The Irresistible Henry House Part 22

"And tell her what?"

"Tell her it's your turn to have me," he said. "And be my mother," he added.

Betty looked at Henry doubtfully.

"If you make me go back there," Henry said, "I'll just run away again. And then neither of you will ever know where I am."

They stared at each other. Betty's head felt heavy, her stomach empty, her heart suspended.

Henry's eyes softened again, then flashed with his spark. Orange magic. Fire.

"This is what we've wanted, right?" he asked his mother gently.

BETTY HAD NOT SPOKEN once to Martha Gaines since moving to New York City. Apart from Henry's own letters, Betty's few updates about him had come not from Martha but from Dr. Gardner, and those had been vague at best. Betty knew that she had to call Martha now, and also that in order to do so, she would need to be well fortified.

"You'll probably want to freshen up," she said to Henry.

He looked at her, untrusting, the whole broken past behind them, like a rutted road. But he asked her for a towel, and he said thank you and shut the bathroom door. When she heard the water running, Betty walked into the kitchen and reached for the bottle of vodka that she kept in the cabinet above the stove. She looked at the clock. It was just past nine, and she knew that if the school had called Martha, she would be frantic by now.

Nonetheless, she opened a can of frozen orange juice, spooned out its gummy cylinder, and meditatively watched it dissolve as she stirred it into a pitcher of water. When it looked like orange juice, she poured herself half a gla.s.s and filled the rest with vodka, not bothering to stir that. Then she downed most of it in one gulp and reached for the telephone.

HENRY HAD BEEN RIGHT about Humphrey. Martha had only just received the call, saying that he had gone missing.

"I was about to phone you," she told Betty. "I wanted you to be on the lookout for him. Just in case he decided to come to you. But I realized I didn't have your number. I called your father to get it, but he didn't answer. I was going to walk over to his house, but-"

Even through the haze of her own emotions, Betty could hear an added quaver in Martha's voice, a change not of octave but of tenor, a new kind of hesitation. Betty realized what the difference was. Martha sounded like an old woman.

"He's here," Betty finally said flatly. "Henry's here. He's already here in New York." She intentionally didn't say here with me, here with me, but she knew it would make no difference. If Martha hadn't hated Betty before, she would hate her forever now. but she knew it would make no difference. If Martha hadn't hated Betty before, she would hate her forever now.

Waiting for Martha to speak, Betty remembered the day she had wept in the practice house kitchen after hearing that Fred was alive. She remembered those many cups of tea, the odd lack of sweetness in everything. With a chance, what would she do differently now? What wouldn't she?

"There?" Martha said. "He's there? How did he get there?"

"I think he took a train," Betty said. "He was here late last night when I came home from work." She added, as if it was consolation: "I didn't ask him to come."

"Let me talk to him."

"He can't right now," Betty said.

"Why not? And don't tell me he's lost his voice again, because I'm not going to believe you."

"No, he's got his voice," Betty said. "It's just that right now he's in the shower. And he told me he'd rather have me call you."

There was another, even longer, silence, and Betty knew that Martha was either crying or fighting back her tears. Betty topped off her screwdriver with another shot of vodka.

"Why?" Martha finally asked.

"Why what?"

"What did he say?" she asked.

"He said not to send him back to you, because he'd just run away again."

Betty could hear, on Martha's end, a baby crying in the background, and she could see the practice house walls, could smell talc.u.m powder and baby formula, could feel the softness of Henry's neck, and the moist closeness of him on her shoulder, rocking to sleep at night. She sipped her drink, waiting, then put the cold gla.s.s to her forehead.

"Why?" Martha said several times again, and yes, she was crying now. "Why?" she said one final time. "Why would he choose you?"

HENRY TURNED OFF THE SHOWER, and Betty could hear the riffle of the curtain rings as they were swept back along the rod. She chucked the remainder of her drink down the sink, and then, thinking better of it, refilled her gla.s.s with orange juice. She filled a second one for Henry. Then she reached one more time for the vodka, adding just one last dash to her juice, which concealed it completely. She would give Henry juice and toast for breakfast. They would get groceries later. She would do the best she could.

Betty opened the stainless-steel bread box, flipping the curved cover back and watching the reflection of her face disappear.

HENRY HAD NEVER LIVED in a place where the buildings were taller than four stories. But Betty's apartment was in a five-story walk-up, and Haaren High School was actually seven stories tall. It had roughly a thousand students, more than seventy cla.s.srooms, a dozen labs, and two gyms. From the start, there was nothing Henry liked about it. The cla.s.ses were large and noisy, and the students moved together in groups delineated by clothing style, hairstyle, and, most clearly, by background and race.

