Henry Franks(15)

Henry went back downstairs when he heard his father return home, but by the time he got to the kitchen, the room was empty again. He looked down the hall toward the master bedroom. Beneath the door, a sliver of light glowed.

He took a step onto the hardwood floor and stopped. The corridor seemed longer than it had when he was still standing on the tile of the kitchen. The floor squeaked with each step, a high-pitched echo of his heartbeat, until he finally reached the door. Up close, it was carved, the dark wood etched with faint patterns that matched the wainscoting. He took a deep breath, thinking of all the questions left unasked. Unanswered.

He knocked.

“Dad?”

Silence, save for the constant hum of the air-conditioning. Henry tried the knob but it didn’t turn. He rested his finger on the deadbolt lock above it.

“Dad?”

He knocked, again.

At his feet, the light from under the door disappeared without a sound.



Henry sat at his desk, the house an empty shell around him despite the presence, somewhere, of his silent father. The summer sun had finally given way to night, cooling his room almost enough to notice. Still, the central air and ceiling fan worked non-stop.

Next to his monitor a generic plastic box divided into sections held his medicine. AM and PM and each day of the week were scrawled on pieces of masking tape on top. He flicked his finger through the Tuesday PM pills but couldn’t find the energy to take them.

He closed the lid and sat there unmoving, staring at the screen saver on his computer defining words he couldn’t remember as he re-opened the pillbox.

He was still sitting there when he fell asleep, medicine untaken in his hand.



“Daddy!”

Elizabeth comes running up to me, flinging herself into my arms. Her weight is a comfort against me as I swing her around. Just a child, she still shrieks with glee, making funny propeller noises as she flies.

Around us, petals fall off the trees like leaves in autumn, falling in patterns to the ground. They smell of earth and roses and I know they’d taste of ice cream.

“Chocolate,” Elizabeth says, her tiny hand tucked in mine as we wait in line.

“One scoop?”

“Two,” she says.

I have to use more pressure than I expect to drag the spoon through the vat of ice cream, scraping up a small ball that rattles around her cup, making odd metallic creaking noises like artificial bones held together with pins and prayer. The sun burns down, melting the ice cream into drinkable joy.

Elizabeth slurps and smiles and holds my hand as we wander through the empty park. Red and golden leaves crunch underfoot.

“I’ve got a secret,” she says.

Ice cream has given her a chocolate mustache and she licks it off. Her pigtails are coming undone and her dress is communion pretty; a small red poppy trails a Memorial Day ribbon on her chest.

“A secret?” I scoop her up in my arms and she squeals with delight.

“Daddy!” She laughs as I swing her around, making airplane noises.

We land, walking hand in hand down a deserted airport concourse. She tugs us forward, pulling me faster and faster until we’re running, flying over the moving walkways and abandoned luggage to our gate.

“See?” she asks, pointing toward the two people sleeping in the hard orange chairs. On the TV above them, all the flights have been cancelled.

“This is your secret, Elizabeth?” I ask.

“Your secret, Daddy.” She smiles. “I promised you I wouldn’t tell anyone. Not even Mommy.”

“My secret?”

She pushes me toward the gate, closer to the people lying there. At first, I think they’re Martians, their skin is so purple. They aren’t breathing.

Humans. Beaten so badly as to bruise their skin darker than grapes.

“Elizabeth?” I call her name, spinning around and around in the empty airport. “Elizabeth!”

But there’s no one there.

Just a white dress lying on the floor, a growing red stain like blood from where I’d pinned the poppy on her.

On the TV set above my head, there is suddenly one more cancelled flight.





ten




Henry was awake long before the alarm; early enough to lie on his bed and watch the room lighten as the sun broke through the leaves outside his window. He moved his hand to the table and crawled it toward the clock until he could turn the beeping off. Then he rubbed his eyes but failed to banish sleep or the half-formed memories of his dream.

His heart beat too slowly, and it seemed to be more of a conscious decision to breathe than it should be. The thought, inhale/exhale, repeated itself.

“Breathe, Henry,” he said.

He rolled out of bed and rubbed his hands over his face as he walked to the bathroom. His fingers came away wet and red. He stared at his bloody palms. In his reflection in the mirror above the sink, his nose was bleeding and he’d rubbed blood over the bottom half of his face.

When he was finished washing up, his nose was sore, his eyes puffy, and his pale skin seemed translucent where he’d scraped it raw with the towel. The snooze alarm sounded as he was about to get in the shower. He dragged himself back to his room to shut it off and collapsed onto the edge of the bed, head in his hands. His nose started bleeding again.

“Breathe.”