Year After Henry (14 page)

The Eagles were singing now, “Hotel California.” The light of day was fading beyond the window, and twilight was bringing a coolness in on the breeze. Jeanie drank more of the wine and felt it warm her, the way just being alive used to do in those old days.

“If ‘Disco Duck' comes on, I'm asking you to dance,” said Larry. And then they were both laughing, the way they used to laugh at the movie theater, when Larry would come along with Jeanie and Henry, nights he was dateless.

“Dinner is served,” he said, and carried Jeanie's plate over to the pan on the bookshelf. With a spoon, he scooped something reddish-orange onto the plate and brought it back to the table. Jeanie saw that it was spaghetti and meatballs, the kind that comes in a can. Jeanie shook her own napkin out and arranged it strategically on the front of her blue dress. There was nothing messier to eat than spaghetti. She waited for Larry to return with his own plate.

“
Bon
appétit
,” said Jeanie.

“Sorry about the
bon
part,” Larry said, “but this is the best I can do under the circumstances.”

“It's all wonderful,” said Jeanie.

“We could have eaten downstairs, but what if they forgot something? Or came home early to see if they can catch me washing my underwear in the laundry room?”

“This is better,” said Jeanie. “More private.”

They ate in silence, savoring private thoughts, peaceful, no need to entertain or be entertained. The way it should be. When they had finished the small piece of carrot cake that Larry produced from the top drawer of his desk, he poured them more wine. Jeanie took her glass and walked over to the bunk beds. She put her hand on the steps leading up to the top bed, Henry's bunk.

“Do you still feel him here?” she asked. Larry didn't answer right away. He stared at the bunks as if he were trying to find the best words.

“Sometimes, it's as if he never left,” Larry said. “As if he never grew up, never met you, never got married. Like he's Peter Pan. I wake up nights, and I can almost hear him breathing up there.”

Jeanie looked over at him. The wine had made her braver than she'd been in a long time. And besides, this was Larry Munroe, the person more like family to her than her own brother who lived far away in Washington state, a man she barely knew anymore.

“Larry, I know you better than anyone in this family,” she said. “You invited me to dinner because you want to talk to me about something. And I came because I promised Frances I'd be her spy.” That wasn't true, of course, but Jeanie knew it would make Larry smile, and he did just then.

“If I could pick a sister, it would be you,” he said. He had told Jeanie this often over the years, especially at those god-awful tree-decorating parties Frances gave each December, when Henry would always drink too much eggnog and make an ass of himself. And Katherine would go home to correct school papers, always arriving in her own car so that she could escape early. And Jeanie and Larry would sit on the light blue sofa and watch a tipsy Lawrence try to put the aging Christmas star on the top of the tree while Frances held the stepladder and directed from below. It was like watching an old vaudeville act. Laurel and Hardy. Just before the tree came crashing down, or Frances threw up her hands in disgust, or Henry started snoring from the recliner, it had always seemed like a good idea for Larry to thank Jeanie for being the one in the family most like him.

“I know,” said Jeanie. “But that's not why you asked me to dinner.”

She was right. She did know him better than anyone. What made Larry sad was that it would've been nice to have had Jeanie as his sister in all those growing-up years. He never really got to know Jeanie McPherson until Henry starting dating her. By that time she was an added fixture in front of the television, sitting in their dad's car between Henry and Larry, sitting between them at the movies, fixing Larry up now and then with a cute girl he happened to notice in chemistry class or at a ball game, something he was often too shy to do for himself. And maybe, just maybe, if his mother had had a daughter to fuss over, it would have made things easier for her sons.

“That woman you mentioned last week,” he said, “Evie Cooper?”

Jeanie put her glass of wine down on the table.

“What about her?” She waited.

Larry reached into the pocket of his pin-striped suit and pulled out the envelope he'd put in the
Still
to
Deliver
pile. He placed it on the table beside Jeanie's plate. She picked it up and read the address.
Ms. Jeanie Munroe, 39 Hurley Avenue.
Larry waited, tense. He felt himself sweating inside his suit. It was the best one he owned, the same he'd worn on every one of those job interviews where he had been turned down, rejected, dismissed. He watched as Jeanie pulled the letter out of the envelope. She read silently, which was fine with Larry since he knew the words by heart.

Dear Jeanie,

I am so very sorry for your sadness. I have seen your car outside my house on many nights. Would you like to come in and talk sometime? I would then have the chance to apologize to you in person, for I owe you that. I realize we will never be friends, but life is too short for us to be enemies.

