Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  “You know, I was looking at our childhood photos this morning. You used to be really quiet when we were young.” Coop shifts around on the couch, swinging his legs over the armrest.

  “I still am.”

  This elicits a snort from him. “Like hell you are.”

  There’s a four-year age gap between Coop and me; he told me once that he was overjoyed when I was born because now our mother would focus on me instead of nagging him all the time. In our childhood photos, Coop’s always holding me with a big, missing-tooth smile on his face. In quite a few of those photos, he’s pressing kisses onto my hairless head.

  Like all siblings, we fought a lot when we were young. But he was the first to support me when I wanted to become an actress. Even though he’d only just graduated and found a job, he paid for my acting school, since I couldn’t get a full scholarship. I’m always grateful for his unflagging support.

  Most people would likely go to their parents’ house rather than their sibling’s when they were down on their luck. But even discounting the fact that my parents live in a Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, I still wouldn’t have gone there. Because I love Coop more. And I think he loves me more, too. When you’re struggling, you want to be in the company of positive people. My parents never supported my acting career and I don’t want to listen to their criticism of my life choices.

  “Ji-ae will have to hire part-time help from now on, because I have to be at work by seven,” I say, resurfacing from my thinking.

  “She’ll manage. The important thing is you.” Coop taps my cheek. “We both want to see you do well. This job could be the beginning of a new chapter of your life.”

  You wish. But no matter how much I try, I can’t see myself sticking it out as a housekeeper for longer than a year—it’s too unglamorous for my glamor-seeking soul. When I die, I want to be remembered for something more than the clean floors and shiny bathrooms I left behind. I want to be remembered for the art I created, the emotions my work inspired in people. I want to be immortalized on celluloid.

  “Let’s see how it goes. For all you know, I might prove to be a dud at housekeeping.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Coop pats my head like you would pat a puppy’s. “You’re really smart. You’d excel at anything.”

  I fist-bump his chest. “Thanks.”

  “By the way, we’d better clean this up before Ji-ae comes back, or she’ll be mad,” he says, surveying the couch, the very image of a henpecked husband.

  “We should,” I consent, too happy to object.

  *

  Strains of jazz music welcome me on Friday morning. Because I’m used to waking up at five, and I was paranoid about not being late, I ended up arriving fifteen minutes early.

  Henry’s hair is mussed up when he shuffles out his room and turns on the sound system, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Seems like he just woke up.

  “Good morning,” I greet brightly, eager to make a good impression. I wore my nicest clothes today—a pair of un-faded jeans and a pale pink blouse.

  “I hope you don’t mind the music. I like listening to jazz in the mornings,” he says.

  “Not at all.” I skip to the kitchen. “May I sing along?”

  A lazy grin elongates his lips. “Please do.”

  My heart chatters.

  That’s a sexy grin.

  No! What am I thinking? I’m not allowed to think such thoughts. The relationship between Henry and me is strictly professional.

  I’m still battling my conscience when he fades into the bathroom. The sound of water running breaks me away from my errant thoughts and I focus back on the task at hand: making breakfast. Daydreaming is all fine and dandy, but if I hope to get paid, I must do my job. After those samples Ji-ae handed out to Henry, he must be expecting miracles from me.

  Nevertheless, I’m prepared to bake, fry, and poach miracles today. I practiced a lot yesterday evening.

  Today’s simple menu consists of French toast with berry compote (don’t worry, I bought berry compote on the way—couldn’t risk it). For sides, I’ll be serving up strawberry smoothie. (I realize that’s too much berry, but antioxidants are good for you!)

  Getting to work, I whip up a storm using his top-of-the-line blender. He has really good kitchen equipment for someone who never cooks.

  By the time Henry returns to the living room, I’m putting the finishing touches on my culinary masterpieces. They look and smell great. I can only hope they taste just as good.

