Henry Franks A Novel

thirteen





“Any plans for the weekend?” Justine asked as they walked off the bus.

“Air-conditioning. You?”

“Not going to the football game tonight?”

Henry slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shook his head. “Wasn’t planning on it. Don’t really know what I’m going to do.”

“Well,” she said, “I was thinking today.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Yes.” Her ponytail bobbed with her smile. “It’s a good thing. I’d like to help.”

“Help?” Henry asked.

“The pictures, in your basement.”

“What about them?”

“Want help finding them?”

The front door stuck when he tried to open it and it took a push or two to work the key. A welcome rush of cold air blew out and Henry fumbled for the light switch.

“Now I know where you get your style,” Justine said, looking around the entranceway.

“My style?”

“All dark and moody. You dress like your house.”

“It was like this when we moved in, I think. Blame the people who lived here before.” Henry matched her laugh. “Though it is a little depressing in here.”

“No wonder you’re seeing a shrink,” she said, pushing against his forearm as they walked. When he didn’t respond, she said, “That was a joke, you know?”

In the kitchen, with a couple more windows and a little more light, he looked at her. “I know.”

“Where are we going?”

“Through here.” He led the way into the laundry room. “Wasn’t a particularly funny one, though.”

“What?”

“Your joke,” he said, hair once more falling into his face. He brushed it aside and then pulled out the rolling cart. “Perhaps ‘the interior designer was suffering from Prozac withdrawal’ would have been funnier.”

Justine shook her head, ponytail flying behind her. “Mine was better than that.”

“I’ll think of something.”

“Probably not.”

Henry opened the door and picked up the flashlight he’d left on the cart, complete with fresh batteries. “The pull cord’s down here. Watch your step.”

“I have a basement too, you know,” she said, closing the door behind them and walking past him down the stairs.

The hanging bulb cast a weak light over the piles of boxes.

“Back here.” Henry led the way through the basement. “This box, it had pictures in it.” He flipped the flaps open and shone the flashlight into the empty corners. “The next day they were gone. I searched everywhere but couldn’t find them. Everything was cleaned up; even the spider webs had been swept away.”

“‘So, Justine, what did you do today?’” she said. “‘Well, Mom, I went into the creepy house next door and all the spiders were gone. It was just terrible.’”

“You only think you’re funny.”

“Nope, I have a certificate and everything. It’s official; I’m funny.” She stood there looking up at him. “I’m sorry. I can stop if you’d like.”

“Really?”

“Well,” she said, a smile teasing the edges of her lips, “I could try to stop. For you.”

He turned and worked his way to the opposite end of the room, picking a box at random to open. “I think you’re funny,” he said, not looking at her.

She popped her head up from the other side of the room. “I heard that!”

“Not deaf, but definitely funny.”

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” She opened a box, closed it, opened the next, working her way toward him. “Someone sick?”

“Why?”

She pulled out an unopened box of face masks. “There are lots of medical supplies in here.”

“My dad’s a doctor,” he said.

“See, that’s why you’re seeing a shrink.”

“Still not funny.”

“What kind of doctor?” She closed the box and moved on to the next one.

“Forensics.”

“Like, with dead people?”

“I guess so.”

“This really is the creepy house. Does your shrink have an opening for me?”

They worked their way from one end of the basement to the other, box to box, until they met in the middle.

“Why would he hide them?” she asked.

Henry rubbed his eyes. Sweat beaded his skin and his palms were moist; his scars itched in the heat. He closed the last box with a sigh.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe he was just cleaning?” She walked back to the circuit box. “It obviously needed it.”

“Then where did he put them?”

“Threw them away? Maybe they weren’t his.” She opened the original box, still empty, and turned it upside down, shaking it.

“I remember them,” Henry said, his voice quiet as he sat down on the stairs at the other end of the basement.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” Justine said as she sat down next to him.

“Not your fault,” he said. “Thank you for helping.”

“Wasn’t much help.”

A door slammed upstairs, the sound loud in the close space. She jumped, just a little, scooting closer to Henry, her hand resting on his arm.

Footfalls were loud against the wood flooring as someone walked around the house. Henry stood up, pulling Justine with him. He reached up to pull the light cord, plunging them into darkness.

At the top of the stairs, the door stayed closed. Her hand was moist in his, her skin soft and warm.

“Henry?” she whispered, squeezing his fingers.

“Probably my dad.”

“Why are we hiding?” she asked.

The footsteps faded away before another door slammed and then there was silence, save for the constant hum of the air-conditioning.

“I don’t know,” he said, and started to reach for the light cord.

“Shh,” she said, tugging on his hand.

“What?”

“Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

In the darkness, she gripped tighter on to his hand. “That.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“Something’s beeping,” she said.

Henry turned the light back on but didn’t let go of her hand. He blinked in the sudden brightness.

