Summer Session

by Merry Jones

  She crouched at his side, wincing at the soreness of bruises and stiffness of her bad leg. ‘I’m all right.’ She kissed him, but he put his hands firmly on her shoulders and, scowling, examined her face.

  ‘Cut.’ He touched the wound on her cheek, the darkening lump beside her eye. ‘Steak.’

  Steak? Really? ‘Does that work?’ She smiled, pleased that she understood him. And amused that Hank would suggest slapping a hunk of meat on her eye to stop it from blackening. She pictured it. What should she use? Chuck? Sirloin? A nice fillet?

  Hank didn’t smile. His eyes darkened, angry. ‘Say. Me. You. What.’

  Hank wanted to know what had happened. She wasn’t going to lie to him; she never had. But she would spare him the grisly and upsetting details. Harper took a seat beside his chair and took his hand. ‘I’m OK, Hank. Really. But somebody mugged me.’

  He scowled. ‘Hurt.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He looked her over. ‘No.’ Again, he touched her cheek.

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Killed?’ His eyes sparkled.

  Harper started to assure him that no one had been killed before she understood. Hank always teased her about being scary tough. She could lift a lot more than the 130 pounds she weighed – as much as strong, taller men. She could do push-ups and chin-ups all day long. So, his point was: how could someone mug her and live?

  ‘Not yet.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll get him, though.’

  Hank became serious again, eyes burning, his hands tight around hers. His lips puckered, slowly forming a word. ‘Who.’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see his face. But I’m OK. He just knocked me down and grabbed my bag.’ And threatened to drop her into the gorge.

  ‘Bag. Take. Your.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t my bag – it belonged to a student.’ She didn’t tell him which student, didn’t talk about Graham or his suicide. Didn’t want to upset him further.

  Hank looked her over, gently touched the Band-Aid on her hand, eyed her arms, her shoulders. Her hair. ‘Hoppa.’

  Harper tried to make light of what happened. ‘It was just some kid, Hank. He took me by surprise, but when I catch him, I’ll scramble him. We’ll have him for breakfast.’

  Hank wasn’t amused. ‘Hoppa. You.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘O-K?’

  ‘I am. Yes. Truly.’

  ‘Both. Us. OK. Us. Two. Gr–reat.’

  Wow. Hank was being sarcastic; the old Hank was resurfacing. His eyes twinkled, teasing, but the twinkle seemed muted, sad. ‘Home. Want. Go. Us.’

  Home? Us? He wanted to go home with her. Harper couldn’t bear it. ‘Come on. Let’s take a walk.’

  Silently, the pair walked along the corridor, Hank pushing a walker in case his right leg faltered. He had a definite limp, but then so did Harper; her left leg giving in when she was tired or, in this case, recovering from a mugging. The two of them ambled along, wobbling side to side, step by step, arm in arm. Clearly, Hank’s overall strength was returning; his intense regime of physical therapy was working. After several laps around the unit, it was she, not he, who wanted to sit and rest. So they landed on a sofa in the lounge, drinking dreadful coffee from the vending machine. Harper massaged her thigh, hoping to keep the rest of the visit light.

  ‘How was dinner?’ The question was uncomplicated, requiring an uncomplicated answer. Fine. Awful. Great. OK. He should be able to manage it.

  But Hank didn’t respond. He looked at Harper with startling intensity, penetratingly, almost accusingly, and then, abruptly, turned away.

  ‘Hank? Is something wrong?’ What a stupid question, she scolded herself. Of course, something was wrong. The man couldn’t talk, for one thing. And that was only the start.

  Hank blinked soberly, absorbed in thought. Silent.

  ‘I know this is hard for you.’ Harper moved closer, taking his arm. ‘It’s hard for us both. But we’ve got a lot to be thankful for.’

  Hank glanced at her, as if daring her to explain.

  ‘You could have died in that fall, Hank. We’re lucky. You’re still here. We’re together.’

  Setting coffee down, Harper put her arms around her husband and leaned her head on his shoulder. Hank rested his head against hers, wrapped his strong left arm around her. They sat that way, cradling each other without the need for words. Harper ached for him, for the way he had been. Closing her eyes, she remembered Hank, painting the dining room, wearing torn cut-offs and a painter’s hat, shoulders rippling as he lifted his brush. When she’d passed, he’d dabbed her nose with Chinese red enamel. She’d taken him down, and they’d ended up on the drop cloth, paint spattered and naked, Meatloaf playing full blast. ‘I would do anything for love . . .’

