The closet door had not always hit the edge of the bed. He had not accounted for it when he rearranged his room after moving back in. The single bed was the first thing to go, replaced after calling a toll-free number that promised quick delivery and removal of the old box spring and mattress. The double bed was higher than his old single—a pillowtop that sounded like a fine idea when he ordered it but in the end meant an annoying search for sheet sets made for extra-deep mattresses. At first the bed seemed to take over the room but it opened up after Henry winched his old desk and chair out, moving them to the basement in case someone, somewhere along the way needed a kid-size desk and chair set. Carefully he pulled the old posters off the walls. The Mod Squad. He had masturbated to Peggy Lipton. Some album cover posters: ChicagoV, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Frampton Comes Alive. The iconic Farrah. The Rocky movie poster: Sylvester Stallone in his gray sweatsuit, arms up in victory for his climbing those Philadelphia stairs. Best scene in the movie, Henry had thought at the time, carefully pulling it off so the Scotch tape would not take any paint with it. The college pennant was the last thing peeled off. The walls were finally a clean slate, which left Henry with a problem he stupidly had not anticipated: what to put back up. Plus, the posters had been up for so long the squares beneath them showed the original, whiter shade of paint. So Henry would have to repaint after all. Darn it, he had thought, moving his new bed and box spring and frame into the middle of the room. It took some effort to move his chest of drawers away from the wall, even after he had pulled the drawers out to stack them neatly on top of the bed. The whole thing was a mess and it bothered Henry very much. He borrowed a blue plastic tarp from Geigan and went to the old hardware store to pick up fresh paint. Once again and so many years later the choices overwhelmed and depressed him so he settled on an off-white, creamy eggshell rather than have to go with a color he most certainly would regret in time. Colors were just plain risky.
It had taken him two days to do the job he thought he could finish in one night after work. He had not counted on having to take such care with that intersection of wall and ceiling. The walls were the easy part. But the corners were murder so it stretched out for two whole days. He had slept on the couch, on his side with his legs bent so he could fit. Two restless nights (he had had to let the paint dry before pushing the furniture back in to place) that left him cranky and with a crick in his neck.
The first thing up on the walls was Starry Night but it had remained curled up in its museum tube since its exile in the old Westerfield closet so it refused to stay flat. Henry had to nail in the corners to keep them shackled there.
The pizza. He runs downstairs to pull it out of the oven just in time.
He works, he cooks, he takes care of his mother: Henry Powell, ladies and gentlemen. The applause rushes him up to the stage, to the podium where an award is handed him by a beautiful, young woman who quickly moves to the side so as not to get in the camera frame.
The oven mitt is old and is worn through exactly where oven mitts should not be worn through: in the thumb and forefinger, so Henry waves his hand in the air after dumping the cookie sheet on the counter. He makes a mental note to purchase a new oven mitt but knows this will never get done as even as he makes the mental note he crosses it off as useless to waste mind-space on such minutia.
When it cools he cuts two small pieces, puts them on a plate and carries it on a tray up to his mother. As he climbs the stairs he is seized with the urge to call out “Coming, Mother” Anthony Perkins–style.
Instead he opens her door and sets the tray on the spot that used to be reserved for Edgar Powell.
“Here you go, Mom,” he says.
Though he has by no means tiptoed in and in fact has made no effort to be quiet, his mother appears startled to see him standing at the edge of the bed.
“There’s your dinner,” he says. “You didn’t have much for breakfast and I see you didn’t touch the sandwich I made you so you really should eat this.”
“All right,” she says. She shimmies up and rearranges the pillows behind her back, ready to receive her meal.
“I’m going out in a little bit but I’ll be back soon,” he tells her, standing now.
Henry eats his now cold and crusty French bread pizza on an unfolded TV table watching old M*A*S*H reruns. A nice tall cold glass of milk. He checks his watch frequently so dinner is enjoyed in haste and yes, nervousness.
At precisely eight-thirty-five Henry chooses his Chesterfield overcoat with the wives in mind. It is the kind of coat that looks good on just about any man. Gray herringbone, long, lined and fitting just right in the shoulders over a blazer (some overcompensate, he thinks). Henry has always noticed his posture is better when wearing it and that is what the wives will notice first. Posture. And the fact that he still has a good full head of hair, unlike Ted Marshall. But no, he chides himself, no, this night is about burying the hatchet. Reaching out. Healing old wounds. And perhaps forging new friendships.
With no mirror but the fish-eye one in the eagle frame that hangs over the front hall table Henry can only run a hand through his hair and hope that the rest looks all right.
It is eight-forty now and Henry knows this is perfect timing: he has allowed for their being a little late to the restaurant and then, coats checked, settling in at the table. He backs the Jeep out of the driveway and within minutes is pulling into a space just before the restaurant. He does not want them to see his Jeep—it is the element of surprise that lends a sweeter air to this unexpected détente.
