White Out by Michael W Clune Page B

guys were all friends. Crazy stuff like that was always happening in that room.”
    “I know,” Charlie said darkly.
    “But now,” I said, trying to be sensitive, “thinking about it, it does seem kind of awful.”
    “I know,” Charlie muttered. “It was especially awful for me,” he continued. “Because the Andersons constantly molested me.
    “They’d take me downstairs. She would hold both of my hands. Soft at first, but then tight.” He demonstrated, grabbing my wrists.
    “She’d have hot chocolate. Mountain Dew. But not too much because I’d have to go to the bathroom.” I had a bad thought. “Mr. Anderson would wave to me if he saw me on the street. ‘Hey how are ya, Charlie!’ “
    Granted, the Dirty Ray incident, taken out of the haze and smoke of Charlie’s dorm room two years ago and placed in the strong spring sunlight, didn’t look too good. But it would be insane to believe that big, strong Charlie had been molested two years ago by a middle-aged couple living behind his dorm.
    “Only two sips of Mountain Dew. But I’d have to go to the bathroom anyway.”
    Could he be talking about something that had really happened to him? Maybe in his childhood? Maybe in another old white house? Had the white of another white house gotten stuck to the house behind Harkness? Or could it be possible that a couple who had molested Charlie when he was a child was now living here in Ohio?
    “They said if I ever told anyone they’d kill me. Well you know what, Mike? You know what?” I shook my head. I was very aware of everything that was happening. “Maybe I should kill them. I’ve got everything I need. I’ve been watching their house. I know when they go to sleep.”
    “Charlie, I—” He cut me off. His eyes were white all the way around the iris.
    “No, why should I go to jail? Let them. I’m going to go to the police. I’ll show them where it is. The basement.” Half a foot from my face, his intense white eyes stared through me.
    “Charlie—”
    “Because I don’t know if I can take knowing they’re out there anymore, Mike.”
    I had another bad thought. More than likely there was no other white house in Charlie’s childhood, no evil older couple anywhere. It would be insane to believe what Charlie was saying. It would be insane to believe what Charlie obviously believed.
    This wasn’t the first time. Cash. Andy. Funboy. Dorsom. All my life I’ve been drawn to extrasensory people. People who see through things. Charlie’s too-white eyes kept staring through me. Sweat shone on his cheeks. I was drawn to people who wanted things. “I’ll kill them, Mike.” What did Charlie want? There was some red in his eyes now, and they were full of tears. Andy and Dorsom are dead. Cash is in an institution. I don’t know where Charlie is. There is no end to wanting. When you have senses that go through things like a chainsaw, one day you’ll look around and there will be nothing left.
    To write is to study the self. “To study the self is to forget the self.” To forget the self is to be open to all things. As I’m writing this, I occasionally stop to look out the window and remember so I can write a little more. Sometimes, now for instance, the tree outside my window stops my look. Like a raised hand, palm outward.

    I convinced Charlie not to go to the cops by telling him I’d help him get the Andersons. My attitude in those days was that if your friend started acting like Charlie was acting, it was your job to keep him out of the asylum. Besides, I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just some kind of bad trip. It was impossible to tell with Charlie. He came to college declaring that acid no longer had any effect on him. On the way to the car, we ran into Chip and Eva, who looked like they’d been arguing. Eager for help, I asked if they wanted to go for a ride with us. They did.
    Chip in the passenger seat, Charlie and Eva in the back, me driving. Charlie was caught and held in triangular