Pewter Angels (36 page)

H
enry entered the store
to hear Mr. Engelmann wishing a customer a happy birthday.

“So, forty-two years old today, Martha, and you look so good, much younger than your age.”

“Why, thank you,” the lady replied, a blush tinging her cheeks. “And look, here is my business partner,” Mr. Engelmann said, gesturing at Henry.

“Hi, Mr. Engelmann. Hello, Mrs. Guloff. Happy birthday!”

“Thank you, Henry; it’s so nice that you all remember.”

“Don’t take your coat off, Henry,” Mr. Engelmann said.

“Deliveries?”

“Yes, yes, there are four—all in the same area, fortunately. I have them all ready for you to take.”

Henry packed the bags in his delivery satchel and slung it across his shoulder. After reviewing the addresses and deciding the most efficient route, he set off.

When Henry returned and removed his heavy overcoat, his shirt was soaked with sweat. He was always amazed how hot he could get even when it was extremely cold out. He set to restocking the shelves.

“Where’s Mrs. Schmidt today?”

“She was in helping me this morning but had to leave early.”

Henry worked the rest of the hour stocking shelves in silence, then dressed in his winter gear and went outside to sweep away bits of snow and debris from the sidewalk. When he went back inside Mr. Engelmann was going through purchase orders.

Henry propped the broom by the front door. “Guess I’ll be going home—oh! I almost forgot. I have the new coupons.” He rushed over to his bag and pulled out coupons advertising soup, corn and meat specials.

Mr. Engelmann looked at one and nodded his head. “My, my, Henry, this is very good.”

“I’ll start delivering them tomorrow on my way home from school, and we can include them in the delivery packages. We can keep a few on the counter, too. Here’s the bill for the cost of the paper from the school.”

“Very good,” Mr. Engelmann said, taking the invoice from Henry’s outstretched hand. “What would I have ever done without you?”

“Thank you, Mr. Engelmann. And there’s one more thing I thought of. You know the birthday calendar we have in the back?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Engelmann, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, there are a lot of people whose birthdays we don’t know, who weren’t on that petition.”

Mr. Engelmann nodded. Henry handed him another set of pages he’d copied at school that day.

“This form asks for the customer’s name, address, phone number and birthday. As an incentive to get customers to fill out the form, we could give them some kind of a prize … maybe, oh, a hamper, using the wooden crate the grapes come in. When customers fill out the form, they put it into one of our empty candy jars, and at the end of the month we draw a winner. Mr. Victor said it was good business to get information about customers because it allows businesses to carry out promotions.”

Mr. Engelmann was speechless. He stared at Henry, his jaw almost dropping to the floor. Henry always liked that look because he knew Mr. Engelmann was happy.

“Henry,” Mr. Engelmann finally said when he could talk, “just when I think you cannot come up with another idea to improve this business, you prove me wrong again and again. And yes, it is true, this would help us to get to know the birthdays of everyone who comes into the store.”

“And look how happy it made Mrs. Guloff when we wished her happy birthday today,” Henry replied. “Now, we’ll be able to do the same for almost every customer we have. And I bet it will even bring us more customers.”

Mr. Engelmann just shook his head again. “I will have Mrs. Schmidt make up a hamper tomorrow, and I can hardly wait to go up and tell Anna. She gets such joy from hearing your new ideas.”

“Well, good night, Mr. Engelmann. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, good night, Henry.”

Without the wind,
the temperature outside seemed warmer. And without the clouds, the sky was full of thousands of tiny stars. Smoke billowed from virtually every chimney as people snuggled in their homes, trying to stay warm. Henry felt surprisingly good as he walked home. He resolved to try and put Jenny into the background of his life and concentrate on school, art, and his business venture with Mr. Engelmann. He walked with new assurance, daring the cold to just try and slow him down.

When Henry got home, the usual aroma of supper was missing. He almost wondered if he was in the right house. He passed the living room on his way to the kitchen and was shocked by what he saw. His mother sat in the corner chair with the parish priest beside her. It was difficult to see her fully with only the one lamp on. But it was clear she’d been crying—perhaps still was. Henry’s first thought was that something had happened to his dad.

“What’s wrong, Mom?”

She didn’t or couldn’t answer, only shook her head as the tears rolled.

Finally, Father Connelly said, “Henry, I have some sad news to tell you.”

“Is my dad okay?”

“Yes, we believe he’s okay,” the priest answered.

“Is he hurt?”

“No.”

“Well, what then? What’s going on?”

“Your father has left Regina and gone somewhere. We think he might be on his way to Vancouver.”

“Why would he go to Vancouver?”

“He left with one of the other employees,” Father Connelly said.

“Well, when will he be back?” Henry didn’t quite understand why this was such a big deal … and why their priest was here.

“Henry,” the man sighed, “you don’t understand. It seems he’s gone away with a female friend.”

“But, why?”

Father Connelly hesitated a moment. “I hate to tell you this, but it sounds like your dad has been seeing a female employee at the plant, and they’ve now gone away together to Vancouver.”

Henry heard what Father Connelly had said but couldn’t believe his ears. He stared at the priest and then at his mother in total disbelief.

“My dad went away with another woman? Impossible! This can’t be true. Mom, is this true?”

She didn’t look up, but kept sobbing and nodded. Her expression confirmed the awful truth.

Henry stepped back, unable to comprehend that his dad— who went off to work every day, who fixed things around the house, who answered his questions, who sat at the kitchen table every night—was going out with another woman. He turned and kicked the nearest chair.

