“Those flannel shirts are the most popular things we carry,” Henry tells the wife. Her suggestible eyes sparkle and she claws her way down the rack to find one in her husband’s size. Before someone comes in and snatches it from her.
“Can you put this up at the register?” she asks him, “I know he’s going to want it but I don’t want to carry it around.”
“No problem,” Henry says. “What’s your name and I’ll put it up there under your name.” This part is sneaky, Henry knows. But still it’s not like they’re friends or anything. Telling her he’ll put it up under her name implies throngs. And confusion. And a flannel shirt—size medium—up for grabs because someone else sees it on the counter put aside and you know how that can increase the odds of someone else wanting something. When it’s earmarked for someone else—good as sold. Someone else has determined that this shirt—flannel, size medium—is good enough to purchase so why didn’t you notice it on your way in? How could you have passed it up? It’s not sold yet, they’ll ask, looking over their shoulder to make sure this is not overheard. Can I just take it? I mean the person who asked you to put it aside might have changed his mind. And I’m here, right here, with my wallet out, ready to pay cash. Yes, she better attach her name to it now, he implies.
“Oh, great. Yes. Kelly.” And he watches her move to the cashmere sweaters. She is not put off by the unenviable cost of cashmere, many don’t fully understand its softness or its price but those who do swear by it, especially in small towns outside larger Northeastern cities. Especially Ralph Lauren. He watches her sort through the stack for a medium, first daintily, then, not seeing any mediums, more desperately, until yes aah at last here is a medium in just the right shade of gray. He holds his arms out for it as she approaches. “Can you add this to the pile?” she asks, already looking past him to the down vests.
“No problem. It’ll be up here whenever you’re ready.”
Her husband appears to be in one of the fitting rooms and so, too, does Neal Peterson so Henry makes his way there to see if he can bring any other size to them rather than their having to leave the dressing room.
“Neal? You doing okay?” he asks through the saloon doors.
“Yeah,” Neal says. He pokes his head out but it is so large the door can only come closed so far and Henry is able to see past him an altogether unflattering and unfavorable view of Neal Peterson’s backside. “Could you, ah, maybe grab these in the next larger size?” He has shoved an inside-out pair of slacks at Henry. The door shuts and Henry reaches his arm first down one pant leg, pulling it through, then the other. He tries not to think about the warmth of the pants, tries not to picture Peterson sweatily squeezing himself into what used to be his old size, tries not to take pleasure in the fact that he himself wears the same size waist he has for years not counting the bump-up once he stopped playing football and his body changed accordingly no let’s not count that—who would?—it’s really remarkable now that I think about it that I haven’t gained much weight at all since those days.
Henry passes two pair of pants over the dressing room door, one the size Peterson requested, the other the next size up from that. “Here you go,” he says.
He pictures Peterson standing there in his boxers looking at both pants and knows he is wondering whether Henry is trying to be a dick by implying he will need an even larger size than was expected or whether Powell is just a damn good salesperson, doing him a favor in not having to go back and raise the number again.
Henry knocks on the dressing room next to Peterson’s. “Can I help you with anything?” he asks. But he knows it is unnecessary because Kelly the wife is already heading toward her husband with an armful of alternate sizes of the pants all newcomers snap up before anything else. Pants Mr. Beardsley has shipped in especially from a supplier not terribly far away. Pants that define the store for if a stranger asks an old-timer what Baxter’s sells the old-timer will invariably and not without a glint of pride answer that this was the only place off-island to find true Nantucket Reds. Of course, the wink and nod among a certain set is that they cannot be true Nantucket red pants because once they leave the island (in boxes stacked in the belly of the Woods Hole ferry) they cease to matter. True Nantucket reds are worn—and faded properly—on boats bobbing on the Massachusetts Atlantic with Martha’s Vineyard in sight. And so the joke is on the young married couples who buy them hoping to be accepted into worn-preppy circles, speaking a code they will never quite crack because their Nantucket reds remain more cranberry than soft fall-leaf colored. Had they seen Henry Powell outside the store, not a salesman just a man walking down Main Street—good posture, clothing just this side of threadbare, loafers shined but supple from years of wear—they would sniff an air of what it is they would like to bottle and spray all over themselves. That I’ve-been-here-all-along-before-it-was-desirable scent that they, the city dwellers turned suburbanites, try to affect with their khakis, their L. L. Bean moccasins tied just loosely enough to achieve a bored scuffle, their pink-and-green-colored sweaters draped across shoulders, arms carefully folded across both male and female chests.
