Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  We arrive at Henry’s apartment just as I’m wondering whether I should mix sleeping pills with Lucien’s lunch and spare myself a whole evening of his analysis of the world’s problems. But as soon as we’re in the apartment, he runs off to the bathroom, leaving me to revel in glorious silence.

  The silence is remarkably short-lived, though, because he comes back screaming.

  “Where’s lunch?”

  “In the process of being made,” I reply, staring at the pot of water I just put on the stove. There’s not a single bubble in it yet.

  His stomach lets out a loud whine. “I want to eat now.”

  “In five minutes. Practice violin until then.”

  I’m going to make him instant noodles today. I already checked the fat content on the packet and it was less than five grams, so it should be okay.

  “I wonder what fat tastes like,” Lucien wonders aloud, tuning his violin. “Probably really disgusting.”

  Abandoning the pot, I fly to his side. “Are you kidding me? Fat is the most heavenly thing in the world.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never eaten any.”

  “C’mon. You must’ve at least eaten ice-cream.”

  He looks at me as if I asked him whether he’s eaten a dinosaur.

  “Cake? Tart? Pastries? Macaroons?”

  No again.

  By this point, I’m kneeling next to him. “Tell me you’ve at least eaten pizza.”

  “Yeah, once. Low-fat, thin crust with vegan cheese,” he says. “My mom is a cardiologist, so she’s strict about my diet. It’d be terrible to get high cholesterol and rotten teeth at this age.”

  “Poor you,” I cry sympathetically.

  No wonder he’s so crazy. It’s my personal theory that fat and sugar help the brain stay happy and normal. His mental balance has been disturbed by a lack of fat.

  As I’m wondering how to remedy his mental condition, somebody buzzes at the door. I scurry to the security monitor that shows Rick’s face. Rick’s the guy who delivers Ji-ae’s lunches around town. He speaks into the system to let me know that Ji-ae sent me lunch to feed the kid because she was worried I might not be able to get everything together in time.

  Glancing back at the pot of boiling water, I decide to be grateful for her intervention and collect the lunchbox from Rick. Today’s special is shepherd’s pie, roast potatoes and broccoli, with brownie for dessert.

  It smells great. I wish I could eat it, but duty dictates that I feed Lucien first. I’ll make do with instant noodles.

  Placing the lunchbox on the table, I clap my hands to catch Lucien’s attention. “Here’s your lunch. There’s even dessert.”

  Dumping his violin on the floor, he races to the table, undiluted enthusiasm lighting up his pale face. I brush away the hair that’s falling over his eyes. This kid needs a haircut. Maybe I’ll give him one later.

  Lucien sniffs the food on the table and steps back, angling his eyes up. “What’s this?”

  Widening my eyes, I sing in an artificial voice. “Delicious lunch. Look! There’s even broccoli.”

  This doesn’t convince him to go any closer to it. With a huff, I throw my hands on the table. I can’t believe this kid. How could he not like something that smells so divine? When I was struggling in LA, I longed for such wholesome food every day, but had to settle for whatever I could find.

  “Too much starch,” he grumbles, stabbing at the pie with a fork now. “Carbohydrates are empty energy.”

  Off with him. I should eat this myself and feed him the bland ramen.

  “Quit nitpicking. There are many people who don’t get to eat food like this.”

  This does nothing to change his opinion.

  Circling the table like a prowling cat, he lifts up his nose. “Is it okay to feed me this? What if I die of clogged arteries? Are you going to take responsibility then?”

  I pat him on the back (actually, it’s more like a shove). “You’re too young to think about clogged arteries. So just be grateful for your youth and eat it.”

  Still unsure, he resists, but when his stomach wails again, he ventures a spoonful of pie into his mouth.

  “Ah!” A sharp exclamation bursts forth. He drops the fork, the muscles in his face freezing.

  “What’s wrong?” Worry grips me. Hell, was there something in there that he’s allergic to? No, that can’t be. Emilia didn’t mention Lucien being allergic to anything in her email, so I assumed he wasn’t.

