Henry Franks(27)

Henry shrugged and then looked away. “I wouldn’t even recognize her.”

Even from the other side of the morgue, he heard his father choke off a sob, but he didn’t look up.

“What was her name?” Henry asked, the question whisper-silent.

“Christine,” his father said, barely more than a breath of sound. “Her name was Christine.”

The name settled in his memories like a long-lost friend, without the alien strangeness that ‘Frank’ and ‘Victor’ always carried. Henry closed his eyes, reveling in the comfort of her name.

“Christine Franks,” his father whispered.

Henry’s eyes flew open. The sense of the long-lost friend was gone, replaced, once again, by a stranger where his mother, for just a moment, had lived within him.

“Christine,” Henry said, soft as a whisper. The name, familiar and safe, was a balm and he repeated it. “Christine Franks.” He pulled the hair down over his face so his father couldn’t see him and mouthed her name again.

Only the first name, he thought, was real.





sixteen




On Sunday morning, Henry stood in the shower, bitter cold water running over him. He shivered, once, and then stuck his head under the flow. When his teeth started chattering, he stepped back and let the water beat against his legs. Each scar on his thighs trapped the sting, easing the itch, until the skin was numb enough not to hurt. Better that than the phantom itching and spreading death that inhabited so much of the rest of him.

Toweled dry, he felt clean only until rubbing the new ointment his father had left for him into his skin. A fingernail caught a corner of a scar but he couldn’t feel the pain. He pulled his jeans on, the sensation of the lotion gluing itself to the denim in the heat even less pleasant than usual. A pair of scissors rested on his desk and he picked them up, judging where the best place would be to cut in order to turn the pants into shorts. He put the scissors down unused, pressing his palms into his legs in a futile struggle to dull the itch.

He ate cereal alone, sat in his room alone, then, hours later, ate lunch alone. He knocked once on his father’s door but there was no response, and when he turned the knob it was locked. Outside, he heard kids playing in the street. A car drove past a few times and a dog barked in the distance. Somewhere else on the island, a church bell pealed.

Henry stared out his window, watching Justine’s brother playing with his friends. From the shade of her porch, Justine turned toward his house as though she sensed his presence and he ducked to the side. When he looked back out she was gone. A knock at the door called him away from the window.

Barefoot, she stood on his porch, wearing blue shorts with a big daisy on one leg and a white tank top with a matching flower. She smiled when he opened the door.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

Henry nodded his head and opened the door wider.

“Still too dark in here, you know?” She flipped a switch on the wall but nothing happened. “Well, that was helpful.”

“You turned on the outside light.”

She flipped it off and tried the next one. There was a yellow flash as the bulb blew out on the wall above them. “Even more helpful.” She smiled. “I give up.”

“And you wonder why I wear black?”

“You are what you eat, not where you live.”

“I ate cereal for breakfast and lunch. What does that make me?”

She looked at him as they walked up the stairs. “Wheat?”

“I was thinking corn.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I thought you wanted to see the scrapbook.” Henry stopped in the short hallway and looked at her. Hot summer sunlight leaked out from the open doors on both sides of them. One room was empty save for a fine coating of dust, and the other was his bedroom. The bathroom door at the end of the hall was closed.

They stood toe to toe with little space to move apart.

“This your room?” she asked as she pointed into the empty one.

“I suppose I could sleep in the closet over there on a hanger.”

“That would explain the wardrobe.”

“Now see, that was kinda funny.”

“I know,” she said. “You’re learning.”

He opened the door to his room but she stayed in the hall.

“Henry,” she said with an indrawn breath, her hand coming to rest on his arm as she stopped short in the doorway.

“What?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”

“You live here?” She didn’t move, only studied the room.

Sunlight cut it in half, leaving shadows dancing along the walls where the branches of the trees outside shifted in the weak breeze. A twin bed took up most of the room. His desk, with the corners of the laminate peeling up, sat near the window with his laptop docked beneath it. Pushpins poked out of the bare white walls but didn’t hold up any pictures.

“The only boy’s room I’ve been in is my brother’s, and even he has stuff on his walls. Where are the posters? Sports teams? I’d even be okay with swimsuit models.” She took a single step into his room and leaned against the wall. “Well, maybe not ‘okay,’ but, really, anything would have to be better than this, right?”

He shrugged but didn’t look at her as he sat on the edge of his bed.