Ironically, Henry spent his first week at Haaren in virtual silence, moving wordlessly from cla.s.sroom to cla.s.sroom as if he was still mute. As he always had, he picked up shreds of important information this way: that math teacher was queer; that cla.s.sroom was where a kid had been stabbed; that girl had fake t.i.ts.

The last piece of wisdom notwithstanding, the girls seemed astonishingly mature and confident to Henry, much more like college than high school students. But he tried not to notice anyone in particular, and he ignored the ones who noticed him. Occasionally, he felt the temptation to flirt. Occasionally, too, he felt a pang of curiosity about Lila, or a pang of regret about Mary Jane. But for now, he felt certain that a girl-any girl-would only make Betty's getting used to him more difficult. If he'd learned nothing else from his summer at Wilton, it was that a girl could cause complete havoc.

During lunchtimes, instead of playing handball in the courtyard or chatting up the girls on the front steps, Henry would sit in the cafeteria by the gleaming stainless-steel milk machine and sketch. He had nearly reached the end of his Mini Falk Book, which was now bent at the cover corners and held together princ.i.p.ally by a number of dirty tan rubber bands. Turning its pages, he could see sketches of his roommates; practice drawings of spheres and cubes; the Humphrey campus and hills at sundown, in the morning, at dawn, in snow. He found the faces of Charlie and Karen: the serious portraits and the caricatures. He wondered if they missed him. He wondered if he missed them. They were receding into the horizon of his mental landscape: smaller and smaller as the city's buildings, and the city's people, rose. He wondered if he had ever truly missed anyone, or ever would.

IT TURNED OUT THAT for a grown woman, Betty was a fairly poor housekeeper, a terrible laundress, and a dangerously bad cook. Delighting in his ability to tease her and to win her, Henry quickly took to preparing dinner for both of them in the evenings, doing the laundry on the weekends, and generally tidying the place up.

"And you call yourself a Wilton practice mother," Henry said, which made them both laugh the first time, then feign laughter every time after that.

He asked her when Ethel was getting back from her a.s.signment. He asked her whether, if he got a job, they would be able to afford their own place. He was the one saying when will you be home when will you be home and making the grocery lists. He enjoyed the surprise on her face when she saw that he could do these things, and somehow the ch.o.r.es that had been ch.o.r.es at Wilton and Humphrey seemed more like talents now. He questioned whether they would win for him a permanent place in Betty's life, and he waited to be sure it was a place he truly wanted. and making the grocery lists. He enjoyed the surprise on her face when she saw that he could do these things, and somehow the ch.o.r.es that had been ch.o.r.es at Wilton and Humphrey seemed more like talents now. He questioned whether they would win for him a permanent place in Betty's life, and he waited to be sure it was a place he truly wanted.

IT SNOWED ON AND OFF throughout February, and every time it did, a period of mourning seemed to descend on the city. People walked the streets rigid with cold and apparent disappointment. b.u.ms and beggars appeared with cups or hands outstretched, then disappeared behind the breath clouds formed by their shouts and questions.

All of this baffled Henry. But in some ways, the snow kept New York simple for him: m.u.f.fled and plain, its landscape like the ones he'd known. It was only when the snow melted that the hard geometry of the city was revealed: rectangles, squares, and cubes abounded: hard-edged, gla.s.sed-in, everything perpendicular. He could stand on any street on any avenue, looking north or south, and, with the exception of wheels, lights, human beings, and occasional trees, find nothing arced or curved, nothing sinuous or soft.

Just a little over a month into their new life together-the life Betty had supposedly wanted so much-Henry found himself on a Tuesday night in April alone in the apartment, not having any idea where she was. He had already gotten used to her coming home very late on the magazine's weekly closing nights. But this was still early in the week. He did his homework: geometry, history, English. At seven, he watched Walter Cronkite on the evening news. At nine, he opened a can of tuna and mixed it, as Martha had long ago taught him to, with mayonnaise, mustard, salt and pepper, a pinch of sugar, and a dash of vinegar. He toasted four slices of bread, so that he'd be ready to make Betty a sandwich as soon as she walked in. She didn't.

At ten o'clock, Henry called the Time Time switchboard and asked for the research department. switchboard and asked for the research department.

A tired male voice answered. "No. No, the girls all went home hours ago."