Evie Cooper

When Jeanie finished, she put the letter back inside the envelope and looked across the table at Larry. She knew this wasn't all. But she had no idea where he was heading, what he was about to tell her. Maybe that Henry had had other affairs? Maybe that Henry, like the race car driver Mona Prescott had seen on television, liked to dress in women's clothing? Who knew what might be coming? The world as Jeanie had known it no longer existed. All the rules had been ripped up and thrown to the winds from the moment she woke up that lovely summer morning a year earlier and realized that her husband was lying dead in the bed beside her. It had all changed, and it would never be safe again, for it was now a world without rules.

“I'm in love with Evie Cooper,” Larry said. When Jeanie didn't scream, didn't throw something, didn't run from the room in a burst of tears, Larry reached under the table and grabbed that second bottle of wine he had stolen from the liquor cabinet, just in case there was a
need
for a second bottle. Jeanie said nothing as he uncorked the bottle and poured her glass full. Wind rattled the old banners again, Bixley High school banners. Cars came and went along the street. People were out for their evening walks, their voices drifting up to the window on clouds of excitement. From its corner of the room, the radio was talking.

“Now we're taking you all the way back to 1973, folks,” the deejay said. “So come ride that ‘Midnight Train to Georgia,' with Gladys Knight and the Pips.”

Larry picked up a pretend telephone and put it to his ear. He punched at invisible numbers as he dialed. He waited.

“Request line?” Larry said. “Could you please play ‘Disco Duck'?”

Then he hung up the imaginary phone and looked at Jeanie, who still wasn't smiling.

Jeanie knocked three times on Chad's bedroom door before she heard him grumble something from the other side. She opened the door and went on in. To hell with privacy. She'd given him far too much
space,
as he called it, and look what he'd done with it. Chad was lying on his back, sheet up to his waist, one arm shading the light of day from his eyes. He lifted his arm and looked at her, his eyes still swollen from sleeping hard and heavy. There were days Jeanie had to knock ten times before the boy even grunted. She grabbed the pillow and pulled it out from under his head.

“Hey!” said Chad. He was waking up now and she could see anger in his eyes. He reached for his pillow, but Jeanie put it behind her back. “What the hell's up with you?”

“I just cooked a great breakfast,” said Jeanie. “It's the kind you used to love, before your father died. I want you at the kitchen table in ten minutes, Chad. We're going to sit down and eat as if we're still actually a family, because we are.” She threw the pillow onto the end of his bed. Chad sat up and grabbed it, hugging it against his chest. He was looking up at her face with that same boyish curiosity. This was the kid who asked more
but
why?
questions than any child Jeanie had ever known.
But
why
is
the
sky
blue? But why can birds fly? But why do we need food to live? But why?

Jeanie turned and left the room, left the boy sitting bewildered on his bed, the pillow cradled in his arms. She took the stairs two steps at a time, an energy and confidence she hadn't felt in many months. It was the first time she mentioned Henry's death. Not even to Mona Prescott had she been able to use any form of the word. Maybe the grief people were right, that if you can survive the first year, you can almost imagine yourself living again.

In the kitchen Jeanie poured herself a cup of coffee. She heard Chad's feet on the floor upstairs as he went into the bathroom and shut the door. Water begun to flush through the pipes. Jeanie dropped four slices of wheat bread into the toaster and watched as the inside coils turned a bright red. She went to the stove and picked up the bowl she'd left there, the eggs already scrambled, with bits of onion and spicy red pepper, the way Chad and Henry liked them. She turned the burner on under the flying pan and poured in the egg mixture. She stirred the yellow mess about with a fork and watched as it began to cook and harden into bite-size chunks.

Upstairs, Chad opened the bathroom door again. Jeanie smiled. Why hadn't she done this months ago? Why hadn't she taken a parental stand? Now, if only Lisa were there to eat breakfast with them. It had been over two months since she'd been home and that was far too long, especially with the baby almost ready to be born. As soon as the memorial service was over, she would pack a suitcase for herself, another one for Chad. They would drive down to Portland and stay with Lisa until the baby arrived. They would be a family unit again, missing one member, yes, but able to function, and with a new member on the way.

Jeanie went to the fridge for the butter dish and a jar of blueberry jam, also Chad's favorite. The toast popped right on cue and she pulled all four slices out, buttered them, and put them on a plate, which she covered with a glass lid. She had already cooked the sausages and now she slid the six little logs off the platter they'd been resting on, into the pan with the scrambled eggs. She nudged the sausages off to one side and turned the burner down to low. They'd be warm again in no time. The timer beeped on the oven. The home fries were ready, nicely baked with slices of mushroom and smothered in freshly grated Parmesan cheese. It had been much longer than a year since she'd made Henry's personal recipe for home fries. Ever since the doctor had told him to watch what he ate, Jeanie had begun serving fresh fruit for breakfast, homemade oatmeal with skim milk, with no attention paid to Henry's constant complaints. And she had set about trying to get Chad accustomed to better eating habits while he was still young. But this was to be a celebration breakfast, one that would speak of those happier times the family had known. Surely this one morning wouldn't hurt. She heard Chad coming down the stairs now, one step at a time, as if he was positive the world would wait for him.

