Year After Henry (23 page)

“You think it'll work?” asked Evie.

“It probably won't stop him from beating up the next woman in his life,” said Billy, “but he's lost face in front of these two. You break a man's pride, you pretty much stripped him naked.”

“Guns?” Evie said.

“Naw,” said Billy. “Guns make me nervous. I just threw that in for effect.”

“You really gonna teach us karate?” asked Gail. Billy finished off the beer and put the bottle back onto the bar. He looked over at Gail, surprised. And then he seemed to remember. He grinned.

“I never did find the time to learn karate,” said Billy Randall.

...

Larry saw Katherine for the first time as he rose to read the speech he hadn't planned to give. Two hours earlier, he had come down the stairs wearing his gray suit, and when he saw his mother's face, he knew that he would do everything she asked him to on that day. And she had asked him to say a few words. “No one was closer to him than you were,” Frances said, and that had been true. “So I'd like for you to speak after the minister. I want your words, Larry, to be the last we hear as we say good-bye to your brother.” So Larry had told her early about getting his job back, about how he was going to fight for his son. And then, he'd spent a half hour sitting at his desk, waiting for his mother to dress in her green suit, and his father to put on the black trousers and jacket. And he had found something to read that would say what he felt in his own heart.

“I have been asked to say a few words,” said Larry. She had grown thinner, Katherine had, but she was still in her perfect mode, every blond hair in place, her eyebrows drawn neatly above her eyes, her rigid skirt and suit jacket, all stylish and starched and frozen. She was sitting in the back row, as if ready to sprint when the last speech was read. Larry didn't blame her. She never liked his mother, or his father, or Jeanie. She had never liked Henry. Hell, if the truth were known, she had never even liked Larry. But she had brought the boy all the way from Portland, and for that he would be eternally grateful to her. When the service was over, he intended to tell her.
I'm going to fight you, Katherine. I don't want to but I have no choice.
He knew he would do it, too. Just looking at Jonathan's face was incentive enough. He was sitting in the front row, next to Chad, and with his grandparents to his right, sitting up straight, respectful of the moment since his father was speaking. Larry saw on the boy's face a kind of peace. He was right where he wanted to be, with his family.
My
mom
says
I
can
go
home
for
Thanksgiving
.

“This is something I first read in college,” said Larry. “It's a poem, even though Henry wasn't keen on poetry.” A sea of smiles came at him, people thinking of Henry and his macho ways. Jeanie smiled too, and that meant more to Larry than anything. “It was written a long time ago by the Roman poet Catullus. It's called ‘
Atque
in
perpetuum, Frater, ave atque vale
.' Since Henry knew more about the Red Sox than he knew Latin, I'll say it now in English, in case he's listening.” Even Frances smiled now. There was a time, Larry knew too well, that just the mention of his brother's name could make her cry. And so, for a lot of months now, no one had spoken Henry's name in her presence. She'd come a long way. They all had in the year since they'd lost him. “It means ‘for an eternity, Brother, hello and farewell.'”

The room was silent. He saw Frances take a tissue and dab at her eyes, saw his father put an arm around his wife, soothing her. Larry felt his own eyes grow moist, but he refused to cry. He wanted to do this for Henry, yes, but he also wanted to be strong for Chad and Jonathan. They both looked at him now, from their chairs in the front row, as if he held the only answers the family had left. He saw Jeanie reach for Chad's hand, and then Lisa's. How had they done it? How had they managed for a full year? Larry looked back down at the poem he held in his hand.

“From far away and over many a wave, I come my brother to your early grave, to bring you one last offering in death, and o'er your final rest, expend this idle breath, for Fate has turned your living mind to dust, and snatched you, cruelly, Brother, from us. Yet take this gift, brought as a brother bade, in sorrow, to your passing shade. A brother's tears has wet them o'er and o'er. And so, for an eternity, Brother, hello and farewell.”

