Tuesdays with Charles

Charles stayed close to the door, holding his mother's hand. He could never remember being in a hospital before, and he had never been near a dead or dying person, but he could feel a palpable sense of death's approach in the crowded room, and it frightened him, especially since everyone in the room stared at him as soon as he entered. Just as terrifying was the man laying in the bed twenty feet away, breathing heavily with the aid of a machine. Everyone, including Charles, called him Big Daddy, though he was not of course Charles's actual father, but rather his great-grandfather. At only six years old, Charles had heard enough to know and to fear Big Daddy, despite having rarely seen him. He squeezed closer to his mother's leg.

Big Daddy had been only an idea, a phantom, until about a year ago, until Scott, the youngest child of Big Daddy's youngest daughter, and the only son of any of Big Daddy's four daughters, had been killed in a car accident. Scott had seemed unapproachably adult and mature to Charles, though he was in reality still only in college and mourned as the death of a child by his family. A few weeks later, Big Daddy came to visit, though Charles never saw him, being sternly instructed to stay upstairs in his room. Then there had been shouting and fights, and Charles heard about Big Daddy no more, until today.

Now the old man's glassy eyes sharpened up, looking at Charles's mother. "The boy," he wheezed, "He's here. Let me see him. Let me talk."

No one moved, and at first Charles wasn't sure he'd actually heard anything. Then he realized that his mother was unsure what to do, and her indecision scared him. Finally, she reached down and picked him up. He turned and looked back to the closed door as she carried him to the bed.

"Sit him down here, let me talk to him," Big Daddy said. His mother only complied halfway, standing Charles down on the floor two feet away from the bed. Charles turned and looked and knew he was watching a person die.

"Come here, come here son, I have to talk to you. I have to tell you something."

Charles edged closer, slowly. Suddenly a jaundiced, scabbed hand shot out, grabbing his arm and dragging him closer to the bed. Another reached out, shoving his mother away. Big Daddy leaned in close.

"You know," Big Daddy whisper so low that only Charles could hear him, and barely, "I've always done things the way I knew they needed to be done. You won't understand it now, but I've always done what I had to do, and I did it the way I wanted. I've done some things I wish I hadn't, but it made me strong. It made me powerful, and feared. You're scared now, aren't you?"

Charles nodded, tears slowly welling in his eyes.

"That's good, but you shouldn't be. You need to know, and you need to remember. You have to understand."

Suddenly Big Daddy began to cough, violently. Loud beeps and noises filled the room. The family was shoved away as nurses, and then doctors, crowded in around the bed.

Big Daddy began waving his arms wildly, shoving a nurse aside and almost falling off the bed as he reached out to grab Charles, pulling him close again.

"You have to remember this, Charles. You have to know this." Big Daddy was panting, his mouth bleeding. "Know this one thing, that my father told me, and his father told him, and now I'm telling you."

Charles looked, and the room seemed to stop all its motion.

"You've got to understand, haters gonna hate."

A doctor pulled Big Daddy back onto the bed. Charles's mother grabbed him and ran out of the room. Neither of them ever saw Big Daddy again.