Restless and somewhat worried, Henry prowled the apartment with special curiosity, as if the search would yield clues to Betty's whereabouts. In the kitchen, he found two extra bottles of vodka above the stove and a tin of smoked oysters pushed back behind the peas and carrots. On a high bathroom shelf that he'd never explored, Henry saw a bottle of diet pills, a half dozen contradictory hair dyes, an a.s.sortment of stomach medicines, and three different hangover remedies. In Betty's bedroom, he studied his baby photograph in its red mahogany frame, and on a low shelf next to her bed he found current books-s.e.x and the Single Girl, Silent Spring, The Feminine Mystique-as well as stacks of old Time Time magazines, and one large book that he recognized immediately. magazines, and one large book that he recognized immediately.

He opened it expectantly, and indeed, there on the first page was the same photograph of himself that was in the wood frame. Beneath the picture was an old, wrinkled piece of paper with the words "The Franklin Orphans' Home" printed on top and the date "June 12, 1946" written below it in a flowing, flowery script. With mixed excitement and trepidation, Henry sat in Betty's small rocking chair and turned to the next page, which was labeled HENRY HOUSE. The first photograph was of Henry sleeping, and beneath it, in Martha's unmistakable handwriting, was the caption: "What a dream!" As Henry turned more pages, he found photos of himself at five months, six months, seven and a half months, eight months and three weeks; he saw all the different practice mothers' handwriting; the little celebrations, the sharp reportorial squabbles over the tiniest of his milestones. He saw a life so acutely observed that it wouldn't have been clear to anyone if the center of all that attention had been a person or a thing.

WHEN THE KEY TURNED in the lock, Henry was too absorbed to react quickly enough. He slammed the book shut, but he didn't have time to put it back on the shelf. In the split second before Betty walked in, he let the book drop to the side of the chair.

But it wasn't Betty. Instead, posing in the doorway was a tall, dark-haired, overweight woman wearing too much makeup and an exhausted expression.

"Hey, kid," she said.

Henry sat up straighter, then stood.

"Henry Gaines," he said, sticking out his hand.

"No s.h.i.t," she said, and she pulled against his outstretched hand as if inside a dance move. She b.u.mped him toward her and kissed his cheek. He laughed.

"And you are ...," he said, and she smiled.

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think I am? I'm Ethel. Christ," she said. "Tell me Betty didn't tell you about me. I live here, for Christ's sake."

"I know that. But she told me you were away on some a.s.signment."

"Guess what, genius. I'm back. Where is she, anyway?"

Henry shrugged.

"Great," she said sarcastically. "That's just great."

Ethel walked into her bedroom-the room Henry had been using-and Henry followed her.

"What are you, some kind of neat freak?" she asked. "My room's never looked this good."

"Sorry."

She laughed and swept her hair up off the back of her neck, then used her evening bag to fan under her arms.

"G.o.d, I'm roasting," she said. "Are you roasting?"

"It's warm," Henry said.

"Warm. It's a f.u.c.king furnace. Close your eyes for a minute. I want to change out of this, and I don't want to scar you for life. And no peeking."

Henry closed his eyes, not remotely tempted to peek. "So I guess I'll be moving out to the couch," he said.

"Aww, we can share the bed," Ethel said.

Startled, Henry opened his eyes. She was standing there in a bra and girdle.

"Hey! Shut 'em," she barked. "Don't panic. I was only fooling."

"I knew that," Henry said.

"Anyway, I spend a lot of nights with my boyfriend."

"Really?"

"Don't worry. I'm a big girl," Ethel said. "Okay. You can open your eyes now."

She had changed into a white blouse, navy slacks, and a pair of flats.

"Come on," Ethel said. "Let's have a snack. Is there any food in here?"

"We went shopping last week," Henry said, feeling a bit protective.

He followed Ethel into the kitchen, where she swung open the refrigerator door, then looked in, absentmindedly adjusting her bra in back. "Ketchup, mustard, mayo, ancient tomato paste, lemon juice," she reported. "Some shopping trip."

"Try the cabinet," Henry said. "Want some cereal? We do have milk."

"We do, huh?"

Ethel took out the box of Kellogg's Frosted Flakes, then exchanged it for Special K.

"You're a photographer, right?" Henry asked.

Ethel looked at him a bit oddly.

"Didn't she tell you anything about me?" Ethel asked.

"That you're a photographer," he said.

She put down her cereal bowl on the dining room table and steered him by the shoulder back into Betty's room. She pointed to Betty's dresser.

"I took that one," she said, indicating the picture of Henry. "I'm not just any photographer, kid. I'm one of your G.o.dd.a.m.n mothers."

