Twilight Child (16 page)

 He had kissed
her good-bye deeply and sweetly, actually feeling good for the first time in
months.

 The guys in
the plant also remembered, which had really touched him. He had found a card
pasted on the door of his locker signed by all the other inspectors, and Barney
Harris, his coworker of many years, told him he had invited some of the boys to
join them at the Friendly Tavern to down a few brews and pay their respects to
an older man. It was something to look forward to. He remembered almost feeling
on the cusp of some kind of a renewal.

 At least that
was the way he had felt all morning. People slapped him on the back, wished him
happy birthday, made a joke or two about his age, and offered good wishes. It
was nice to feel noticed. He hadn't really made any enemies in the thirty-five
years he had worked at the plant. Hell, he wasn't really what you would call a
good ol' boy, but he hadn't been standoffish either, like some. Not until
lately. And that was by Charlie and Molly's own choice. Maybe someday, if the
hurt ever subsided and the reminders faded, they might be able to pick up where
they had left off. That is, if anyone was left by then. Many of their friends
were retiring and heading south. In any event, it was nice having the boys
remember.

 He had lunch
in the cafeteria, and the guys stuck a candle in a chocolate cupcake and did
the one thing he had banned from his impending night out with Molly—sang happy
birthday. They hammed it up, of course, embarrassed to have shown any kind of
mushy sentiment. It was funny as hell. But from that moment on, it was downhill
all the way.

 After lunch
Harry Evans, the top supervisor of his section, called him into his office.
They had known each other for years, and it had rankled Charlie to see the man jump
across the worker-management line. But they had maintained a good working
relationship, and it wasn't unreasonable to expect Evans to offer a greeting on
his birthday. There was a lot of feel-good stuff going on at the plant these
days. The recession had actually brought the remaining senior workers closer
together. They weren't really competing with each other anymore. The objective
was to stay on the job.

 “Sixty years.
You old son-of-a-gun,” Evans had said to him after first asking him to sit
down. That was the first sign of anything really unusual. Evans was a bulky,
jolly man with thick shaggy eyebrows, deep-set, rheumy eyes, and a well-earned
drinker's nose.

 “Just another
day,” Charlie shrugged.

 “I'll say
this, Charlie. You don't look it.”

 “My wife told
me that this morning,” he said, blushing.

 “And I bet
that's not all.” Evans broke up in laughter. Charlie, slightly resentful of the
intruding personal image, smiled thinly.

 “Well, I got
you a birthday present, hoss,” Evans had said.

 Charlie was
beyond promotion and wages were fixed. He was genuinely puzzled and had no idea
what response was required.

 “New company
policy. You hit sixty, you get a bonus. Early retirement. No penalty. The full
deal.”

 It had been a
company policy for months, an optional choice. He had already decided not to
take it.

 “I'm not
ready for that, Harry,” he had replied, slightly relieved. He was not looking
for any changes in his life. He'd had more than enough of those in the last few
months.

 “I'd say you're
right about that, Charlie. You're not ready to pack it in completely, and I
know you won't. It's only the plant that you'll be leaving.”

 “Leaving?”

 His heart had
begun to thump wildly against his rib cage.

 “Mandatory.
First of the year for all people in your category sixty or over. You lucky
son-of-a-gun. The full deal. No penalty.”

 “But I don't
want it, Harry.”

 “Are you
crazy, Charlie?”

 “What the
hell would I do?”

 “You gotta be
kiddin' me. You're home free, Charlie. Think of it as a kiss, not a kiss-off.”

 “Why?”

 “To make way
for the younger guys, the ones with the growing families. They don't want old
gray-heads around. Hell, in two more years I'm taking the boat. With joy,
Charlie. With joy.”

 “My work was
never better—” Charlie stammered. “I mean, it takes years to train a good
quality-control inspector. Not a piece of pipe goes out of here out of spec.
I'm one of the best in the business.”

 “What the
hell has that got to do with it?”

 “I'm good at
it, that's what. And not easy to replace.” He felt belligerence begin and a
flush rise to his cheeks.

