If I Forget You(55)

“Can you let me in? Please?”

Margot sees the man considering. He has kind eyes. He is looking at her as if trying to assess if she is insane. A moment later, he says, “You can buzz his apartment.”

“Please just let me in,” Margot says. “I’ve known Henry a long time.”

“All right,” the man says.

Margot is through the lobby and into the elevator and then riding it up to the fourteenth floor. The old box creaks as it goes, settling and then moving again, and her stomach sinks as it slowly lurches, until finally it opens and she is down the hallway to his door.

There is a buzzer, but Margot knocks loudly. “Henry,” she says, “Henry, open the door; it’s Margot.”

Margot knocks again, this time frantically. “Henry, please. If you’re in there, let me in in, please.”

And then she hears a click and the door opens. Henry stands in front of her. He is a mess, his hair unkempt, jeans and a T-shirt on, barefoot, but more than that, there is the look in his eyes, slightly wild and manic, like he has been sleeping outside.

“Oh, Henry,” Margot says. “I was worried. You wouldn’t answer. I went to your office and I saw your note and I didn’t know…”

Henry shrugs. “I’ve been working.”

Henry turns his back to her and drifts back into the small apartment. Margot follows him, shutting the door behind her, and she is hit immediately by the overwhelming smell of Chinese food. The countertop that separates the little galley kitchen from the living room is littered with takeout containers, dozens of them, some stacked on top of each other, others still open. There are clothes on the floor. The lone window, straight ahead and looking west toward the river between buildings, has a visible covering of dust that diffuses the sunlight.

“When’s the last time you were outside?” Margot asks.

Henry smiles wanly. “I have no idea. Days? Sorry about the mess. I’ve been writing.”

“I didn’t think you would let me in,” Margot says.

Henry ignores this. He goes over to the small desk near the window. It is covered with papers. He picks one up off the top and takes it over to where Margot stands, the few feet she has walked since he opened the door. He motions to the brown couch to her left, a coffee table in front of it.

“Sit down,” he says. Margot can feel the energy washing off of him.

She does as Henry asks. She sits on the couch. He looms above her and then thrusts the single sheet of paper into her hands. Margot looks up at him.

“Read it,” Henry says. “Please.”

“Okay.”

Margot looks down at the paper.


Native Son, 2012

You come to me fully born

Like something out of mythology

Not a child or the infant you once must have been

Rather like the story Aristophanes told to Plato

A child of the sun, of course

Separated from me at birth

Clutching your mother’s rib in your tiny fist

Raising it in the air as a man

And wondering if you will know me when you see me

Broken twins, the two of us

Love palpable and scouring the plains

And the forests

And the cities of dreams

Until that final day

When I look into your unchanging eyes

And see myself.


When Margot looks up, she is weeping. Henry has his back to her, having moved to the window, but then he turns toward her and strides back.

“It’s beautiful,” she says. “I am so sorry.”

“I know.”

“It’s really beautiful.”

“I’m going to have a drink. You want one?”

“What time is it?” Margot asks.

“Does it matter?”

“I guess not.”

Henry pads into the kitchen. Margot hears the sound of glasses, ice, the pop of a bottle releasing its suction. A moment later, Henry is back with a glass, which he hands to her.

“Vodka,” he says. “Sorry. All I have left.”

Henry sits down next to her on the couch. Margot sips the vodka. At least it’s cold. For a moment, they don’t say anything.

“I saw him, you know,” Henry says.

“Who?”

“Alex.”

“Wait. What? Where?”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to him. I just wanted to see him.”

“Where?”

“At the Flatiron. I waited for him to come out. I just needed to see him with my own eyes.”

“Oh my God, Henry,” Margot says.

Henry shrugs. Margot looks over at him. His eyes are wet and his face looks so drawn, like that of someone who has been through an exhaustive medical procedure.

“I am so sorry,” Margot says.

“I know,” says Henry.

“What did you think?”

“He’s more beautiful than I could ever put into words.”

Margot looks away and she starts to cry. She doesn’t want to look at Henry now, for the guilt is more than she can bear. She cries. And Henry doesn’t say anything else. They sit in silence. Margot looks around the small, sad apartment. The air is close and there is the slightly sweet, slightly acrid smell of all the Chinese food. Then Margot cannot help it: Between the tears, she starts to laugh. At first it’s just a giggle and then she is laughing.