Year After Henry (21 page)

“It's just a storm, Henry,” Larry whispered. “It's just a storm.”

...

The last thunder that the storm could muster woke Jeanie as it passed over the Days Inn, on its way out of Bixley. She sat up in the middle of that strange bed, in the middle of that symbolic night, in room 9, and reached a hand out into the darkness, certain that Henry Munroe was standing there by her bed. She could almost smell his cologne and the sweat of his body after a long day.

“Henry?” she whispered. Then she felt silly. She snapped on the bedside light and looked about the room. Nothing. She went into the narrow bathroom and turned on the tap. She scooped cold water into her hands and patted it about her flushed face and neck. In the mirror she could see the room behind her, the shower curtain, and the bath towel folded and hanging from its rod. Was Henry hiding in the shower? Would he jump out of the tub and go
boo
? He did that sometimes, hiding in the kitchen or his workshop, when he was horsing around with the kids. Had Henry come back to check out room 9? Was there really such a thing as the departed coming back for another peek at the living? Jeanie doubted it, as much as she wanted to believe. It would be nice to think her mother and father were keeping tabs on her, as they had done all through high school. They had begged her not to date Henry Munroe, much less marry him. But once she and Henry had gone all the way, Jeanie felt it was the right thing to do. Henry had laughed when she insisted on wearing a scarf over her hair, disguising herself so that she could slip past Mr. Tyson's reception desk. It was that adrenaline-filled night of the big football game. The Munroe brothers had reigned supreme. Henry had rented a motel room so that he and the captain of the cheerleaders could finally make love. Now and then, over the years, Jeanie wished Mr. Tyson had spotted her sneaking into the motel and called her father. Maybe they could have stopped her from being so much in love with that wild Munroe boy.

There was nothing but the empty shower behind her. As was typical in their last years of marriage, Henry must have made other plans. Jeanie got into bed and snapped out the light. The room fell back into darkness. But what if Henry
had
come? She couldn't help asking herself the question that had been on her mind all evening. Would he have been disappointed to find
her
there, and not Evie Cooper, or Wendy Carlson, or Annette Page, or Marla Benson? Would he be heartbroken to learn that it was just his plain old wife, Jeanie McPherson Munroe, waiting for him between the cool white sheets, as she had that night of the big game? And that's when a weight had rolled away from Jeanie's heart, a stone lifting itself from the rest of her lifetime, there in the darkness of that god-awful room at the Days Inn. She felt it go, just as she had felt Henry's soul float up and into eternity the morning he died. Jeanie knew then that she was free.

When Jeanie pulled into her drive, Frances was already there, standing by the side of her car. Jeanie quickly pushed the overnight bag onto the floor by the front seat. The last thing she wanted that morning was to explain to Henry's mother why she had spent the night in Henry's favorite motel room. Jeanie grabbed her purse and summer jacket and got out of the Buick.

“Look who's up early,” said Frances. “I figured you'd still be in your jammies, the coffee just making.”

“I couldn't sleep,” said Jeanie. She looked up at the blue sky and took a deep breath. Sunshine was everywhere. A soft breeze rippled through the elm tree on the lawn. “What a great day for the memorial.” It was hard to explain what was happening inside her at that moment, but Jeanie sensed a new beginning just ahead. She had even rolled down the windows of the car as she drove over from the Days Inn, letting the air stir up the old particles of dust. She'd take the car in next week and have one of those professional places clean it from top to bottom, get rid of the cigarette stench, wash out the cobwebs, vacuum up the human hairs, clean out all the old memories. And she knew, too, that this was what she must do to her own life. She was just wondering if she should insist on Grandma or Gran. Grannie was out. Too old. Too
Beverly
Hillbillies
. Nana was nice. Nana sounded young and vibrant. She liked Nana.

“What brings you over so early?” Jeanie asked. She put her arms around Frances and gave her a sincere hug. Frances hugged back, and this time she didn't cry.

“I just wanted to be sure that you're okay,” said Frances. “That you can get through this day. If you can't, well, I want you to know I understand. This memorial service wasn't your idea. It was mine.” These were the times when Jeanie felt a true love for her mother-in-law. These were the times when she forgave Frances Munroe for spoiling the devil out of Henry.

“I'm fine with this day,” said Jeanie. “We're all gonna be fine, Mom. Come on, I'll make us some coffee.”

Jeanie put her arm around France's shoulder, urging her toward the house.

“I don't want to intrude,” said Frances. “I just had this strange feeling.”

Jeanie knew what the feeling was. Several times when Frances had come to visit, bringing those countless casseroles and desserts, she would often find some excuse to leave the kitchen. Maybe she was just going out to the patio to see how Jeanie's plants were faring. Or maybe she was on a quick trip to the bathroom. Or maybe she was just looking for that book on gardening that Jeanie kept on a shelf in the living room. Whatever excuse it was, Jeanie knew that Frances went into the room where Henry had died and just stood there, immobile, as if there were one of those cold spots you read about in ghost stories, a portal out that Henry had taken. Maybe Frances felt she could be closer to her son in the place he'd last been alive. Jeanie knew, and now she no longer minded.