  Absently, holding Hank, she hummed along to the memory. I would do anything for love . . . She looked up, met Hank’s eyes, then his lips. Felt him quiver.

  Other people came into the lounge, but Harper and Hank didn’t budge, even if people openly stared. When they finally moved apart, visiting hours were over, and Harper’s coffee was cold. They kissed goodnight, as always.

  Hank pursed his lips, struggling. ‘H–honny.’ His eyes laughed.

  Honey? Was he calling her Honey? How dear. But, also, how unlike Hank. He never used trite terms of endearment. ‘Yes, I’m your honey. And you’re mine.’

  He shook his head, no, and repeated. ‘Ho. Nee.’

  Harper felt him hold on to her, his reluctance to let her go. And something else.

  She was in the elevator, descending to the lobby, thinking about that other something when she realized what Hank had been trying to say. It wasn’t ‘Honey’. Since the accident, he’d had trouble enunciating his Rs.

  The only sound was the crickets. And the only light was the moon. The air smelled moist and green, having cooled with the dark. Harper parked the Ninja, but didn’t go into the house. Instead, she wandered out back to the new deck, thinking about Hank’s last remark: Hank was horny. He wanted sex.

  The truth was she was probably horny, too, but hadn’t admitted it. Since Hank’s accident, she’d suppressed all thoughts of sex. Even when she fantasized about having a family, she focused on the children, not on making them. But now that Hank mentioned it, she couldn’t stop thinking about sex. And thinking about it made her nervous.

  She told herself that her nerves were understandable. Inevitable. She’d been immersed in Hank’s survival, then with his recovery, now with minuscule improvements. Over the last weeks, she’d measured every aspect of his physical being: his heart rate, blood pressure, brain functions, intake and output of liquids and solids, and, at some point, she had become his caretaker instead of his lover. At some point, she’d stopped thinking of him sexually. Now, suddenly, Hank was telling her, in his broken way, that he wanted sex again. And she wasn’t prepared.

  Harper stood on the deck, cloaked in darkness. Memories bubbled up, of precisely the things she’d worked to forget. His breath on her skin. His chest against hers. His rough stubbly face brushing her breast. Hank’s lips nipping her neck, his thick fingers stroking . . .

  She stepped over to the hot tub and sat on the edge. Imagining what it would be like now. Not like before, couldn’t be. Weak on one side, Hank wouldn’t move as he had. So, would she have to be on top? Or would they lie on their sides? Picturing it, mentally repositioning their bodies, she felt awkward. Reluctant. Hank was different now. His speech – it was so childlike. Did she regard him as a child? No, of course not. Hank was still Hank. Wasn’t he? Oh God. She was so confused. What did she feel? Fear? Sorrow? No. More like grave, imminent danger.

  Without warning, the screeching of crickets crescendoed, became ragged, anguished screams. The deck faded away. A bomb exploded so close that it seared the hairs on her arms. Somewhere close, men fired their weapons, darting for cover – no, damn it, she had to fight this. Where the hell was her lemon? In her bag. On the back of the Ninja. Too far away.

  Dodging bul
lets, Harper looked around, saw rippling dark water. Holding her breath, she flung herself into the hot tub and its stagnant, unheated, not very chlorinated contents. Clothes and all, she sunk into cool, shockingly wet water, hiding under the surface, making no sound. Only when she was sure the gunfire had stopped and the flashback aborted did she let herself step on to the wooden deck. Then, sopping and cursing, she sloshed through brambles, bushes and trees back to her Ninja, retrieved her bag and headed into her big old Victorian house, not noticing the bicycle leaning against the shadowed wall.

  Inside, Harper dropped her leather sack in the foyer and stripped off her clothes to protect the new hardwood flooring from puddles. In her underwear, she was halfway up the stairs before it registered that, at the end of the downstairs hallway, the door to Hank’s study was ajar.

  Carrying her wet clothes, Harper backed down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spots, shifting her weight gently so as not to make a sound. She stopped at the bottom, listening to faint rustling noises coming from Hank’s study, and quickly, silently, she searched for a weapon.

