Character: Charlie Liddle
Time/Location: 11:30am | Library Front Desk, Downtown Dawn Chorus
Scene Status: Open
Tagging: @pixel. (Randall McDMcdougall),
@Lydia (Grace Letts),
@Vinaein (Victor Simms)
Charlie only stood in tight-lipped silence while Rand finished his business at the front desk. She'd offered Grace a plain, half-smile that apologized more than it did anything. Sorry, about that, it said. I know you're newer in town and this, along with everything else, has probably left a bad taste in your mouth. Sorry that I never made the effort to introduce myself when I
know you
saw me
see you jogging. Sorry, that I can't seem to remember your last name right now. Sorry, about the dead man in the street and sorry, really, that everything ugly and profane decided to wake up to greet you at the door.
Had she been aware of Frank's contribution to her morning, perhaps even big sorries wouldn't make up for
that Liddle disaster.
She exhaled, shifted her weight from one foot to the other and grabbed – albeit softly – at Rand's elbow as he looked to be finishing. "Come on," she said to him and his book, keeping his pace before hers as they moved toward the exit. Already shaking her head by the time they'd made it to the entry, she did her best to keep any thoughts from spilling out until they were well out of earshot. When she did circle around to face him, she was still eyeing him with that same stern, perhaps disappointed, frown.
"Honest to goodness, Mr. McDougall, I don't understand." She wondered if he even recalled their brief encounter from the previous night; his and her brother's jabbering and the waterfall of beer down her front. Mostly, she wondered if there was any recollection rattling about in there for anything that wasn't his most current fascination. His entire expression had seemed to shift some, and perhaps it was for this that Charlie found the required indignation to continue. "Hittin' people? Victor Simms? That man never hurt a hair on anyone's head, and you go in there 'n slug him? Come on!" She said again, tugging at the sleeve of his coat. "It's cold out here, and if we're fixin' to talk, then we'll do it where it's warm."
The interior of the prowler wasn't much better, but at least it was away from the constant, distant, hammering of nails and the bluster of a wind colder than Charlie could remember for this time of year. They sat, she in the front and he in the back, for a moment in silence before she attempted to start the engine. It fizzled once, then again before starting.
Her eyes found his via the rearview, "Honest to goodness, Mr. McDougall," she repeated, "I just don't understand ya'll. I know you know my brother, and I know you've seen what a fool he makes of himself sometimes. Maybe you can tell me a 'lil about it, huh? What makes ya'll think the world owes you somethin', and that if you ain't getting' it, it's time to start throwin' fists?" Her pitch was climbing, quickly, and the lids of her eyes were fluttering, clenching, narrowing her eyes to slits. Rand didn't need to be facing her to know she was working herself up to something, and that he might've had very little to do with it all said and done.
The engine sputtered, threatening to die if they idled too long.
Somehow, Charlie caught herself, and replaced whatever might have followed with another slow exhale. Not asking, she shifted the prowler into drive and pulled through an empty space. "I can't let'cha stay here." A turn onto Primrose, "Can't just drop you off any ol' place; liable to hit someone again." Another turn and a red light, this time on Chorus Avenue. Charlie kept her foot on the accelerator while they idled. "So, you're comin' with me," eyes to the rearview, "jus' for a bit. Jus' so I know you ain't out there pickin' more fights I'll have to clean up." She waved, mostly on instinct, to a pedestrian who seemed more concerned with the man sitting behind her. "Won't be so bad – the guys usually take in from Palmeri's on Monday. Sandwiches. I bet we can get'cha some lunch if we hurry. So, it'll be quiet, ain't nobody gonna bother ya, 'n I'll come check on ya later. You can ask me any question you want then, okay? Can't promise I'll have'n answer for ya."
Another half block crawled by before she spoke again. "Y'know, I don't think you were really mad at Mr. Simms back there. Or me. Or anyone else you might'a squared up against this mornin'." She made sure his own, watery stare fixed on her before continuing, "I think you're scared. I think you're scared, and mad, and confused that..." her mouth had suddenly become very dry, "that ...someone's comin' into our home and takin' us. Takin' us 'n hurtin' us, and there ain't a thing nobody can do about it." Grateful, then, that Rand couldn't see where her own bottom lip was teetering toward a frown of anguish, she kept speaking even if the tremble of her voice forfeited too much. "You 'n me have lived here a long time, Mr. McDougall. Our whole lives, maybe. My whole life ...not sure about you, I guess." She was beyond caring if he was even listening. The words were flowing, and Charlie was powerless to stop them.
"Maybe you don't remember, but you told me somethin' once – about bein' scared. I must'a been ...six or seven; real young, 'n my dad and me were at the vet. Back when that white-haired fella ran the place, so it must'a been a real long time ago. We had this dog, Bobo, and she was havin' surgery, and I was cryin' and cryin' in the waitin' room." She laughed, softly, at her own memory. "My dad must'a been talkin' to the doctor or somethin', cuz I remember I was sittin' there, alone, cryin' buttermilk, when I saw you and your cat." She glanced at him for any sign of recognition, "and you asked me why I was cryin'. I said that I was scared that Bobo was scared too, and that she'd hate me for lettin' 'em take her."
Another red light at Hopewell St. This one taking close to an eternity to let no one through.
"And you said to me, that they don't get scared the same way we do. That as long as I was there for her, when she came back, that she'd stop bein' scared and forget all about that place." She was peering at him through the rearview with this strange blend of nostalgia and vulnerability that lasted just long enough for the light to turn green. "Maybe you don't remember that," she murmured, more to herself than to him. "But I do."
They were nearing the intersection with Netherland Avenue. Cleanup from the previous night was underway; the section of street where Morris had collapsed still taped off. Even without it, nobody seemed too curious, and had given the area and most of that block a wide berth all morning.
"So?" She asked, her tone nowhere as slanted against him as it had been. "You gonna come on back to the station? Or is there still somethin' out there that needs doin'? I can't promise the next time we get called, you'll get such a fair deal."
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