Year After Henry

by Cathie Pelletier

  “Son?” Lawrence said, as if to ask how and why. Then, as if it didn’t really matter what decision had brought Larry back to the land of the living, “This will make your mother happy.”

  “Dad, I have a lot of things to apologize for,” said Larry. “So many things, I don’t know where to start.”

  His father looked away from the backyard maples, the pansies and hollyhocks, the green onion stalks and the trellis of sweet peas. He reached for his cup of coffee and motioned for Larry to sit. Larry pulled out a chair and sat across the table. They weren’t known for father-son talks. He waited.

  “I never had a good relationship with my father,” Lawrence said. Larry felt his stomach cramp. He didn’t want this, didn’t need an apology of any kind. He was the one who should apologize.

  “Dad, I got my old job back,” Larry said. “I’m waiting until after the service to tell Mom. This is all my fault, not yours.” But his father held up a hand.

  “Let me speak, son, please,” he said.

  Larry looked out at the brick walkway that led over to his mother’s cucumber beds. Maybe he could count the bricks to help ease the anxiety he was now feeling. There were positive points for never leaving one’s room. How had he forgotten that so quickly?

  “I never had a father I could talk to, and neither did you boys. Henry, well, he lived his life the way he wanted, not the way he should. And that hurt Jeanie. It hurt a lot of folks. I heard the gossip down at the post office. I knew. I never told your mother, of course. Why hurt more people? But you, you’re more like me than Henry ever was, and yet we hardly know each other.”

  “Henry was Henry,” said Larry. And he knew that the reason Henry could be king was because his servants wanted him to be. They demanded it, especially his mother, in those formative years that are supposed to be so important in shaping character. This meant that everyone around Henry Munroe, his satellites as Jeanie now saw them, they were all what the talk shows call codependents. They had built the man themselves.

  “I never wanted to be a mailman,” his father said then, and this took Larry by surprise. He looked down at his hands as if he held something important in them. He couldn’t look at his father. Even the air around the table was becoming static with this revelation. “But I had that tradition stuck on me, like a tail on a dog. My father and grandfather pretty much built the post office. Christ, I can still smell them down there, as if they’re standing in the corners, watching every move I make. But sometimes, the only thing a man can do is to take tradition and wag it around. You pretend it’s not really a dog’s tail. Instead, it’s a flag or a banner, and you’re proud to carry it.”

  “You’re a good mailman, one of the best,” said Larry, forcing himself to look up at his father’s face.

  “I do what I can,” said the older man. “And you should too. So lead the life you want to lead, son. And remember that no matter what she does, your mother wants the best for you, just as she did for Henry.”

  Wind rattled the chimes hanging from the post with the hummingbird feeder. From off in the trees, sparrows and warblers sang with that after-the-storm excitement. The grass smelled fresh, still wet at its roots, the whole day alive with sound and color. After a couple minutes of silence, Larry realized that this was all his father had intended to say. It was all, and it was enough. He knew what the older man meant. He knew the book that lay behind those few words. It was another reason that Larry wanted to be a good father to Jonathan.

  “I’m sorry about the mail,” Larry said. But his father had returned to the man his son had always known him to be.

  “All that rain last night,” he said. “It’s good for your mother’s garden.”

  ...

  When Evie opened her eyes, she heard Gail out in the kitchen, the rattle of cups, water running in the sink. She wished she could sleep forever. But regardless of what Larry Munroe might and might not do after the memorial service, Evie had a busy day planned. She sat up on the sofa and arched her back. Two nights away from her bed and already her body was complaining. Gail came into the parlor carrying the painted wooden tray. On it were two mugs of coffee, two bagels, and the butter dish.

  “Wow,” said Evie. “How long has it been since someone brought me breakfast in bed?”

  Gail put the tray on the coffee table and handed Evie one of the mugs.

  “It’s not breakfast in bed,” she said. “It’s breakfast on the sofa. And that’s another reason why I’m going home today, once this is over. You deserve your bed back.”

  Evie felt the instant caffeine rush from that first coffee of the day. She watched as Gail buttered them each a bagel.