  He’s fully clothed (to my disappointment L) in blue pants and a beige shirt. The shirt’s well fitted, which means it clings scandalously to his torso. Not that there’s any six-pack there. Henry’s still scrawny, but not as much as he used to be. Wealth and good housekeepers seem to have helped him gain some weight.

  His hair is wet at the ends, dripping water on the floor. I have a half a mind to tell him to wrap his hair in a towel or something. Water is going to leave stains on the floor and he might end up slipping. But it’s his house, so I can’t demand anything from him.

  “Please take a seat. I’ll have breakfast out in a minute,” I say instead.

  Nodding, he sits down on the table outside the kitchen, and I go back to singing along with the radio. Music was my minor at university and my instrument was the voice. So although I don’t know any of the words to these songs, I manage to scat like Ella Fitzgerald.

  I balance the plate of French toast and smoothie easily, using my waitressing skills to deliver them to Henry, who is awe of this.

  “I prepared a breakfast packed with antioxidants,” I whisper, leaning over his shoulder.

  Mmmmm…the scent wafting up from his hair is delicious, even better than the scent of food. I’ll have to check what shampoo he uses later. He seems to have good taste in beauty products.

  I tap the back of his chair. “Eat up. They’re good for your skin.”

  “How did you know I have skin trouble?” he asks.

  Really? He does? I can’t see any evidence of it, save for the pale brown scars dotted around his jaw, but you wouldn’t be able to see those from afar.

  “I remember…from years ago.” I flatten my palms on my jeans. “You had many zits then.”

  “Thank goodness those cleared up.” He lets out a mortified, strangled laugh.

  Then the fork and knife clank, and he starts eating.

  Backing into the kitchen, I put away things and continue belting my heart out. It doesn’t strike me that I might be too noisy or conspicuous—at least not until I catch him watching me.

  His eyes are boring through me with intensity, although the cryptic expression doesn’t give any helpful hints about what he’s thinking. Do I sound like a dying cat? Is that it?

  I stop immediately, self-conscious. “Am I disturbing you?”

  “Not at all.” He chews the bread in his mouth before resuming. “I was thinking you’re an awesome singer. You were really good when we were in university, too.”

  “Thank you.” I perk up.

  Adoration is the air I breathe. I’m really weak to flattery. Plus, it’s been missing from my life for far too long. So I bait him into giving me more of it.

  “I hope the food is to your liking.”

  “It’s fantastic. You really are all that you said on your résumé.” He picks away at the remnants of his toast with increased vigor.

  Wait until you see my mad laundry skills, I think to myself.

  Schooling his features into a staid expression, he says, “By the way, I’m trying out your sister-in-law’s lunch delivery service this week.”

  “You’ll definitely not be disappointed. Ji-ae has a very high rate of repeat customers.”

  Once he’s done, Henry stacks the plates one over the other and proceeds to the kitchen, where I’m twiddling my thumbs, not sure of what else to do.

  Eagerly, I intercept his path, trying to get the dishes from him. “I’ll take care of them.”

  It’s my job anyway. He’s paying me
thirty-five dollars an hour for it. My service policy is providing the best bang for the buck.

  He jumps back to dodge my extended arms. “I can do it. I don’t want to become lazy just because you’re here.”

  We play the dodging game a while longer, until it becomes frustrating and I have to raise my voice. “I can’t allow you to. It’s my job now.”

  He briefly considers this line of argument, then says, “It wasn’t stated in the document of duties I emailed you.”

  Oh, right, that thing. He made a detailed five-page list of my duties, including ones that were daily, weekly and monthly and ones that were optional.

  “Fine.” Dropping my arms to my sides, I get out of his way.

  If he’s so desperate to do the dishes, who am I to stop him?

  I watch him critically.

  Water splashes, hitting the plate and running off the sides, falling on the metal sink in thick plops. With his sleeves pulled back, he massages the plate with a sponge before placing it in the dishwasher.