Larry folded the sheet of paper. He could never explain to anyone why he did it, but he looked at his mother's face, and then at his father's. He could never explain it, but he knew. We are always children to our parents. When we are gray-haired and worn from the years, we still need that pat on the back. We still want someone to look up to. Larry knew, and he would remember it when his own son was grown into an adult. He looked again at his mother's face, their eyes locking for the first time in a long time, because Henry's death had brought with it a kind of embarrassment. All deaths do. Larry didn't know why this was. Maybe it was the kind of stuff that Evie Cooper knew. Maybe death strips us all naked before each other. It separates the strong from the weak, lays bare the vindictiveness in some souls, the divine integrity in others. It's the great revealer, death is.

Larry put the poem back into his jacket pocket. Frances rose from her chair, her husband letting go of her hand, helping her up. He had always loved her, beginning with the promise of flowers and trees and a garden in the backyard, and for this Larry felt a deep respect for his father. For all of his life, Lawrence had loved the woman he married. Frances came toward him, into the circle of his arms. Larry held her tightly. She felt like a girl, small and fragile.

“I love you, son,” she whispered. Larry rocked with her now, noticing that people were looking down at the memorial cards they held in their hands. Or they picked pretend lint from sweaters or stared at their shoes. They were allowing a private moment to pass between mother and son. Sometimes, love is just as embarrassing as death.

“I love you too, Mama.” He hadn't called her that since high school. Frances wiped her eyes with the tissue. She was from that generation of women who never forgot to put a few tissues in their purses, for weddings
and
funerals. She turned and looked back at the faces in the room.

“Folks,” she said. “My husband and I would like to thank you for coming to our son Henry's memorial service.” Larry reached down and took his mother's hand. He squeezed it and felt her squeeze back. “We thank you on behalf of Jeanie, and Chad, and Lisa Munroe. And our son, Larry. And our grandson, Jonathan. And now, shall we eat all that food that's waiting for us?”

The tension in the room broke to smiles. Larry knew that once the salads, and the casseroles, and the cakes were consumed, everyone could go back about their lives without Henry Munroe in them. They would mourn him forever. But they would live. And then Jeanie, his favorite sister, was standing in front of him.

“I'm proud of you,” she said. Larry kissed her forehead.

“I'm proud of you, too.”

Jeanie leaned in closer to him, close enough to his ear that her words were a whisper.

“This will be our secret,” she said. She straightened Larry's tie. He knew exactly what she was saying. What had happened between Evie and Henry would go no farther than the few people who knew about it. It would be a way for Larry to start his life over with someone new. He hoped one day Jeanie would be able to do the same.

“Let's go eat,” Jeanie said. “It looks better than spaghetti and meatballs.”

“In a minute,” said Larry. “But first, I need to meet and greet the former Mrs. Larry Munroe.”

“Be gentle,” Jeanie said, and then she was gone.

Katherine was standing with her back to the room of guests, looking at a poster that hung on the restaurant wall. She didn't turn when Larry first approached. She kept her eyes on the poster, a Norman Rockwell scene of old-fashioned people in old-fashioned clothing, full of old-fashioned values. Larry thought of Stella Dewberry. He would start a petition. He would help her save the little bungalow with the spreading rose brambles and the white elephantine columns. Katherine turned and looked at him.

“I want to thank you for bringing him,” said Larry. “I know you didn't have to.”

“I did it for him,” said Katherine, “not for you.” She had always been brutally honest. And maybe, in some other dimension, that was a good thing. “We had a long talk, Jon and I, on the drive up. He's very unhappy in Portland. He and Ricky, well, they don't get along. Ricky never wanted children and so it's difficult for both of them.”

Larry nodded politely, sensing that this was going to be his victory and so he needed to play it safe. Shouting at her just then, which was what he wanted to do, wouldn't help his cause. So what if the son of a bitch didn't want his kid? So what if the bastard had only wanted his wife? What he really wanted to shout at this woman he'd married was the truth.
You
didn't want children either, Katherine Grigsby!

“What are you saying?” Larry asked calmly.

