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I would be told later that he’d done that by design.
He’d been kind of quiet over that dinner while my mom badgered him about where he’d been, what he’d done, how envious she was that he had nothing tying him down.
I was young, but I was well aware thatIwas what was tying her down.
During that visit, she’d mentioned the apartment building having a few vacancies, but he’d said nothing about it.
Until we found out a week or so later that he’d moved in without a word.
“He’s not the brother I used to know,” my mother had complained, shaking her head as we watched him carry his things in the building from our apartment window.
That seemed to be my mother’s way of writing the man off. I don’t recall her ever inviting him over again after that. And she definitely didn’t want to visit his place.
I, on the other hand, found myself completely fascinated by my uncle. Part of that was likely because he was the only other family I had, and I was desperately seeking some sort of connection with someone, since my mom and I weren’t close.
I watched his comings and goings, curious why he was always checking his surroundings, always seeming suspicious and anxious.
Eventually, though, he seemed to stop going out at all. Someone from the local grocery store started bringing him his food each week.
That was what actually sent me down to his apartment for the first time.
My mom had been out with her girlfriends for several days in a row during my summer break, and there was nothing at all left to eat in the apartment. And lord knew my mom never let me have any money.
So, at nine, with a grumbling stomach, I made my way out of the apartment, and up the elevator to his floor.
Mid-building. I would later learn that he refused to stay in an apartment or a hotel on a lower or upper level. He preferred rooms with no views, close to the stairwell, and far from the elevators.
“Whatever it is, leave it at the door,” a voice had called from inside when I knocked.
“Uncle Chuck?” I’d called back.
There was shuffling, the sound of what seemed like a dozen locks disengaging, then the door was swinging open.
“Munchkin,” he’d said, nodding at me. “What’re you doing here?”
“We’re out of food.” I was blunt, even as a kid. Likely because my mom didn’t give me a whole helluva lot of time to explain my wants and needs, so I learned not to beat around the bush about anything.
To that, his brows raised. “Where’s your mom?” he’d asked, inviting me in.
“I don’t know. She goes out a lot.”
He sighed at that, but nodded. Then made me an omelet while I poked around his apartment.
“It was full of carefully concealed weapons,” I told Cato.
A wall of “decorative” knives on display. A bat here. Tools tucked behind garbage cans or under cabinets. If you needed to defend yourself, you wouldn’t be more than a foot away from some sort of weapon at all times.
“You come here anytime there’s no food at home,” he’d insisted as I ate like a starving child. “Or when you don’t want to be alone,” he’d added.
He probably didn’t mean for me to be there pretty much daily that summer. But that was what he got. A little nine-year-old nuisance that he had to cook for constantly. Who had a million questions about all the places he’d seen.
“The thing was, I think it meant as much to him as it meant to me,” I told Cato. “He had nobody. And it seemed like he’d been lonely for a really long time.”
“Can’t imagine his line of work allowed for a lot of close friendships. What with his entire identity often being a lie.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
I think, to an extent, he forgot how to be a normal human being with connections. Little ol’ me reminded him how to do that.