  But what if he is? How could I have known?

  Fuck. Having to take him to the hospital for an allergic reaction will ruin my first day, not to mention get me sacked.

  Rushing to grab water from the fridge, I am relieved to hear him cry, “Delicioussss.”

  Closing his eyes, he lets out a pleased sound and hurriedly stuffs more into his mouth. “Even better than chocolate.”

  I slump against the fridge, thankful beyond measure. I was really scared something had happened to him.

  “When you’re done, you can throw it in the trash,” I say, bringing him water and purloining the dessert for myself. I don’t want to overdo it. We’ll take it step by step: fat first, sugar later.

  “It’s plastic. It should be recycled,” he reminds me. “Lazy people who throw out plastic with trash hurt the environment.”

  “Fine. Then recycle it.”

  Why do I feel like I’ve acquired a new mother-in-law?

  Anyway, with lunch sorted, I need to worry about the rest of the house. I immediately reach for the vacuum cleaner and get busy. By the time I’m finished dealing with all the dust in the house, Lucien has recycled the plastic container and is doing his homework. He’s really quiet—I can’t even hear the scratch of pencil against paper.

  Leaving him to it, I think back to what Ji-ae told me this morning. She said that I shouldn’t just do the bare minimum work. I should do something extra to impress Henry with my dedication. When I scan the living room, my eyes fasten on the royal-blue curtains fluttering at the window. Creeping closer, I spot a layer of dust on them.

  That’s it! This is my chance to shine. I’ll wash the curtains and earn brownie points from Henry. Plucking a ladder from the kitchen, I climb up and wrest away the curtains from the frame. They feel frail in my hands. They’re old; they must have been his parents’. I must take care to wash them well.

  Excitedly, I trot to the laundry room and dump the curtains in the washer. It’s a really big and swanky one that loads from the top. As I’m about to grab the detergent, music shoots through the radio—I left it on—and it is The Show Must Go On. The song stirs emotions within me, freeing the actress in me. The mood’s too perfect to waste.

  In the throes of emotion, I grab the nearest microphone-looking object—a bottle of bleach—bringing it close, playing with the cap as I belt out the words.

  “The show must go ooooon!”

  Spreading my arms wide at the last note, I take a bow.

  That’s when I hear the sound of liquid dripping.

  “Fuck,” I scream, realizing the bleach’s dripped into the washing machine.

  It’s streaking over the curtains, settling deeper into the azure folds. In a hurry, I switch on the machine. Water should dilute it, I reason, throwing in some detergent for good measure. Then I shut the machine, hoping miracles work themselves and give me perfectly washed curtains at the end of it all.

  With that behind me, I empty the dishwasher and go around the house, polishing stuff. Lucien stays put and practices cello (he’s surprisingly good…), although he does annoy me with some more of his smart-alec comments.

  “You’re just shifting the dust around with that kind of cleaning, you know.”

  I can only conclude that Emilia is a really opinionated woman who has opinions on everything, from subways to the right color of kitchen sponge to use, to vacuuming technique, which she constantly voices to her son.

  I mostly ignore him.

  Soon, the washing’s done and it is time to retrieve
the curtains. But when I lift the curtains up to check them, I shriek.

  No! No! No!

  What happened to the pretty curtains?

  There are ugly slashes of white running across the pale, bleached blue. My heart sinks. These drapes are ruined. Henry’s so gonna fire me after a fiasco like this. I was just warming up to the job, too…

  “What’s the deal? Why’re you howling?” Lucien bursts into the laundry room.

  He gauges the situation quickly when he spies the white and blue cloth in my hand. There is only one conclusion to draw.

  “No way! You bleached the curtains?”

  I use the lamest excuse in the book of excuses. “I thought that was the detergent.”

  Picking up the bottle of bleach, Lucien thrusts it closer to my face. “Can’t you read? It says ‘bleach’ in red letters.”

  “Fine. I was daydreaming about being a superstar. But all is not lost. I’ll buy new curtains. I was going out to shop anyway.”

