Year After Henry

by Cathie Pelletier

  “Okay,” she said. He was surprised that she said it almost kindly. Usually, he could feel her hatred coming at him over the miles from Portland, a molten lava, as if he were responsible for all her misfortunes. As if he, Larry Munroe, were an albatross whose only job in life was to fly after Katherine Grigsby’s skinny white neck. “Let me see if he’s up.”

  And then she was gone. A couple minutes later, Jonathan was on the phone.

  “Dad?” he said. “Is that you, Dad?”

  Larry couldn’t answer. Katherine could do what she wished and say what she wished, but she could never take that excitement from the boy’s voice, the love he felt toward his father. And that’s where Larry had excelled, damn it. He’d been a great father. And he’d done nothing wrong that he had to lose Jonathan Munroe from his life. He’d done nothing wrong. And now, months later, what he wanted to tell his kid but couldn’t was that he would not just be teaching school, he would also get a weekend job. He would save every penny and every dime. He would find a young, hungry lawyer who wouldn’t cost him both arms and legs. He would fight for custody of his son. He would do it. And that was the first time Larry Munroe realized why he had been holed up in his old bedroom, reading other people’s mail, waiting for God knows what to happen. It was because he had broken down after seven months. He had looked up at the top left bedroom window of the house on Pilcher Street. He had looked at the square of glass that used to encircle his son’s life. He had looked at the spot by the front steps where Jonathan used to leave his bike. He had looked at the tree in the backyard where he and his son had hung a tire swing. Larry had looked, finally, for a boy who was not there, a boy who had disappeared one day in Ricky Santino’s green Jeep. He had looked for his child, and now he wanted him back.

  “Dad? You there?”

  Now, finally, Larry was slowly rising toward the truth he had known all along but felt powerless to act against. He hadn’t caused the divorce. He had a right to have his son live with him. Just because he was a man didn’t mean he couldn’t be a great single parent. He knew other men who were doing it, and their kids were not only surviving, but prospering. Larry wanted Jonathan enough to fight for him until he won, or until the day the boy turned eighteen. Yes, that’s what it was all about. He finally understood.

  “I have some good news, Jon,” Larry said. And then he told him. He was to become a teacher of history once more. His eyes blurred with tears. He could almost smell Jonathan’s sweet breath as he had gushed those words into the phone. He remembered that breath when it felt warm against his neck.

  “Wow, Dad! That’s great! When I come for Thanksgiving, we’ll celebrate!”

  He would fight for this boy until the day he died.

  ...

  Jeanie spent the rest of the day cleaning house. It was one way to keep busy, not to mention the fact that the house really needed cleaning. She began in Lisa’s old room, the guest room now, and in no time had polished and vacuumed and straightened until the room looked as welcoming as it had all those years Lisa was still its main occupant. She would buy some flowers at that little shop that just opened next door to Fillmore’s Drug, and she would put them on Lisa’s nightstand in a ceramic vase. Mums, maybe, since Lisa was about to become one. The thought made Jeanie smile. Funny, but she had dreaded the idea of Henry’s memorial service ever since the morning Frances had come by with a chocolate cake and announced her plans. And now, thanks to the service, her daughter would sleep again in her old room, the last time she would do so before the baby came. From that time on, Lisa’s life would be different. But for now, she was still Jeanie’s daughter, still sounding girlish and even a bit immature. She’d married too young. Jeanie would have preferred Lisa turn thirty before settling down. But Jeanie’s own mother couldn’t get her to wait until she was twenty.

  Chad came into his bedroom just as Jeanie finished making the bed. She had done the downstairs already, saving Chad’s bedroom until last since it would require the most work. He stopped and looked around the room. Gone were the piles of dirty jeans lying on a chair in the corner. All the magazines had been neatly stacked. All the empty pop cans had been picked up. And so had the candy bar wrappers that seemed to be everywhere, as if Chad shot them about the room after he had scrunched them up in his fist.

  “Hey,” said Chad. “What’s going on?”

  Jeanie finished turning down the spread and now the bed was freshly made and ready. The room looked like it used to in those days when Jeanie cleaned it every weekend.

