Year After Henry

by Cathie Pelletier

  “Chad?” she said. “Is that you, honey?” She reached a hand out in the dark, hoping to touch the boy, his flesh and blood, to touch someone real and not someone dead, not someone from the land of dreams. If she and Chad didn’t start touching soon, start living soon, they might as well give up on life altogether.

  “I’m right here,” said Chad. And she felt his hand take hers and squeeze it. Warmth ran into her from his touch. She could feel it. She could feel herself pulling the sadness out of him and she wanted to do that. She was the older one, the parent. She could handle his share of grief if he’d just give it to her.

  “Here are some matches,” Jeanie said, her other hand reaching down where she’d left the pack of cigarettes. “Can you light the candle?”

  Chad took the matches from her hand, but he kept her other one tight in his.

  “I don’t want any light,” he said. Jeanie understood. She hoped he could tell just by her touch that she understood. “I miss him, Mom.”

  “I know, son,” she answered. “I know.”

  For a few minutes, there was no talking. There was just the power of their hands, touching in the night. And it was enough. Then Chad pulled his hand away. A car turned the corner of Hurley and its lights cut across his face, his dark good looks, his sad eyes. Her son. Maybe they would be okay after all.

  “Guess what?” Chad said.

  “What?” asked Jeanie.

  “I’m starving,” he told her.

  ...

  Evie had just stepped naked out of the shower and looked at the clock. Midnight. She was hoping a cool shower might be the best way to help her fall asleep. Her mind was in too much of a mess to do any reading. Not only was there the question of Larry Munroe, but she had found that shard of letter lying on her front porch. Ripped to shreds. This meant Jeanie had done it. And then, it had been a long night at the tavern, with Andy Southby and his knuckles and too many drunks for any sober person to have to listen to in a single night. Evie pulled on the big baggy T-shirt she liked to sleep in and turned back the sheets on her bed. She fluffed the pillow up against the headboard. If she couldn’t concentrate long enough to read, or even watch television, she’d smoke the last of the joint. That’s when she heard a knock on the door, soft at first and then louder, with sudden urgency.

  Evie pulled on her jeans and hurried down the stairs. The small lamp that she left on all night in the front room cast its dull orange glow. Outside, on the porch, she could see the silhouette of what was undoubtedly a woman. She felt her heart beating, a wave of disappointment since she had hoped it was Larry Munroe. He had often caught up with her late, after she’d left the bar and headed home to unwind. A woman. A thought flashed through Evie’s mind that it might not be safe to open the door. If Jeanie Munroe was so angry she had ripped up the letter of apology, what else might she do?

  This was when Evie Cooper realized she didn’t care. Let it come. Such was fate. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Gail Ferguson was sitting on the porch swing, her head down, her arms lifeless on her lap, as if the heavy brown coat with all its long fringes was pulling her down, pulling her under where she would surely drown. Gail’s little red car was sitting in the drive, the one she had left at Murphy’s for the weekend.

  “Gail?” Evie said. She stepped out onto the porch. “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Gail lifted her head and looked up at Evie. The bruise around her left eye was so violent that already the eye was swelling shut. The skin on the cheekbone, that high and nicely defined area that Gail was so proud of, had been scraped red and was now turning a dark blue. Blood had dried in the corner of her mouth, just below a wide split in her bottom lip.

  “I swear to God I didn’t do anything wrong,” Gail said, a tiny voice.

  “The bastard,” said Evie. “I’m calling the cops!”

  “No!” Gail pleaded. “Evie, I beg you.”

  “Then I’m taking you to the hospital,” said Evie. Again, Gail shook her head. She looked at Evie with that sad, little-girl look. Most days, it was the only look Gail Ferguson had.

  “Please,” she said. “I can’t go to Margie’s.” Gail didn’t have to say why. Evie knew. Margie was awash in her own grief over losing Annie, her little girl. How could a sister who cared about her, as Gail surely did, knock on her door in the heart of night, in this condition?