“Hey, Welly.” Neal Peterson is standing in front of the three-faced mirror outside the dressing rooms. “You still do alterations, right?”
“Yep,” Henry says. “Let me grab some pins.”
Henry works on the left leg first. “So how’ve you been?”
“Good, good, never been better,” Neal Peterson says.
It occurs to Henry that people who refer to themselves as never having been better usually were in fact very much better. He pauses and looks at Neal’s face in the mirror and sees a crinkle in his forehead that is there even though Neal’s eyebrows appear to be relaxed.
“Yeah?” Henry asks, pinning slowly.
“The divorce was final just before the holidays, actually,” Peterson says. “Merry fucking Christmas, huh? My lawyer calls two days before Christmas. Done deal. Merry Christmas.”
“Jesus” is all Henry can think of to say. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know. You got married when, like five years or so ago?”
“Thirteen years ago, man. 1987.”
Henry stops pinning for a moment. 1987 was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years ago?
And he is genuinely sorry even though he knows Neal Peterson probably had it coming.
“Are you still in Danfield or are you moving?” Henry asks. He works faster, eager to finish this as he is less interested now in seeing Neal Peterson humbled.
“Oh, I’m staying there. For now. We’re putting the house on the market and then I’ll probably find something smaller but still close by. Close to the kids.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Peterson flips half of the pinned pair over the door but keeps talking as he squeezes himself back into his clothes.
“So, when can I pick these up?”
“What about next Thursday?”
“Anytime’s fine.”
Not only does Henry find himself feeling guilty for his earlier satisfaction in letting out Peterson’s much larger waist but he is surprised to feel a whoosh of weird love for this man, for their shared history. This man, who used to twirl his shower towel and dip the end in the puddle of water near the communal locker room drain, whipping it at Henry—Welly—or Wilson or the Fridge. This man who wore sunglasses inside. Who wore his clothes Miami Vice–style for a while before returning to tried-and-true wales and country club colors.
“I can get them to you sooner, actually,” Henry says, wanting to do something nice for Neal Peterson. “Why don’t I call you when we get them back. I’ll put a rush on them.”
“You don’t have to. But thanks.”
For a split second Henry worries he might lose control and hug him. He takes a step back and writes up the alteration ticket. Poor Neal Peterson, Henry thinks. I’ll get his pants for him by the day after tomorrow. That’ll be something. He won’t believe how fast I’ll get them back.
“So I’ll see you
,” Neal Peterson says. “Good sale this year, huh?”
“Never better,” Henry says, immediately aware of the symmetry of his reply and regrets it as he does not want to leave Peterson with the thought that he is mocking him. So he adds “good crowds” and hopes that will make up for it.
Neal Peterson ducks his head and shoves his hands into his parka pockets in preparation for the winter assault. He pushes the door with his shoulder and stumbles back out into the world.
Mr. Beardsley comes back out from his abbreviated lunch hour and asks what he’d missed.
Thirteen years. “Not too much,” says Henry. “I’m holding these aside for Kelly over there.” He is speaking in a regular volume—nothing wrong with her overhearing this, in fact maybe she should—and knows Mr. Beardsley is pleased with his salesmanship. He smiles broadly, then, in an unusual show of restraint for Mr. Beardsley, mutes it. It occurs to Henry they have traded places, demeanor wise.
Within ten minutes the door coughs up another face from Fox Run Class of 1978. Mike Dean, smiling, shaking his head, pulling a leather glove off his right hand now extending to Henry.
