Henry Franks (10 page)

Lightning ripped across the sky, the thunder chasing right behind. Still, it felt as though he was being watched. The storm seemed to follow him up the stairs to the door. His heart heaved against his ribs with each pulse, his breathing labored as he slammed the door shut behind him.

He flipped the switch but the dead bulb gave no light in the hallway. Moonlit shadows through the high windows did nothing to dispel the gloom.

The wind picked up with the rain, slamming the branches against the roof. His breathing began to calm as the thunder rattled harmlessly outside.

“Henry?” his father asked from behind him.

He jumped almost high enough to reach the ceiling and his heart took flight again, pounding with the shock. His hand rested on his rib cage, feeling the beating heart racing within.

“Don't,” he said. “Don't do that.”

“It's just a storm,” his father said with a half-hearted laugh. “You're a little too old to be afraid of thunder, don't you think?” He turned and went back down the hall to his room.

Henry took the steps upstairs two at a time.
How old am I?
B
ut like most of the other questions, it remained unasked.

seventeen

In his room, Henry ripped the photo of the birthday party out of his scrapbook. Green trees, against a high blue sky dotted with white fluffy clouds. The flash caught him just in the act of blowing out the candles on his birthday cake. A tear landed on the picture as he studied it.

The photograph trembled in his grasp, his fingers shaking, tensing around the edges and he dropped it to keep from crushing it into a ball. It fluttered to the ground and landed face-up, staring at him from the floor. Head in his hands, he stared back, unable to close his eyes and too scared to move.

“Breathe.”

A pushpin stuck out of the wall in front of him and he rested his finger on it, trying to feel the hard plastic edge. He let his hand fall, landing on the desk next to the scrapbook, the empty page with his own handwriting on it:
Birthday Party: November 19.

It wasn't autumn, in the picture still on the floor.

He turned the pages, flipping back to the beginning. He skipped the school portraits, going straight to the first candid shots. He leaned over the book, squinting to see better. He looked at the trees in the background, the grass, flowers, the clothing people were wearing, and the buildings in the corners.

One by one, he looked at them all, unable to even understand what he was looking for. Another birthday picture, an earlier age, the kids in shorts again. He picked up the photo from the floor and compared the kids surrounding him as he blew out candles on the cake. Same kids? Older, at least; similar, maybe.

He didn't know. But again, it wasn't fall.

More pictures, his nose brushing against the archival paper as he studied each photograph. His father had noted his mother where she appeared, a bright smile, dark hair curling around and down her face. Petite, she seemed so small next to his father, the two of them holding hands, smiling, happy.

He turned the page, picture after picture, looking for anything. Another page. Another. His face pressed into the book, he stopped. His mother and father, caught unaware by the flash of the camera. Not quite touching; not quite happy. Something had etched fine lines across his mother's pale skin. That same something had drawn his father's smile down into the beginnings of a frown.

After that, the pictures of them were far less frequent, those of him more staged. On another page, his father, caught in profile, watched his son doing nothing in particular. His father's eyes were hooded, dark, with circles beneath them that were even darker, almost sad. But that's not why Henry stopped.

There were no street names in any picture, no identifying marks of any kind for any reason. No buildings he recognized, no mountains towering in the background. No stray pieces of paper lying around for the camera to capture. He had searched every picture, studied every inch of them, and found nothing except for this one photograph of his father in profile, watching him. No, not sad; there was more pity in the look than that. And beneath the half-frown and the double chin, a faded T-shirt with half an
O
and an
RD
.

ORD?

Henry stared at the letters, blue and yellow against a gray background.

“Breathe.”

His computer hummed to life when he pulled the wireless mouse over. From beneath the pillbox he spread out the paper and added the letters to the random list.
Elizabeth
.
Victor
.
Frank
.
Christine
.
CME-U
. And, now,
ORD
. He hunched over the keyboard as he clicked open Google.

ORD
.

Chicago, O'Hare airport; no. Fort Ord; no. He scrolled through the pages then froze, his fingers hovering over the keys.

ORD.

Livets Ord University, affiliated with Oral Roberts and located in Sweden; no. Then, in Google blue:
STANFORD UNIVERSITY
.