 Evans pulled
his chair closer to his desk and leaned over it. His breath smelled of sour
booze. Lifting a fat finger, he jabbed it in Charlie's direction.

 “Let me tell
you about your so-called work. It ain't personal, Charlie. But half the workers
in this plant, more than half, are as obsolete as the Model T. You included.
The Japs can do the work of our entire department with one newfangled robot.
You're yesterday, Charlie. Not you. But the work you do. Same goes for me and
the others. A little chip no bigger than the head of a pin can do your job.
You're dead, man. Prehistoric.” He had gotten beet red in his face. “Take the
money and run, Charlie. You got no choice.”

 “No appeal
procedures?”

 “It's all
agreed. Frozen in.” He shook his head. “You should be jumping up and down and
dancing for joy. The way I'll be doing. What the devil you think you been
working for all these years? For the piece of paper, man. The discharge. Get
out and see the world. Hell, you still got the stuff to pull down a paycheck in
a whole new job. Learn computers, Charlie. That's where it's at. Otherwise
you're obsolete. Like the P-47. Remember the P-47?”

 No point in
sitting there listening to all that talk about his present usefulness. He got
up.

 “It's still
hush-hush, Charlie,” Evans told him. “Don't say nothing to anyone. It's going
to be announced just before Christmas. I just thought that seeing how long we
know each other, it would be nice to have given you this tidbit on your
birthday.” He shook his head. “I swear I never expected this reaction. Never.”

 “Yeah,”
Charlie had said, rising, perfunctorily taking Evans's sweaty fat hand.

 “Congratulations.”

 “Yeah.”

 Charlie
turned, felt a weakness in his knees, but managed to limp out of Evans's
office.

 “Happy
birthday,” Evans called to him, just before he shut the door.

 He hadn't
gone back to the floor. He couldn't even remember getting to his locker, where
he changed into his heavy jacket and just walked out the door, an act of
irresponsibility he had never committed in his life. It was as if a volcano had
erupted inside him and the molten lava covered everything, body and mind, and
there was just no way that the outrage, the explosive anger, the indignity and
insult and humiliation could get outside of himself.

 Even as he
drove, he was conscious that he had little control over his actions. He was
like a guided missile, carefully set and programmed, speeding toward an
irreversible destination. It was not simply the idea of obsolescence. He had
known that for years. Nor was it the aftermath of Chuck's death. He had begun
to weather the storm. Perhaps he had even gotten used to Tray's absence. It
was, in fact, beyond analysis, then or now. He had simply lost his insight, as
if he had died and didn't know it, had disappeared and, since he was a
nonperson and obsolete, he was also unseen, invisible even to himself. What,
then, was left to lose?

 Yet there was
a certain cunning in living through it. He drove by rote and soon he was
pulling into his own garage and ransacking the shed in the yard. Without any
conscious mental effort, he removed the little pull wagon that had been Chuck's
and then Tray's and wiped it off with a rag until the name he had stenciled on
the rear was clearly visible.
Three Charlies
, it read. Have to repaint
it again, he thought, as he carried it to his car and slid it into the back
seat.

 He drove the
thirty miles to Columbia as if he had driven it every day. A few weeks after Tray
had left, he and Molly had gone there. Curiosity, they told themselves. It made
them feel like fugitive aliens in a hostile land, crossing into forbidden
territories with no hope of acceptance. They had driven the car slowly past the
neat, large, two-story colonial where Frances and Tray now lived with her new
husband. More than words, the house told them how terribly deep the chasm
between their lives had become. One glimpse and they hurried away.
Inexplicably, Charlie had felt ashamed, failed, but he did not convey his
feelings to Molly.

 He parked the
car in front of the school nearest to the house. He did not question his
judgment, nor was he certain that this was the school Tray attended. He was not
operating with any logic. All he knew was that it was school time and that Tray
should be in school and that this school was closest and therefore the logical
choice. He removed the wagon from the back seat and carried it through the main
entrance.

