Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  It’s like he controls the air here; the air does his bidding. It moves in and out of my nose depending on his expression.

  “Thank you,” I say, tailing off into a whisper.

  Beats of quietness roll by between us as we rake each other’s bodies appreciatively.

  His eyes glow with raw hunger. Or maybe it’s mine that glow with hunger and I’m merely seeing the reflection in his. The multi-straps at the back of the dress bare a large swathe of my skin, which was, in hindsight, a stupid idea, considering how much access it grants Henry to my body.

  “Have you met my parents yet, Max?” he asks, eyes never straying from me.

  “No.”

  “I’ll introduce you to them. They’re curious about you.”

  “Really? Why?”

  Has he told them about me? Does he want to tell them about me? But why? I’m only his housekeeper, and one kiss (and all the lascivious looks we’re exchanging now) doesn’t mean anything.

  Snagging one of the canapés from a waiter who’s bringing food around, he munches down on it. “Lucien’s been extolling your virtues to them all afternoon. They are under the impression that you’re an angel.” He caresses Lucien’s hair affectionately. “Lucien hardly praises anyone.”

  I noticed. The kid’s persnickety as hell.

  Henry extends me a hand. It’s an offer that can’t be refused, so I take it.

  “I’ll be back soon, kiddo,” I tell Lucien.

  “I will wait for your song.” He snickers.

  Young as he may be, I can’t allow him to look down on me. I’ll have to blow his socks off with the song.

  “I’m gonna impress you today; you’ll see,” I say confidently, before being swept away by Henry into the thick of the party.

  My head never stays straight; I look left and right, downright dazzled by the people here. Some of them are faces I’ve seen in newspapers and magazines. The governor of New York State is here.

  I pull at Henry’s jacket. “How come you never told me you come from such a rich family?”

  “I went to Harvard. Types like me abound there. You should have guessed.”

  Yeah, I should have. Most of my classmates were really rich, at least upper-middle-class. But I didn’t dwell on their status then, and I’m not going to dwell on it now.

  “What do your parents do?” I change the subject, curious about the source of this wealth.

  “These days? Attend charity galas, volunteer, and vacation on the Seine, mostly. They’ve retired. Before, they were doctors. Had their own hospital. It’s now been passed down to Emilia and her husband.”

  “What about you? Don’t you get a share?”

  “And what exactly would I do with a hospital? I don’t know the first thing about healthcare.” In a quick maneuver, he steals a glass of wine from the open bar. “Mom and Dad invested in my consulting business, which was more than enough for me.”

  I see. So that’s how it is. Sounds fair.

  As we approach his parents (I know they’re his parents because they look like him), I’m struck by the complete absence of nerves. How’s that possible? I should be anxious about meeting these people…but I’m not. For one, they don’t even look scary.

  Mr. Stone is the image of a harmless old man—short, overweight, ruddy-complexioned, with silver hair cropped close to his head. He’s dressed the most informally out of all the guests, in a plain blue shirt and slacks. His gaze reaches Henry from under his horn-rimmed glasses.

  “Son, good to see you,” says Mr. Stone. “And who is this pretty lady?”

  Next to him, Mrs. Stone clears her throat. She’s less friendly-looking. Her short bob of frosty blonde hair has been hairsprayed into submission. I think I’ve figured out where Emilia gets her coldness from.

  Henry places a hand on the small of my back—right over my skin. The nerves under my skin sing at his touch. “Mom, Dad, this is Max.”

  No further explanation is required. Immediately, Mrs. Stone abandons her sternness for warmth. “Not the legendary Max who has drawn praise from our Lucien.”

  “The very same,” Henry confirms.

  Surveying me from various angles, she shakes my hand. “You look young, dear. I imagined you’d be much older.”

  “Would you believe Max is the same age as me? We were in the theatre society together at college. She was the star performer in every single production. She was—is—a really good actress.”

  I fan myself at the effusive praise. “He’s exaggerating.”

  “You two were at Harvard together?” Mr. Stone double-checks, surprise etched into his blue eyes.