  Kitchen knives were too far away; Hank’s tools were out in the shed; her pistol up in the attic, and Hank’s shotgun – was it in the broom closet? Harper wasn’t sure, didn’t have time to check. Sidestepping to the living room, she dropped her bundle of wet clothes and grabbed a poker from the stand beside the fireplace. It felt puny and unimpressive. Would it scare a prowler away? What if he grabbed it from her and slammed her with it? She thought of the guy on the bridge pounding her head – was this him again? Hell, it could be; she should call the police. Poker in hand, she started for her bag to search for her phone. But before she got there, something in Hank’s study slammed.

  Harper froze. Another slam, louder this time. Barefoot in wet underwear, Harper ran down the hall, poker raised overhead, poised to strike. At the door, she paused to steady herself. And then, with a warrior’s fury, she charged.

  ‘Jesus, Harper.’ Trent Manning cowered. Staring first at the poker, then at her wet bra.

  Trembling, Harper lowered the poker. ‘Christ.’ It was all she could manage.

  ‘What the hell?’ He forced a laugh and straightened up. Then he noticed her face. ‘Good God. What happened to you?’

  Harper ignored the question. ‘My God, Trent – damn, I could have killed you.’ She yanked Hank’s corduroy blazer off the back of his desk chair and pulled it on, covering herself, awkwardly switching the poker from hand to hand.

  ‘Seriously, kiddo. You look like a prizefighter.’

  ‘I got mugged.’

  ‘Right.’ He chuckled, didn’t believe her.

  Harper was in no mood to explain. She stepped over to him, gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. ‘Dammit, Trent. You scared me. What the hell are you doing in here?’

  ‘I didn’t realize I needed permission to come over.’ Trent seemed to think that his presence should be no surprise; after all, until the accident, he’d practically lived with them, coming and going at will. Often, she’d come home to find Trent in the kitchen, reading a journal, scrounging for a beer. Trent and Hank had been inseparable, consulting on projects, teaching together, collaborating on articles. Since Hank’s accident, though, Trent hadn’t been over much. Actually, at all.

  ‘You should have called first,’ she scolded. ‘I live alone now.’

  Trent raised his eyebrows, wounded. ‘Of course. I understand.’ He picked up a glass of Scotch that had been resting on Hank’s desk.

  ‘Sorry. You’re always welcome, Trent. I just wasn’t expecting you.’ Harper was still shaken by how close she’d come to bashing in his skull.

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Trent swallowed Scotch.

  ‘You saw him tonight?’

  ‘I see him every night.’

  Trent nodded. ‘Any change?’

  Harper met Trent’s eyes, saw a shadow of guilty sadness. ‘You wouldn’t need to ask if you’d visit him yourself.’

  Trent smirked. ‘I’m not the best company in this situation, Harper.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Trent. He doesn’t blame you. Nobody does.’

  ‘Really? Well, then, I’m a lucky guy, don’t you think?’

  ‘You didn’t make him fall. And he’d like to see you.’

  ‘Would he?’ Trent considered it. ‘Yes, well, I bet he would.’ His tone was odd.

  Harper sighed. ‘So?’

  ‘So, I’ll go see him.’

  ‘Good. When?’

  ‘Soon.’

  Harper stared at him.

  ‘I will. Really.’

  The poker was still in her hand. She set it on the side of the desk, but it fell off, clattering to the hardwood floor. ‘So, what were you doing?’

  ‘Oh. Right. I was, um–looking for Hank’s notes. Printouts. Or his laptop. You know how it is: publish or perish.’

  Yes. Harper knew. Both Hank and Trent were up for tenure. With that in mind, Hank had written countless articles for scientific journals, edited chapters for books, co-authored papers with Trent, which they’d presented at academic, geological and ecological conferences. This year, Hank probably would have been granted tenure. A permanent full professorship. Now, of course, his tenure was out of the question. Trent was still in the running, though; she hoped he’d get it.

  ‘So, do you know where his laptop is?’

  Harper didn’t. She hadn’t seen it, hadn’t even thought about it. ‘It’s not here?’

  ‘I don’t see it. I’m guessing he printed out his notes, though. Mind if I keep looking?’

  ‘Have at it.’

