On their fourth date they drove out to an orchard that allowed them to pick their own apples and Henry was charmed by her reach. After she pulled her first apple she said “Woo-ee, that was neat” and plunked the fruit into the basket he was carrying and jumped up to reach another.
Somewhere in the middle of dates five and six (both dinner dates), Henry found himself falling asleep to thoughts of Celeste not Cathy, and the transformation was as complete as it was inevitable.
This day, this second-to-last Monday, feels like a death march as Mr. Beardsley had insisted on keeping the news of the store’s closing a secret until the ad announced it that Sunday. His thinking: people would be so shocked at the news they would flock to the place almost involuntarily and buy things out of sympathy or in attempts to take a piece of the town history with them before it all disappeared. Henry had told Celeste (and knew Ramon had told his wife as he would have had to since he already got that new job) and she offered to put a word in with her boss at the newly opened avante guard restaurant called 20/90 where she had secured a hostess position with some ease. Henry said no thanks and did not tell her he could not see himself working in a restaurant because he had not wanted to hurt her feelings. But he could not see himself working in a restaurant. Especially one whose name was pretentiously indecipherable.
Henry tries to see the store as a customer might, thinking to himself that it would be smart to do his own shopping before the end of the week but he cannot think of what he needs. Celeste mentioned she likes to hike so maybe a fleece pullover from outerwear but he already had one—pilled and with a zipper that broke long ago at a Fox Run game he went to one Friday night after work and after checking on his mother—still he could not justify buying a second one.
Celeste also talked about going to dinner in the city one weekend and he knows that will call for something dressy, but he has nearly forty ties and several jackets and even a good worsted wool suit that was old but still fit him by golly so why the heck would he want another plus if anything is timeless it is a worsted wool suit. And his Chesterfield. Both were perfect for a city dinner.
Otherwise Henry could find nothing in the store that he felt was lacking in his own wardrobe.
“Hard to believe it’ll all be gone, eh?” Mr. Beardsley asks him. You know what I won’t miss, Henry thinks to himself, I won’t miss the way everyone sneaks up from behind with their questions like a man can’t have a minute to himself just one goddamn minute. No sirree, I won’t miss that at all.
“Have you given any more thought to what you’ll do next?” Mr. Beardsley asks.
“What? Oh, um…” Henry says, not wanting the conversation to go any further, hoping to buy a little time until a customer perhaps enters the store and pulls focus.
“What are you going to do once the store closes?” Mr. Beardsley repeats. “I’ve been so busy with all this and my condo closing I haven’t had the chance to ask you. I’d of course be happy to be a reference for you if you’d like. Nothing but praise for my boy Henry.”
“Oh, thanks,” Henry says. “But I don’t know yet. What I’m going to do next, I mean. But thanks. I’ll put you down as a reference, I’m sure.”
Here is what Henry is thinking and frankly has been thinking ever since Mr. Beardsley broke the news to him about the store closing: How in the hell can Beardsley act like he doesn’t really care, I mean really care? All these years. He used to really care. He used to say all that stuff about all of us being “in it together.” Being the “stalwarts” of the town. The “anchor” that keeps the town from becoming like any other. And now now when it’s do or die he’s just given up and you know what? He even seems happy about it. I’ll just say it: he’s downright relieved. Sure, he says “hard to believe it’ll all be gone” but he doesn’t seem sad about it. It’s been his life up until now. So what was all that about anchors and stalwarts? Huh? What was all that? I bought all that. Goddammit, I bought all that.
Chapter twenty-two
2001
“The ad is out,” Mr. Beardsley says, holding up the County Register on his way into the store. Henry arrived earlier, to clean out his locker so he would not forget. Not that he would forget but it is something everyone wants to do in private: this erasure of oneself from one’s workplace.
“Did you see it?” Mr. Beardsley asks him. They are standing by the counter and Henry is disgusted to see that his boss appears triumphant about the advertisement. His mind wanders from the huge lettering that screams at him from the ad between Mr. Beardsley’s fat fingers (it is a two-page spread that contains the phrase “closing our doors forever,” and that is just too much really if you were to ask Henry).
Henry walks away from the counter and busies himself with straightening the already pinprick precision of the sport coat display. Shoulders standing at West Point attention. An honor guard ignorant of the fact that within twenty-four hours they will be molested by greedy, grubby fingers eager to cash in on their demise. At least, Henry thinks, they could have a dignified ending. He realizes, standing there overlooking his kingdom, that he is hoping nothing sells. Paychecks be damned. No money is worth this…this…humiliation for what was, until now, a noble life. Yes, yes, that’s it: Not one item should leave this place from this moment forward. Let them be captains, stoically and bravely going down with the ship. Saluting from the top of the bow before it is submerged in the deep water, never to be salvaged. Let the store have a worthy death, one that is equal to its courtly distinction.
He walks into the back room and sees himself, eighteen, lettering a length of masking tape to go up on top of the locker his new boss had assigned him. Henry Powell. Just like the locker at Fox Run. Then at the spectacular Westerfield. There he had no need for the sticky tan tape, his locker already had his name on it, printed up by a label maker. But here, standing here, he sees the same tape he affixed twenty-three years before.