  “Yeah,” Henry replies. “Class of ’10.”

  Both the Stones look a little puzzled. I’m sure they have questions, but they’re polite enough to not voice any. Instead, they ask me about the work I do at Henry’s, and about my family.

  There’s not much to tell here—my mother was a career housewife, and my dad worked at the bank in our town. Sometimes, I’m surprised how far Coop and I come from where we started. In elementary school, I envisioned Coop as the chef at the pizzeria in town. Let’s just say he wasn’t ambitious at that age; he barely scraped through each year in school, and his only hobby was eating. Ji-ae and he are surely a match made in heaven.

  “I’ll be singing today,” I mention to the Stones offhandedly in the course of the conversation. “I hope you’ll enjoy my performance.”

  I resist mentioning that I’ve never sung professionally before—drawing sympathy from them at this stage might backfire later if I bomb the performance.

  “I look forward to hearing your song, Max.” Mrs. Stone maternally adjusts Henry’s tie—yes, he’s wearing a tie, for his nephew’s birthday party, no less.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Now I’m doubly nervous. I have to impress these people. To make matters worse, Emilia joins us. “I see you’ve met Max.”

  Earlier I didn’t pay too much attention to her appearance, but now I do. She has a lot of makeup on, and her hair’s been straightened and conditioned. It’s glossy enough to blind the eye. Her dress, however, is the real show-stealer. Printed with a weird pattern, the shift dress lends her a strange-but-fashionable look. It doesn’t strike me as Emilia’s style, since she usually opts for plain, classy clothes which are classic in their design, but it suits her.

  “Did you know Henry and Max both graduated from Harvard?” Mr. Stone says.

  “Yeah, Henry mentioned.” Her eyes narrow with concern at her brother. “By the way, what happened to the back pain you were complaining about a few weeks ago?”

  Remembering what led to that back pain, I tense up. I haven’t thought about that again, but what if that episode led to lingering effects?

  Dragging a hand through his hair, Henry studies his shoes, clearly avoiding Emilia. That, in and of itself, is highly suspicious.

  “It’s gone,” he replies. “It must have been because of bad posture.”

  “You should take better care of your health. I’ve told you a million times to start exercising. And what was that photo of a burger I saw on your company’s Instagram feed yesterday?”

  “I exercise.” Henry gets defensive, like a child getting scolded by his mother. “And I won’t die because I ate one burger.”

  “You don’t know how many of my patients have said that to me. But it’s never one burger. It becomes a habit.” Emilia taps her iWatch. I didn’t notice that she had an iWatch before. “Max, why don’t you start packing him lunch from tomorrow? Include a lot of heart-healthy foods and antioxidants.”

  “She will do nothing of the sort.” Moving in front of me, Henry hides Emilia from my view.

  “I don’t mind making you lunch,” I butt in, not happy at being sidelined. “I make lunch for Lucien, anyway. I’ll just make twice the amount.”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” Emilia says. “And get a check-up at the hospital. I’m worried about your health.”

  “I told you it’s noth
ing…” Henry evades my gaze.

  “Never trust men. That’s my philosophy. Yes, that includes you, Dad. You had better come in for a check-up, too.”

  Mr. Stone laughs, but Emilia’s not having it. “Mom, make sure I see him tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Stone gives a small nod.

  I hear the crunch of Emilia’s fingers as they bend over my shoulder. “Now, come on, Max, it’s time for us to go. Your performance starts soon.”

  “All right. Bye, Mr. and Mrs. Stone. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Likewise.” Mr. Stone waves me goodbye.

  On the way to the small stage Emilia’s arranged to be set up in one corner of the hall (looks like she really did not want me to attract any attention), she chatters about the sound system specifications for my performance. Also, she mentions that she’s already deposited my fee into my bank account—my good news of the day.

  When I get to the stage, the sound guys have set up a mic, and I’m thrust towards it by Emilia’s strong hands.

  “Remember, only one song. And try to be soft,” she whispers into my ear.

  “Uh-huh.”