THEY STAYED UP TALKING. He asked her all about the practice house, about the other mothers, about Betty, about himself. Ethel was vague and jokey, until finally, Henry said: "You're not telling me anything!"

"What is it you want to know, pal? How screwed up it was? It was plenty screwed up."

IT WAS PAST ONE when Betty walked in the front door. She was clearly trying hard to make her movements intentional and sober. Ethel seemed embarra.s.sed for her and trailed Betty into her bedroom.

Henry took the opportunity to reach into Betty's purse and take a cigarette from her pack.

Then the argument from the next room began, a marvel of ineffective whispering and unconcealed anger. What did Betty think she was doing? Wasn't this the kid she'd been waiting for all these years? Here she was, falling down drunk. No, Betty said, not falling down.

"Were you with Greg?" Ethel hissed.

Henry couldn't hear the answer. He didn't have a match, and he started looking around the living room. There was a lighter on the desk, but it didn't work. There was an empty book of matches on the side table with the lamp. Finally, Henry found a fresh pack of matches in Betty's purse, lit his cigarette, and then sat on the side of the bed, listening with mixed emotions as Ethel scolded Betty.

THE DRAWING ON THE BACK of the matchbook was of a baby deer: its eyes were enormous, with eyelashes that swept up like delicate branches. It had dappled skin, a turned-up b.u.t.ton nose, and a ripple of fur scaling upward from its nose to the s.p.a.ce between its eyes. It looked like Bambi, but the slogan underneath said nothing about Bambi. Instead, it declared: "DRAW ME!" On the inside over, the message was clear: "If you can draw Winky, you might have a career as a professional artist!"

The instructions said entrants were to make a copy of the drawing-no tracing allowed-and mail it with a stamped, self-addressed return envelope to the Art Instruction Schools. There, a panel of judges made up of professional artists would review the submitted artwork. If they saw promise in the work, they would allow you to partic.i.p.ate in a correspondence course. A series of books-each containing twenty-four lessons-would begin arriving within the month. The graduates of the school, the matchbook writing said, included famous ill.u.s.trators and artists who had gone on to careers in advertising, cartoon making, and the fine arts.

BY THE MIDDLE OF APRIL, the city had warmed to a pleasant, breezy spring. At the playground, chain-link fences kept the children in: Girls with straight bangs and boys with sharp side parts ran from the seesaws, ran to the sandbox; on the weekends, women wore shirtwaist dresses and tourists wore hats, leading their children through Central Park, posing them for snapshots at the zoo or on the Shetland pony.

By day, Henry trudged through his cla.s.ses, pretending to take notes but more often sketching. At night, after his homework and his housework were done, he would kneel at the coffee table, making sketch after sketch of Winky. The slope of his snout, like a gentle mountain; the dark patch of his nose, not completely filled in; the ragged staircase of fur that scraggled upward toward his ears.

From Betty's purse, Henry swiped other matchbooks, featuring "the Pirate," "Tippy the Turtle," and President Lincoln. On one cover, a steamy brunette in a backless evening gown posed for a man with a sketch pad. Above them were the encouraging words: "You are in demand if you can draw!"

Relentlessly, Henry practiced. Tippy the Turtle wore a turtleneck, which was reasonably funny. The Pirate had a scowl and a mustache, but he also wore an eye patch that made Henry think of Mary Jane. It occurred to him that she had not really been happy with him since he'd started talking again. He did feel chagrin about this, but no pressing concern. In his experience, Mary Jane had always returned to him in her enthusiasm and loyalty, no matter what his actual or perceived crimes had been. But sometimes, almost missing her, he altered the lines of the Pirate and tried to draw Mary Jane instead.

"Dear Mary Jane," Henry wrote in early May: I'm sorry I haven't written you sooner. Things have been very busy here. But dig the return address! I've left the Loony Bin and I've moved to New York. I'm living with my mother (my real mother) and going to a regular high school, where I talk like a (fairly) regular person, have no (regular) girlfriends, and-I know you'll say I deserve this-no real friends, either! But dig the return address! I've left the Loony Bin and I've moved to New York. I'm living with my mother (my real mother) and going to a regular high school, where I talk like a (fairly) regular person, have no (regular) girlfriends, and-I know you'll say I deserve this-no real friends, either! Why don't you decide not to be angry at me anymore, and come visit me in the Big Bad City this summer? Why don't you decide not to be angry at me anymore, and come visit me in the Big Bad City this summer?