“Breathe.”

Henry clicked and clicked, exploring the maze of the various Stanford websites, deeper and deeper into the alumni sections, looking for … what? He didn't know what he was searching for or why, couldn't even figure out if
ORD
was a clue or not. There was no rhyme or reason to his clicking, each link taking him wherever it might. His tears fell on the keys, his breathing spiraling out of control.

Stanford
.

“Breathe.”

Then, there was no place left to click, every avenue requiring registrations and passwords he didn't have. He shuddered, struggling to draw a breath. His palm slapped against the desktop and his keyboard hopped into the air. The pills, in their plastic coffin, rattled and he dry-swallowed them all at once, coughing as they rubbed against his throat.

He stared at the monitor, resting his finger against the Stanford logo, the red
S
staring back at him. His finger slid down to rest on the desk and then pushed his mouse to put the computer back to sleep.

Staring at the blank monitor, he sat there, unmoving. He blinked, once, twice, then rested his head down on the keys. With a shove, he pushed himself backward, the wheels squeaking over the wooden floor. The chair bounced against the wall and Henry bounced with it.

He crawled into bed fully dressed, pulled the covers up over his head despite the heat, and tried to convince himself that pretending to sleep was as good as the real thing. Anything not to dream again.

NOAA Alert: Erika Upgraded
to Hurricane; Cuba on Alert

Miami, FL—August 24, 2009:
The National Hurricane Center is reporting that Tropical Storm Erika has now been upgraded to a Hurricane as wind speeds have topped 100 mph. After the storm made a northward turn in the direction of North America, the government of Venezuela stopped broadcasting Hurricane Alerts for the coast. The projected path has been updated to indicate landfall in Cuba and the Gulf Coast by the end of the week.

A Tropical Storm alert has also been issued for the Netherlands Antilles islands of Aruba, Bonaire, and Curacao for the imminent arrival of Tropical Storm Danny, with sustained maximum winds of 65 mph.

eighteen

Henry woke on the floor, tangled in blankets. Memories of a nightmare disappeared as he struggled to cling to his dream. An image of a touch, the feel of a glance, but nothing made sense as he kicked the sheets off. While he brushed his teeth, however, all he thought of was a kiss.

The sun was already hard at work burning the dew off the grass as he walked to the bus stop. He stood at the edge of the sidewalk, balancing on the curb. Along the road, a handful of other kids congregated apart from him and all he could do was watch as they laughed at a joke he couldn't hear.

Justine walked along the street, kicking a pile of grounded moss as she wandered from side to side, keeping in the shade of the trees that lined Harrison Pointe. As she approached she grasped her backpack, holding it in front of her like a shield. She stared at the ground between them, studying his shoes. Her mumbled “Good morning” was barely audible.

“Justine?” he said, his hands deep in his pockets as she took a step back from him.

She looked over her shoulder, to where her mother stood on their front porch, and, without looking at Henry, took another step away. Before she'd taken a third, she stopped.

“Damn,” she said as the bus pulled up.

Kids piled up the stairs, jostling to reach the same seats they always sat in. The clatter of latched windows being forced down echoed through the bus. The benches squeaked.

Henry sat, slid over next to the window, and watched as Justine worked her way up the aisle. Staring at her feet, she bumped into the girl in front of her and stumbled backward. With a blush, she sat down in the seat in front of Henry and stared straight ahead.

He leaned toward her as the bus pulled away from the curb. “Justine?”

She looked at him over her shoulder, her hair curling down around her face, then lowered her eyes and turned back around.

“You all right?” he asked, resting his hands on the back of her seat.

Without a sound, she nodded.

Henry sat back, his fingers resting for a moment longer on the vinyl before falling to his lap. She cast a quick glance back toward him before turning away again. Conversations grew and died around them, replaced by laughter and the quiet sounds of kids fanning themselves with whatever was handy.

“What words end in ‘ORD'?” Henry asked, bending his head forward to speak to her neck, not really sure how to be the one to actually initiate a conversation with her. Her skin glistened in the heat, a stray strand of hair sticking to her back.

Her head came up but she didn't turn around.

“In one of the old pictures of me and my dad, he's wearing a shirt that says ‘ORD.' I'm thinking Stanford.”

