Henry Franks A Novel

twenty one





When Henry turned the corner into the kitchen the next morning his father was already at the table, elbows on the edge and his face deep within the steam of his coffee.

“Dad?”

William waved the fingers of one hand but kept staring into his mug. “Morning,” he said, though the word was slurred and soft. With an obvious effort, he shook his head and looked up. “Morning,” he said again.

Henry stood at the refrigerator door, looking back at his father. Thin hair streaked with gray lay flat against his skull, the ridges of the bone almost poking out of the dry pale skin. The circles under his eyes had grown and his smile was nothing more than a brief twitch of his lips.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Henry said, then turned back to the refrigerator.

“Just tired,” his father said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“How are you?”

Henry sat down with his breakfast, not looking at his father across the table. “Fine.”

“Fine? Is that what this is?”

“What?” Henry asked.

“Nothing,” his father said, drinking down his coffee and pushing the mug away. “Are you taking your meds?”

“Yes.”

“I hope you realize how important they are.”

“I know,” he said. “You keep telling me.”

“I’m serious, Henry.”

“I said, I know. I’m taking them.”

“And the ointment? Do you need more?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Your tests,” his father said. “They looked good, really.”

“Okay.”

“Anything new?”

Henry looked up. The wind hissed against the window and his father flinched. Henry shook his head. “No.”

His father stood and walked across the kitchen, then stopped in the doorway. “Henry?”

“Yeah?”

“Dr. Saville,” he said, and then looked away. “Is she helping?”

“Helping?”

“Do you remember anything?” he asked, the words forced through gritted teeth. “About before?”

Henry pushed his chair back without answering, dropped the bowl and spoon in the sink, then walked to the front door with his father following behind.

“Henry?”

“What is there to remember?” he asked, opening the door to let the bright morning sun shine in.

“Your mother,” William said. His hand reached out, lingering in the air close to Henry’s shoulder but not touching. “Anything.”

Henry turned around and his father lowered his arm. “No.”

The wind picked up, branches banging on the windows almost hard enough to break the glass. His father flinched, slamming the door shut, bracing it with his back. Eyes wide, he pushed Henry down toward the kitchen.

“What?” Henry asked, trying to slide out of his father’s grasp. “Stop!”

“Quiet,” William whispered. “Come on.”

“Why?” He dug his heels in, sliding over the wooden floor as his father pushed and pulled at him, dragging him away from the front door.

A loose shutter beat against the siding, the deep bass thud of wood striking wood drowning out the cries of the wind. From somewhere far away, a horn honked and then, faintly, there was a knocking at the door.

“No!” his father screamed, squeezing Henry’s arm to keep him from answering the door.

Henry shook off his father’s hands and ran to the window. A branch poked the glass as he looked out.

“Justine,” he said, and slid open the bolt to unlock the door.

Behind him, his father turned the corner and disappeared into his room as Henry stepped outside.

“I heard screaming. You all right?” Justine asked.

He shook the hair out of his eyes and looked at her. “My dad was freaking out about something. Weird morning,” he said as they walked toward the bus stop.

“Did you talk to him?”

“No.” He shrugged. “He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s never home, and when he is he asks random questions. Just weird.”

“It’s the summer for weird.” They sat down on the bus and she squeezed his fingers. “Can you feel that?”

“Not really,” he said. “But it’s okay.”

She traced her finger up his arm, over the scars. “Tell me when,” she said as she went higher and higher.

When she was beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt his breath caught. “When.”

Justine looked around, then leaned down. She lifted the edge of his sleeve and kissed his shoulder.

“When,” he said, again, softer.

“It’s higher,” she said.

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault I’m falling apart.”

“Is that what you’re calling it?” she asked.

“It’s better than saying that parts of me are dying.” He turned to look out the window as the bus rumbled over the causeway.

“Henry,” she said, the word little more than a whisper.

He turned to face her, but when he went to touch her she pulled away.

“Talk to your dad,” she said. “You promised.”

“I know.”

She wiped her eyes and then reached for his hand, the hint of a smile just touching her eyes.

“Any news on Erika?” he asked as the bus reached the end of the bridge.

“Probably South Carolina, my dad says. Should turn north soon; they always do.”

“What if it doesn’t?”

She shrugged. “Might hit Savannah, maybe? They were kind of hit back when I was younger, like five or so. My mom was telling me they evacuated for Floyd.”

“Evacuated?”

“She lived in Savannah, then. Nothing here in Brunswick, though.”

“You sound disappointed,” he said as the school bus pulled up to the curb.