Jeanie filled the cup she'd put by Chad's plate with hot coffee. His juice was already poured, in a small glass with an orange painted on its side. She grabbed his plate off the table and took it to the stove. She spooned out a large helping of the eggs and then rolled three of the link sausages onto one corner. She opened the oven door and scooped up a serving of the home fries, the hot, sticky cheese pulling away in strings. She wanted Chad's plate all ready for him, waiting on the table like a picture out of a magazine. The most wonderful breakfast a boy could imagine. Again, Jeanie scolded herself. Why had she been so tied up with her own problems, her own grief, that she'd let family issues ride this long? Now, with the service just two days away, the best thing she could do to
memorialize
Henry Munroe was to save his son. She put the plate of food back on the table, fitted snugly between a fork and knife. Next to the plate was a freshly ironed linen napkin. The next morning, they would have fresh blueberries, a slice of wheat toast, cereal. And that's when she heard the motorbike start up, out in the front yard. By the time Jeanie got to the kitchen window, all she saw disappearing around the thick bulge of lilac bushes by the mailbox was Henry's orange bonnet.

...

It was still early, just four o'clock, when Evie got out of her car in Murphy's parking lot. She looked across the rows of parked cars in time to see Marshall Thompson slide a leg over the seat of his big black Harley. When he saw Evie, he waved a hand that held a beer bottle. Not only was this illegal, it was against Murphy employee rules to let customers leave the establishment with alcohol.

Gail was wiping down the bar as Evie clocked in and started picking up empty glasses, dipping them into the bin of sudsy water. Monique, the new girl, was sweeping the floor over by the jukebox. Evie quickly counted heads seated at the bar and at tables around the room. Only fifteen customers, including Billy Randall, who was at the pinball machine. But happy hour was just beginning, and Fridays were always good nights for the tavern, a kind of early weekend frenzy. Murphy's wasn't fancy enough to beckon to the uptown crowd, the ones with good salaries and retirement plans, the lawyers and computer programmers and college types. They all drove their Beamers and Volvos out to the fancier bars down at the new mall. Murphy's, on the other hand, seemed to call out to anyone who'd had a hard life and little money to spend telling the bartender all about it. Evie always felt good seeing Billy Randall in the place. Shortly after she began working at the bar, Billy had told her that if she ever needed his help, to ask for it. And Evie
had
asked for help on several occasions. And asking was all it took since word was out at Murphy's that “Crazy Billy” had come back from Vietnam with a black belt in karate and jungle skills that even the Viet Cong hadn't learned. If Billy stood up, a troublemaker sat down.

“When's Sheila getting here?” Evie asked. She would need at least two waitresses to handle the tables. And then Sheila would close, allowing Evie to go home early.

“Any time now,” said Gail. “Hey, thanks a million for doing this, Evie. I know it's your days off and all, but Marshall decided spur of the moment that he's just got to see the sun come up over Quebec City.”

“It's okay,” said Evie. She hadn't wanted to be back at Murphy's so soon, but there were worse ways to kill a few hours. The memorial service was Sunday, and as far as Evie was concerned, she'd prefer to stay in a coma until it was finally over. Then, maybe then, Larry Munroe would find it in his heart to come on back to the tavern, to sit on his favorite bar stool, to go home with her at the end of the night.

She missed him.

Evie looked up to see Andy Southby just coming in for his two beers, those twelve quarters no doubt rattling about in his pocket. She closed her eyes and imagined the face of a clock, the hour hand pointing at the number ten.
Ten
o'clock
. In six hours, it would be a reality. The bar would have slowed down by then, and the two waitresses would be able to handle the crowd. Evie would be free to go. Before Monique and Sheila would have washed the glasses, swept the floor, and locked the tavern door just past midnight, Evie would have already smoked a joint on the porch swing, had a midnight snack, and then fallen into bed for a deep sleep.