  As Trent rifled through Hank’s filing cabinet, Harper looked around the office. She hadn’t been in there since the accident. The room hadn’t been touched, looked as if Hank might at any second appear to dig into work. Books, papers, maps and folders scattered his desk. Post-it notes clung to every surface; yellow pads were everywhere. The trash can was full, and a dent marked where his fingers had last dipped into his bottomless bowl of M&Ms. In the corner, Hank’s oversized, overused leather easy chair sagged in the middle, defining his shape. The hassock was scuffed where his heels had repeatedly dug in. She wandered over, smelled the worn leather, touched the place where his head had rested. She could see him there, looking up from his book when she came in. His eyes, as always, laughing.

  ‘Any idea at all? Harper?’

  ‘What?’ Harper turned to Trent; when she looked back, Hank’s image had vanished.

  ‘The notes must be in his computer. Are you sure you haven’t seen it?’

  She shrugged, staring for a moment at the empty chair. Then, explaining that she needed to get some clothes on, hurried away, leaving Trent alone with ghosts of her husband’s past.

  But there were more ghosts upstairs. Hank’s clothes greeted her from the closet, ready for duty. A tweed jacket, a pair of worn jeans. Shirts, slacks, a rack of shoes. A camping vest, drooping from a hook. She remembered Hank wearing it last spring when they’d hiked in the Smokies. Cooking out. Lying together in a tent in the middle of nowhere.

  Harper grabbed a robe and closed the closet door. Back downstairs, avoiding Trent, she went to the kitchen for something to eat. But the open bottle of Johnny Walker Black beckoned her. Food could wait. She took out a glass, poured. She shouldn’t drink with a concussion, and booze wasn’t prescribed for flashbacks. But one drink wouldn’t hurt, and, Lord knew, she deserved one after today.

  In one swallow, she downed the contents, shut her eyes as the smooth burn flowed to her gut. Sat at the table, poured another. Took a gulp, another. Closed her eyes. And saw Graham, watching her as he fell. Damn. Why had he jumped? She saw him again, doing a back stroke in the air. Hitting the ground. Was Detective Rivers right? Had his death been related to those pills?

  Harper’s head ached. She leaned back against the wall, eyes shut. Remembering Ron examining the pill, turning it with long, elegant fingers.

  A glass clinked and liquid sloshed. Harper opened
an eye, saw Trent refilling his glass.

  ‘I couldn’t find a damned thing.’ Trent plopped on to a chair. ‘No printouts, no laptop. Nothing.’ He raised his glass. ‘So, what do you say we get hammered?’

  Harper managed a smile. She was halfway there and, clearly, Trent was way ahead of her.

  Trent slammed down his drink, poured another.

  ‘If you need his files, why not just ask Hank where they are?’

  Trent froze. ‘Seriously? He communicates?’

  ‘Go see for yourself.’

  ‘But you’re saying . . . Hank can talk?’

  ‘Simple sentences.’

  ‘Really?’ Trent seemed startled. ‘I thought he spoke gibberish.’

  ‘It’s not gibberish.’ Harper sounded defensive. ‘He can say things like “Go home”.’ She didn’t mention that he could also say he was horny.

  Trent studied his fingernails. ‘So. Does he remember . . . does he talk about . . . what happened?’

  ‘He’s never mentioned it. I don’t know how much he remembers. But he doesn’t blame you.’ She swallowed more Scotch.

  Trent nodded, unconvinced. ‘Will he improve?’

  ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

  Trent nodded again. They sat for a while, each drinking to ease their own pain. Finally, Trent uncrossed his legs and leaned toward Harper. ‘Nothing has been the same since that day. Nothing.’

  Harper didn’t answer.

  ‘I keep reliving it. Over and over, I keep trying to catch him—’

  ‘Trent. Please.’ Harper saw Hank falling. Graham falling. Marvin blowing up. She clutched the drink in her hand, focused on its icy cold.

  ‘He was right there. Within my reach. I should have grabbed him.’

  ‘Look at me.’ Harper waited until he did. She looked into his gray, unsteady gaze and enunciated each word slowly. ‘It. Was. Not. Your. Fault.’ She channeled Leslie’s voice. ‘I mean it, Trent. Guilt is uncalled for. It was an accident. Stop blaming yourself.’