Henry Franks

  The wind picked up, branches banging on the windows almost hard enough to break the glass. His father flinched, slamming the door shut, bracing it with his back. Eyes wide, he pushed Henry down toward the kitchen.

  “What?” Henry asked, trying to slide out of his father’s grasp. “Stop!”

  “Quiet,” William whispered. “Come on.”

  “Why?” He dug his heels in, sliding over the wooden floor as his father pushed and pulled at him, dragging him away from the front door.

  A loose shutter beat against the siding, the deep bass thud of wood striking wood drowning out the cries of the wind. From somewhere far away, a horn honked and then, faintly, there was a knocking at the door.

  “No!” his father screamed, squeezing Henry’s arm to keep him from answering the door.

  Henry shook off his father’s hands and ran to the window. A branch poked the glass as he looked out.

  “Justine,” he said, and slid open the bolt to unlock the door.

  Behind him, his father turned the corner and disappeared into his room as Henry stepped outside.

  “I heard screaming. You all right?” Justine asked.

  He shook the hair out of his eyes and looked at her. “My dad was freaking out about something. Weird morning,” he said as they walked toward the bus stop.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s never home, and when he is he asks random questions. Just weird.”

  “It’s the summer for weird.” They sat down on the bus and she squeezed his fingers. “Can you feel that?”

  “Not really,” he said. “But it’s okay.”

  She traced her finger up his arm, over the scars. “Tell me when,” she said as she went higher and higher.

  When she was beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt his breath caught. “When.”

  Justine looked around, then leaned down. She lifted the edge of his sleeve and kissed his shoulder.

  “When,” he said, again, softer.

  “It’s higher,” she said.

  “I know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault I’m falling apart.”

  “Is that what you’re calling it?” she asked.

  “It’s better than saying that parts of me are dying.” He turned to look out the window as the bus rumbled over the causeway.

  “Henry,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.

  He turned to face her, but when he went to touch her she pulled away.

  “Talk to your dad,” she said. “You promised.”

  “I know.”

  She wiped her eyes and then reached for his hand, the hint of a smile just touching her eyes.

  “Any news on Erika?” he asked as the bus reached the end of the bridge.

  “Probably South Carolina, my dad says. Should turn north soon; they always do.”

  “What if it doesn’t?”

  She shrugged. “Might hit Savannah, maybe? They were kind of hit back when I was younger, like five or so. My mom was telling me they evacuated for Floyd.”

  “Evacuated?”

  “She lived in Savannah, then. Nothing here in Brunswick, though.”

  “You sound disappointed,” he said as the school bus pulled up to the curb.

  “Nothing ever happens in Brunswick,” she said. “Well, except this summer.” She ran the tips of her fingers over the scar circling his index finger. “Did you have a dream last night, Henry?”

  He shook his head. “I usually don’t dream if I take my pills.”

  “Going to take them tonight?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you’ll learn something new?”

  “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” He laughed.

  Justine shook her head. “How about I call in the middle of the night? If it’s a nightmare, it might wake you up.”

  “That’s the silliest idea ever,” he said.

  “Is that a no?”

  “No.”

  Justine smiled. “I was going to call even if you said no.”

  “I figured.”

  They walked off the bus and into the school, not hand in hand but close enough to touch.

  “Frankenstein!” the voice came from behind as Bobby walked in between them, splitting Justine away from Henry.

  “What’s your problem?” she asked, trying to walk around Bobby, but he kept moving to block the path. A small crowd of kids was gathering in the hallway around them, trying to look like they weren’t paying attention.

  “No problem. Just saying hi to Frankenstein here,” Bobby said.

  “Actually,” Henry said to Justine before she could respond, “that is better than Scarface, and you did ask him if that was the best he could do.”

  “Well, to be technical, the monster didn’t have a name. Frankenstein was the doctor,” Justine said before turning back to Bobby. “You might want to work on that some more. Maybe a six out of ten?” she asked, looking at Henry.

  “I think the East German judge was a little harsh,” he said. “Probably at least a seven.”

  A burst of laughter came from one of the students behind Bobby as he opened his mouth to speak.

  “Maybe I could glue on some bolts,” Henry said, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show off the scar circling his neck. “It could be part of my look.”

  “I’ve told you before, you don’t really have a look,” Justine said. “More of a unique personal style.”

  “I’ll take that,” he said, turning back to Bobby, who pushed past him and continued down the hall.

  Justine moved in closer, sliding her hand down his arm until their fingers merged. “Does that mean I don’t get to be Igor?” she asked with a laugh. “I want to be Igor.”

  “Now see,” Henry said, “that was funny.”

  Margaret Saville, PhD

  St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

  Thursday, August 27, 2009

  Patient: Henry Franks

  (DOB: November 19, 1992)

  A handful of clouds, gray and hinting of rain, rode the wind across the sky. Henry watched them from between the slats of the blinds. Behind him, the ticking of the clock and the tapping from Dr. Saville’s pen counted out the time.