He locks the Jeep door, pushes his shoulders back, posture excellent and exhales, watching his breath crystallize in the winter air. Just to be sure they are here—how awful for him to be the first there (“Henry? What’re you doing here?” would ruin the impact and importance of his apology. How anticlimactic)—he stands at the edge of the front window and is grateful it is already partially fogged up. He peeks in and sees the tables are nearly all full, glasses clinking, laughter, the murmur of a crowd happy to be in such a warm and inviting place and not out in that brutal cold. And there it is. In the middle of the whole place. There it is. The party of ten. Tables pushed together, recessed lighting shining down. The rest of the room seems to orbit this table.
The whooshing sound races back into Henry’s head, the same sound he experienced earlier with Craig Eddy. He feels light-headed and a tad sick to his stomach to see Ted Marshall, a woman at his side, Steve Wilson (Steve Wilson, he is most stunned at this as he had always thought of Wilson as his own), a woman at his side, the Fridge, the girl they had called “Boots,” Neal Peterson, and “Figger” Newton, who, ironically, looks younger than the rest of them except for Steve Wilson, who looks more or less the same. All raise their glasses and Marshall is making a toast. Laughter as Boots insists on clinking with each person…even the woman sitting catty-corner from her, next to Figger Newton.
For the first time ever, Henry’s shoulders shift forward and down in the Chesterfield. Into what any passerby would call bad posture.
Chapter twenty
2000
At last Sunday arrives and Henry wakes up with a Christmas Day feeling. Making breakfast for his mother, who will only pick at it, is not a chore but a way to advance time. Showering, always pleasurable, is, on this day, perfunctory only because Henry has very little patience. He is, in other words, excited about the trip to Mike Dean’s house.
The day before he had settled on one six-pack of Foster’s (so as not to seem too sophisticated) and one very obscure Polish beer he knew came in only rarely. On his way out of the store just for the heck of it, he thought at the time, Henry grabbed a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of Paul Newman’s salsa (medium spicy: mild might make him appear wimpy, full-on spicy would most assuredly make him look like he is trying to be macho).
Mike will appreciate his thoughtfulness. He will appreciate the companionship. He will appreciate the chance to reminisce. Henry smiles at his own largesse, glad to be making such an effo
rt with his old misfit of a friend, happy to have an even playing field now, what with him no longer a football player and all and Mike out of work.
Henry tucks Mike’s calling card into the pocket of his down jacket in advance. He makes a fresh pot of coffee.
He cannot recall the exact year the rash developed on his right arm but there it was. Angry, itchy and red. His mother drove him to the doctor, driving the boat of the family station wagon to the back of the old Victorian home that had been converted into doctors’ offices but had not the space for cars to park. Henry’s mother had had to back out and very nearly hit the mailbox before turning to pull up along the curb in front.
It was this particular doctor visit that Henry first noticed the waiting room full not of squirmy children and young mothers and Highlights magazine but of women. All women. His mother’s age. Other mothers of kids he went to school with. There was Mrs. Hartley. And Mrs. Childers. Mrs. Marshall. Mrs. Evans was leafing through a magazine and did not look up when they walked in but he knew her from the bleach-blond hair. His mother greeted them all by name and Henry was mortified to hear her divulge the nature of their visit but none of the women seemed to care a whit about his rash and he was relieved and scratched at his arm until the nurse called his name. When his mother serenely walked past the others, he could tell she was pleased they got to go in first, even though the others had been waiting longer.
The rash was instantly recognized and diagnosed as poison oak and the doctor gave them a bottle of pink ointment and warned Henry not to scratch too much or he would scar himself for life. He got up to go and his mother told him she had something to ask the doctor and so she would see him back out in the waiting room in a moment.
They stopped at the pharmacy on their way home.
Abracadabra it is 2000 again and, opening the door to her room, Henry confronts the shell of the woman who has been slowly rotting ever since.
This is a good place for us to talk about Cathy, you know, Henry’s biographer says when Henry comes back out of the master bedroom. I’ve been holding off but we’ve got to talk about Cathy, he says, scratching his head and following Henry back downstairs. You can’t avoid it forever.
What are you, a shrink? Henry asks. He arranges the Sunday paper in stacks: one stack is the sections he will most likely not get to; another is the front section which he will tackle first; the third is pure throwaway.
No, the biographer says, pulling out a chair, clicking the tip of his ballpoint pen in and out of its body. I think the story needs it. Your readers will want to know.
Know what? Henry asks.
Like…do you ever think about her? She’s married by now, right?
No, Henry says. I don’t ever think of her. Next subject.
They both know that is a lie. Henry considers it a successful hour if he has not thought of her. He had tried to go a whole day not thinking of her but that was impossible so he broke it down to waking hours and slowly weaned his way down. Like a smoker cutting back from a pack a day so by the end it is one cigarette a day, savored until the filter is practically burning his fingers. If he has been really good he will allow himself a long thought of her at the end of the day, in his bed, staring up at the ceiling. He tries not to think of her so he can earn this reward. But it is never easy.
