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thoughts. Even now it was painful; it was something he didn't want to remember. |
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His father's strong, thick fingers were locked around his tiny wrist and dragging him out of the back seat of the old Packard. Theodore wasn't like that. Theodore walked ahead; he was brave and held his head high, like he was marching to the beat of some silent drummer. Theodore wasn't afraid, like he was. |
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Charlie looked up into his father's stern, grim face, and he could see just how much his father despised him for being what he was. He was trying desperately not to let the childish protest escape, but it did, and his small tremulous voice reverberated through the throng of mourners. "No,' he pleaded, "please, Daddy, don't make me." |
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The outburst only served to make the coiled steel grip on his wrist grow tighter. |
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"What the hell's wrong with you, boy? Look at your brother! Look at Theodore! You don't see him hangin' back, whimpering like some damn beaten dog." |
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"Please, Daddy, don't . . . " Even now he could hear his childish plea. The whole thing was indelibly, permanently etched into the darkest recesses of his mind like acid eaten into stone. |
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"Charles, dammit," he remembered his fa- |
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