“Let's go in,” Jeanie said. “I made a cake yesterday. It's that same recipe you gave me back when Henry and I first got married.”

“Chocolate Devil's cake,” said Frances. And this time she smiled. But Jeanie saw the tears there, a wet glistening. She tried to imagine losing Chad or Lisa. Do spouses and lovers learn, after so much pain, to let go more easily than mothers and fathers?

“Guess who's coming to the service,” Jeanie said then. “Lisa and Patrick. The doctor says she can make the trip. They'll get here just in time for four o'clock.”

Jeanie would put some coffee on and ask Frances if she'd mind going to the bedroom to fetch Jeanie's reading glasses, on the table by the bed. Jeanie knew they were there since she'd forgotten to take them to the motel the night before. And that would give Frances her time alone, her chance to say good-bye, maybe for the last time, to the son she loved so well. Saying good-bye for the final time in one's life was important. Jeanie knew.

...

Larry opened his eyes to sunshine and the sound of the patio door opening and closing downstairs. His mother or his father, one or both. He threw the blanket back and got out of bed. Chad was sound asleep on his bunk, mouth open, little snores popping softly, as if he were blowing invisible bubbles. Larry used to put stuff in Henry's open mouth to get him to wake up, sometimes a browned apple core, or maybe pizza crusts from the night before. And once, even the tip of one of Henry's dirty socks. Most times, Henry would just spit out whatever it was and keep on snoring.

Larry could smell the fresh coffee before he even got to the kitchen. He poured himself a cup, found milk in the fridge, and the sugar bowl in the cupboard, where his mother had kept it for as long as he could remember. It felt strange to be just standing there in the middle of the room, calmly, no longer sneaking in for supplies. Before, coming to the kitchen was like walking out into an open field where a sniper might see him. But he was past all that now. He had his breakdown moment and he was over it. He even felt ashamed, considering the stress it had put on his parents at such an emotional time, a year after losing Henry. They would never get their son back. But Larry still had Jonathan.

Larry took a drink of his coffee before he opened the back door. His father was sitting alone on the patio, a cup on the table in front of him. He was staring straight ahead at the maples in the backyard. They had been planted years earlier as a privacy border along the fence. Birds were now busy at the hanging feeders tied to branches of the two largest trees. Butterflies and bumblebees hovered about the many planted flowers and above the neat rows of the vegetable garden. It had been one of the family stories the Munroe boys had grown up hearing, how their mother agreed to marry the senior Lawrence Munroe provided the couple always had trees, flowers, and vegetables growing in the backyard of any house they might live in. Lawrence had not broken that promise to his wife, and now he sat staring into the backyard, that wedding gift to his bride.

“Dad?” Larry let the screen door close behind him. Lawrence looked up, surprise on his face, as if he'd been told once, years ago, to never be caught daydreaming. He looked at Larry with weary eyes. He had aged in just the past year, more whitish-gray hairs, even more lines around his mouth. He had aged from losing Henry, but so had they all.

“Son?” Lawrence said, as if to ask
how
and
why
. Then, as if it didn't really matter what decision had brought Larry back to the land of the living, “This will make your mother happy.”

“Dad, I have a lot of things to apologize for,” said Larry. “So many things, I don't know where to start.”

His father looked away from the backyard maples, the pansies and hollyhocks, the green onion stalks and the trellis of sweet peas. He reached for his cup of coffee and motioned for Larry to sit. Larry pulled out a chair and sat across the table. They weren't known for father-son talks. He waited.

“I never had a good relationship with my father,” Lawrence said. Larry felt his stomach cramp. He didn't want this, didn't need an apology of any kind. He was the one who should apologize.

“Dad, I got my old job back,” Larry said. “I'm waiting until after the service to tell Mom. This is all my fault, not yours.” But his father held up a hand.

“Let me speak, son, please,” he said.

Larry looked out at the brick walkway that led over to his mother's cucumber beds. Maybe he could count the bricks to help ease the anxiety he was now feeling. There were positive points for never leaving one's room. How had he forgotten that so quickly?

“I never had a father I could talk to, and neither did you boys. Henry, well, he lived his life the way he wanted, not the way he should. And that hurt Jeanie. It hurt a lot of folks. I heard the gossip down at the post office. I knew. I never told your mother, of course. Why hurt more people? But you, you're more like me than Henry ever was, and yet we hardly know each other.”

“Henry was Henry,” said Larry. And he knew that the reason Henry could be king was because his servants wanted him to be. They demanded it, especially his mother, in those formative years that are supposed to be so important in shaping character. This meant that everyone around Henry Munroe, his
satellites
as Jeanie now saw them, they were all what the talk shows call codependents. They had built the man themselves.