Anyway, this man, this biographer, cannot possibly understand how complicated it is, Henry thinks. Because it is not just thoughts of Cathy but it is her presence, like a ghost, in every room, across every street, in every shop, the next car over at every stoplight, that is the hardest to give up. He searches every crowd for her face, his heart simultaneously leaping at and being sickened by the thought of bumping into her unexpectedly. He keeps himself close shaven, hair clean and combed, clothes pressed if necessary but if casual then at least presentable in an outdoor-catalog way, just in case he sees her. Every single time the door chimes are set off at Baxter’s there is, to Henry, the very real possibility it could be her entering the store again. In the movie theater he studies the backs of the heads in front of him, looking for her hair. In the supermarket he holds his breath each time he turns his cart into another aisle, in case she is there, buying baking soda or cereal or bread or or or…
Other thoughts are effortlessly removed from his mind. Like the picture of the small class reunion to which he was not invited. Deleted. Or the shot of his mother wasting away in her airless bedroom. Deleted. Right now he is needed elsewhere. At Mike Dean’s. Where he can be appreciated, not ignored or struggling to clink glasses with Boots.
He settles on his jeans and a red-and-black flannel shirt over a white Woolrich turtleneck. A warm, laid-back, Sunday-football outfit.
And soon he is backing the Jeep out of the driveway, beer in the passenger seat, chips and salsa in the back. He has taken Mike’s card out and has it handy under his right thigh where he can access it for the exact house number in between shifting.
The street is unfamiliar to him. It is a somewhat new one, paved to access the larger condominium communities and newly constructed mega-homes on what used to be considered the outskirts of town but is now folded into the same zip code as if the town has merely tailored its pants to accommodate holiday indulgence.
The numbers climb quickly and Henry drives slowly. The first gated community is called Stoney Brook and consists of identical brick town houses symmetrically dotting a black tar cul de sac lined by empty newly poured cement sidewalks. The streetlights work but their glow is too bright and not a single home is lit from within. No one would be outside this time of year, he thinks, as it is so cold outside. But then he and Brad used to have snowball fights long after it got dark. Until they were quite sure frostbite had set in to their fingers, the sticky snow nearly breaking the tips of their wool mittens. The absence of human beings or parked cars gives the whole place an Armegeddon feel.
The next and very similar cluster of homes are the single-family variety, tucked neatly behind a warmly lit guard booth with a sign overhead that reads Bridle Path. But the numbers do not match Mike’s card so Henry drives on.
It is one full mile before he reaches a mailbox that sits at the end of a very long driveway leading in a stick-straight line to a very large house that glows from a distance as every light in every room is on. The next mailbox has ducks on it but a hedge hides the home it belongs to.
These houses appear to Henry to be on steroids and they confuse him: there is no way Mike Dean could be living here. He checks Mike’s card against the street sign he sees at the first and only intersection he has encountered in these outer banks of the town’s civilization. He is on the right street. He appears to be going in the right direction as the numbers are getting higher. But how can this be?
All that is seen of 1342 Granville from the road are squat lights lining a shoveled and winding driveway. This can’t be right, he thinks as he drives his Jeep up to the curve in front of the massive colonial.
“You found the place okay,” Mike calls out from a warm haze of an open door that is spilling central heating out into the night.
“Nice digs,” Henry answers, reaching uneasily for the beer and bag that holds the chips and salsa.
“Oh, thanks,” Mike says. In one motion he claps Henry on the back and takes the beer from him, host-style. “Thanks,” he says, “I love Foster’s. Jesus, it’s freezing out here.” The door seals shut, the glow enveloping Henry, thawing him out. “Give me your coat,” Mike says. He is gracious the way people who entertain a lot are. Confident and generous.
Henry’s head is moving sprinkler-style, taking in the front hall, the two-story ceiling above, the sweeping Scarlett O’Hara staircase. “What’re you doing here?” Henry asks, momentarily forgetting the printed card he holds in his pocket, “are you house-sitting?”
Mike laughs from the front hall closet where, Henry notes, his coat is now hanging on a fat cedar hanger that slopes just right. He imagines—in a quick flash—his coat getting spoiled in that closet, refusing to go home w
ith Henry, home to a poking coatrack that does not appreciate its need for width.
“Naw.” Mike shuts the door and motions for Henry to follow him in to a large cushioned room with a suede L-shaped sectional couch and a projector-style big-screen television, the kind with the red, blue and yellow round spotlights that miraculously combine to produce a clear picture but look strange when you look back at them.
“I’ve been working on this place for almost two years now, God—has it been that long?” But his answer is rehearsed, Henry can tell. The same speech he gives all newcomers when he is about to embark on the grand tour. “Lucky for me I got out right before the bubble burst. What can I get you? Should we crack into the Foster’s? And I love this Polish one here. I’ve got a guy that sends me a case every couple of months. I can’t believe you know it.”
Henry feels like he is swimming the back stroke, looking over his own shoulder through the splash of water to the end of the pool, which is never quite what he expects so he either swims into it too hard or tapers off too soon. All he can say is, “Bubble?”