[Amnesty Day] [Bonanza-related] Through the Refiner's Fire, 3

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Through the Refiner's Fire, scene 3
Day/Theme: July 22nd - It was harder to learn to be free
Series: Bonanza-related (based on the episode Her Brother's Keeper)
Character/Pairing: Carl Armory, Claire Armory
Rating: T/PG-13

I wish I'd had more time to work on this during the month. I wanted to use quite a few of the themes. They fit so well, I might still use them when I continue the project (perhaps combining them with current themes in order to keep posting the segments here).


By Lucky_Ladybug

There was no money in the house.

Carl was in a panic. A frantic search had turned up nothing but a quarter buried in the couch cushions—enough for something, but certainly not enough to purchase all of the groceries or the medicine that was needed. And Carl hated to use it just for a small portion and have it gone, with no idea of where or how to get more.

Claire had revived at last on that cold, dark night, but only barely, and only for a few minutes. Carl had sat up with her all night, pacing and agonizing and longing for a response. When he had finally received one, it was close to dawn.

“Carl?”

He had spun around in surprised shock and joy and hope. “Claire!” Instantly he had run to her side, brushing her hair aside and taking her hand. “Claire, can you hear me? Are you alright? Are you going to be alright now?”

He was not sure whether she heard him or not. Her eyes still closed, she had moaned, “Oh Carl. Oh Carl, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for everything.”

Carl was also not sure exactly what she meant. Literally everything, from their fight to their collapsing relationship to the fire that had started it all?

Probably all of that, and more. Not only the bigger things, but the little things, every single blasted thing that had gone wrong through the years. Every word spoken in sharpness and anger. Every relative who had found it too overwhelming or just did not care enough to look after them. Every nail in the coffin that had pushed Carl further on the path he had taken.

Every incident that had pushed them closer together, as the only ones truly there for each other, while at the same time driving them further and further apart.

Carl did not know what to do to fix any of it. He tried to be good; he really tried. But it always backfired. It always went amiss. He had very little to any self-control. And Claire, being so young when all this had started, and never having anyone to show her the way, had very little to no idea on what to do to help him gain any.

But she was awake. She was awake and she did not want their relationship to be completely decimated. And that meant everything to Carl. Surely it showed that was still a chance, even after all of the stupid mistakes and the heartache and the hurt.

He had continued to hold her hand as he had replied. “Claire! It’s alright, Claire. It’s going to be alright. We’re going to get through this.”

He had believed it then, for a glorious moment. He had no idea how anything would ever work out when it had always gone so wrong, but he was determined to make sure it did. He had to do it this time. He had to follow through.

Claire had struggled to open her eyes, gazing up at him. He had worried when he had seen her eyes, so glassy and pained and far-away, even while she had looked right at him. But he had tried to push the fears aside. After all, she was awake. That meant it would be alright. Didn’t it?

Didn’t it?

A shaking and sad smile had slowly made its way over her features. Her fingers had curled a bit, gripping Carl’s strong but trembling hands.

“You’ve always believed everything you’ve said, Carl. You’re so sure, so enthusiastic, that I guess that’s why I . . . I’ve believed you too.”

“I mean it, Claire!” Carl had exclaimed in desperation. “Oh, I know there’s no way you can believe me now, but you’ll see. I promise you’ll see! I’ll take care of you until you’re better. It will all work out. It will.”

“Of course it will, Carl.” But Carl had not missed the vague and unconvinced tone of Claire’s voice. She had not believed him, even though she knew he believed it himself.

She had slipped back into sleep or unconsciousness then. She was still in a bad way; she slept most of the time since.

Certainly she could not work.

Carl could not find an open job that was suited to him. His bad lungs eliminated all possibilities of physical labor, and the available employers insisted he was not skilled enough for one of the desk positions that needed filling.

Anyway, he did not know how to work for hours each day when Claire might need him. He needed to be right there, with her. There was no one he could call on for help. As always, they only had each other.

Claire had a bit of money saved, but the bank refused to allow him to access it. Even if they would have sanctioned it under such dire circumstances, Claire had made strict provisions against it. She knew how impossible Carl was with money.

There was no one he could turn to and beg for a loan. The people they knew in San Francisco were wise to his tricks now and refused to lend anything. The same thing had happened when he had tried to buy things on credit from the local stores. No one could or would extend it to him.