  “Are you positive you’re done with Marshall?”

  “I had a couple days to think,” Gail said. She sat on the sofa next to Evie and reached for the other coffee mug. “While I was lying up there in bed feeling sorry for myself, I thought of Margie and how she’s living without Annie, just as you said. And I looked at the little girl on your wall, your sister. You’re right, Evie. I need to go to plan B, because plan A ain’t working.”

  Evie held up her mug so that Gail could click hers against it. And in that second Evie knew what she was going to do in her own life. She was going to stick to plan A. There would be no more running, no more searching for roots. This is where she wanted to be, to live and die, this sweet house with the calming porch swing, with the roses in her backyard, this town of Bixley, where people saw her at the bank and said hello. Where cars sometimes tooted in recognition as she sped to the grocery store or out to the mall. Where some of the customers at the bar now seemed like caring friends. Gail was one of them. Regardless of what Larry Munroe did, Evie Cooper was already home.

  “I have something to tell you,” said Evie. “Murphy asked me last week if I wanted to buy the tavern.”

  Gail looked surprised at first, and then she smiled.

  “I don’t know which is more amazing,” she said. “That Dan Murphy actually showed up at his own place of business, or that you’re gonna be my boss.”

  “Well, for one thing,” said Evie, “Murph didn’t stop by. He called me on his cell phone from the golf course. And for another thing, what makes you think you’ll be working for me?”

  Gail studied Evie’s face, as if not sure if this were a joke.

  “We’ll go over to the bank on Monday and talk to Elmer Fisk,” said Evie. “The way I see it, I can’t imagine a better business partner than you.”

  ...

  By the time people were done filing into the massive back room at the restaurant, Jeanie counted over seventy faces. Frances had done well in tracking down people who wanted to say a final farewell to Henry Munroe. The plan for the memorial service had changed again, and Jeanie felt nothing but relief to learn of it. Frances decided it was better for everyone to stay at the restaurant and not visit the grave. A string of cars inching out to the cemetery, bumper to bumper, would be too much like a funeral and not a celebration of Henry’s life. The family could put the marker from the postal service on Henry’s grave at some later and more private time.

  Jeanie looked past the tables loaded with cheeses and crackers, salads and casseroles, cupcakes and cookies, and there stood Chad. He was tall and handsome in the suit she had bought for him just two weeks before. The one he had worn for his father’s funeral no longer fit. He’d grown taller in the past year, his chest expanding, his arms stronger. But looks were deceiving for he was still a teenager. Maybe this was the mistake Frances had made with Henry, maybe she had let the boy strive to become the man too quickly. It was a mistake Jeanie would not make with her own son. She had already begun making calls, asking questions, inquiring about groups who counsel teenagers with drinking problems. Maybe Chad needed some of that grief counseling that Jeanie had already outgrown. And Jeanie herself would make some new plans. Even if the job at Fillmore’s Drugstore did become available, it
was only part-time. And it was part of her old life. Maybe it was time to take those real estate classes that Mona was enrolled in. It was time to find a new vocation, other than that of Henry Munroe’s widow.

  “Mom?” It was Lisa. Jeanie took her daughter into her arms and held her so tightly she could feel the enormous belly against her body. Lisa’s face was alive with the rush that comes from pending motherhood, a freshness in her eyes, her skin radiant. She had her long brown hair pinned up in a neat sweep off her neck. She was wearing a lavender maternity dress, tiny white flowers around the neck. She looked beautiful, and Jeanie told her so, kissing her face several times.

  “You angel,” said Jeanie. “I didn’t want to pressure you, but I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “I knew you wanted me to come,” said Lisa. “Just because I don’t live with you anymore, Mom, doesn’t mean I can’t pick up your little hints. Patrick’s parking the car.”

  Jeanie pushed some of Lisa’s brown hair, hair with blond highlights like Jeanie herself used to have, back from the side of her face. Patrick came into the restaurant then. Jeanie watched the expression on Lisa’s face when she saw her husband. She knew that look. She had felt it herself once, for Lisa’s father.