“This can’t be true. Dad wouldn’t do something like that.”

Father Connelly tried to put his arm around Henry, but he thrust it off and stalked away to another corner, wanting to lash out at something else and not knowing what.

Henry tried to piece it all together. His dad
had
been quiet lately. He hardly spoke at the supper table and went to read the paper right after. He’d been going out more and more often for a beer or bowling with his buddies. Could he have been lying about that? Seeing a—a girlfriend instead?

In that moment Henry hated his dad.
Betrayer
. He didn’t want to be near him ever again. He couldn’t believe that his dad would do that to his mom. She always looked after him so well, was always there for him, totally faithful to him. Why would he do such a terrible thing?
There must be some explanation
, he quickly reasoned, trying to reassure himself. Like Father Connelly’s attempt to soften the blow, Henry tried to cushion himself from the reality of this crisis. To delay experiencing the full impact of what this would do to mom and to him, to their family—or what once had been their family.

“Are you okay?” Father Connelly inquired softly after a while.

Is he serious?
Tears of anger erupted in his eyes. “Where is he? I want to find him right this minute!”

“We don’t know where he is,” the priest answered calmly.

“Well, I want to know, right now. I want to tell him what a terrible man he is. I … I want to hit him.”

It was obvious Father Connelly and his mother could see the rage in his eyes. Henry didn’t care. He was glad they didn’t try to console him. He only wanted to be alone.

It was just like when Jenny had left. His world of love, trust and happiness crumbled around him. One minute things were fine and the next they were gone, disintegrated. He didn’t know how to handle this. Dads weren’t supposed to leave. It felt like the walls were closing in around him. He needed to get out. He headed to the front door and opened it, wanting to run out and freeze these horrible feelings and thoughts. Then maybe as they slowly thawed, he would able to cope with them. Better yet, he’d like to go out and come back in and maybe none of this would’ve happened.

The cold air hit him hard.

“Where are you going?” Father Connelly asked. “You can’t run from your feelings.”

The cold pouring in provided Henry with a brief moment of relief, the way the storm had on the day Jenny left. He closed the front door with a force that was just short of a slam.

“Come. Sit down, Henry. Let’s pray about it,” Father Connelly suggested.

“I don’t want to pray about it. I can’t pray. I’m too upset.”

“I understand,” the priest said. “It’s okay.”

And that was the turning point.

Henry repeated Father Connelly’s
I understand
over and over to himself, and with that he no longer felt the need to hit something. He walked back into the living room. His mom had dried her eyes but looked so lonely and hurt. He knew he should go over there and put his arms around her and console her as she had him when Jenny left, but he was so angry with his father, he couldn’t feel compassion at that moment.

Finally, his mother said the words he so needed to hear.

“Everything will work out, Henry,” she said, a kind of calm assurance in her voice. “I’m not sure how, but we’ll be all right.”

Henry tried to swallow the anger and tears welling inside him. He nodded his head as if to agree. Slowly he focused his attention on his mother’s pain and how, in spite of everything, she was trying to bring order and peace back into their home.

He went over and put his arms around her.

“I love you, Mom,” Henry said, and now the tears did come. “Dad made a huge mistake.”

After a few more moments of tears, Mary wiped her face with the back of her hand and steadied herself. “We have had sorrows before and we dealt with them.” She got up slowly. “I’ll go wash and get some supper on for all of us.”

“No, Mom! That’s okay,” Henry said. Father Connelly echoed Henry’s protests, but his mother insisted.

“No, I’ll fix something up. It will help me get my mind off all this.”

Henry and Father couldn’t argue with that and let her do the thing she had some control over.

In the dim light of the living room, Henry looked around. It all looked the same and yet his world had spun upside down. He still couldn’t believe it. His dad. He recalled what his father had said to him on several occasions:
A man is only as good as his word. Always remember that.
The thought made him scoff with derision and his anger flooded back.
Yeah? Well you broke
your
word,
your
vows!

He stared down at the carpet, not knowing what to think, not even
wanting
to think. He studied the pattern in the carpet, noticing how it repeated itself, how the many colours worked together somehow to create a harmonious whole. Why he would notice that now was beyond him.

Father Connelly stood there like one of the statues in his church, waiting for Henry to say something. Finally he asked, “How is school going?”

“Fine,” Henry answered, shrugging.

Henry was glad when the priest didn’t ask any more questions but headed into the kitchen. Henry didn’t want people around, didn’t want to talk to anyone. He didn’t want to be concerned about how to react or what to say. It was distracting and awkward and uncomfortable. Perhaps Father Connelly understood and that was why he had left.

His mother made grilled cheese sandwiches and opened up two cans of Campbell’s tomato soup. When Henry finally went into the kitchen, the soup was beginning to bubble. It didn’t give off the same full aroma as his mom’s homemade soup, but for the first time that evening, the house smelled like a home again.

“Please sit down, Henry, and have a bowl of soup and a sandwich,” his mother suggested softly.. Although Henry was hungry, he found it almost disrespectful to eat. He should be crying, not eating; mourning, not biting into melted cheese. He had often thought the same thing at funerals. How could people bury a loved one, go back to the church hall and drink and eat? Somehow it just didn’t seem right to him.

Father Connelly picked up a spoon and stirred his soup to cool it. Henry picked his spoon up too. His mother had sat down between them but couldn’t bring herself to do anything. She just stared into the bowl and didn’t say a word.

Father Connelly broke the silence. “I’ll say grace.” He made the sign of the cross and said a short blessing.