There was no food in the house, either. Carl had finished the last of it, making most of it into a soup for Claire. Not that he was much good at making anything, but he had found a recipe and had tried his best. He thought it tasted terrible, but Claire had been so starved she had eaten all of it anyway, and thanked him for it.

There was nothing to give her tonight.

And the medicine she needed was something the doctor was out of and had to send for. The price was horrible. Carl had to give him at least part of the money for him to be able to do it.

For a long time Carl sat on the couch, turning the money piece between his fingers as he wrestled with the conflict in his heart. There was only one thing he could think of to do now, and he was afraid to do it. He was just trying to pull himself out of his pit of irresponsibility. If he did what he was thinking of, it might only drag him back down again.

But it was irresponsible beyond words to allow Claire to suffer and starve upstairs. He had to get food and medicine somehow. And what way was left, if not at a gambling parlor? He had to take the quarter there and try to chance his way at getting enough money for at least one decent trip to a store.
****
His luck had never been good. When he was thrown out of the parlor hours later, once again deeply in debt, he was numb and in a daze. In desperation he called over his shoulder, pleading for another chance, a way to break even.

“It’s not for me!” he cried. “It’s for my sister. Please, if you have any compassion at all . . .”

The bouncers let him go, allowing him to fall harshly to the ground. He struggled to pick himself up, shaking, turning to face the already-closed door. His self-control snapped; he pounded on it and screamed and pleaded until his words ran together and made little sense even to him. Then he turned, trembling, facing the dark and foggy street.

“No,” he choked out. “No, it isn’t supposed to be like this. It can’t be like this. How am I going to do anything to help you, Claire? I can’t even win with one measly quarter!”

For some time he wandered San Francisco in turmoil, unable to think what to do. All of his options were gone. If there was ever a time a panic attack could strike him, it was now.

He had worried about money before. He did not want them to starve on the streets, homeless and cold and without anything. That was why he had always thought about how to get more money. He wanted them to have enough to live the comfortable, peaceful lives they had lived in New England, before anything had ever burned, before any lives had been altered or lost.

And yet in the end, most of the worrying fell to Claire. And Carl had always believed she would come through. There had always been someone willing to give a loan, some little smidgen of money that Claire had saved for them to use, something . . . something.

But it was always only barely enough, if that. How had they managed for so long, so many years? Claire must have worried like this on countless nights. Still, somehow they had always managed to get by. Right now, he was at a complete loss.

“I don’t know how to do this!” he cried at last to the skies. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how Claire managed it for so long, but I’m not Claire. I could never do what she did. Never. Never. . . .” He sank onto an old barrel on the pier, leaning forward as his shoulders shook with despairing sobs.

What was he going to do?

At last he forced himself up, using the support beam to steady himself. The docks were dark and mostly empty this late at night. The few workers around had no interest in him or his problems. They had plenty of their own. And they were rough men. Carl would not think of begging them for help.

He trudged through the streets, heading slowly home. Everything was a nightmare spiraling further and further out of control. He could not bring himself to think on it, to really process it. He had to shove it away, to pretend it did not exist, to have any sanity at all.

He had been threatened and even beaten over gambling debts in the past. It should have been enough to make him stop. He had been ill for days after that assault; his lungs could not take such treatment.

But that disease, that insatiable desire for money, had made him go back again and again. He had racked up a debt the last time they had stayed in San Francisco. And then, panic-stricken and terrified of being attacked again, he had fled to Virginia City.

He had left Claire to pick up the pieces, believing that they would never harm a woman. They had not, but she had still had to gather up enough money to pay them back, with the threat of his safety looming over her. They would find him, they had vowed. If she did not pay them, they would find him and make him pay through the nose.

And now he had dug himself into the same sort of mess all over again. He had tried to resist; he had only given in because they needed the money so badly and he did not know what else to do.

That was the only reason, wasn’t it?

Oh, he did not know anything more.

At last he found their street. As he turned onto it, he nearly ran into Mrs. MacFarley, a quirky neighbor who always insisted on her late-night walks. Her husband had protested for some time but had soon learned it was fruitless. And she was not defenseless; she could be quite formidable with the umbrella she used as a cane.

Carl stumbled, stepping to the side. “Ex-excuse me, Mrs. MacFarley,” he stammered. “I . . .”

She never let him finish. “A fine thing,” she snapped. “I heard about your sister being hurt. And all you can do is run around town, getting drunk and who knows what else. Your sister needs you. You’re all she’s got left! And you squander everything away, as you’ve always done. Heaven knows why she puts up with it. She must be as stupid as you are!”