  “Max, Max, Max…you can’t replace those curtains. Those were antique silk curtains gifted to Uncle Henry by the king of Ceylon. They’re worth thousands of dollars.”

  My jaw drops a million miles. “What?”

  Thousands of dollars for curtains? I want to cry. Wasn’t being a housekeeper supposed to be easy? How can I be making a loss on my very first day?

  I’m so not cut out for this drudgery.

  “What should I do now?” I look at Lucien anxiously, hoping for an answer.

  His tiny hand lands on my collarbone, his eyes slitting with pleasure. “Don’t worry. I have an idea.”

  There’s surety in his voice, which eases my heart. I chase away the whisper in my head that tells me not to trust a nine-year-old. Kids these days are really smart, I tell myself. Ji-ae says that all the time, especially when she’s watching child prodigies on Ellen. Lucien has all the makings of a child prodigy. I believe in him.

  “What’s the idea?”

  He produces a black credit card and dangles it in front of my nose. “Use my mom’s credit card to buy new curtains. You can’t afford it on your salary.”

  Can’t argue with that point. Right now, my savings account has a net total of three hundred dollars.

  “But wouldn’t using your mom’s credit card be identity theft?”

  “Not at all. She’s given it to me to use. I even know the PIN. If she asks me, I’ll tell her I bought a new cello or something.”

  “And what will you say when she notices there’s no cello?”

  “I’ll say I lost it on the subway. She believes the subway is unsafe, anyway. She’ll lap that story up like fat-free chili.”

  The logic doesn’t click in my head immediately, but the pieces slowly fall into place. I can use Emilia’s credit card to replace the curtains and all will be well again. Nobody has to know until the end of the month. Oh, my God, Lucien Stone is an actual genius. This idea could work.

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  I reach for the card, but he pulls it away.

  “Not so fast, Max,” he says. “I’m not going to let you use my card for free. You have to promise to buy me chocolate.”

  Oh, that devilish gleam in his eye—it’s like he planned the entire thing. But I’m not in a position to bargain here. Besides, I don’t see the harm in feeding a kid some chocolate. Eating chocolate should be a constitutional right for kids, if you ask me.

  “Fine.” Pushing to my feet, I stretch out my hand towards him.

  He meets my hand with his, in a mock handshake. “Let’s go, then. I know where you can buy cheap curtains that look exactly the same.”

  The deal’s been struck.

  Only later that day do I realize that sugar and kids are the deadliest combination in the world.

  Chapter 4

  It’s the first Friday since I started, and when I came into the apartment in the morning to make Henry breakfast, he said he was going to stay at home today.

  “I try to take Fridays off,” he says, picking out books from the shelf that occupies one full wall in the living room. “And I was planning to take Lucien to the library in the afternoon. You’re welcome to join us. Let me know.”

  “That sounds like fun! We’d love to!” Ji-ae shrieks.

  Oh, yeah. My sister-in-law is here, too. She invited herself. After I told her about bleaching the curtains, she’s worried that I might mess up again and lose the job, so she’s here to show me the ropes of being a good housekeeper. As she reminds me again and again, she’s been managing the house for the last five years and nothing’s ever been out of order.

  “We can’t go to the library,” I whisper loudly in her ear. “We have to buy a new vase to replace the one I broke yesterday.”

  I’m lucky Henry hasn’t noticed it’s gone yet.

  Ji-ae clicks her tongue disapprovingly once Henry’s plucked a book from his library and gone into his room. “You’re something. Four disasters in as many days.”

  I pout. “I’m an actress. This housekeeping stuff’s not my area of expertise.”

  “You manage well enough in my house.” Digging into the fridge, she starts assembling vegetables for lunch.

  “We don’t have antique silk curtains and porcelain vases in the house, do we?” I counter, then get out the knife and start slicing onions.

  Observing me, she rolls her eyes, then moves me over and seizes another knife. Her hand moves like lightning and by the time I blink, the onions have been diced into perfect little cubes. Also, there are minimal tears in her eyes, nothing like the rivulets that run down my cheeks and nose by the time I’m usually done.

