Henry Franks(10)

The bus pulled to a stop on Gloucester to pick up more students, and Justine turned to the window.

“Henry?” she asked, pointing toward one of the small tables in front of the sidewalk cafes. “Isn’t that your dad?”

The bus started pulling away and Henry pressed up to the glass for a better view, but all he saw was the woman the man was sitting with. He blinked and the bus turned the corner. Dr. Saville?

“Kind of looked like him, but … ” Justine shrugged.

Henry stared out the window, trying to count to ten, the numbers running together until he lost count. He took a deep breath. Another. His fingers ran over his scars and Justine reached her hand out almost far enough to touch his arm.

“Do they hurt?”

He froze, then raised his hand to rest upon the scar around his neck. He pulled his collar up to cover the line. Still, she smiled at him. He tried, but failed, to smile back.

“They itch,” he said. “Sometimes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“‘He jests at scars that never felt a wound.’”

“Wait, I know that,” she said, her hand in his face to keep him from speaking. “No … ” She lowered her fingers. “Can’t remember.”

“Story of my life. It’s Romeo and Juliet.”

“The story of your life is a suicidal tragedy we were forced to study in English last year?”

“Not remembering is,” he said.

“You remember Shakespeare.”

“No, only one line; there’s a difference.” He smiled. “It’s everything else I forget.”

“You remember me, right?” she asked.

“You’re from after.” He turned away, looking out the window as they entered the parking lot of Brunswick High. “I don’t remember before.”

Justine was one of the first students to stand up when they finally reached the high school, but she stopped a few feet down the aisle. She turned around to look back at him where he sat, still staring out the window.

“Are you joining us for school today, Henry?” she asked when he didn’t stand up.

He shrugged. “I was thinking about it.”

“Don’t take too long.” She waved and walked away.

He waved back, but she was long gone. His answering smile melted away when he reached the school, and even the air-conditioning didn’t seem to help.





eight




The house was too quiet when Henry opened the door after school, missing the steady thrum of the central air fighting the good fight against August. No lights illuminated the dark foyer, only weak sunlight struggling through the lead-glass windows high in the walls. The air, thick, heavy, and wet, was difficult to breathe in the heat.

“Dad?” Henry said, still standing in the doorway, though it was hours too early for his father to be home.

Silence.

Henry closed the door, and the light was cut in half while the temperature spiked. The curtains, tattered and torn green fabric that might once have been serviceable, let in slanted rays of weak sunlight, bringing heat more than illumination.

He flipped the switch at the kitchen door. Nothing. He flipped it back and forth once more. Still nothing.

“Again?” he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the house. He sighed. “Crappy fuse.”

In the kitchen he pulled open the drawers, rifling through the random contents—dead batteries and a collection of broken pencils, empty pill bottles. One drawer held hundreds of plastic forks and a single packet of ketchup; another held nothing but pink ribbon tied into miniature bows. Next to an old bag of syringes on top of the fridge, Henry found the flashlight he was looking for, though the batteries were weak when he tested it.

Bigger windows in the laundry room let in more light. A thin door stood behind a rolling cart filled with cleaning supplies, and the wheels squeaked as Henry pulled it out far enough to reach the doorknob. A narrow set of stairs led down into the dark. The air, released on opening, was cool, smelling of age and dust.

The boards creaked on the first wooden step but they held his weight. The flashlight shook with his movements, making the shadows jump around him. Cobwebs came in and out of the light as he turned around, looking for the path to the circuit box to reset the breaker. Shallow footprints were visible in the dust from the last time he’d had to do this, and he followed them through the maze of boxes stored in the basement.

Sweat coated his skin, and kicked-up dust stuck to his arms and face. The metal door of the circuit box squealed in protest as he slid the latch to open it, and the heavy switch fought against him as he flipped it back into place. The air-conditioner kicked in immediately, a loud roar in the silence.

He’d forgotten to pull the cord to turn on the single bulb hanging from the ceiling; as the batteries of his flashlight died, he was plunged into darkness. Henry shook the flashlight. A weak glow cast shadows but the beam didn’t travel very far. He reached his other hand out, back and forth, sensing for boxes, hoping to find the string attached to the light.

Near the circuit breakers? Behind the boxes? Closer to the stairs?

He took a step, his arm swaying back and forth, patting the air as the flashlight died a second death. He shook it, harder and longer, banging it against his hip when it still refused to work.