  “Okay,” said Evie. If nothing was broken, and that seemed to be the case, she could clean Gail up herself. But she wasn’t going to let Marshall Thompson go free. She couldn’t. Maybe Gail came from a long line of women who loved men like Marshall. But that was no longer a good enough excuse. Not these days. Besides, the line that wanted to stop men like him was much longer, and that’s the line Evie Cooper stood in. She would find a way to deal with Marshall Thompson. She put her arms around Gail and helped her to stand. She grabbed the purse that was lying on the porch and threw the strap around her own shoulder. Then she led Gail into the house, past the singing lead crystals on the lamp shade and out to the kitchen.

  “Did I wake you up?” Gail asked, her words thick and heavy, the swollen lips making speech difficult.

  “Course not,” said Evie. She reached for the brown jacket. Gail had been so proud of that coat. It was the first thing she’d bought for herself in ages, any extra money going for clothing for the kids, for babysitters and school lunches. The jacket was torn at the sleeve joint and its back was covered with ugly grass stains.

  “Come to the sink and let me wash you up,” Evie said. “I need to get some ice on those bruises.” Gail started to cry, the inside crying, the kind that hurts too much to let outside. That’s when Evie saw that Gail was holding something in her bruised right hand. She reached for the hand and pulled it up where she could see. It was a long, thick swatch of her own dark hair, a piece of scalp still binding it together. Evie uncurled the fingers and took the hair away. She tossed it into the trash. What was it Gail had said earlier that evening, her face trying its best to be happy? “As long as it doesn’t spoil this night. I got my heart set on cruising along the St. Lawrence, wind in my hair.”

  “Does Marshall know where you are?” Evie asked. Gail shook her head.

  Evie washed the bruised face, using a face cloth and just a bit of soap. All this time she was trying to figure out how to handle the situation. Maybe when she tucked Gail into bed, maybe then she could call the cops, report the assault. Or they could do it first thing in the morning, once the poor girl got some sleep.

  “You’re gonna be okay, angel,” Evie said. And that’s when she looked just beyond Gail’s shoulder, her eye having caught a slight movement. It was one of the faces of the dead, watching events from beyond that veil, peering into Evie’s kitchen at Gail Ferguson’s bloody and bruised face. Curious, maybe. But most likely wanting to comfort, as the dead always do. The dead feel sorry for the living, and that’s what Evie Cooper had learned most over the years of her spiritual work. The dead wish they could stop our pain. Evie said nothing. She would put Gail to bed, where she would at least be safe. The morning would bring answers. She shook three extra-strength Tylenol from a bottle and laid them in Gail’s hand, helped her bring the pills up to her mouth. Evie then poured a glass of water and held it to Gail’s lips until she’d drunk enough to wash the pills down.

  “I’m putting you in my bed, sweetie,” Evie said, and Gail merely nodded. Evie decided then that she’d drive Gail’s car into her garage, where she never parked her own. That way, if Marshall came trolling on the big Harley, he wouldn’t see it. “I’ll be down here on the sofa, all night long, keeping an eye on you.” The adrenaline rush had gone out of Gail now. She was ready to fall deep into the safety of sleep.

  Evie looked again at the form standing just behind Gail’s shoulder, the sweet and loving face, the eyes so full of caring. Sometimes, all the dead want is for the living to know that someone is watching, someone is taking note, someone is nea
rby, so that the living will never have to hurt alone. And maybe that’s why the child had come to pay a visit. But by the time Evie helped Gail to her feet and turned to grab her purse from off the kitchen counter, little Annie Jenkins had already gone.

  11

  Bam! Bam!

  “Larry, open the door, son.”

  Larry looked at the clock. Seven a.m. The exact time he had predicted the melee would come. It was Saturday, and the old man would have a half day to put in at the post office. He would arrive for work at seven thirty. Since it took him less than fifteen minutes to drive there, Larry assumed they would eat their breakfast first, and then allow fifteen minutes for the confrontation. Sometimes, it almost wasn’t fair to know people so well you could predict them that easily. But then, it was this same talent that enabled his mother to rise from her bed the night before and take the house key from beneath the pot of geraniums.

