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"You didn't reveal anything that could be considered compromising—"

 

"I can keep a secret, Larry. Why doesn’t anyone believe that I can keep a secret?"

 

"I really have no idea."

 

Larry shut his eyes, because whatever Charles had, in his rash approximation of wit, written in that note, it would still be there in the morning, along with the half an apple pie now in his own refrigerator, which Charles was here to share, and that was surely testament to something: the persistence of love in the face of human error, or the optimism that allowed for anyone to imagine victory in a world where Valentin couldn't distinguish a ball from a chalked-in third-base line.

 

"Look—I'll give you a hint. Wait—what, exactly, do you consider compromising?"

 

"That's—yes—that would be compromising. Yes."

 

"Oh, okay. Well, I didn't write that. Obviously."

 

"Obviously," Larry agreed, but only because he was pretty sure Charles didn’t know how to spell it.

 

And that thought, more than anything Charles did, kept him awake the rest of the night.

 

 

The End.

 

Feed the Muse.

 

For Fara, with apologies for this being both short and surprisingly tame, given who wrote it!

Thanks to Kate, who acknowledged that reading this "trumped cleaning." But also because she laughs in all the right places, and liked the baseball!