  “I know this is your private room,” she said. “But I had to clean it. And besides, I got some good news.” She was hoping that last part would buffer the first part. She watched as Chad took the orange woolen bonnet off his head and tossed it onto the chair. He flopped down on his bed and put his arms behind his head. Jeanie knew him well enough to know he was feeling threatened again. His body language spoke loud and clear. She wished now she had waited for him to come home, had asked about cleaning the room first. The part of her that wasn’t his mother felt a rush of irritation. He should be thanking her for cleaning up after him, the way she never had to do for Lisa. She waited, but Chad said nothing. He closed his eyes. Outside, rain beat heavy against the windows. Wind shook the trees.

  “Lisa’s coming home for the memorial service,” Jeanie said, and the excitement in her voice was so unique after a year of not being there that she noticed it immediately. Surely, Chad would notice too. He’d be happy that his mother was feeling a jolt of energy again, a taste of life.

  “Great,” said Chad. Then, “I’m staying at Milos Baxter’s house tonight. So don’t worry if I don’t come home.”

  Milos Baxter. This was the kid Jeanie had seen give Chad the beer, that day in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven.

  “I’d rather you didn’t,” Jeanie said. “It’s such a stormy night.” She had picked up the furniture polish and the roll of paper towels from the floor.

  “I’d rather I did,” said Chad. He rolled over on his side and closed his eyes.

  ...

  Rain chased Evie all the way from her car to the front door of Murphy’s. It was good to see Billy Randall’s truck sitting in the parking lot. Good old Billy. But she hadn’t noticed Marshall Thompson’s Harley anywhere. Considering the storm, he must have left it under cover somewhere and hitched a ride, for he was sitting at the end of the bar, right at the spot where Gail liked to take her breaks. Billy was at the pinball machine, his usual silence enveloping him, except for the noise of the game. Evie shook rain from her umbrella, folded it, and stood it in the corner. She clocked in and began picking up the bottles. She could feel Marshall’s eyes on her as she worked her way down the bar to where he sat. Glancing up, as if just seeing him for the first time, Evie looked surprised.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  Marshall stared at her face, her eyes, trying to read any signs of whether she was lying. He tipped a bottle of beer up to his lips and drank until it was empty. He put it on the bar for Evie to take.

  “Change of plans,” he said, that low and deep way of speaking, as if everything was a threat to him.

  “So why the hell am I working for Gail if she’s not in Quebec City?” Evie wanted to know, hands on her hips, eyes narrow and tense. Seeing this, Marshall seemed to relax.

  “Give me another beer,” he said. “Bud.”

  “Where’s Gail?” Evie asked. Marshall shrugged.

  “That crazy bitch ain’t my problem,” he said.

  Billy had come to the bar for a beer, or so it seemed. But Evie knew he was just checking out the situation. Billy often did that for her and Gail if it seemed a customer was giving them a hard time. But this time it was Marshall Thompson. This time was different.

  “You done at the pinball machine?” Marshall asked Billy, who merely nodded. Crazy Billy. The Vietnam vet. The silent one.

  As Marshall
put his money into the pinball machine, Evie went into the back office and dialed her own number at the house. She let it ring twice and then hung up. She waited to the count of twenty-five and redialed. Gail answered, having recognized the code they’d set earlier.

  “He’s still in town,” Evie whispered. “He’s here in the bar. So don’t you dare leave the house. And call Paula. Tell her it’s still on for tomorrow.”

  When Evie came back out, Andy Southby had taken his stool in front of the poker machine, and Chad Munroe was standing at the bar next to the cash register. He was wearing the same orange wool bonnet.

  “Hey there,” said Evie. “Don’t you know it’s not a nice thing for wool to get wet?” Chad smiled.

  “Quarters, please,” he said. He gave Evie three dollars and then pocketed the twelve quarters. “And a Megabucks ticket.” He pushed another dollar across the bar.

  Evie was ahead of him, punching out the numbers even before he said them. Nine. Eight. One. Twenty-seven. Four. Forty-two. Henry’s same old lucky numbers. Maybe someday someone would win a free ticket with those lucky numbers.

