Sundays with Charles

After our outdoor escapades, we'd always go up to his apartment and put what we had found on display. Uncle Charles' apartment was the stuff of dreams for any kindergartener. Each corner of his space was filled with empty cardboard boxes for imagination stations. He had four broken television sets that he had saved from the trash collectors and their "monster truck" when they came around early Tuesday mornings.

I never understood why the adults would always yell at Uncle Charles. Grandpa would always take the monster truck's side when Uncle Charles talked about the televisions. Mom would always tell Uncle Charles that he stole from nature and that she needed her leaves back. Grandma would always interrupt our time with the Sprite, Coca-Cola and Budweiser tea sets to vacuum and put our fine china in a large plastic bag so Uncle Charles could have shiny new nickels for the week. He would always tell me that they didn't understand him and that Sunday afternoons were the only times when he ever had any fun. I would always promise him that Sundays were our days and nothing would ever change that.

As elementary school work became harder than coloring, the Sunday afternoons with Uncle Charles became less frequent, and Uncle Charles became angrier with the adults. He said that he just couldn't take it anymore because they forced him to do things he didn't want to. He said that they threatened to send him on a plane if he didn't swallow the non-Flintstone-like chewables in the orange bottle that I could never open. He said that I was the only one who ever understood and that I could never leave him. But I had to. Third grade show-and-tell was the next day, and I had a new doll that I wanted everyone to know about. I'll never forget what happened next.

"You're becoming them," is what he screamed over and over again as he grabbed his tool belt and pulled out hammers, nail and wood he'd saved on Tuesday. The adults heard all of the racket and came up to Uncle Charles' apartment to remind him to be quiet, but they couldn't open the door. I heard Grandpa say that it was the last straw and that he was calling American Airlines. Grandma was quick to reply that the people over there would say he had spirits and do some terrible voodoo action on him and make things worse. Mom repeated "stay calm" maybe 50 times.

People only say "stay calm" when there's a reason to get panicked. And that's when I realized that Uncle Charles didn't wear a suit like Grandpa did from Monday to Friday. That's when I noticed that Grandma had to drop Uncle Charles off at the daycare when she went to run her errands. That's when I saw the Thanksgiving dinners at the kids' table, with Uncle Charles right in the middle catching us up on what TV shows we missed while we were in school.

With each nail he drove into the wood, he hammered away at the pain and disappointment that was his life. He remembered growing up on the Jewel of the Antilles, where Duvalier's iron fist declared that Uncles Charles' problem was a punishment for what he had done wrong in a past life. He remembered the cold and careless caretakers there, who took the place of a family that had fled to Miami and New York in search of nursing degrees and taxi licenses. But it was that little orange bottle that caused him the most heartache because it said he had a problem. It said something was wrong. It blamed his mind. It blamed him.

Three men came to get Uncle Charles. They knocked down the door. They brought long sheets of paper for Grandpa to sign. They said it was better this way.

Years later, I hear Uncle Charles on the phone every now and then. He has 700 anytime minutes that are not going to waste. He asks me if I remember the treasures and the tea parties. I tell him that I remember everything. I feel him reliving the Sunday the adults say he kept me hostage. My throat tightens up and I try to change the subject.

"Everybody makes mistakes, right?" he questions.

"Of course Uncle Charles ... everyone does."

"Then why am I still being punished for what I did?"

He asks me that question every time we talk, and I still don't have an answer. The adults say it isn't punishment, but what do you call it when a team of nurses and characters from daytime sitcom repeats replace your family as company?

Get the best of the ‘Prince’ delivered straight to your inbox. Subscribe now »

As the phone conversations end, and the Sunday afternoons become Monday mornings filled with precepts and lectures, I get closer and closer to becoming them and further away from being the only one who understands. But Uncle Charles can't see that where he is, and I'm not sure that I would want him to.