  “The door is open,” Larry said, and then there they were again, the two of them, standing in his room. They peered at him with eyes that held nothing but disappointment. Larry lifted the mailbag from off the bottom bunk and handed it to his father. It now held all the bills and junk mail he had thrown into the clothes basket, the pile he intended to destroy.

  “I delivered the important letters,” he said. “I was going to throw these out since all they do is cause people pain. You know, credit card bills for all that useless junk they can’t afford, foreclosures, threats from the IRS. But I couldn’t do it. So here they are. Gil can glue the envelopes again and then lie about how it happened. Remember how we covered up the time those kids stole his mailbag and ripped open letters while he was getting a coffee and doughnut?”

  Larry stopped talking, but all that time he had watched as his father pushed a hand into the precious leather mailbag and riffled a finger among the open letters, lovingly, as if they were children of his that had been abused for too long. Then he watched his mother, watching his father.

  “Larry,” his father said. “You are not post office material.” He closed the flap on the mailbag and shouldered the thing expertly, as if it were an extension of his own arm. “You’re fired, son. I hope you know I have no choice.”

  “He has no choice,” his mother said. Together, they looked like a plastic couple, the sort you might find standing with white frosting up to their knees, like snow, on the top of an anniversary cake. They had been married far too long to look like the little plastic bride and groom that had stood on the wedding cake Larry had shared with Katherine Grigsby on their own wedding day. If Larry were in charge of manufacturing those plastic ornaments, he would make some changes. The bride would be holding a prenup agreement. The groom would have the name of a good divorce lawyer tucked into the pocket of his plastic tux. Larry realized then that he respected his parents for how they had kept their lives together. It couldn’t have been easy, and yet here they were, a responsible pair who raised their family reasonably well, a couple who’d been dragged down the marital highway a few miles. Parents who knew what it was like to have a son predecease them. At least, that was the word obituaries liked to use. Lawrence and Frances Munroe were the last of their kind. No one Larry knew took marriage that seriously. Not anymore.

  “You should fire me,” said Larry. “It’s okay, Dad.” He breathed out the painful breath he’d been holding. He was just about to resign his job until this revelation came at him. Now, he felt a sure, quick relief. This would make the old man feel better, his mother too. It would be a way of punishing him, and he surely did need a good punishment. If the old man hadn’t been the postmaster, Larry could have gone to jail. If he remembered correctly, mail tampering carried a $250,000 fine and a five-year jail sentence. But jail would be another safe square room where he could hide, so long as he wasn’t gangbanged and buggered around the clock by the other white-collar inmates.

  “We’re very disappointed in you, son,” said Frances. She seemed even more tired than the day before. Planning the memorial service was draining what energy she had left.

  “I know you are, Mom,” said Larry. “I know you are, and I don’t blame you. To tell you the truth, I’m disappointed too.”

  “Once the memorial service for your brother is over,” said his father, “we’ll need to sit down and talk, son.”

  “We’ll talk,” said Frances.

  “Let’s do that,” said Larry. “Let’s sit down and talk.”

  Larry was wondering if he should be the one to say, “Well, good to see you then,” and close the door. Or if he should wait for one of them to do it. It seemed the big confrontation was already over, with ten minutes left to spare. He supposed that in the early days of their marriage, like most young couples, they might have put those extra minutes to good use. Ten minutes was enough time for a quickie before the mailbag disappeared out the front door.

  “Make no mistake about this,” said Frances. She followed her husband over to the door and turned to look back at Larry, the knob already in her hand. “You will be at Henry’s memorial service.” And then she closed the bedroom door.

  Larry heard them whispering to each other as they went down the stairs, like swallows trapped in the eaves of a house. A few minutes later, he heard his father’s small Toyota back out of the drive and whine down the street, toward the post office, and the tethered pens, and the stack of magazines that recorded the long and prestigious history of stamps and letters.

  ...