He slides the edge of his thumbnail under an edge and eases it off of the metal but it rips into shards that have to be individually peeled and this ruins the moment for him. It should have come off in one long elegant piece, he thinks. More annoying is the fact that this lyrically melancholy moment ends with him having to shake the tape fragments into the waste basket but they cling to him and he has to pick them off, little pieces of his life…into the garbage.
Saturday
“This is the last time,” Mr. Beardsley says, producing the sign from the back room, carrying it to him offhandedly, hurriedly, even nicking the shirts hanging from the leisure-wear circle with the edge of it but not even glancing back at them, Henry notes. “And it falls to you, as always, our town crier. Mr. Football Hero. Will you do the honors?”
And for the first time Henry is not annoyed at Mr. Beardsley’s show of ceremony (in fact he thinks this time around it could have reached greater heights in its flourish but…) but is proud to place the sign in the front window. Same place. Lower corner by the front door. Stately. One sign. He likes this…that they are not shouting out their off-season sale…they are not pleading for business but simply alerting whomever might care that if they so choose they can find a bargain here within this establishment.
Celeste is the first through the door but is only coming to bring Henry coffee from Java Joe’s, blowing on her own while handing him his. “Good luck today,” she says. It is anticlimactic to all three of them, standing there facing the front door.
Ramon thinking: They better haul ass and move this shit, I need that extra money but then fuck the feds they’ll just take out what they do and it’ll suck so I’m not even gonna think about it but they better haul ass, these two with their sticks up their asses about clothes. It’s just clothes.
Mr. Beardsley thinking: I wonder if I should double-confirm the movers? That man seemed pretty spacey when he came out to give me the estimate—yes, I’ll double-confirm when I call to confirm the flight and I better not forget to make a copy of the pink slip for the car just in case.
Henry t
hinking: This coffee is worth that extra price. I think Joe used to water it down before and I like how now you can watch them pack the grounds into the espresso scoop getting as much as they can in there so it’s brewed just right nice and strong and that sure was thoughtful of Celeste to bring it to me she had a late night last night at the restaurant so she must have woken up early just for me that was nice.
The day is filled with unfamiliar faces Henry barely takes time to look at. He finds himself moving slowly for differing requests: Can you reach this? Do you have a 36 in the back maybe? Is everything you have out or is there more in the back—I’m looking for this in brown not black?
“Sure I can reach it for you” comes out wooden, his arm-raising perfunctory.
“No, if you can’t find a 36 out here it means we’re all out” sounds rude.
“Everything we have is out on the floor and it never came in brown, just black” is just plain brusque.
The store closes and Mr. Beardsley says, “I think tomorrow will be better. Saturdays are errand days. Tomorrow we should see more people in here. More of our old-timers. Ramon, can you bring out the vacuum? Henry, will you straighten up the outerwear section? Why can’t people hang things back up once they’ve tried them on? It never ceases to amaze me.”
And Henry is happy that it is the Mr. Beardsley of old who is barking these orders. Keeping up appearances. The vacuuming is a nice touch. Of course we should vacuum, he thinks.
By the time they are finished readying the store for the second day of the sale Henry’s limbs are aching. Not his back but his arms. His legs. Twitching like they used to after two-a-days and games at Fox Run.
“You can’t come to the game, Mom,” he said the day she had gotten herself dressed up like she used to, when he was a little boy. She had had two whole days of normalcy, of cooking without complaint and without incident. Two whole days of looking him in the eye and asking relevant questions like “How was school today? Is the coach being too hard on you?” followed by genuine concern for his well-being. “I just worry about you that’s all. Can’t a mother worry about her son?”
But Henry knew two days was her limit. He saw her summer clothing and knew it was only a matter of time for it was cold outside and her dressing for June or July tipped her hand.
“Why not?” she asked him, standing there in her Pappagallo shoes, her A-line skirt, her matching headband, her Bermuda bag on its wooden handle. “I’m all ready to go.”
“First of all,” Henry says, scrambling for a reason, one reason, something that would not hurt her feelings but that would seem plausible even understandable, “first of all it’s an away game and we’re all taking the bus.” It was not an away game but how would she know that? he reasoned.
“I’ll follow you in the station wagon.”
“But I don’t know who we’re playing, which school, and last time moms followed in their cars some got lost and then they got mad at the coach for not handing out directions and then he took it out on us in practice the next day. He called us mama’s boys,” Henry says, knowing this is not true but it rings true so what’s the harm? “So please don’t bother. It’s not a big game, anyway. Come to the Rye game. That’s a big one later on in the season. That’d be great if you could come to that.” He says this knowing she will forget all about the Rye game when the next prescription gets filled. He’s not worried about that part.
Still, he held his breath as she considered his words and he imagined them to be like spaghetti noodles thrown onto the wall, the cook hoping they’ll stick.
“That coach works you so hard already,” she said, “I can’t believe he would call you mama’s boys. I wouldn’t get lost but just in case I won’t come. Far be it for me to be the mother who gets lost and then everyone would hate me for making their boys suffer.”
She pats him on the back and walks into the kitchen.