“Good thing I wasn’t holding my breath,” he says, and pow, Henry vaguely recalls a plan that called for them having drinks or maybe they were supposed to meet for dinner or oh no was Henry supposed to be helping Mike find a job now that he was back in town?
“Michael Dean,” he says, shaking Dean’s cold hand. He is hoping Mike will fill him in on what it was he clearly forgot to do.
“Or maybe it was a football game that kept you?” Mike says. “Just like old times, huh?”
Henry sees the smile is not as good-natured as it appeared from a Monet distance. Up close the brush strokes show how it is constructed, lips turning up over hurt.
“I’m so sorry, Mike,” he says, still unsure of what he had done. He shakes his head and lets it hang, a signal to Mike to forgive him and perhaps oh I hope maybe explain what the heck he is talking about.
“That’s all right,” Mike says. “I like Blackie’s. You know—in all those years I’d never been in there. It’s not a bad place. I can see why you guys all hung out there. I had a few drinks that night and then went back into the city after you didn’t show.”
The memory bolts into his brain: it was the night his father had the stroke. That’s exactly when it was. They’d made a plan to meet there for drinks but he had ended up in that antiseptic hospital waiting room with his father while Mike drank alone and gave up on his old friend.
Henry tries to make a smooth transition into his explanation because he doesn’t want Mike to realize he has only now just remembered the transgression. He looks up from his hangdog expression.
“Mike, I’m so sorry,” he says again, “but my father had a stroke that day. I spent that night in the hospital with him. I should have called the bar to tell you….”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mike says, holding up his hands in surrender, the strings of resentment floating up and out of each fingertip, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, man. How’s he doing? I feel like such a jerk. I’m sorry I gave you shit just then. I didn’t know. How’s your father doing?”
“Oh, God, no problem. I feel bad I left you hanging.”
“My mother had a stroke a few years ago, actually,” Dean says. “Left her whole left side paralyzed but she was right-handed so she still can write and eat and stuff. She’s pretty good considering. They said it was rare—her age, no family history. Thank God, huh? Did he go through rehab, your dad?”
“Um, no, actually,” Henry says, straightening up so the words can come out and he can get moving. “He died not long after.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mike says.
“Oh, it’s fine. I’m fine,” he says. “It was quick. They said he didn’t suffer, so…” The intentional trail off.
Mike reaches out to pat Henry’s back but Henry has anticipated this and takes a step back, scans the room and makes every attempt to appear busy busy busy so busy he can’t spend too much more time with this customer he absolutely must must must get back to Kelly and her husband they no doubt need some help by now.
“I can see you’re busy,” Mike says, “so I’ll get out of your hair. Just came in to see you, give the sale a shot you know….”
“Yeah, yeah, take a look around. We’ve got some good stuff marked down. I’ve got to go check on a couple of people but let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Mike walks away through formal wear back to sporting goods, past the racks set in the middle of the store with the priced to move sign above them, sport coats and slacks shoved aside for the aisles these sale racks create.
With the flip of a switch Henry is standing in the hospital corridor, a small dark man in a green jumpsuit guiding a powerful-looking floor buffer that threatens to break loose from his grip at any moment. Henry watched the back-and-forth polishing and waited for the nurse to finish checking his father’s catheter. When she comes out he smiles at her and pauses before going back in. The sight of his father’s slack face, tubes up his nose, in his arms, snaking out from under the sheets, all of it makes him nauseous. Luckily, though, his father is unconscious and so does not see the sickened look on Henry’s face.
He had called every Powell in the Portland phone book, dialing information over and over again as the operator will only give two numbers for each call and unfortunately there are twelve B. Powells in the area code. Of the twelve, seven are home—“Sorry, wrong number” a secret relief to hear—but five are still unaccounted for. One is Brenda but he leaves a message, anyway. This way, he can say “Hey, I called every Powell in the phone book” later on, if necessary. So really four are still in play. “Who doesn’t give his own brother his phone number?” he says out loud.