  “This is how you hold the knife.” She demonstrates, flailing her wrist. “Your wrist must be flexible.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Ji-ae’s a pro, so how could I compete? Eating her cooking is one of the highlights of living with my brother. In LA, I subsisted on frozen food and bread.

  “Henry, do you like Korean food?” she hollers. “I was thinking of making something special for you.”

  “I like everything,” he hollers back. “I’d love to eat whatever you make.”

  “He’s so nice.” Swooning, she leans against the counter. “I wish all my clients were easygoing like him.”

  “He said he’s subscribed to your delivery service.”

  “He did!” Ji-ae brings her lips to my ear. “Do you know a secret? I pack him a little extra dessert to keep him happy.”

  I snort. “Stop it, or he’ll have a paunch to rival Coop’s in no time.”

  “Coop doesn’t have a paunch!” she screams, affronted.

  “There’s no point in denial. You know he does.”

  She mumbles under her breath, something about beauty being in the eye of the beholder. “Be careful around the house. If you break something today, there’ll be no hiding it from him.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m getting a grip on things around here. You know what they say—the first week’s the hardest.”

  “You’re still not done with the first week,” she reminds me.

  Why does she always have to rain on my parade?

  I give the onions one more try, and then give up. Leaving the cooking to her (since she nitpicks everything I do anyway) I move onto vacuuming. Vacuuming is pretty much the only chore I haven’t messed up yet, so I’m kinda proud. Plus, a week into the job, I have a good idea of the layout of this apartment. I take my time going over every area, extra-careful today because I don’t want Henry to notice any dust.

  When I reach his bedroom, I notice that he’s sitting on the bed with an open book on his lap.

  “What’re you reading?” I ask, curious.

  I mean, I know it’s probably something I can’t understand, but I want to find out anyway. More than that, though, I just want to talk to him. Over the course of a week, my attraction to him has become apparent to me, although he’s still blissfully unaware. But I’m not shallow enough to fall for someone based on their looks, so I am going to try talk
ing to him more. Maybe that way, I’ll finally realize that we’re not compatible.

  “It’s a book on imaginary numbers,” Henry replies, turning a page.

  “Imaginary numbers? What are those?”

  “They’re like…” He stops to find the right word. “Imaginary Oscars.”

  I can’t believe he took a stab at me. I guess I deserve it, though, after the way I treated him in university.

  “I see,” I say morosely.

  “Sorry, that was in bad taste.”

  “I should have minded my own business,” I say, bending to clean under his bed.

  But he snaps the book shut. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spit on your dream. That was insensitive.”

  “It’s not my dream anymore,” I shout over the whir of the vacuum cleaner.

  “Why not?”

  I turn off the vacuum cleaner for a moment, so he can hear me clearly. “Because it’s useless to have such grandiose dreams. Meaningless.”

  “That’s what mathematicians originally thought about imaginary numbers, too.” Henry turns a page. “They were regarded as useless and insignificant. After all, what good could come from numbers that were not even real? But it turned out they were useful, after all. Do you know why?”

  Despite the technical nature of this conversation, I pop my head up from under the bed. “Because they realized they could use them to torture unsuspecting students?”

  A laugh gurgles out of his throat. “That’s not why. You see, imaginary numbers have a real part in them—a part that is a real number. So they can be added to real numbers and multiplied with real numbers. In other words, although they are imaginary, they can be connected to the real world and have significance in the real world.”

  “Ah.” Most of that went over my head, but what I understood sounded intelligent.

  He continues. “So even though you can’t see your dream, it is connected to reality in some way. And so, in the future, it might prove to be not as useless as you thought. Your imaginary Oscars might become real.”

  With this, he sits back down on the bed and turns another page.

  Rooted to my spot, I blink, absorbing his words over the machine noise of the cleaner, stunned by how elegantly he tied it to my dream. I may have been wrong about Henry on many counts, but I was right about him being a nerd. Who else could compare imaginary numbers and dreams?