  Heat snakes up my cheeks when he dips his hand into a glass. I seem to have hit a new low in life because I’m getting turned on watching Henry Stone wash dishes. I mean, really. He’s Henry Stone. And those things he’s holding are dirty dishes. Two of the un-sexiest things in one frame. What’s my problem?

  “Do you sing professionally?” he asks, out of the blue, dragging my brain from the gutter back into the peaceful environs of the apartment.

  A strangled sound filters out my throat. No idea where that came from. Pretending to clear my throat, I reply, “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Good as my singing is, I never had any interest in being a professional singer. My dream was always to be an actress.

  “I see.”

  My eyes are fastened on the rivulets of water running down his hair-smattered wrists, drenching the edge of his shirt.

  “Your shirt’s getting wet. You can leave the rest to me,” I squeak from the corner, fervently praying that he heeds my advice.

  Lifting his hand, he sees the soaked edges for the first time. “Ah.”

  He pulls down the sleeves and flaps his hands around to get them to dry. Before he can protest, I take over the sink.

  Having an overactive imagination can sometimes be such a curse.

  The succeeding minutes pass in relative peace, and soon it’s time for Henry to leave.

  “See you,” he says, before going to work. “I hope you and Lucien get along.”

  When the last traces of his scent diffuse and disappear, air rushes out of my mouth.

  I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath that long.

  *

  When I arrive at Trinity School at half past two, I’m still trying to organize all the information I received from Henry and his sister, Emilia. They both sent me emails detailing what I should and should not do regarding Lucien. The header of both the emails was: ABSOLUTELY NO SUGAR, SWEETS, OR FATTY FOODS.

  Apparently, Emilia wants me to cook nothing with more than five grams of fat. How I’ll manage that, I don’t know, when the only three dishes in my repertoire—mac ’n’ cheese, pizza, and pasta—all involve copious amounts of fat.

  I’ll have to download recipes. Thankfully, Henry showed me how to use the computer at his place yesterday when I came in for an orientation. He also explained where everything was and the way he likes to order things. Let’s just say, he’s a little too perfectionist for my tastes.

  I mean, he wants me to wash the white and non-white clothes separately…WTF? And he organizes pens by color. OCD, anyone? Plus, the apartment’s really big (he must’ve paid through his gills for it) and getting dust out of every corner is going to be a mission in itself.

  But I’m determined to impress him. It won’t do to have him looking down on me now because I’m not successful. I’ll show him how talented I am at housework and win his admiration.

  As school lets out, kids come out hollering and are claimed by their waiting mothers and nannies. I fight the crowd, shouting Lucien’s name, failing to spot him.

  “Excuse me, have you seen this boy by any chance?” I ask a passing mother, clutching the picture of Lucien that I printed out.

  “Oh, him.” She looks at me with pity-filled eyes. “He always stays back in class. If you go in, you’ll be able to find him.”

  Thanking her, I enter the building and wend my way through the hallways, marveling at how grand this place is. The public school I went to was nothing like this.

  I locate the classroom and peep in. It’s empty, except for the boy sitting in the last seat, his nose buried in a book. Overgrown black locks thread down over his forehead. When he lifts his head up, I see that his eyes are a very familiar shade of electric blue—the exact shade as Henry’s and Emilia’s. Yesterday, I stalked Emilia Stone on Facebook so I know her eyes are the same color. Must run in the family.

  Sweeping towards him, I paint on a smile that’s neither too friendly nor too forced. I read in an article online that it’s important to look approachable to kids, and a smile sets the right tone.

  “Lucien? Hi, I’m Max, your new babysitter,” I say in dulcet tones, grabbing his hand and shaking it vigorously.

  He pouts. “Max—isn’t that a boy’s name? You don’t look like a boy.”

  Of course not, you dolt, I think to myself. Because I’m not.

  “It can be both a boy’s and a girl’s name.” I gather his stuff.

  Geez, why does a fourth-grader need to play violin and cello? I never played anything when I was nine. But then again, I didn’t go to private school, either.

