Henry Franks A Novel

twenty





After school, Justine left Henry at the metal gate that never closed and ran into her house where her mother had watched them walk from the bus stop.

Henry went inside and hadn’t gone more than halfway up the stairs when there was a knock at the door.

“Mom said ‘maybe’ for Friday, which is better than ‘no,’ right?” Justine asked as he opened the door for her. “Looks like movie dates don’t have to wait til senior year after all. But still, we’d have to have company—that all right? Unless we have to evacuate for Erika.”

“Company?”

“Well, the technical term would be ‘chaperone.’” She smiled.

“That’s all right,” he said with a matching smile.

The photographs from the scrapbook were laid out on the bed in as close to chronological order as Henry could make them. The picture with the half-seen T-shirt worn by his father leaned against the monitor on the desk, next to a pushpin sticking out of the wood. Justine sat in the chair as Henry moved some photos over to sit down. She picked up the picture, staring at the shirt.

“Not Stanford, not Oxford.”

“I’ve Googled everything I can think of,” he said, running fingers through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. “Know how many states have cities with ‘ford’ in them? And most of them have high schools. Now add all the other words ending with ‘ORD’ that you came up with.”

“Giving up?”

“Still not sure why I’m even looking,” he said, then pushed the pictures to the ground. “So I learn where he went to college. Doesn’t help me remember my own life. Just his.”

Justine wheeled the chair over, bumping up against the bed, and rested her hands on his shoulders, pulling him toward her. “You shouldn’t give up, Henry.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first off, researching this with me has been fun, right?”

He ran his thumbs over her fingers then rested his forehead against hers. “Right,” he said. “And second?”

“Well,” she said, leaning back to look at him. “I’ll have to get back to you on that. Still, it’s fun even if we’re looking for something we’ll never find and, really, don’t even have to. Besides, it’ll give us something to talk about on our date.”

“You always have something to talk about, Justine.”

She blew him a kiss and pushed off, rolling back across the floor. On the desk, the pushpin poked her arm. “Ow,” she said. “Why is this even here?”

Henry stood up next to her and pulled the pin out of the wood. He rolled it between his fingers before resting the pointed tip against his left palm, eyes locked on Justine as he pushed it in.

A small red dot of blood welled around the metal shaft, and he smiled.

Her mouth shot open as she reached for him. “Henry!” she said, but he backed away from her, his hair falling in front of his eyes as he pulled the pin out.

“A few months ago, only this finger.” He pointed his discolored index finger at her. “Didn’t feel anything, but the numbness has been spreading recently.”

“Spreading?” she asked.

He poked the pin into his forearm, almost up to his elbow, then again, higher, leaving a trail of red dots up his arm. An inch below his biceps, he stopped.

“That one hurt,” he said with a small frown, pulling it out. “Last week it was below my elbow.”

“Why?” she asked.

He shrugged, then stuck the pushpin back in the wall. He slid the pillbox out from behind the monitor and flipped the lids, one at a time, until the entire box was open. “Lots of pills, since the accident. My dad keeps trying different combinations, different dosages. Some give me nightmares. Or make my nose bleed. I’m not sure if the numbness is a side effect or a symptom. Can’t really Google me.”

“I know,” she said.

“You know?”

She handed him some tissues from her purse and helped him wipe the spots of blood off of his skin. When he was done, she traced his scar with her finger. “I Googled you. Didn’t find anything. Thought there might be something about the accident, but I didn’t even know where to look.”

“I’m ungoogleable.”

“Is that a word now?” She smiled.

“Absolutely.”

“Really? What happens if I Google ‘ungoogleable’?” She typed as she spoke. “Well, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at almost 8,000 hits, should I?”

He shook his head. “Not even a little.”

“See, that’s why we’re looking for your father’s school.”

“Why?”

“Maybe that will help us Google you,” she said. “That’s reason number two.”

“Is that the best you could come up with?” he asked.

“It’s short notice; I’m sure I’ll come up with something better eventually.” She laughed. “I always do, don’t I?”

“Usually,” he said, trying not to laugh along with her.

She bent over the pillbox, studying the medicine piled in each compartment. “Nightmares?” she asked.

“About my daughter.”

“Elizabeth?”

Henry closed the pillbox and pushed it to the side. The small piece of paper caught on the corner and he spread it open.

Justine picked it up and read off the names. “Victor. Elizabeth. Christine. Frank. ORD. CME-U, I remember that one. That wasn’t much help to Google either. Is this your research list?”

“What there is of it.”

“Who’s Victor?”

“Elizabeth’s father.”

“Ask her for last names,” Justine said, handing the piece of paper back to him.

“Who?” Henry folded it up and put it under the pills again.

“Elizabeth,” she said. “In your dream, ask her.”

“I’m not sure … ” Henry said, and then fell silent. “They’re not that type of dream, I guess. Does that make sense?”

“They’re your dreams, Henry,” she said. “Can’t hurt to try.”

“They’re not.”

“Not what?”

“My dreams,” he said. “Though I once asked her my name. That’s how I learned about Victor.”

She looked up at him and then reached out for his hand, running her fingers up to where the pin had left its mark on his skin. “Ask her for me?”

He nodded.

“And no more pushpins.”

Henry pulled them out of the wall, one by one, and lined them up on the desk. Their metal tips were stained as they bumped against each other. When he’d pulled them all down, he rolled them into her hands and watched as she dumped them in the trash with the wadded-up tissues.

“Better?” he asked.

She smiled. “Have you told your father?”

“About?” he asked.

“The numbness?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “I tried a couple of times, but no.”

Justine clasped his hand again, pulling him toward her. “Can I ask for another favor?”

He nodded.

“Tell him?”

Henry smiled but didn’t answer.

“Promise?”

“Yes,” he said. “Anything else?”

The sun peeked out from a cloud and for a moment the room lightened. She tilted her head to the side, her tongue resting on her lower lip. “You could kiss me again.”

The clouds closed back up and a sudden breeze brushed the branches against the window. Beneath the scrape of leaves and wood on the glass, the wind hissed and, if he listened hard enough, it seemed to moan, rattling the shutters.

Henry ran his fingers over her cheek, tracing the curve of her skin from where her earlobe met her jaw, down her neck, and back to the soft skin hidden beneath her hair. His thumb rested behind her ear and he could feel her breath against his lips.

“God,” she said, soft and warm against his skin, “I hope you can feel this.” She pulled him just that much closer, her arms clutched around his shoulders, and kissed him.

The wind shook the door, almost as though it was testing the knob, trying to get inside.

NOAA Alert: Erika Category Three; Eastern Seaboard Alerts:

Florida to South Carolina

Miami, FL—August 27, 2009: The National Hurricane Center has reported that Hurricane Erika has reached Category Three on the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale with maximum sustained winds of 125 mph as it continues on its path toward the eastern seaboard of the United States. Hurricane alerts have now been issued by the National Hurricane Center from Key West, Florida north to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina.

Hurricane force winds extend outward to thirty miles from the center and tropical storm force winds extend outward over 125 miles.