The Song of David

“Whoa!” I half-laughed, shooting a double-leg and scooping him up across my shoulders, WWE-style. I straightened and roared, like I was Hulk Hogan or The Undertaker, and I spun a thrashing Henry around in exaggerated circles until I realized he was pounding and kicking furiously, and not in a way that indicated he was messing around or having fun. I put him down immediately, my arms steadying his shoulders in case he was dizzy. I felt a little dizzy myself, and tried to clear my head. Henry didn’t let up though.

His face was flushed and his arms were pin-wheeling. I put a hand on his forehead, the way my dad used to do when I was little, my hand palming his head like a basketball, keeping him at arm’s length.

“Henry! Buddy, we’re just playing. Relax.”

If anything, he just doubled his efforts to take me out with his scrawny arms and sharp knees.

“Henry, I outweigh you by a hundred pounds. You can’t fight me, kid!”

“Manute Bol was seven foot seven!” he yelled. People were starting to stare. Axel and Mikey had stopped grappling on the mats nearby and were watching, both of them breathing hard. Axel rose to his feet and started toward us.

“What the fu—” I cut myself off immediately. Every time I swore, Henry looked slightly stricken. I’d had to talk to the guys about the every-other-word-is-the-F-word language we all used without thought. We had a huge water jug in the office brimming with quarters from our slips.

“You’re going to have to explain that one, Henry.” I released my hand from his head and let him come at me again. When he started pummeling my chest, I wrapped my arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He immediately started head butting me, though the top of his head barely reached my chin. I nuzzled my head down, trapping his head between the side of my face and my shoulder, the way boxers do when they’re trying to stall, trying to catch their breath, and I was trying to do both as I scrambled to figure out why Henry was so angry about a seven foot seven basketball player.

“Henry!” I spoke into his bushy hair. “Henry, I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me!”

“Manute Bol’s grandfather had forty wives.” His voice had dropped slightly, but the fervor was still there, and behind the fervor, tears threatened, and he still strained against me.

“Seriously?” I laughed, trying to snap him out of it. “Lucky guy.”

Henry jerked viciously, pulling his head free, nailing me in the mouth.

I let him go, spitting blood and forbidden words. I think I owed the water jug ten dollars.

“Not lucky!” he roared. He turned away and stomped to the edge of the mat. He picked up his duffle bag and his sweatshirt and headed for the door. I could only watch, completely dumbfounded.

“He’s pissed at you,” Axel commented, as if I hadn’t figured that much out.

“Yeah. He is. Did you know Manute Bol’s grandfather had forty wives?” I almost started to laugh. Henry communicated in the most frustrating way.

“Who’s Manute Bol?” Axel frowned.

“Basketball player—one of the tallest to ever play in the NBA. From Sudan, I think.”

“Hmm. Maybe Henry doesn’t like you having forty girlfriends, big guy.” Axel’s use of Millie’s nickname gave me pause.

“What? I don’t—”

“Yes, Tag. You do.” Axel grinned at me like he was proud of me.

“Henry!” I tore across the gym, trying to catch Henry as he pushed through the front door. He didn’t wait for me, and it took me half a block before I over took him.

“Henry, the girls at the gym and the girls at the bar aren’t my girlfriends.” Well, they were. But not the way Axel and Henry were thinking. I liked girls. They liked me. But none of it was serious or committed. They were my friends. And they were girls.

“Amelie?” he asked, still walking.

“Millie’s not my girlfriend either,” I said softly.

“Screw you, Tag,” Henry said, so clearly, so simply, that I almost cheered at his direct, uncomplicated response. But the celebration died in my throat as I registered what he’d said and the finality with which he said it. Henry kept on walking toward home, and I watched him go.





I KNOCKED ON the Anderson’s door at a little after seven on Sunday evening, but it took some persistence to get anyone to answer it. I’d almost given up when Henry pulled it open and hesitated, as if not sure whether to greet me or not.

“Hey buddy. What’s up?”

He shrugged.

“Can I come inside?”

Henry moved aside and let me in, his eyes on the floor. He shut the door behind me, but he didn’t make eye contact, and I could tell he was still pissed.

“Henry?” I nudged him softly with my fist, the softest punch I’d ever delivered. His fists balled immediately. Yep. Still mad.

“Prior to 1900, prize fights lasted up to one hundred rounds,” Henry said woodenly.

“What round are we on, man? I don’t think I can go a hundred rounds with you. I’m tapping out. You win.”

“No tap-outs,” Henry said, his jaw tight, repeating something I’d told him in the gym.

“No tap-outs. Except when you’re wrong. And I was wrong. I’m sorry, Henry.”