“I'm saying that I'll take Jonathan back to Portland with me today. He'll need to get packed, say good-bye to his new friends. There's still time to get him enrolled for fall at his old school. I'm saying I want him for summer vacation, every other Christmas, every other birthday. Jeanie told me you got your job back. Maybe now you're ready to be a father.”

Larry felt his heart beating so hard and fast in his chest he was sure she must have seen it. And it wouldn't be wise to let Katherine know he was feeling pure joy. How had it gotten so good so fast? How had life spun itself around for him in a matter of hours? No long months of lawyers and courtrooms and finances being sucked away forever?

“Thank you, Katherine,” said Larry. “I'll do the best job I can. And I'll see that he calls you as often as you want. You can visit him any time you wish.”

Katherine had that tight little smile on her face, the one that always made him feel like he'd lost the argument, even when he'd won. The smile that said she wanted to tear his heart out every time she looked at him.

“We have a long drive,” she said. “Will you tell Jon I'm ready?”

As Larry turned to find the boy, to tell him the good news, to tell his mother and family the good news, Katherine put her hand on his arm. He looked back at her, hoping the joy in his face wasn't too obvious. She could take it all back in an instant if she wanted.

“I never loved you, Larry,” she said. “And I want you to know that.”

Larry said nothing for a few seconds. He realized he'd been nodding his head and so he stopped.

“I
did
love you, Katherine,” he said.

And then he went to find Jonathan, to tell him that his father, his cousin, and his grandfather would delay their fishing trip in order to wait for him. There was enough room for four in that big canoe they rented from Mr. Wilkie, all well-meaning Munroe men, even if only one of them was a mailman.

...

It was just eight o'clock when Jeanie stood in the doorway of Lisa's old bedroom. There was something perfect about the sight of that small suitcase opened on the bed. Jeanie heard Lisa brushing her teeth in the narrow bathroom. When she came back into the room, she was wearing maternity pajamas with yellow teddy bears in the pattern. No matter how many children Lisa might bear, how many grandbabies she would bring into Jeanie's life, she would always be a little girl to her mother.

“You're early to bed,” said Jeanie. Lisa was pulling back her long hair now, slipping it into a ponytail.

“Patrick and Chad are watching some stupid show on TV,” she said. “So why don't we play a game of Monopoly like we used to do nights when Daddy wasn't home?” She was already digging into the closet for the game, pushing past Clue, and Risk, and all the others she and Jeanie had played dozens of times over the years.

“I got an idea,” said Jeanie. “Let me get in my pajamas too, and then I'll make us popcorn. No butter.”

“And those chocolate kisses you keep in that jar on the kitchen counter,” said Lisa. “What Dr. Simon doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides, the baby loves chocolate.”

Down in her own bedroom, Jeanie stood for some time before she opened her dresser drawer and found clean cotton pajamas. Chad and Patrick were out in the den, shouting at the television screen. The Red Sox were most likely playing. On this night of all nights there was life again in the house. There was the sound of a suitcase being opened, of water running in the guest bathroom, of feet padding around in the upper rooms, of sweet and innocent laughter. There was the sound of popcorn popping, and a bat cracking against a ball, the way the house used to sound when Henry and Chad watched a game together. So it could be done. They could learn to live again.

Jeanie sat on the bed and pulled on her cotton pajamas. She found her slippers, their toes pointing out from under the bed. She looked over at the pillow where Henry used to put his head. “Henry?” Jeanie had asked his lifeless body a year ago to the day. “You okay?” And she realized now, twelve months later, that she had to ask herself that same question.
Jeanie, you okay?
The answer was yes. Lisa appeared in the door, both hands resting on her belly, as if she were already holding a baby.

“Chad and Patrick say they'll play Monopoly too, if we wait until the ball game is over.”

“Good,” said Jeanie. “I like beating Chad.”

“He wants the race car and Patrick wants the cannon,” said Lisa, “but I get the hat.”

“Deal,” said Jeanie, “so long as I don't get stuck with the iron or the thimble.”