Henry Franks A Novel

two





His father was sitting at the table when Henry went downstairs for dinner. Two places were set, thick plastic dishes warped, cracked, and better than anything else they owned. Fast food burgers sat, unwrapped, on the plates, with packets of ketchup, mustard, and relish piled in the middle of the table.

Around a mouthful of food, his father smiled. “Dinnertime.”

Henry sat down, dressed his burger and began to eat, keeping an eye on his father as they sat across from each other.

“Have you been taking your meds?” His father’s white consultation jacket had seen better days. A faded Southeast Georgia Regional Medical Center patch was coming loose, just a little right of center.

“Yes.”

When his father smiled again, Henry looked down at his empty plate before reaching for another burger.

“Appetite’s back?”

Henry shrugged. “It helps.”

“Some of the medications have stomach side effects.”

“Eating helps,” Henry said.

“And the itching?”

“Scratching helps too.”

“Need more ointment?”

Henry shook his head, dark hair falling into his face and he left it there.

“Stronger?” his father asked. “I can make it stronger next time, if you’d like. Or not, whatever you need.”

Henry shrugged again and then pushed the plate of food away without taking anything.

“You can eat it if you want.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Would you be if I wasn’t here?” His father’s hands rested on the table, playing with the plastic silverware, the skin white where he gripped the knife and fork too tightly.

Henry shook his head and reached for the food.

“Henry?”

“Sorry,” he said, around the first bite of the second burger.

“Me too,” his father said.

He stopped chewing long enough to look up at his father.

“Really, Henry, I’m sorry. Has Dr. Saville helped?”

With the rest of the burger in his hand, Henry stood. The metal chair folded in on itself and clattered to the floor. His father rushed around to pick it up.

“It’s okay,” Henry said, but his father unfolded the chair and slid it back into place anyway.

“My fault,” his father said.

“Stop saying that.”

“What?” His father looked at him, a frown drawing ever-deeper lines into his skin.

“That you’re sorry.”

“What would you like me to say, Henry?”

“Anything but that.”

“Dr. Saville?”

“I still don’t remember,” he said, turning to walk out the door. “But I’m fine with that now.”

Henry sat in his room, staring at a blank monitor, fingers resting on the keyboard. A branch beat against the window in the summer wind, the sound harsh and grating. He spun around in his chair, knocking a plastic pillbox to the ground. In the small room, it only took a couple of steps for him to reach the window and pull up the blinds. A sliver of moon surrounded by haze glowed above the tree line.

Across the backyard, through the branches, he could see a part of Justine’s house but the lights were off. He raised the window, and the noise of the leaves grew louder as branches skittered against the house. In the heat, he scratched at the scar around his neck.

Leaving the window, he moved the mouse to wake his computer up but focused on nothing beyond the lingering images of the dream. A ghost of a memory, a little girl calling him Daddy. And then, like his life, she was gone.

He took a deep breath. Another, counting to ten as he struggled to hold on to the memories until all that remained was his father’s voice, telling him about a life he couldn’t remember and a death he’d somehow forgotten.