Carl flinched. He deserved her words, he decided, even if they were not quite true to the situation. She would never believe he had been out trying to secure the funds to help Claire.

But he would not put up with insults to Claire. That was another matter altogether.

He straightened, his eyes flashing. “Mrs. MacFarley, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions on Claire to yourself. She’s an amazing woman. And if you really knew her, you’d know that!”

She hmphed. “I know enough,” she retorted. “If she had any sense, she’d dump you and settle down somewhere with some nice man. You’re not worth her caring.”

“No, I’m not,” Carl declared, and had to admit he was gratified by the surprised spark flickering in her eyes. “Claire cares for me anyway because she’s a kinder and more compassionate person than you could ever be.”

He probably should have stopped there, but his patience had reached its limit. His tongue kept right on going.

“Oh, I know, you give and give so much money to charities and everyone thinks you’re so wonderful. But I’ve always wondered how much of you gives that money to help people and how much gives because you like the praise you receive for it!

“You would have abandoned me ages ago, I have no doubt of that. But Claire never has. She doesn’t expect praise for what she does. And you would never understand why.

“Goodnight, Mrs. MacFarley!”

And he stormed past, leaving the woman on the street with her mouth hanging open in shock.

He would probably have to pay for those comments later. She would tell her husband and he would come barging over to defend her honor. But right now his tolerance was shot and he could not bring himself to care.

He unlocked the door and hurried into the house, his heart gathering speed. “Claire?” he called. How long had he left her here alone? He had been trying to help, but had he really been irresponsible again? What if she had needed something and he had not been around to get it for her? What if she had tried to get up herself and had fallen?

He hurried to her room as quickly as he dared, not even bothering to turn on any lights. She was in bed, thank goodness, and half-awake. She turned when she heard him at the doorway, her eyes not fully open and still glassy. “Carl?”

He entered the room with a nod. “Yes, Claire. I’m here.”

“. . . Where were you?”

“I just had to go out for a few minutes,” he said. “There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

She shook her head. “. . . You look terrible, Carl.”

He brushed the falling hair away from his right eye. “I’m alright, really. I just hurried home because I didn’t want you to be here alone if you needed something.”

“You shouldn’t run.”

“I know, but I’m alright.”

He turned away, busying himself with lowering the blind. Even if Claire asked him for something, would he be able to deliver? What was there that he could even get? His hands shook as he worked.

“Carl?”

His fingers tensed on the cord. He knew that tone of voice.

“Carl, I know something is wrong. What is it?”

He turned back. She still did not look fully awake. He went to her, pulling the covers up around her.

“There’s nothing wrong. Now, you need to get your rest. That’s what the doctor said—plenty of rest.”

Claire wanted to protest. She opened her mouth to do so, but she was too weak and weary. Her eyes slipped closed.

Carl sighed, rocking back. He could not tell Claire what had happened and risk her health by getting her upset. He had to deal with it all himself. These problems would not go away; they were immediate and pressing.

At least, the need for food certainly was. And unless he was mistaken, someone was now pounding on the front door. Mr. MacFarley, no doubt.

“Armory!” Yes, he recognized the voice. “Armory, you open this door this instant! I know you’re in there!”

He cringed, easing himself out of Claire’s room and pulling the door shut behind him. He would not answer the door if he could help it, but if the pounding continued he would have no choice. He did not want it to awaken Claire.

Then again, she would surely awaken from what would come if he did open the door.

Suddenly he was angry. The MacFarleys knew Claire was hurt. Mrs. MacFarley had announced it. And still they were coming over to receive satisfaction for what Carl had said?

He clenched a fist. The last thing those people were was compassionate and kind. Certainly he himself was little better, if not worse. But now he had been trying to do the right thing and it had still gone all wrong. He was in a terrible predicament. And he could not go face Mr. MacFarley and be beaten up who knew how badly. He had to stay well enough to desperately try to help Claire.

He bit his lip, waiting in the darkness for the knocking to stop.

“I’ll break the door down,” Mr. MacFarley threatened at one point.

To Carl’s relief, he did not. Finally, after Heaven knew how long, the noise stopped and the house was left in peace.

Carl pushed himself away from the door, going cautiously to look out the window. Mr. MacFarley was going down the street, his body language bespeaking his anger. If and when Carl encountered him next, he could expect a punch, if not more.

He leaned against the wall on one elbow. He had a far more worrisome problem now.

When Claire woke up next, she would surely be hungry.

What would he have for her to eat?