“You said Roger wouldn’t kill him,” I argue.
“You should’ve asked me, and I could’ve kept an eye on things before my brother got hurt!”
“Look!” I snap. “I’m sorry, but something drastic had to happen. The people in this town see George falling and keep handing him a fucking crutch because they feel sorry for him because he’s grieving you. If I’m going to help him, so that I can help you, he needs to be clean, which means he needed some sense knocked into him.”
“This wasn’t your call to make.”
I laugh bitterly at him. “Oh. I see. So I’m just a fucking puppet for you? You call the shots, and I simply obey, is that it?”
“He’s my brother!”
“I’m well fucking aware of who he is, Ike!” I shout. “And who am I?”
He stares at me blankly a moment. “Who are you?” he asks, confused, as if he doesn’t understand my meaning.
“I’m the only fucking person here that’s able, and willing, to help you, so get off my ass!” I stomp away and head toward my truck, leaving Ike to fume.
After Charlotte cleans George and removes his bloodied shirt, she leaves him on the sofa, placing a blanket over him. I’m mad as hell at her and decide it’s better not to speak or I may say something I’ll regret. How could she be so reckless with his life? What if Roger had pulled a gun on him?
After she scrubs his house top to bottom, ignoring me as she works, she dozes off in the recliner near the couch around one in the morning and I simply stare at her. Maybe this was a huge mistake. Maybe I was wrong to make her help me. I need her to help me save George, not get him killed. Another hour passes and George begins to stir. Sitting up slowly, he places a hand to his swollen eye, wincing when he does. “Fuck,” he grunts.
Scooting forward, he reaches for the coffee table, his hand fumbling across the surface, freezing when he finds it cleaned. Charlotte got rid of all the trash, and even polished the table with Windex. His head jerks to the recliner where Charlotte sits and he jumps up, groaning as if his bruised ribs are screaming painfully in torture. Of course, Charlotte doesn’t wake at the sound of his agony; she could sleep through a hurricane. George stumbles into the kitchen, ripping open the drawer closest to the fridge, looking for his stash, only to find it empty. Charlotte looked in every drawer and cabinet, flushing anything she found. She even looked in the toilet tanks.
“Charlotte,” I say, loudly, as I watch George morph into anger and panic. He wants his drugs badly, and he knows exactly who to blame for not being able to have them. She doesn’t flinch. George slams the drawer shut and opens the cabinet above the stove where he keeps his liquor. It’s all poured out. Gone.
“Charlotte!” I boom, and her eyes barely crack open as she shifts her position in the recliner. “Wake the fuck up! He’s pissed!” George slams the cabinet door shut and beelines straight for her. Charlotte snaps up like someone’s electrocuted her, shooting her gaze to George. I expected to see fear in her eyes—after all, he does look like he’s going to murder her—but instead, she welcomes it. She wants his wrath.
“Are you fucking crazy?” I ask as she fights the smile dancing on her lips.
“What the fuck have you done?” he shouts as he stomps right to her, rage pooling in the one eye not swollen shut, fists clenched at his sides.
“Whatever do you mean, George?” she asks calmly, as if he isn’t practically breathing fire in her face.
“Where the fuck is it?”
“Where is what?” She plays dumb.
He steps back and tugs at his hair as if he’s trying to keep control. “My whiskey, my . . .” He pauses. He knows she knows about the drugs, yet he can’t even say it.
“Your coke?” she questions.
His head snaps up, his one eye glaring at her. “This is my house. You have no right to be here messing with my shit!”
Charlotte shrugs nonchalantly. “I drew the short straw. Had to bring you home after you got your ass kicked by Misty’s boyfriend.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” he grumbles.
“Was it?” she asks sardonically. “I mean, the entire town knows you’ve been sleeping with her even though she dates the town drug dealer.”
“Well it’s none of their business, and it sure as hell isn’t any of yours! You owe me three hundred dollars!”
“I don’t owe you shit!” Charlotte yells back, her own fists clenched at her sides. “I’m trying to help you.”
George steps back, shaking his head. “I didn’t ask for your help,” he says calmly, but the bite is still there.
“Well, you’re getting it anyway. You need it.”
“What are you? Some kind of fucking martyr? Gee, thanks, Mother Teresa, but I’m good. You can go.” George stomps into his bedroom, and Charlotte stares after him.
“Maybe you should go,” I urge, not wanting her to push it. He’ll have nothing to do with her if she pisses him off anymore. Then what will I do?
“No,” she grumbles and stomps off after him.