This is a triumph of gargantuan proportions. When he was sure she was safely out of sight he raised his fists in a victory sign, grabbed his bag and was out the door with a “see you later” and without another thought.
Until. Until midway through the game he glanced over (funny, he never glanced at the crowd of random student supporters or parents), but this time he happened to look over and there she was. In front of the wood-trimmed station wagon, freezing no doubt, but with her arms by her sides, one hand prissily holding that Bermuda bag, looking directly at him. He had to look away when the coach called an offense huddle but on his way over he turned again to see her and she was gone.
When he returned that night she was already asleep, prescription filled, standing guard on her nightstand.
He ate his dinner alone that night, legs twitching from the running he had done in the game they had again won.
Sunday
The store is again filled in waves mostly by people Henry knows from other stores in town, people who normally would not be able to afford shopping at Baxter’s but are now taking advantage of the deeply discounted items he wishes were still out of their reach. It is a terrible thought and Henry feels momentarily bad for even suggesting it to his own self but really, this—these clothes, this store—has been what has set him apart from the rest. Now with all of them scrabbling for the very same items hanging in his closet at home there will be no differentiation whatsoever. Henry vows never to think this thought again, it is so deplorable of him to have even considered it for a moment. He banishes it from his brain and sets to work helping any and all who walk through the doors on this Sunday to prove he is infact a good person, an egalitarian, impartial, unbiased, that’s me, he thinks.
At five-fifteen he tells Mr. Beardsley he will return and rushes out to his car, sick with the thought that he is missing his time slot, hoping she is asleep and does not notice. On his way up Main Street he pictures her looking at the clock by her bed, under her lamp, seeing that it is five-twenty now and wondering, worrying, about him. Maybe he drowned, he fears she is thinking…maybe he drowned, too.
And he breaks the speed limit to get home, pushes the door open, drops his keys on the front hall table.
“Mom?”
She is not asleep but has been looking out the window (worrying? Was she worrying?) and turns her head slowly to face him.
“You okay?” he asks, breathless (he makes a mental note to see his doctor about his lungs. Lately he’s become out of breath at the slightest of exertions).
“David?” she says, staring at the television set.
“No, Mom. It’s me,” he says. “Henry.” Then adds, “You okay?”
When he opens the curtains the brightness surprises her.
“Are you just home from football? How was practice?”
“I’m home from work, Mom,” he says, lifting her up and off the couch to carry her to her bedroom. “Remember?”
She shimmies down under the sheets he neatly tucks around her, burrito-style. She smiles up at him and closes her eyes. He waits a moment before turning out the light and becomes frightened that this might be the last time he sees her alive. The thought so alarms him that he shakes her awake.
“How was work?” she says, eyes wide at the interruption in her drifting off to sleep.
Yes, how was work? asks the biographer, now bearded and sitting back in the shadows on that slipcovered chair that is never used. What is it, Henry? They both ask him with their eyes.
He waits a moment and before her eyes close again he says, “You know what? It was a hard day,” he says. Then, “Bye, Mom. I’m going out for a while but I’ll be back later, okay? I’ll check on you later.”
Back at the store Ramon is vacuuming and Mr. Beardsley is busy with the receipts for the day.
“How’d we do?” Henry asks, after locking the door behind him. As if hoards of shoppers would try to enter the store after hours.
“We did okay,” Mr. Beardsley says. “We did just fine. Will you handle outerwear again? I swear it’s like these people are animals. I remember our old customers. Rememb
er, Henry? Mr. Warren? Mr. Childers? None of them would just drop coats that didn’t fit onto the floor. It wouldn’t even occur to them. But these people…well, it just goes to show you—it’s time to go. It’s a sign, I guess.”
At the end of the day again Henry limps home after cleaning up and restoring order, once again readying the store for its last day of business.
Celeste calls and suggests a movie but he declines, telling her he is too tired and will see her later. She asks him if he is blowing her off and he says no, of course not, no, I’m just really tired and he means it in fact he cannot imagine her thinking for one second he is blowing her off but instead convinces himself she will no doubt be the one to break it off. When she sees I’m unemployed and have no plan. Celeste is the type to have a plan so it will be Celeste who blows me off. And I won’t blame her. No sirree.
Monday
September 10
The last day.
A nice ending if I do say so myself, the biographer says to Henry from the passenger seat of the Jeep on his way in to work. Store closing, Henry leaving—there’s symmetry to that, don’t you think? He makes a note about brackets and bookends and turns in his seat to face Henry. What do you think? What are your thoughts on this day, Henry Powell? He is laughing asking this, trying to make himself sound more formal. For a second Henry wants to clock him for his flippant tone.
But really it worries Henry that he has no thoughts whatsoever.
That’s not entirely true, though, is it? the biographer asks.
I guess not. Henry pauses before saying: Here is what I am thinking, if you really need to know.
I’m thinking it’s just another day. It’s just another day. All these people—they’re hurrying for just another day of work. They’re hurrying in to Java Joe’s for another cup of coffee (he curls his lip when he says the name of the place for emphasis of its being able to do what Baxter’s cannot…stay afloat). To them nothing’s different, he says.
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