  As I look out at the sea of people in front of me, a knot forms in my throat. Expectant faces, so many of them—all focused on me. Lucien’s still sulking, but Henry, Mr. and Mrs. Stone have excited looks fixed upon their faces. My knees almost give out.

  What if I mess this up, like everything else?

  Stage fright is a real thing, people. No matter how many times one has been on stage, there’s always that shred of doubt at the back of the mind that this time will be a disaster. As a performer, impressing the audience is my job, but people’s responses cannot be predicted. Shivering like a leaf in a storm, I open my mouth.

  The guy manning the music track gives a thumbs up, and the sound of piano bursts into the hall, resonating amidst the extravagant chandeliers and wall sconces.

  Instantly my eyes shut. It’s the oldest trick in the book—blocking out the audience. My mouth moves and I hear notes amplified through the microphone. Well, that’s an accomplishment. I keep my eyes closed throughout the song, and tense up at the part where I have to belt. Considering I haven’t practiced properly in ages, I’m surprised at the rich and powerful sound that discharges from my vocal cords. Smooth. Loud. Beautiful.

  And that’s when I begin to feel a little better about all of it.

  It’s not long until the end of the song. It passes by quickly, and I bow and bolt from the stage as fast as I can, searching for Lucien. On the way, I pick up a few appetizers because they smell too delicious to ignore.

  Lucien’s still sitting in the same chair he was sitting in when I saw him earlier. And he seems to have made no friends in the meantime.

  Coincidentally, Henry happens to be with Lucien.

  “You have a beautiful voice,” he compliments, spotting me.

  But I’m more interested in hearing what the little devil thinks of me. This whole show was for his benefit, anyway.

  “So how was the song? Worth the money your mom paid for it?” I ask Lucien, taking dainty little bites of Ji-ae’s hand-crafted appetizers.

  These are amazing; they have her unique stamp all over them. I can already see myself mass-consuming them tonight.

  “That wasn’t funny at all.” Lucien wrinkles his nose. “Such a disappointment.”

  “I’m not a circus clown, you know.”

  “But when you sing at home, it’s hilarious.”

  “That’s because I’m not trying to impress anybody or getting paid for it.”

  “You did well.” I feel the weight of Henry’s hand on my back again, and this time, I move away, surprising him.

  Being near him stirs up too many feelings inside me. Urgent need. Disastrous desire. Lingering fear. Spiraling dread.

  He’s not dangerous, I know that…but how can I know?

  “I want to play hide-and-seek,” Lucien announces, breaking me away from my wandering thoughts.

  “Huh?” Henry straightens himself.

  “I’m bored. I want to play something. So we’ll play hide-and-seek. Max and you hide; I’ll find you.”

  “But isn’t this house too big for hide-and-seek?” I protest.

  Henry and I could get lost within its dark rooms and hallways…and end up acting out our feelings. Not a good idea.

  Lucien closes his eyes and turns away. “I know every corner. I will definitely find you both. I’ll count till fifty, okay?”

  “Yeah…” We’re both eyeing each other with worry.

  But it’s not like we’re swimming in options. Besides, some part of me is eager to spend this time alone with Henry. Even if all I do is stare at his face. Simple actions like that bring me much joy.

  Today, I was introduced to his world. Knowing where he comes from has upped my admiration for him. Despite his clearly comfortable upbringing, he has tried to make his mark on the world in his own way. Not even cancer could hold him back from doing what he wanted. Henry is much stronger than he looks, and I’m glad I was able to meet him again after so many years and find out this side of him. He always surprises me with his depth. And the more I find out, the more I want to find out.

  “Know any good places to hide?” I enquire, as we sail up the stairs to the upper floor of the house, which is devoid of guests.

  “More than a few; this is my parents’ house, remember?”

  The top floor of the house is deserted, but all the lights are on. I marvel at how many doors there are; I swear there must be at least five rooms on this floor. What do the Stones do with so many rooms?

  Taking a sharp turn, Henry and I pass by a dark room that’s semi-open.

  Acting on some indescribable instinct, I step in. “Let’s hide here, so Lucien can find us easily.”