  “How are you doing, Henry?” she asked.

  He turned around to face her, leaning against the windowsill. “Was a good day. Better than ‘fine,’ at least.”

  “Something happen?”

  He sank into the couch, his finger idly tracing the scar on his wrist.

  “Henry?”

  “There’s a hurricane coming,” he said.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No, not really.” He smiled. “Justine says it’ll turn north. They always do.”

  “Are you ready if it doesn’t turn? Medicine and everything?”

  “Dad said he’d make more. He stocked up on milk and bread and candles. It’ll be an adventure.”

  “You were speaking of Justine?”

  “I was?” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it down to hide behind.

  “Henry.”

  “We’re dating, I guess. I think she’s my girlfriend.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “So far,” he said. “She says it’s been a weird summer.”

  “Has it?” Dr. Saville asked.

  Henry lay his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “What would you like me to compare it to?”

  “You were awake last summer, and bored, you told me.”

  “No hurricanes last summer.” He looked at her, unblinking. “Or serial murders.”

  The pen tapped against the paper as a cloud crossed the sun and the first drops of rain splattered against the window.

  “Or girlfriends,” she said, then placed her free hand over the pen, muting the tapping.

  “Weird summer,” he said as a clap of thunder rattled the pane of glas
s and lightning sliced through the sky.

  “Have you been having any nightmares, Henry?”

  “No, not since she died.”

  “Elizabeth?”

  Henry closed his eyes and draped his elbow across his face. “Her mother. I killed her.”

  “You’re not Victor, remember?”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, then turned away from her.

  “How old was Elizabeth?”

  He shrugged where he curled up in the corner of the couch. “Young. I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Did she talk to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, old enough to talk?”

  He nodded.

  “How old are you, Henry?” she asked.

  “Sixteen.”

  “So, say Elizabeth was five. Does that sound reasonable? Do you think you had a child when you were eleven?”

  He looked up at her, blinking rapidly in the light. “No.” There was a spark of relief and something approaching hope in his voice. “I’m not Victor.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re not Victor.”

  “I miss her.”

  “Just a dream.”

  “Still,” he said.

  “It’s all right, Henry. Not having any more nightmares is progress.” She stood as the alarm went off. “Tuesday?”

  “Unless there’s a hurricane.” He smiled. “You ready?”

  “Candles, bread, water. All set.”

  “It’ll turn,” he said, stopping at the door to look back at her.

  Out the window, through the slats of the blinds, the white path leading nowhere was flooding in the rain.

  twenty two

  Henry looked out at the parking lot outside of Dr. Saville’s office. The rain was coming down in sheets and he could barely see his father’s car waiting for him at the end of a row. He pulled his shirt over his head and ran out the door, jumping over puddles and bouncing off a car as he slipped on the wet pavement. His T-shirt was soaked before he’d taken more than a dozen steps, and flashes of lightning threw shadows around him. At the door to his father’s car, he pulled the handle but nothing happened. He pounded on the window for his father to unlock the door.

  Long moments passed with Henry hitting the glass with the heel of his palm, not even feeling the impact. He ducked down, squinting to see inside. A flash of lightning illuminated his father, slumped over the wheel. Henry ran around the car, sliding through a puddle and ramming his shoulder into the bumper of the minivan next to him. His ear rang from hitting the light fixture above it, but he didn’t feel any pain.

  He stood up, unsteady, shaking and soaking wet, and made his way around the car. He rubbed his ear, still ringing, and came away with his fingers dripping blood. At his father’s door, Henry banged on the window, leaving a trail of blood to wash away in the rain.

  When there was no response, Henry started kicking the door, denting the metal before his father finally stirred, tilting his head to look up at him. Henry wiped the rain away and stuck his face up close to the window.

  “Unlock the door!” Thunder drowned out the words and the sound of his father pressing the unlock button.

  Inside the car, Henry dripped on the seats and tried to wipe the rest of the blood off his face. “Have a nice nap?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” his father said as he started the car. “Lost track of time. You’re bleeding, what happened?”

  “I slipped.”

  “You okay?”

  Henry shifted away from his father, turning to the window to study the trails the rain was making down the glass. “Fine.”

  “I said I was sorry, Henry.”

  “I said ‘fine.’”

  A ray of sun broke through the clouds as the rain slowed on the brief drive home. In the driveway, William stayed in the car as Henry got out.

  “You coming in?” Henry asked.

  His father shook his head. “No, too much to do.”

  “Whatever,” he said, then slammed the door.

  Behind him, William rolled the window down. “Henry!”

  He turned around, standing in what remained of the rain. “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Will you be home at all?”

  His father shrugged, rolled the window up, and pulled out of the driveway, leaving Henry standing in the middle of the front lawn. He looked at Justine’s house, waved even though he didn’t see anyone, and walked to the front door.

  One by one, he searched through wet denim pockets for his keys, hoping they weren’t with his cell phone in his backpack still in his father’s car. He tried the knob but held little expectation that it would work, and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t.