“Oxford,” she said, her voice soft. Then she turned around, her eyes lighting up with the words. “There's Oxford, too, in England. Probably lots of others. You think that's where he went to school?”

Henry smiled back at her and shrugged. “You okay?” he asked.

Her smile wavered, but she stayed facing him with her arms on the back of the seat. “I told you my mother wouldn't be happy.”

“Bad?”

“She's a little old-fashioned.”

“Old-fashioned?”

“She's forbidden me to date you.”

“We're dating?” Henry asked.

She laughed, then closed her eyes and stilled her smile. “No. Just … damn, she saw us holding hands.” Justine barely said the words out loud and a fine blush ran up her cheeks. “I don't know, Henry. What are we doing?”

The bus pulled into the high school and the noise grew in volume. Henry leaned closer, resting his forehead on the green plastic of her chair. When he finally looked at her, he was smiling.

“Will you sit with me on the way home?” he asked.

Justine held her backpack in front of her as they made their way off the bus. “Yes,” she said before walking into school next to him.

In the hallway in between classes, her pink toenail polish passed by. When he looked up to wave she was looking back, but there wasn't time for much more than that in the crowded hall. Before the bus pulled away to take them home, however, she squeezed in beside him. Her fingers rested in her lap before he reached over and traced her thumb. She wrapped her hand over his, holding it against her thigh, and they drove the entire way home just looking at their hands, joined between them, in silence.

They walked together from the bus stop, but she'd let go of his hand before they got off the bus and they didn't touch as they approached Henry's house. Next door, her mother popped her head out.

“Later?” he asked.

“I have a plan,” she said, before turning away and running home.

In his house, Henry trudged up the stairs to his room and tossed his backpack in the corner. His computer booted up with a touch and he sank into his desk chair, studying the pattern of pushpins in the wall.

There was a knock at the front door. Another, louder, more insistent, and he scrambled down the stairs.

“It's hot out here!” Justine said, her fist preparing to knock again. “Can I come in to help with your homework?”

Henry shut the door behind them. “We have homework?”

“Had to think of something, and she probably sees right through me, but … ” She smiled. “It worked, didn't it?”

Henry shook his head, trying to clear it. “This was your plan?”

“I'm here, how about we leave it at that?” She reached for his hand as they walked up the stairs. “So, Stanford?”

He sat at his desk, Justine standing next to him, and brought up the alumni website. “No access, so I gave up.”

“Call them,” she said, pointing at the contact information taking up the bottom quarter of the screen.

He laughed, a short bark of a sound. “No.”

“Why not? It's either that or hack their site, and I can't do that, can you?”

“No,” he said. His shoulders slumped and he looked up at her.

“Let's call; they're three hours behind us.”

“And say what?”

She smiled then shook her head. “Hi, my name is Henry Franks?”

“Not a chance,” he said with a laugh. “You can call, if you want to.”

“Okay,” she said.

Henry stood up, the desk chair rolling back. He looked at her bright eyes and big smile as she stared back at him.

“I was kidding,” he said.

“Phone?” she asked.

He fished his cell out of his backpack and they sat on the floor with it as Justine dialed.

“What are you going to say?” he asked.

She shrugged as the line connected and she clicked the speaker on.

“Stanford Alumni, may I help you?”

Justine closed the phone, cutting the connection, and turned bright red. “Oh, damn, I'm sorry,” she said, laughing.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Sorry,” she said, still red, still laughing. “I'll be serious. Seriously, I will be.”

She sat up straighter, a frown forced onto her face.

“Serious?” he asked.

“Serious.”

Justine flipped the phone back open and clicked redial. She took a deep breath as the ringing came through the speaker.

“Stanford Alumni, may I help you?”

“I'm sorry,” she said, her southern drawl just a bit more pronounced than usual. “We must have gotten disconnected.”

“No problem, happens all the time.”

“I'm hoping you can help me,” Justine said. “My future father-in-law went to Stanford, and he was telling me the other day how much he regrets losing his yearbooks in a fire a while ago.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that.”

“Well, I was thinking what a wonderful gift it would be if I could replace them for him.”