  “There’s Chad!” said Lisa. “And Uncle Larry!” And Lisa was gone again.

  Jeanie saw her brother-in-law across the room. Larry had on the same gray suit he had worn for their little dinner on Thursday night, and now, with his shoulders back straight, he looked like the teacher he was. Why had they all dreaded this gathering for weeks? It was coming together nicely. It was now more like a birthday party than a commemoration to someone dead and gone from them. The memorial service was joining them again, reminding them that they needed each other more than ever. Maybe Frances was wiser than they had realized, maybe the matriarch in her knew some tricks. As if on cue, Frances appeared out of the crowd, wearing her dark green skirt and jacket, a white silk blouse. Jeanie had expected her mother-in-law to be teary-eyed and mournful. But Frances was smiling. She pulled Jeanie aside to whisper in her ear.

  “I invited Katherine,” said Frances, “and she’s here.”

  “What?” Jeanie asked, astonished. “Does Larry know this?”

  Frances shook her head.

  “He knows I asked her to bring Jonathan,” she said, “but he doesn’t know she actually did. They just arrived. She’s leaving right after the service. She’s in the ladies’ room now.” Jeanie knew her face must have shown the amazement she felt.

  “I think you should tell Larry,” she said. Frances nodded across the room.

  “Someone already is,” she said.

  Jeanie looked over to see Jonathan, very proper in a blue suit, standing just behind Larry, waiting to be noticed. His dark hair had grown longer since she saw him last. The boy himself seemed to have grown taller in the past few months. Chad had been like that, too, sprouting up past the other boys his age. Larry was talking to Leeann Boyle, the real estate agent who had sold the house on Pilcher Street when he and Katherine divorced. Leeann noticed Jonathan first, and smiled. That’s when Larry turned to see who was standing next to him. There is something in how a parent looks at a child that gives proof of why it is we live, and love, and die. It’s those single moments of elation that make up for the hours and days of madness. Jeanie watched as Larry pulled Jonathan into his arms, holding him close, in that way his own father had never been able to do.

  ...

  By the time Marshall Thompson roared into the parking lot at Murphy’s Tavern, the only car he would see parked outside would be Gail’s little red Chevy. Inside the bar, they heard the noise of the big bike, and then silence as the engine died. Evie motioned to Gail, who went to the back door and stood there, waiting to unlock it. Sundays, the tavern was always closed. Evie looked over at Billy Randall and Paula Thompson. They had already left their stools at the bar and were disappearing into the back office. She glanced over at Gail, who had now unlocked the door but not yet slid back the bolt. Evie held up one finger. Give me a second, the finger said. And then she joined Billy and Paula in Murphy’s office.

  Evie put a finger to her lips, but by the look on Paula’s face, it was obvious she didn’t have to tell Marshall’s ex-wife to be quiet. The fear Paula still felt was in her eyes, in the fidgety way she twirled a lock of her hair, in the fading bruises still marking her slender arms. Evie glanced over at Billy Randall. Tall and intense, gray among the thick, dark hair, he stood motionless, his ears tuned to the noises in the front room, his eyes narrowed as he listened. Evie wondered if this was how Billy had stood in Vietnam, under the wet and dripping leaves of the jungle, waiting for the enemy, watching, hearing everything that walked or crawled. Billy had won the Medal of Honor before he left that country for good. He had brought his entire platoon out of an ambush alive. Sometimes, seeing him play pinball at the tavern, Evie wondered why his wife had left him as she did. He had come home a hero, to an empty house. Billy was a good man, and anyone who met him knew it. That he was silent much of the time, so deep in thought he might be thousands of miles away, well, why not? It had gone all around the bar how Billy caught up with the man who beat his sister Amy so horribly she was in the hospital for two weeks. This was Pete Fuller, who ran with Marshall’s crowd. No one ever knew what Billy did or said, but his sister wasn’t afraid to live anymore. It was Pete Fuller, her ex-boyfriend, who started the nickname Crazy Billy.

  “Hey, girl, how you doin’? I’m glad you called.”