“Nothing ever happens in Brunswick,” she said. “Well, except this summer.” She ran the tips of her fingers over the scar circling his index finger. “Did you have a dream last night, Henry?”

He shook his head. “I usually don’t dream if I take my pills.”

“Going to take them tonight?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you’ll learn something new?”

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” He laughed.

Justine shook her head. “How about I call in the middle of the night? If it’s a nightmare, it might wake you up.”

“That’s the silliest idea ever,” he said.

“Is that a no?”

“No.”

Justine smiled. “I was going to call even if you said no.”

“I figured.”

They walked off the bus and into the school, not hand in hand but close enough to touch.

“Frankenstein!” the voice came from behind as Bobby walked in between them, splitting Justine away from Henry.

“What’s your problem?” she asked, trying to walk around Bobby, but he kept moving to block the path. A small crowd of kids was gathering in the hallway around them, trying to look like they weren’t paying attention.

“No problem. Just saying hi to Frankenstein here,” Bobby said.

“Actually,” Henry said to Justine before she could respond, “that is better than Scarface, and you did ask him if that was the best he could do.”

“Well, to be technical, the monster didn’t have a name. Frankenstein was the doctor,” Justine said before turning back to Bobby. “You might want to work on that some more. Maybe a six out of ten?” she asked, looking at Henry.

“I think the East German judge was a little harsh,” he said. “Probably at least a seven.”

A burst of laughter came from one of the students behind Bobby as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Maybe I could glue on some bolts,” Henry said, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show off the scar circling his neck. “It could be part of my look.”

“I’ve told you before, you don’t really have a look,” Justine said. “More of a unique personal style.”

“I’ll take that,” he said, turning back to Bobby, who pushed past him and continued down the hall.

Justine moved in closer, sliding her hand down his arm until their fingers merged. “Does that mean I don’t get to be Igor?” she asked with a laugh. “I want to be Igor.”

“Now see,” Henry said, “that was funny.”





Margaret Saville, PhD

St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Patient: Henry Franks

(DOB: November 19, 1992)

A handful of clouds, gray and hinting of rain, rode the wind across the sky. Henry watched them from between the slats of the blinds. Behind him, the ticking of the clock and the tapping from Dr. Saville’s pen counted out the time.

“How are you doing, Henry?” she asked.

He turned around to face her, leaning against the windowsill. “Was a good day. Better than ‘fine,’ at least.”

“Something happen?”

He sank into the couch, his finger idly tracing the scar on his wrist.

“Henry?”

“There’s a hurricane coming,” he said.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, not really.” He smiled. “Justine says it’ll turn north. They always do.”

“Are you ready if it doesn’t turn? Medicine and everything?”

“Dad said he’d make more. He stocked up on milk and bread and candles. It’ll be an adventure.”

“You were speaking of Justine?”

“I was?” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it down to hide behind.

“Henry.”

“We’re dating, I guess. I think she’s my girlfriend.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“So far,” he said. “She says it’s been a weird summer.”

“Has it?” Dr. Saville asked.

Henry lay his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “What would you like me to compare it to?”

“You were awake last summer, and bored, you told me.”

“No hurricanes last summer.” He looked at her, unblinking. “Or serial murders.”

The pen tapped against the paper as a cloud crossed the sun and the first drops of rain splattered against the window.

“Or girlfriends,” she said, then placed her free hand over the pen, muting the tapping.

“Weird summer,” he said as a clap of thunder rattled the pane of glass and lightning sliced through the sky.

“Have you been having any nightmares, Henry?”

“No, not since she died.”

“Elizabeth?”

Henry closed his eyes and draped his elbow across his face. “Her mother. I killed her.”

“You’re not Victor, remember?”

“Are you sure?” he asked, then turned away from her.

“How old was Elizabeth?”

He shrugged where he curled up in the corner of the couch. “Young. I don’t know, exactly.”

“Did she talk to you?”

“Yes.”

“So, old enough to talk?”

He nodded.

“How old are you, Henry?” she asked.

“Sixteen.”

“So, say Elizabeth was five. Does that sound reasonable? Do you think you had a child when you were eleven?”

He looked up at her, blinking rapidly in the light. “No.” There was a spark of relief and something approaching hope in his voice. “I’m not Victor.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not Victor.”

“I miss her.”

“Just a dream.”

“Still,” he said.

“It’s all right, Henry. Not having any more nightmares is progress.” She stood as the alarm went off. “Tuesday?”

“Unless there’s a hurricane.” He smiled. “You ready?”

“Candles, bread, water. All set.”

“It’ll turn,” he said, stopping at the door to look back at her.

Out the window, through the slats of the blinds, the white path leading nowhere was flooding in the rain.