  It was almost ten o’clock when Chad finished his pinball games. He came back to the bar and pulled out the stool next to Andy. Marshall Thompson had met up with a buddy of his and had gone off to the pool hall to shoot a few games. Knowing this, Billy Randall had gone home. Evie had thought ahead, to every possibility of what Marshall might do, even instructing Gail to keep the blinds tightly shut and the front door locked. The only lights Evie wanted on at her house were the porch light and the little parlor light, the ones Evie always kept lit when she was working. “You can watch TV, but don’t put any upstairs lights on,” Evie had warned.

  “Hey,” said Andy, giving Chad a careful eye.

  “Hey,” Chad said. He twirled his stool a couple times, complete spins, his whole body going around with it. Evie had watched Henry do that every time his team scored a basket or a home run.

  “What’s up, Chad?” she said. “You want something?”

  “Yeah,” said Chad. “You know them sandwiches Uncle Larry likes? The kind with the mushrooms and onions?”

  Evie nodded.

  “Well, I want two of them,” said Chad. “To go. But don’t put any onions on mine.”

  ...

  Larry felt strangely light ever since he had received the letter giving him his job back, as if he were drifting outside his own body. He even considered going down to find his parents and tell them the news. He knew it would mean a lot to them. That’s when he decided the best time to do it would be after the memorial service, when his mother’s heart would be breaking, feeling she’d lost both sons, one to death and one to life. He would tell her then. “Mom, I got my old job back. I’m going to be teaching history again. So don’t worry about me. And I’m going to take Katherine to court over Jonathan. I’m going to get my son back.” He would save the good news.

  The rain had stopped, so Larry lifted his window again. He decided to turn in early, maybe read a comic book or two. That afternoon, he’d rummaged through the boxes he had stored in the closet when he moved back in, the few things he’d managed to salvage from his marriage on Pilcher Street. He was looking for a photo taken at the lake over a year earlier, the day he and Henry and their sons had gone fishing. That’s when he had found the box of old comics, the ones he had read and loved in childhood. He had stored those he knew would be valuable one day in protective covers and there they all were. He’d pulled the box out into the room, the best coming-home present Jonathan could imagine. These guys were all back in style now, thanks to Hollywood. Spider-Man. Wolverine. The X-Men. Hulk. Iron Man. He would give the comics to his boy, a father to his son, passing on a tradition that was far more fun than delivering the mail. But first, Larry had decided to read them again, one by one. In case Jonathan asked questions of him, he would be ready. Traditions must be treated with respect.

  He propped himself up with two pillows beneath his head and opened a copy of Spider-Man, who had always been Larry’s favorite. Spider-Man was like everyone else. He got sick with the flu. He had problems with family, friends, and coworkers. He forgot important appointments and agonized over decisions to the point that the reader wanted to slap him. In the end, a kid could finish a Spider-Man comic and feel almost superior to the hero. A kid could feel great, knowing that Spider-Man was a bit of a fuckup too. Spider-Man was all too human.

  Splat against the side of the house. Larry looked up from his comic, waiting, wondering if it had been a misguided June bug, or a moth, or a big drop of rain falling from the downspout. There it was again, a twig or a small rock, hitting the house. He got up from his bunk, the comic book still in his hand, and went to the window. He peered down into the wet night. Chad was standing below, staring up, the orange bonnet on his head and a plastic sack in his arms.

  “Hey, Uncle Fuckup,” Chad said. “How’s it hanging?” Larry smiled.

  “You idiot,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to throw down your hair, Rapunzel.”

  Larry knew the boy had been drinking. He had that tipsy flow to his words, and then the words themselves gave him away. He’d never used that kind of language in front of his uncle before.

  “If I threw this hair down,” said Larry, and pointed to his head, “you wouldn’t get up to the first window.”

  “Where’s the key?” said Chad. “All I could find was geraniums.”

  “Mom took it,” said Larry. How do you explain something like this to your teenaged nephew? “Go to the front door and knock. Mom and Dad are still up, watching TV.”