“There it was again.”

They stood in silence, still holding hands.

“That?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “it hasn’t been long enough. It’s every thirty seconds.”

“You’ve been counting?”

“Yes.” She nodded. “Did you hear it that time?”

“No, you were talking.”

Justine reached her free hand up and covered Henry’s mouth with her palm. He turned to face her and slid the flashlight into his pocket, bringing his own hand up to cover her mouth. She smiled beneath his fingers as the beep sounded again.

His eyes widened and she took her hand down. “Heard it that time, didn’t you?”

Henry nodded and started walking away from the circuit box, into the far corner beneath the staircase. Thirty seconds later, they waited for another beep. After, they took a few more steps on tiptoe, trying to see behind boxes. Another beep.

Henry moved a pile of boxes out of the way until he could see underneath the stairs. An old fire alarm hung off the wall, a faint red light blinking as it beeped once again.

“Well,” Justine said, “that was anti-climactic.”

“What were you expecting?” He took the battery out of the alarm and tested it on his tongue.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Seeing how much power is left.”

“With your tongue?”

He held the 9-volt out to her. “Here, just touch the two metal things.”

“No thanks,” she said. “I trust you.”

“It tingles.”

“It’s electricity. We’re already alive—I’m not eating a battery.” She shook her head. “Though I could go for a donut.”

He pocketed the battery and started picking up the boxes he’d moved.

“Henry?” She was on her hands and knees when he turned to look at her, and all he saw was the way her shorts stretched across the back of very tan, very slim thighs, the shadows playing hide-and-seek with his vision as he watched her sit up. “It’s empty.”

She passed a small box over to him, the half-ripped-off label still showing part of an address.

“CME-U,” he read out loud. “I can’t make out the rest, it’s missing.”

“Does it mean anything to you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “You?”

“Of course, it solves everything,” she said. “Do I look like Sherlock Holmes?”

Henry looked her up and down, at the dust stains on her knees, the long tendrils of hair sticking to her neck in the heat, the T-shirt glued to her skin. “I’d have enjoyed the books a lot more,” he said.

Justine grabbed his hand and walked back into the maze of boxes, then let go of him with a laugh in order to straighten out the mess.

On the way up the stairs, she turned the light out and reached for his hand again.

In the kitchen, a bag of fast-food burgers sat on the table next to a pile of junk mail. Down the hall at the master bedroom a ray of light bled through the edges of the door, but his father was nowhere to be seen.

“Dinner?” Justine asked, pointing at the table.

“Burgers again,” he said with a shrug.

“I’m sorry we didn’t find anything.”

“I have that box now, not to mention my scrapbook,” Henry said. “And a burger.”

“And ketchup,” she said, picking up one of the packets next to the bag. “I’d still like to see your scrapbook one day.”

“I’m free Sunday,” he said.

She threw the packet of ketchup at him. “You have a date tomorrow?”

He flinched, his hand a second too slow to stop it from bouncing off his forehead. “Something with my dad. No date.”

“Your reflexes kinda suck, you know?”

“I know.”

“Sunday?” she asked.

“Anytime.”

“Sorry about the ketchup, figured you’d catch it,” she said. “Pun intended.”

“Still not funny.”

She smiled. “Puns are an unappreciated art form.”

“For good reason.”

“Seems like an awful lot of food for just the two of you,” Justine said.

“He’s always telling me to eat more.”

“My mom’s always telling me to eat less.”

“It’s not all for us. I think maybe he’s feeding the homeless or something.”

“The homeless?”

“The other night he brought home a lot of food. I think he’s leaving it outside for someone.”

“Why?”

“After dinner, I found the bag on the back stoop.”

“Maybe he’s feeding a stray cat?”

“A stray cat that cleans up after itself? The empty wrappers were inside the bag.”

“Does he do that every night?”

Henry shrugged, then shook his head. “I don’t know. Only saw him do it one time.”

“Why didn’t you ask him?”

“Honestly?” he asked. “I never see him. Plus, even when he’s here, he doesn’t actually seem to be here, if that makes sense. The other night, he was talking to someone, but there was no one else in the room.”

“See,” she said, “this is the creepy house.”

He threw the ketchup packet back at her. She caught it mid-flight.

“I can see your backyard from my house,” she said.

“So?”

“So, tonight, maybe I’ll keep watch on your stoop, check out the neat-freak cat.”

As they left the kitchen, Justine slipped her hand back into his but let go before they walked outside. A slight breeze had picked up, salty with the scent of the nearby ocean, but not strong enough to dispel the heavy air or the gnats. Somewhere in the distance a car honked, and a neighbor down the street was mowing. Their arms swung back and forth as they walked next door, their fingers brushing against each other on every swing.

Behind his fall of hair, Henry smiled and then looked at Justine. She smiled back. It was like nothing he could remember.