  Flipping on the lights, I draw a sharp breath when I realize that we’re in a bedroom. But it’s too late to take back my words. Besides, we’re adults. We can manage being together in a room without tearing each other’s clothes off.

  “Where’s the fun in that?”

  Henry’s teasing tone makes heat prick at my cheeks, makes my imagination wander. The pink-wallpapered walls and muted lights are already starting to feel too romantic to endure. Add to that the blue satin bedspread and the golden-framed photo of Henry’s parents in their youth, and you have a recipe for disaster.

  “I have no interest in dragging out this game. Once he finds us and he’s satisfied, he’ll let us be,” I snap, covertly laying the photo frame face-down. I’d rather not look at Mr. and Mrs. Stone while I’m thinking ludicrous thoughts about Henry.

  “Fine.” Dropping his coat on an armchair in front of the window, Henry locks the door shut. “You have no problem with closing the door, right? We should at least pretend like we’re trying.”

  “Yeah…” My throat’s so dry.

  I need something to drink. I shouldn’t have passed up that wine downstairs. Lucien better find us quickly.

  The bed makes a sighing sound when Henry’s butt sinks into the mattress. “Don’t mind me. I want to rest my back a little.”

  I nod.

  Boy, I should’ve thought this through. Because me alone with Henry in a room with a king-sized bed has no way of ending well.

  He’s sitting on the bed, folding back the sleeves of his shirt casually, and my willpower’s dying little by little. Stop, I want to scream. Stop it.

  Groping for a distraction, I try to dig into his personal life. “What did Emilia mean earlier about the back pain? Are you still having issues after the fall?”

  He hesitates. “Um…just a little bit, sometimes. It’s no biggie.”

  “But it could be dangerous.”

  “Don’t overthink it, Max.”

  He’s being evasive. That’s is not a good sign. “What is Emilia’s opinion? Does she think it could be dangerous?”

  “She doesn’t know. That’s why she wants me to get an MRI.”

  This is where I utilize my ‘scary nanny’ tone.
“And you’re refusing to get one because?”

  “I don’t want to.” He rolls his shoulder back in a lengthy shrug. “I’m scared.”

  His expression hits me right in the chest, turning that area into a mushy pool of feeling. Fear is something I relate to only too well. But it’s out of place on Henry. He’s such a calm person. I hate seeing him like this. What I hate even more is that I can’t do anything about it.

  “You’re claustrophobic?” I ask in a soothing voice.

  “No, I’m afraid she’ll find something.” Disquiet grows on his features.

  “Like what?”

  “Like another tumor.”

  Blank. My mind goes totally blank. A deeply disturbing feeling coils under my ribs, spreading its coldness throughout my body.

  Tumor? Did he say tumor? The stuff you get when you’ve got cancer?

  No. No, no, no. I can’t lose him. I cannot. In these terribly depressing times, when my career has failed and my luck’s pulled a Houdini on me, Lucien and Henry are the only people making my life worthwhile. I really, really anticipate seeing him every morning, making him breakfast, talking to him. I don’t want him to go.

  “Tumor, did you say?” My lip wobbles.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you.” He puts both his hands under the arch of his back for support. Does it still hurt there? “Maybe it’s my imagination, but when I was diagnosed with cancer four years ago, I felt a similar pain in my back, and I was confident it was nothing…but I was wrong,” Henry says, in a voice that milks every ounce of my emotions.

  I don’t want to cry for him. But I do. On the inside.

  And then poof goes my promise to not get near him, not touch him, not put my arms around him, draw him close and comfort him. I do it all.

  My cheek sweeps an arc over his shoulder blade, and in those moments, the world is pure and beautiful and there is no such thing as fear. I don’t even recoil.

  Maybe, I think, it’s because I know he’s a good person. The reason doesn’t even matter. What matters is to comfort him.

  “Don’t feel bad for me.” Henry winds one arm around me.

  The urge to protect him that arises within me at that moment tells me more than I need to know.

  “I’m not feeling bad for you. I’m praying that you’re wrong.”