  “Just fine,” he said, resting his head on the door. “Crap.”

  The wind chilled his wet clothes as he climbed up on the porch railing to reach the spare key in the gutter. His shoulder popped as he reached up over his head and his ear was still ringing from the car he’d run into. With a grimace, he walked his fingers back and forth in the gutter until he finally pulled out the spare keys.

  Up and to the right, he unlocked the door, then threw the key-chain back into the gutter.

  William parked down the street from the house, watching as the wind blew the branches through the rain. His stomach grumbled but there was little desire to eat, to drive somewhere and buy something. He sighed and unrolled the window, letting the water splash his face as he looked into the marsh.

  With a shudder, he pushed the door open and ran between the houses. Back to where the trees were lost in shadow, his feet slipping in the mud. Still, he kept moving, chasing the wind to find where the hissing began. But there was never anything there when he arrived. A branch broke, the echo right behind him. He spun around, her name on his lips, but he was all alone. Always alone.

  Walking through the trees, he wiped the rain away from his face with muddy hands and left streaks of dirt behind. Another branch broke and he took off running toward the sound. The rain blinded him and he stumbled, twisting his ankle, but he kept going, chasing the sound.

  Behind a tree, he saw someone walking through the woods, long hair whipping around in the wind. William slipped again, sliding into a tree. The figure turned around at the noise. The person screamed, voice lost in the storm, and then ran.

  Showered and warm, Henry pushed the case of pills from one end of his desk to the other, counting out the days until he ran out. Enough for now; nothing else mattered.

  His father had come home long enough for fast food burgers before he left the house again. Henry rescued his backpack and his cell phone—no missed calls—and then went back to staring at his pills. Taking them would let him sleep without dreaming, no nightmares and no dead daughter calling out his name. He thought of Justine and put the medicine back, closing the pillbox.

  A branch scurried against the glass, trying to claw its way in, and the wind moaned beneath his window as he lay down on his bed, cell phone beside him.

  “Victor.” She calls my name, her red-gloved hands resting protectively on her belly, swollen in pregnancy.

  I can’t see her eyes, hidden behind layers of red cloth, wrapped around her from head to toe. There are fingers grasping mine, pulling the bandages away from me, and she calls my name. So soft, gentle, these names she calls me.

  “Victor.”

  And I answer, the words whisper-quiet as I struggle against the bonds holding me down, dripping red cloth from manacles and leather restraints where they keep her hidden away from me, tearing my daughter from my arms.

  “Victor.”

  But I stopped listening to her long before she told me she was pregnant; even before she died or I killed her or either of us were born. It was there, in the silence that was the loudest noise of all, the single gunshot, between our daughter’s eyes behind those red-gloved hands, resting so protectively against her belly, swollen with pregnancy like an over-ripe melon spoiling in the sun.

  That was the final curse. That
sun, too hot, even in the rain, creating steam and heat and I can’t remember if I ever saw snow.

  “Victor.”

  But I remember my name.

  I remember my name.

  I remember.

  “Victor.”

  I loaded the stolen gun or stole the loaded gun, I forget. Doesn’t matter now, anyway; it’s just a dream, Elizabeth, go back to sleep. Hush, little one, just a dream, Daddy’s here; it’s just a dream. I love you.

  I remember that, at least.

  Go back to sleep, sweetheart, Daddy will protect you from the monsters under the bed, the witches in the closet, the ghosts in the attic.

  “Victor!”

  Even when she screams my name it’s so soft, gentle in the evening breeze, quiet as a whisper shattering with the crack of the bullet against the bone. Who, I ask her as she unwinds the red bandages so I can see her face before she dies, will protect Elizabeth now?

  Me. I answer myself. I’ll protect you, Elizabeth. I promise.

  And she’s here.

  So close I can reach out for her, touch her, hold my daughter in my arms and rock her to sleep.

  But when I try, my hands pass right through her. A ghost. A mist. Insubstantial.

  I’ll protect you, Elizabeth.

  I promise.

  And she’s here.

  “Elizabeth?” Her name forces its way out of my mouth, as though someone else is speaking through me and I can’t stop the words. Can’t not speak.

  She looks at me, her eyes dark as a night without stars.

  “What’s your last name?” I ask, but that isn’t my question, not what I was going to say. Where did those words come from?

  I’ll protect you, Elizabeth, I wanted to say. I promise. But then different words sounded, in a different voice.

  “Ask Victor,” she says.

  “I’m Victor.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “Can I go now?”

  “What’s your last name?”

  I’ll protect you, Elizabeth, but the words go unspoken.

  “I don’t remember, Daddy,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  I promise.

  The voice is silent for a long time before finally speaking words that mean nothing to me.

  “What’s Mommy’s name?”

  Red bandages cover her, dripping like blood from wounds I can’t see. They twist around her body, covering her mouth, and when her answer comes the voice is mine.