“Beer,” said Andy, as if this were a new revelation. Evie gave him his beer and then noticed that she was out of napkins. Gail was supposed to have stocked the bar before she left. With Andy sitting on his stool like a self-important gargoyle, Evie went back into the small office just behind the bar to get some napkins from the supplies kept there. Gail was standing before the mirror that hung on the wall next to Murphy's computer, brushing out her long hair. Evie had always wondered how so much thick hair could disappear into such a tiny, tight knot, but Gail had a magical way of twisting it. Now, she tossed the dark hair back and fluffed it with her fingers. She pulled a lipstick from her purse and watched as Evie rummaged among the stacked boxes.

“The kids are staying with Ronnie,” said Gail. “He's taking them to the fair this weekend.”

“Great,” said Evie.

“Hey, thanks for talking to Margie yesterday,” Gail added. “It meant a lot to her.”

“No problem,” said Evie.

“Okay, I'll bite,” Gail said. “What's bothering you?” She leaned toward the mirror and began to apply the wine-colored lipstick. Evie pulled a large box away from the others, ripped the top open, and took out two bundles of napkins.

“You really wanna know?” she asked.

“Long as it doesn't spoil this night,” said Gail. “I got my heart set on cruising along the St. Lawrence, wind in my hair.” She smiled then, her best smile, but it had always struck Evie as a sad smile, no matter how hard Gail tried to make it appear otherwise. She'd had a hard life, divorced young, two kids to look after alone, and so Evie found herself wanting to help the younger woman.

“Well, for starters,” said Evie, “I just saw Marshall out in the parking lot, waving a bottle of beer around.”

“It was almost full and he didn't want to waste it,” said Gail.

“Why? Did he pay for it?” Evie asked. Gail got that tight look on her face that she always got when Evie was pushing too far. But Evie no longer cared. “How fast do you think Murphy will fire you if he finds out? How'll you pay the rent then, Gail, when you can hardly do it now?”

“When was the last time you saw Dan Murphy down here?” Gail asked. “We run this dump while he plays golf all day.”

Gail flipped up the side flap of her purse and tossed in the tube of lipstick. She went for her jacket on the pegs Murphy had driven into the wall where employees could hang their coats. It was the brown rawhide jacket she'd bought the same week she started dating Marshall Thompson, long rawhide strips hanging down from the arms, strips that grab the wind from the back of a motorcycle.

“I better run,” said Gail. “Marshall will think I flew the coop.”

“That's what you should do,” said Evie. “He's bad news, Gail. You've heard the stories about Paula.”

Gail slid both arms into the heavy coat and shook the fringes to get them to fall right. She looked over at Evie.

“Marshall says he never laid a finger on her.”

Gail followed Evie back out to the bar. Evie knew she was waiting for a response but decided to say nothing. She watched as Gail grabbed her pack of cigarettes and lighter lying next to the cash register. At the door she turned and looked back at Evie. She blew a quick kiss and then the door closed behind her.

Pop. Pop. Pop.
A goddamned triple header. Evie spun around.

“Andy, I'm warning you,” she said. “You do that one more fucking time and your ass is out of here.”

“Jesus,” said Andy. He was putting his first quarter into the poker machine. “Who tied
your
panties in a knot?”

...

It was just past nine o'clock when Larry pulled on a pair of jeans and his navy blue sweatshirt. He gathered up the
Still
to
Deliver
letters and stuffed them all back into the leather mailbag. Then he carried the bag over to his window, which he slid upward until it was wide open. He leaned out and surveyed the drop below. There were a few box elders planted beneath the window, but beyond them was clear and freshly cut green lawn. The Blakely kid, with those crossed eyes of his, had been there early that morning to do the mowing, as he did every Thursday. Larry reached for the mailbag and held it out the window far enough to miss the box elders. He let it drop. He heard it hit with a dull
splat!
on the grass below.

He cracked his bedroom door a few inches and peered down at the living room. He could see his father's legs sticking out from the blue sofa, crossed and dead weight, like two fallen logs. This would have been enough to tell Larry that the old man was asleep, but the soft snores that came rolling out in ripples was full proof. His mother was already brushing her teeth and doing her nightly duties before bed. Larry could hear the rattle of bottles around the tiny sink in her bathroom and the sound of running water. He bypassed the talking step altogether and came quietly down the stairs.

At the bottom he could now see the full living room, his father on the sofa, head back and mouth open, the remote control lying listlessly on the palm of his hand. Now it was a matter of crossing the hardwood floor to the front door and hoping his mother didn't step out of her bedroom and catch him in motion. If she did, Larry would say that he was coming down for a raid of the refrigerator and then do his best to retreat before she could begin her drilling of him. But her bedroom door was closed, a band of yellow light rimming the bottom. He heard the running water stop and the sound of a glass clinking on the sink.