“I never wanted to be a mailman,” his father said then, and this took Larry by surprise. He looked down at his hands as if he held something important in them. He couldn't look at his father. Even the air around the table was becoming static with this revelation. “But I had that tradition stuck on me, like a tail on a dog. My father and grandfather pretty much built the post office. Christ, I can still smell them down there, as if they're standing in the corners, watching every move I make. But sometimes, the only thing a man can do is to take tradition and wag it around. You pretend it's not really a dog's tail. Instead, it's a flag or a banner, and you're proud to carry it.”

“You're a good mailman, one of the best,” said Larry, forcing himself to look up at his father's face.

“I do what I can,” said the older man. “And you should too. So lead the life you want to lead, son. And remember that no matter what she does, your mother wants the best for you, just as she did for Henry.”

Wind rattled the chimes hanging from the post with the hummingbird feeder. From off in the trees, sparrows and warblers sang with that after-the-storm excitement. The grass smelled fresh, still wet at its roots, the whole day alive with sound and color. After a couple minutes of silence, Larry realized that this was all his father had intended to say. It was all, and it was enough. He knew what the older man meant. He knew the book that lay behind those few words. It was another reason that Larry wanted to be a good father to Jonathan.

“I'm sorry about the mail,” Larry said. But his father had returned to the man his son had always known him to be.

“All that rain last night,” he said. “It's good for your mother's garden.”

...

When Evie opened her eyes, she heard Gail out in the kitchen, the rattle of cups, water running in the sink. She wished she could sleep forever. But regardless of what Larry Munroe might and might not do after the memorial service, Evie had a busy day planned. She sat up on the sofa and arched her back. Two nights away from her bed and already her body was complaining. Gail came into the parlor carrying the painted wooden tray. On it were two mugs of coffee, two bagels, and the butter dish.

“Wow,” said Evie. “How long has it been since someone brought me breakfast in bed?”

Gail put the tray on the coffee table and handed Evie one of the mugs.

“It's not breakfast in bed,” she said. “It's breakfast on the sofa. And that's another reason why I'm going home today, once this is over. You deserve your bed back.”

Evie felt the instant caffeine rush from that first coffee of the day. She watched as Gail buttered them each a bagel.

“Are you positive you're done with Marshall?”

“I had a couple days to think,” Gail said. She sat on the sofa next to Evie and reached for the other coffee mug. “While I was lying up there in bed feeling sorry for myself, I thought of Margie and how she's living without Annie, just as you said. And I looked at the little girl on your wall, your sister. You're right, Evie. I need to go to plan B, because plan A ain't working.”

Evie held up her mug so that Gail could click hers against it. And in that second Evie knew what she was going to do in her own life. She was going to stick to plan A. There would be no more running, no more searching for roots. This is where she wanted to be, to live and die, this sweet house with the calming porch swing, with the roses in her backyard, this town of Bixley, where people saw her at the bank and said hello. Where cars sometimes tooted in recognition as she sped to the grocery store or out to the mall. Where some of the customers at the bar now seemed like caring friends. Gail was one of them. Regardless of what Larry Munroe did, Evie Cooper was already home.

“I have something to tell you,” said Evie. “Murphy asked me last week if I wanted to buy the tavern.”

Gail looked surprised at first, and then she smiled.

“I don't know which is more amazing,” she said. “That Dan Murphy actually showed up at his own place of business, or that you're gonna be my boss.”

“Well, for one thing,” said Evie, “Murph didn't stop by. He called me on his cell phone from the golf course. And for another thing, what makes you think you'll be working for me?”

Gail studied Evie's face, as if not sure if this were a joke.

“We'll go over to the bank on Monday and talk to Elmer Fisk,” said Evie. “The way I see it, I can't imagine a better business partner than you.”

...

By the time people were done filing into the massive back room at the restaurant, Jeanie counted over seventy faces. Frances had done well in tracking down people who wanted to say a final farewell to Henry Munroe. The plan for the memorial service had changed again, and Jeanie felt nothing but relief to learn of it. Frances decided it was better for everyone to stay at the restaurant and not visit the grave. A string of cars inching out to the cemetery, bumper to bumper, would be too much like a funeral and not a celebration of Henry's life. The family could put the marker from the postal service on Henry's grave at some later and more private time.

Jeanie looked past the tables loaded with cheeses and crackers, salads and casseroles, cupcakes and cookies, and there stood Chad. He was tall and handsome in the suit she had bought for him just two weeks before. The one he had worn for his father's funeral no longer fit. He'd grown taller in the past year, his chest expanding, his arms stronger. But looks were deceiving for he was still a teenager. Maybe this was the mistake Frances had made with Henry, maybe she had let the boy strive to become the man too quickly. It was a mistake Jeanie would not make with her own son. She had already begun making calls, asking questions, inquiring about groups who counsel teenagers with drinking problems. Maybe Chad needed some of that grief counseling that Jeanie had already outgrown. And Jeanie herself would make some new plans. Even if the job at Fillmore's Drugstore did become available, it was only part-time. And it was part of her old life. Maybe it was time to take those real estate classes that Mona was enrolled in. It was time to find a new vocation, other than that of Henry Munroe's widow.