  Jeanie had just looked in on Chad, making sure he was still there, safe in his bed. They had made a major step toward healing. She would let him sleep awhile longer and then she’d make him the same breakfast she had thrown into the garbage the day before. In her bedroom, she was just pulling on her jeans and a shirt when the phone on her nightstand rang. She was certain it must be Frances. The memorial service was that next afternoon, a Sunday, which the weatherman had predicted would be sunny and mild, almost like the day Henry died. It would be Frances, talking about who was bringing what casserole and whether Jeanie might speak to Larry, make sure he attended. She hesitated picking up the phone, her hand on the receiver. “Come on,” she told herself. “It’s just a telephone.” It wasn’t Frances. It was Lisa.

  “Mom, what’s up?” In all the years of her growing up, Lisa never used any words but those three. It was never Hello, Mom. It was always Mom, what’s up? And it hadn’t changed, even now that she was a grown woman and about to be a mother herself.

  “Who is this?” Jeanie asked, and smiled to hear her daughter giggling on the other end of the line. This was the baby that had been the reason she and Henry had married in the first place. And that had made it all worthwhile. And it was Lisa who had come home from a party in tears one night, just two years earlier. She had knocked on Jeanie’s bedroom door and then sat on the edge of her bed. Henry wasn’t home, and so Lisa had spread out next to her mother in bed, the tears now unstoppable. What’s the matter, baby, what’s wrong? And Lisa had told her. David Carlson was drunk at the party and he’d blurted out that his mother was having an affair with Henry, her father. Was it true? So what did Jeanie do? Did she say yes, baby, it’s true and Wendy Carlson is far from the only one. The last one was Dorinda Freeman, who lives at 910 Hunter’s Lane and is always getting packages she has to sign for. No, she held her daughter in her arms and whispered into her hair that sometimes people say cruel things because they’re jealous, or confused, or they need attention. Lisa must promise, promise that very moment, that she would put it out of her mind and never think of it again. Never. And as far as Jeanie knew, Lisa had done that.

  Jeanie, on the other hand, had confronted Henry. It wasn’t the first time she’d done so, but she assured him it would be the last time, especially since it was now affecting the children. You do it again, Henry, and I’m filing for divorce, Jeanie had said. It’s what Mona had been urging her to do all along. Don’t let him get away with that crap, Jeanie. And it seemed as though Hen
ry even heard her that time, as if maybe their marriage was worth saving after all. Henry certainly acted like a different man, coming home to supper on time, taking Jeanie out to a movie now and then. For almost a year. And then she found the receipt to the Days Inn. Room 9. Evie Cooper. No one ever knew, not even Mona, but she had looked in the phone book for a divorce lawyer and kept his number handy. It was a matter of time, of stockpiling evidence, before Munroe vs. Munroe became a reality. At least, Jeanie wanted to believe that she would’ve had the courage to leave Henry. How to tell now?

  “Mom, I’m so huge,” Lisa said. “I swear I’m about to burst.”

  “I was huge, too, when I was carrying you,” said Jeanie. “I guess it runs in the family.” She had been huge. And it was at the time when her friends, and Henry’s friends, had realized that maybe Jeanie wasn’t going to be fun to hang out with anymore. Henry could still be one of the guys as long as he was out fishing, or playing football in someone’s yard, or working on his bike. But if he was at home, it meant responsibility. It meant his young wife was about to have a baby and he wasn’t ready for it. But hell, neither was Jeanie, and yet she’d gone ahead and handled it. Looking back, Henry had never been a good husband. Not even from the beginning. Not even then.

  “Mom, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Lisa said. Jeanie felt a quick beat of her heart.

  “Don’t tell me the baby came early,” she said.

  “Nope,” said Lisa. “But I’m coming. The doctor says it’s okay to travel. Patrick has to work today, but we’re getting up early in the morning. We’ll be there in plenty of time for Daddy’s memorial service.”

  Jeanie’s first thought was to go up and wake Chad. Lisa’s coming home!

  “Your old room will be ready,” said Jeanie. And then, “Lisa?”

  “What, Mom?”

  “I love you, kiddo.”