Mr. Beardsley was really good about letting Henry take the time off. They both knew it was fair as Henry has never taken vacation time, not once. Still, Mr. Beardsley did not need to be so kind in his “Oh, God, Henry. Of course. Go. Take all the time you need. Your father needs you so of course. You’re a good son,” he’d said. Words that had not registered at the time but revisited him in the single wooden chair beside his father’s bed. That uncomfortable chair with a low back that Henry was convinced was meant to discourage anyone from even napping, much less spending the night. Which had not even occurred to Henry.
That first night—the night Henry left his father in the hospital—after passing the football field, he returned to his apartment and packed a small overnight bag. Just the essentials and one change of clothes for the following day. Mechanically he packed his dop kit, stiff from disuse. Toothbrush, toothpaste, Old Spice deodorant, a tiny travel-size dental floss he had gotten from his dentist after his most recent visit. A comb. He zipped it up and placed it carefully on top of the underwear and pajamas already folded into the sail bag.
The floating Henry, the one hovering above watching all his motions, guides him over to the night table where he reaches behind to the outlet and unplugs his alarm clock, just in case. A strange thing to bring but floating Henry insists and so the cord is wrapped around it and it is stowed on top of the dop kit.
“Hi, Mom, I’m back,” Henry says only fifteen minutes later. He closes the door quietly and sets his bag down.
The volume is still high but does not appear to keep his mother awake. She has listed over to the side in sleep and Henry, for the second time that night, carries his parent in his arms.
“David?” she murmurs into his chest.
“No, Mom,” he says, huffing up the stairs to the master bedroom. “It’s me, Henry.”
“Henry.”
He unties the front of his mother’s robe—she no longer bothers with regular clothes, just different nightgowns underneath a now paper-thin L. L. Bean robe—and slips her arms out of it one at a time.
“Mom? Mom, wake up, okay?”
“What? Henry? What is it?” The flash of recognition in her eyes is what hurts now. That flash, so rare, gets
his hopes up that maybe the long nightmare is over. Maybe she is back, he thinks every time the flash occurs. But it is gone as fast as it arrived.
“I’m walking you over to brush your teeth, okay? Let’s get your teeth brushed.”
He wets her toothbrush and squeezes a line of Colgate on top.
“Here you go, Mom.”
“I think I know how to brush my teeth,” she says. Still, she moves it listlessly across her teeth, not brushing so much as rubbing it along.
Henry fills a glass with water so she can rinse and spit, amazed that he can do this so well. Pleased he is the type that snaps into action with ease. Floating Henry watches the display: parenting a parent is nothing else if not an out-of-body experience. I am here, Henry thinks. I am here and I will take care of all of it.
When her arm slows he gently jostles her, “Almost done,” he says. And the arm moves again.
“Okay, here you go,” he says, handing her the glass, his other hand on her back, in between her shoulder blades, ever so gently pressing her forward so her spit can hit the center of the shallow bathroom sink. “Good,” he says. And he turns on the water to rinse his mother’s spittle down the drain.
He walks her back to bed and watches as she does what comes most naturally to her: sliding into the bed, covers already pulled back. The lights turned off, he goes back downstairs to the dusty front hall for his bag and then back up to his old bedroom. He opens the door and an Egyptian-crypt staleness wafts out.
“Ugh,” he says aloud. He flips on the overhead light and takes in the room: the single bed still made up in flannel sheets that certainly need to be washed as they had not been in years. The room is packed: over his small desk, the Fox Run trophies, varsity letter, Doobie Brothers poster, the flying, geometric VH for Van Halen, too, several newspaper clippings in which he was mentioned (now browned and curling wherever not tacked down), the St. Paulie girl on the ceiling, and then, of course, the Westerfield pennant jauntily stuck at a tilt on the wall across from his bed, next to the light switch. It had come in the freshman orientation packet and he had taken great pleasure in hanging it.