  It was Marshall’s voice. Evie heard the back door close and the sound of the bolt as Gail locked it. She saw a slight tremor in the muscle near Billy’s mouth, but the look in his eyes didn’t change. He didn’t even blink. Evie wondered what it was like to be in war, to have bombs falling, to have the enemy trying to kill you at every turn in the road. And yet there was such a gentleness in Billy Randall. He was only eighteen when a helicopter dropped him off on that hilltop in a foreign country, a machine gun in his hands and pure fear in his heart. Billy never talked about it, but his sister did when she stopped by the bar for a glass of beer.

  “Want something to drink?” Gail now asked. Evie heard the bar stool scraping back, its legs against the wooden floor. Marshall would be just sitting down on his favorite stool. She heard the sound of a cap being twisted from the top of a beer bottle.

  “Come on, what’s wrong? I just wanna kiss you.” Marshall’s voice. Sometimes, Evie wanted to look back into the childhood of anyone who was fucked up. She wanted to find reasons and clues and answers. But just now, looking at the terror on Paula’s face, reasons didn’t matter. Would Peter Fuller finally have killed Amy if matters had been left alone? Maybe. And maybe means the odds are far too high. She saw Billy straighten, his head cocked back, one ear pointed to the front room. Paula was trembling. Evie reached over and put a hand on her shoulder, hoping to calm her.

  “We’re not alone,” Gail said. “Got someone in the back, fixing the air conditioner.” That was the cue. In three seconds, Billy Randall had left the back room and gone out to the bar.

  When Evie stepped out of the office, Marshall’s face was already shocked enough, seeing Billy appear. He sat motionless as Billy went down the bar toward his stool.

  “Hey, Marshall,” Billy said.

  “Hey,” said Marshall, still trying to assess what was happening.

  “You carrying anything?”

  “None of your business,” said Marshall. Billy grabbed Marshall from off his stool, flipped him onto his stomach on the floor, and pinned him there. It had happened so fast, no one had seen it coming, especially Marshall.

  “That wasn’t polite,” said Billy, pressing the man beneath him even harder into the wooden floor. “Evie, come see if he’s got anything on him.”

  Evie knelt and patted Marshall’s pocket, then ran her hands down his legs. It was apparent he had nothing under the tight T-shirt he was wearing.
Evie stood up.

  “Nothing,” she said. Paula had come out of the back room and now she stood, frightened, watching from behind the bar. Billy pushed Marshall down deeper into the floor. Evie heard him grunt as he struggled to get free. Billy twisted the arm back more and Marshall finally lay still.

  “Now you listen to me,” Billy said. “I’m obligated by law to let you know I have a black belt in karate. That way, you see, I can’t be sued for not disclosing that fact. But you personally won’t have to worry about legal stuff like that. If I’m sued, it’ll be by one of your surviving family members, if you got anyone left who gives a shit about you.”

  “Let me up!” Marshall shouted. He squirmed again, trying to wrest free, but Billy applied more pressure by pulling Marshall’s arm up higher onto his back. Marshall cried out in pain. Again, he quit struggling.

  “According to legend, karate began more than a thousand years ago,” Billy said, as calmly as giving a lesson, “when a Buddhist priest named Bodhidharma arrived in Shàolín Sì, a forest temple in China. He taught Zen Buddhism in that temple and exercises to strengthen the mind as well as the body.”

  “You fucker!” said Marshall.

  “Karate is an interesting art,” Billy said. “It even includes a kind of aerodynamics. For instance, by the time you find your balls, you’ll have already found your dick, since balls fly farther than dicks, given that they’re round.”

  Billy pulled Marshall up off the floor and pushed him into a chair near one of the front tables. That’s when Marshall saw his ex-wife, Paula, standing at the bar. He looked from her face, back to Gail’s, over to Evie’s, and he understood. He’d walked into an ambush. And Billy Randall knew all about ambushes.

  “You might call this an intervention,” said Billy. “The way I hear it, Paula here has tried a lot of times to get you to go on about your life and leave hers alone. Instead, you been beating the crap out of her every chance you get.”