“I'm sure he'd love that. Do you know when he attended Stanford?”

Justine looked up at Henry, his fingers pressed over his mouth to keep from laughing and his skin a couple different shades of pink. He shook his head and shrugged.

“No, I'm sorry,” Justine said. “I just came up with this idea, so I'm not really sure.”

“Let me look him up and see what I can find for you. What's his name?”

Henry grabbed a notebook out of his backpack and scrawled a name across it.

“William Franks,” she read. “Dr. William Franks.”

“A doctor? Maybe he went to our med school.”

“I'm not sure, sorry.”

“I'll check for you. Can you hold?”

“Absolutely,” Justine said as music floated softly out of the speaker.

“I can't believe you!” Henry whispered.

“You have a better idea?” She smiled at him, resting her fingers on his arm. “I can't hack a computer but I definitely know how to talk.”

“Are you there?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma'am,” Justine said.

“I have 27 ‘William Franks' at Stanford, but that's stretching back to well over one hundred years ago. I think we can narrow that down a little. How old do you think he is?”

Justine looked at Henry, who scribbled a number down, then added a question mark after it.

“45ish?” Justine said. “Maybe. Somewhere in that neighborhood.”

“Well, undergrad might have been mid-eighties, med school late eighties. Let me check.” The clacking of keys came through the speaker as Henry wrote down the dates.

“Three for the decade of the eighties. None of them in the med school. One of them was a late-eighties undergrad so that's probably wrong. Leaves a William Franks graduating in 1983 and 1985. Does that help?”

Justine jumped up, the phone rocking in her hand. “Yes, yes, of course. How would I be able to replace the yearbook, though?”

“The Alumni department stores leftovers offsite so I'd have to check on the year, but do you really want to order both?”

“Oh,” Justine said as she collapsed into the desk chair. She rolled over next to Henry and rested her fingers on his shoulder. “Any suggestions?”

“Can you hold a moment?”

“Yes, of course,” she said as music piped into the room. “We found him!”

“Maybe,” Henry said from the floor.

“Spoilsport.” She stuck out her tongue at him.

“Then what?”

“‘Then what' what?” Justine asked.

“We see what he looked like; what do we do with the information?”

“Oh,” she said as the music stopped.

“Are you there?” the phone asked.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“We do have both years in storage. Do you have an email address? I can scan their photos in and you can tell me which year you'll need. Will that work?”

Justine rattled off her email and slowly closed the phone, a bright smile on her face. She stood up, shaking her fingers. “I can't believe I did that! And my mom says no good can come from being talkative. Ha!”

She spun around, then jumped, pumping her arms in the air like a prizefighter after a knockout.

She stopped, pulled Henry up beside her and forced the frown back on her face. “Serious enough?” she asked.

“Perfect.”

“Seriously?”

“Very much so,” he said.

“I'm gonna go check my email. I'll forward what they send me.”

“Thanks.”

“Walk me home?” She smiled, taking his hand and leading him down the stairs.

Justine spread her fingers as they stepped outside, her palm sliding away from his, and looked over at her house.

“Sorry,” she said, not even looking at Henry.

“It's all right, I guess.”

“Friends?” she asked, walking so close that she kept brushing her shoulder against him.

“You'd be the only one.” He squinted against the sun dipping toward the horizon.

“Friends,” she said.

“I'd like that,” Henry said.

“Me too.”

His computer was waiting for him when he sat back down at his desk after dinner. He explored the Stanford alumni sites, both official and not, but there was nothing of interest to find. Not that there was a Step Two if Step One provided any answers. Knowing where his father went to school didn't solve his problem, or resurrect his memory or his mother.

From his backpack his cell phone started ringing and he flipped it open. Justine's voice sounded thin and distant, muffled.

“Henry? I just got an email from Stanford.”

He sank into his chair, staring at the logo on his monitor. “And?”

“It's not him.”

His shoulders slumped and he closed his eyes.

“Henry?” she asked.

“I'm here, sorry,” he said. “Not him?”

“One's African-American and the other one is deceased, died in 1991. Not him.”

“Thanks for trying,” he said after a long pause that threatened not to end.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I thought … I mean, I … ”

“It's okay, Justine. It's not your fault.”