  “No fucking way,” said Chad. “You crazy?” He staggered back a couple feet, the strain of staring upward for so long finally making him dizzy. Larry understood. Of course, he couldn’t go knock on the door.

  “How many beers have you had?” he asked.

  “Two,” said Chad.

  “That’s what everyone tells the cops,” said Larry. “Come on, how many?”

  “Three,” said Chad.

  “No lie?”

  “No lie.”

  “Hang on a minute,” said Larry. “I’ll be right back.” He saw Chad give him a thumbs-up from down below.

  Larry quietly opened his bedroom door and stood listening for a time to the canned laughter coming from the television set. Then he padded down the hallway in his socks, stopping in front of his mother’s linen closet. He found the sheets on a top shelf and pulled three from the stack. They were snow white and folded perfectly. Telling himself he would launder them on Monday, when he knew she’d be doing her grocery shopping, Larry took them back to his room and closed the door. In no time he had twisted the sheets and tied them together to make a perfect rope. He fastened one end to the heavy leg of his desk and threw the other down to Chad.

  “You fall and break a leg, Spider-Man, and you’re on your own,” whispered Larry.

  Chad tied the plastic bag around one of the belt hooks on his jeans until it was secure. Then he grabbed the rope and began slowly to climb, one foot ahead of the other, until he crested the windowsill. Larry reached out and helped him inside.

  “Man,” said Chad. “That would have been easy a year ago.” He untied the plastic bag and put it on Larry’s desk.

  “Wait another fifteen years and then we’ll talk,” said Larry. “What you got here?” He rummaged in the plastic bag.

  “Sandwiches and beer,” said Chad. “Thought you might be hungry.”

  Larry knew they were Murphy sandwiches just by the way they were wrapped, the beige paper taped up like a baby’s diaper. He’d seen enough of them disappear out the door as takeout. Those were the nights he sat on his bar stool and watched a game or watched Evie Cooper.

  “Man, I’ve missed these,” said Larry. He unwrapped the one that had Onions scrawled in blue ink across its paper. He bit into it as Chad popped tw
o beers.

  “What would your mother say if she knew I let you drink beer?” Larry asked. Chad shrugged.

  “I can drink it in the park with the other guys, or I can drink it here with you. Take your pick. Tomorrow’s the old man’s service and I figured you’d need company.”

  This wasn’t the night to make a stand, and Larry knew it. And besides, climbing up the side of a house with beer and sandwiches was so like something Henry would do that he was enjoying this visit. It was good to see the boy, to know he was all right on this very important night.

  “Hey, wow,” said Chad. “Where’d you find this?” He had noticed the framed photograph of the four of them, Chad and Henry, Jonathan and Larry, standing with their fishing poles in their hands and smiling at the camera. Bixley Lake glistened in the background like a blue dream. Mr. Wilkie, who sold bait, was the one who had taken the photo, holding Jonathan’s camera up to his eye as if it were some kind of Hubble Telescope and fretting over which button to push. Chad picked up the photograph and stared at it.

  “It was in one of my boxes,” said Larry. He took a drink of the beer and another bite of sandwich. Liver and onions had been his and Henry’s favorite since they were boys. Chad put the photo back on the dresser and turned away. Larry wished now it had stayed in the dark box. But why pretend that Henry and the good old days weren’t gone forever? They were gone, at least as they were back then. The problem now was to figure out how to create some new good old days.

  “You going to the memorial service?” Chad asked. He had walked over to the bunks, the can of beer in his hand.

  “Nope,” said Larry. “I prefer to remember my brother in my own way, quiet and private.”

  “Me too,” said Chad. “This past couple weeks, just waiting for it to come and go, the anniversary, it’s like one of them hurricane parties. Know what I mean? It’s like waiting out the storm.” He tipped back the can and drank. Then, “Which bunk was my old man’s?”

  Larry pointed to the top bunk and Chad, balancing the beer can in one hand, climbed the little ladder and stretched out on the bed. He stared up at the ceiling, the beer resting now on his chest.