  “It’s a weird name,” he muses, hopping off the chair.

  He’s short for a nine-year-old; his head barely skims my hip.

  “Not as weird as Lucien,” I shoot back.

  “There’s someone in my class called Silly Sisler. We make fun of her all the time.”

  “That’s not very nice of you,” I reprimand, wondering what kind of mother would name her child Silly. It’s like asking for bullying.

  Managing to somehow fit all his stuff between my two hands, I waddle out of the classroom with him raking me critically.

  Pinching my love handles, he turns up his nose. “You’re fatter than the previous nannies. Do you eat a lot of junk food? Fat and sugar are poison, you know.”

  I barely restrain myself from screaming. Oh, Lord. He’s the precocious child. I’d prayed he’d be mild-mannered and bookish like Henry, but alas, I get an annoying twerp.

  I mask my dismay with a high-pitched giggle. “Oh, you’re funny. Come on, let’s go home.”

  His running commentary continues all the way to the subway station.

  “Your fashion sense is really bad.”

  “It’s really hot today. Where’s my Gatorade and towel?”

  “Don’t walk with a slouch. It’s bad posture.”

  “You forgot to refill your MetroCard? How disorganized.”

  Culminating with: “You’re hurting my cello. Get your grubby hands off it!”

  This is said to a fellow passenger on the subway, and earns us both an indignant look.

  “Sorry, he’s learning new words in school. He doesn’t know how to use them yet,” I apologize, embarrassed beyond words.

  At this point, I’m seriously considering taping his mouth. He’s more of a prima donna than me, and this subway car can only accommodate one giant-sized ego.

  “How was school?” I try to steer the conversation away from his complaints.

  “Same as usual. Boring.”

  Then he starts with a rant about the education system. I must say, he’s pretty smart, because I can’t get most of what he’s saying. But his constant chattering is giving me a headache.

  “Can you be quiet for a little bit?” I ask in my sweetest voice, bending down so my eyes are level with his.

  After considering this proposition for a moment, he says, “Okay, but I want chocolate. Can we
buy chocolate on the way?”

  “Sorry. Your mother has categorically instructed me that you are not allowed to eat any sugar or fat. I even laid off the cheese in the pasta.”

  He sighs loudly, expressing his discontent. “Everybody my age eats chocolate.”

  “If you eat chocolate, you’ll become fat like me,” I remind him, although I hate using myself as an example. I’m not fat. I’m ideal weight, never mind that most of that ideal weight likes to camp out on my hips.

  “You’re not fat,” he replies. “I just wanted to annoy you.”

  The doors of the car open at the next station, inviting another flood of passengers. Lucien and I squeeze in one corner, his face squished against my boobs.

  Staring at the lighted panel which details the train’s stops, I check how far our stop is. Still three more to go.

  “Once we get home, you have to start doing your homework,” I tell him. “Then your mother wants you to practice the violin and cello. After that, you will get some outdoor exercise to keep your heart healthy and ensure you get your daily dose of vitamin D.”

  “Will you help me with homework?” he questions, looking extremely doubtful.

  Squirming, I push back a strand of my hair. The thought of multiplication still breaks me out in a cold sweat. I am math-phobic. Actually, unless it’s scripts I’m reading, I happen to be selectively dyslexic, too.

  “I wasn’t a very good student in school, so I can’t,” I say. “And your mom said I should let you do your homework yourself.”

  “Ah.” He narrows his eyes. “I get it. You weren’t very good at school, that’s why you became a maid.”

  “I’m not a maid,” I clarify. “I’m a domestic helper and child-care expert.”

  I got those words from the internet, when I was watching a YouTube video on how to do laundry. They make me sound infinitely more professional, so I’ll use them.

  He snorts derisively. “Same thing.”

  Maybe I should have taped his mouth, after all. I’ll have to remember to bring along the tape lying at the bottom of Coop’s stationery cabinet tomorrow.

  Finally, the train halts at our stop.