 Because of
Molly's long career as a teacher and his many visits, the atmosphere of schools
was not new to him and he quickly found his way to the door marked Office of
the Principal. He felt no anxiety, no second thoughts, not the slightest doubt
of the correctness of his actions. An administrative secretary worked in the
outer office, a gray-haired lady who squinted through rimless glasses and
looked at him with curiosity as he entered.

 “I'm Charles
Wat—” he began, momentarily swallowing his words. “Graham.” He had paused, just
to make sure he was fully composed and calm and that the woman would be assured
that he posed no threat to her. Even the use of Peter's last name was meant to
put the woman at her ease, just in case she knew what had happened in the
family. Since he had not consciously planned what he was doing, it surprised
him to hear his own voice. “I'm Charles Everett Waters's grandfather. He's in
the second grade, I think. Nothing serious. No trouble. I'm leaving town, you
see, and I promised to say good-bye.” The woman's eyes were observing the wagon
and he looked down at it. “And give him this. A gift.” He put the wagon on the
office floor, holding the pull rope.

 “It is rather
unusual,” she had said, carefully inspecting him. Despite the instinctive way
in which he was operating, it did occur to him that he looked, in his factory
work clothes, much different from most aging males in this exclusively
white-collar neighborhood. What you see is what you get, he told himself, oddly
proud of the difference. I yam what I yam, an inner voice chirped. In his mind,
he heard a distant giggle.

 “I know,” he
responded softly. “My wife teaches over at Dundalk.”

 “Oh,” the
woman said, smiling, perhaps reassured by the camaraderie of employment.

 “It'll only
take a minute,” Charlie insisted.

 The woman hesitated,
looked down at the wagon, then shrugged.

 “He'll get a
kick out of it,” Charlie pressed.

 “It's very
irregular.”

 “I'm his old
grampa,” Charlie said, offering a shy smile. “It'll mean a lot to him.”

 She stood up
and grinned, then shook her head and moved into the corridor. He followed her,
pulling the wagon. The squeaky wheel caused the woman to turn and look back at
him.

 “Needs oil,”
he said, still smiling. It did not occur to him that he was outlandish then, an
older man pulling a child's wagon in a school corridor. The woman stopped in
front of a classroom door, looked back and put a finger over her lips, and
stepped inside. He waited, leaning against the wall. Reaching for a cigarette,
he put it in his mouth, then, remembering that it was forbidden, took it out
again.

 “He'll be
right out,” the woman said, popping her head out the classroom door.

 He nodded.
But he felt his inner calm eroding. The gray-haired lady emerged holding the
boy by the hand. It wasn't the same Tray he had imagined. Two years had taken
the edge off babyhood. He had grown, and he seemed aloof, a stranger. He had
expected the boy to run into his arms. Instead, he hung back, confused.

 “They're
doing reading,” the gray-haired lady said.

 “I was next,”
Tray exclaimed with an air of disappointment. “I practiced, too.”

 “Your
grandfather just wanted to say good-bye,” the lady said, winking at Charlie.
“And to give you this.” She pointed to the wagon. The boy looked at it,
continuing to be perplexed. “You really shouldn't be too long.” If she was
surprised that the boy still stood his distance, she said nothing. “I'll leave
you two alone.” She raised a finger in mock rebuke. “And remember. Not long.”
Charlie lingered, afraid to confront the boy. Watching her as she walked back
to her office, he realized he had begun to sweat. When he turned finally, Tray
was watching him with curiosity.

 “That's a
baby wagon,” he said.

 “I didn't
know you got so big, kiddo.”

 “I'm the
third biggest.”

 “Just like
your old man.”

 The boy
shrugged, not answering. He kicked his heel into the floor.

 “I'm Grampa,”
Charlie said.

 “I know
that,” Tray said.

 How long had
it been? Charlie thought. Less than two years. Sweat began to ooze down from
his hairline.

 “Thought I'd
come by to say hello,” Charlie shrugged. “And to give you that.” He pointed to
the wagon. “After all, it's yours, Tray. Remember when I painted it? Used to be
your father's.”