We Are the Ants(87)

Mom scowled at me. “You know, I have a box of baby pictures around here somewhere. Keep it up, mister.” She pushed back her chair. “It was really nice to meet you, Helen. We should have lunch sometime.”

“Absolutely.” She waited for Mom to disappear outside before motioning for me to sit. When I did, she stared at me for so long that I began to feel the same way I did when the sluggers examined me. “I never liked you, Henry.”

Mrs. Franklin’s pronouncement should have shocked me, but it didn’t. “Thanks?”

The hard edges of her face softened momentarily. “It wasn’t you—I’m sure you’re a fine young man.” I noticed the way she lingered on my black eye, and wasn’t sure I believed her. “It was Jesse. I wanted him to focus on his studies. You were a distraction.”

“Jesse would have been valedictorian if—”

“I’m glad he found you, though. You made him happy.” Mrs. Franklin’s voice was wooden, like she was reciting lines, but I didn’t know whether it was because she was insincere or because if she allowed any emotion to creep into her voice, she’d fall apart.

“About the other night—”

Mrs. Franklin held up her hand. “I think I understand.”

“You do?”

“No, I suppose not. But I’m sure you had your reasons.”

“You turned Jesse’s bedroom into a sewing room.”

“I’d burn down that house if I had the nerve.” Mrs. Franklin’s composure cracked. A mad giggle escaped from her mouth, and she seemed as surprised by it as I was. “Jesse is imprinted all over that house. Down every hallway, in every wall. He’s gone, but he’ll never be gone.”

I considered taking her hand, offering her comfort, but if that was what she wanted, there had been plenty of opportunities after Jesse’s death. His funeral, the wake, the lonely days after when even eating had become an unbearable chore. “Why are you here?”

Mrs. Franklin cleared her throat. “We didn’t speak at Jesse’s funeral—I was too bound up in my own grief to be concerned with yours. I hope you can forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I wanted to ask you . . . I wanted to know . . . Did Jesse tell you he was sad?”

The question blindsided me the same way Jesse’s suicide had. “No more so than anyone else.”

“Did he ever talk about wanting to hurt himself?”

“Not with me,” I said. “Audrey knew a little, but he kept that part of himself from me.”

For some reason, that made Mrs. Franklin smile. “So like Jesse. He hated to be a bother, and only wanted to make -people smile. Especially you.”

“He did. I don’t think I was ever happier than with Jesse.”

“Neither was I.” Mrs. Franklin folded her hands in front of her, and I think we both got a little lost remembering how amazing Jesse was. The way the sun shone brighter, and no trouble seemed to matter when he was near. “Do you think it was my fault?”

“I don’t know.” It probably wasn’t the answer Mrs. Franklin hoped for, but it was honest, and she deserved the truth. “Maybe. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe nobody is to blame.”

“My son was very lucky to have had you in his life.” Mrs. Franklin pushed back her chair and stood. She was even more imposing towering over me. “Please don’t break into my house again.”

“Yes, ma’am.” As she turned to leave, I stopped her. “Did you find anything when you were cleaning out Jesse’s room?”

Mrs. Franklin furrowed her brow. “Like what, Henry?”

“I don’t know. Anything that might have explained why he killed himself?” The whole time we were talking, I kept hoping she’d reveal that she’d discovered a letter addressed to me, something Jesse had left behind that would make sense of everything.

She shook her head, eyes downcast. “What would it have changed if I had?”

“At least we would have known.”

“But knowing wouldn’t return Jesse to us.”

She began to head toward the door again. I’d broken into her house looking for closure, and I think she came to mine looking for the same. I’m not sure either of us found what we were looking for, but maybe continuing to search was the best we could do.

“Mrs. Franklin?”

She sighed. “Yes, Henry?”

“If you knew the world was going to end, but you had the power to stop it, would you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Mrs. Franklin’s back was to me, but I imagined I could see the determined set of her jaw, the same resolute expression I’d seen on Jesse’s face a hundred times. “Because Jesse believed that life wasn’t worth living, and I refuse to prove him right.”





10 January 2016


I was having a dream. The sluggers abducted me and cut off my limbs. Then they reattached them wrong. My left arm became my right leg, my right leg became my left leg, and so on. Then they tossed me onto the floor and forced me to try to crawl to the button. I wanted to reach the button more than anything, but it was impossible to walk with an arm where my leg should have been.

Jesse was in the dream too. He was lecturing me on the impermanence of memory. Most of the words jumbled together because I was busy having my body parts rearranged, but I remembered him telling me that memories are often amalgams of truth and fiction, sewn together in our heads by our subconscious to support our personal beliefs about the world. He droned on and on about dendrites and voltage gradients, but in my dream I couldn’t stop wondering how much of what I remembered about Jesse was truth and how much was fiction.