The Rule of Four

Pretty good, considering.

He manages to smile. When he tries to peer down at himself, though, I realize he has no idea how he looks. He is just together enough to know he shouldn't trust his senses.

Anyone else come to see you? I ask.

It takes him awhile to answer. Not Gil, if that's what you mean.

I mean anyone.

Maybe you missed my mom out there. Charlie smiles, and repeats himself without noticing. She's easy to miss,

I look out the doorway again. Mrs. Freeman is still talking to the doctor.

Don't worry, Charlie says, misunderstanding. He'll come.

But by now the nurse has called everyone who might care that Charlie is conscious again. If Gil isn't here already, he's not coming.

Hey, Charlie says, changing the subject. You okay with what happened back there?

When?

You know. What Tart said,

I try to call up the words. We were at the Institute hours ago. It's probably the last thing he remembers.

About your dad. Charlie tries to reposition himself and winces.

I stare at the railing, suddenly pinned. Mrs. Freeman has bullied the doctor enough that he finally leads her into a private room to confer. The two of them disappear behind a distant door, and now the hallway is empty.

Look, Charlie says faintly, don't let someone like that mess with your head.

This is what Charlie does on death's door. He thinks about my problems.

I'm glad you're okay, I tell him.

I know he's about to say something smart, when he feels the pressure I'm putting on his hand and keeps it simple.

Me too.

Charlie smiles at me again, then laughs. ''I'll be damned, he says, and shakes his head. His eyes are focused on something beyond me. I'll be damned, he says again.

He's fading, I think. But when I turn around, Gil is standing in the doorway, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

I stole these from the ball arrangements, he says hesitantly, as if he's not sure he's welcome here. You better like them.

No wine? Charlie's voice is faint.

Gil gives an awkward smile. Only the cheap stuff for you. He walks forward and extends a hand to Charlie.

The nurse told me we've got two minutes, Gil offers. How are you feeling?

Been better, Charlie says. Been worse.

I think your mom's here, Gil replies, still searching for a way to begin.

Charlie's starting to drift, but manages another smile. She's easy to miss.

You're not going to check out on us tonight, are you? Gil asks quietly.

Out of the hospital? Charlie says, too far away now to know how the question was meant.

Yeah.

Maybe, Charlie whispers. The food in here-he exhales-is terrible.

His head falls back onto the pillow just as the leather-faced nurse returns to say our time is up, that Charlie needs his rest.

Sleep tight, chief, Gil says, putting the bouquet on the nightstand.

Charlie doesn't hear him. He's already breathing through his mouth.

As we leave I look back at him, propped up in his bed, swaddled in bandages and guarded by IVs. It reminds me of comic books I used to read as a kid. The fallen giant that medicine rebuilt. The mysterious patient's recovery that amazed local doctors. Darkness falls on Gotham, but the headlines are all the same. Today a superhero wrestled with a force of nature and lived to complain about the food.

He's going to be okay? Gil asks, when we reach the visitor's parking lot. The Saab is sitting alone in the lot, its hood still warm enough to have melted the falling snow.

I think so.

His chest looks pretty bad.

I don't know what rehab is like for burn victims, but getting used to your own skin again can't be easy.

I didn't think you were going to show up, I tell him.

Gil hesitates. I wish I'd been there with you guys.

When?

All day.

Is that a joke?

He turns to me. No. What's that supposed to mean?

We stop just short of the car. I realize I'm angry at him, angry at how hard it was for him to find anything to say to Charlie, angry at the way he seemed afraid to visit Charlie this afternoon.

You were where you wanted to be, I say.

I came as soon as I heard.

You weren't with us.

When? he asks. This morning?

This whole time.

Jesus. Tom…

You know why he's in there? I say.

Because he made the wrong decision.

Because he tried to help. He didn't want us going into Taft's office alone. He didn't want Paul to get hurt in the tunnels.

What do you want, Tom? An apology? Mea culpa. I can't compete with Charlie. That's the way he is. That's the way he's always been.

That's the way you were. You know what Mrs. Freeman said to me in there? The first thing she brought up? Stealing the clapper out of Nassau Hall.

Gil runs his fingers through his hair.

She blames me for that. She always has. You know why?

Because she thinks Charlie's a saint.

Because she can't believe you're the kind of person who ever would've done something like that.

He exhales. So what?

You are the kind of person who would've done something like that. You did do that.

He seems unsure what to say. Does it occur to you that maybe I'd had half a dozen beers that night before I ran into you guys? Maybe I wasn't thinking straight.

Or maybe you were different then.

Yes, Tom. Maybe I was.

Silence falls. The first dimples of snow are forming on the hood of the Saab. Somehow, the words amount to a confession.

Look, he says, I'm sorry.

For what?

I should've gone in to see Charlie the first time. When I saw you and Paul.

Forget it.

I'm stubborn. I've always been stubborn.

He emphasizes always, as if to say, Look, Tom, some things haven't changed.