Henry & Me

by Sasha Clinton

  Once he’s started, Lucien practices without any breaks or pauses, flipping pages smoothly with one hand while the other continues to coax melodies out of the cello. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a virtuoso.

  Grateful for the music in the background, I work energetically.

  Bit by bit, I’m getting used to the domestic routines around the house. Most days, I don’t even complain about it much. There are advantages to having your mind occupied, even if it’s occupied by mundane work.

  Dusting a picture of Henry in his room, I inhale my fill of his deep woody scent, the memories of his tongue inside my mouth and our shared intimacy flooding me as surely as the smell. My heart speeds up.

  Although we resolved the kiss issue, my feelings for him won’t be resolved so easily. My heart accelerates at the sight of him, my legs move on their own, and my mind travels down dark, sensual alleys. It’s puzzling, because he’s so not my type.

  Henry doesn’t stand out in a flashy way. There’s nothing special about him—he isn’t witty or charming. There isn’t a punchline waiting to happen in every sentence he says. But in his own way, with his even temper, maturity and niceness, he warms my heart. Maybe love is something different from what I imagined. Maybe it’s not a passionate allegro, but a slow andante, like the tune Lucien is now playing.

  The music practice continues, as I get into the bathroom attached to Henry’s bedroom and start attacking the limescale in the bathtub. It’s an ordeal, to say the least, and it takes far longer than I expected.

  Returning back to the living room, I’m surprised to find it soundless. The cello sleeps inside its open case. Lucien’s staring out the window, an aimless expression fastened on his face. “Uncle Henry hasn’t noticed the switch yet.”

  I recall the conversation from earlier this morning—recall the way I was fooled by him.

  “Good for you.” He bites his lip, as if holding back a laugh. “Otherwise you’d have had to go to Ceylon and beg the king to give you another set of those curtains.”

  I can’t believe he thinks I’m so stupid. I can’t believe I am so stupid.

  “Silk curtains, kiddo? A special gift from the king of Ceylon? Ceylon has no king!” Yelling, I knit my eyebrows at him.

  He starts edging away from me, gleaning my killer intent.

  “I always knew that. It was you who didn’t.” Sticking out his tongue at me, he snatches the cleaning cloth in my hand and bolts for the door. “Stupid Max. Now I understand why Mom nags me to study. If I end up stupid like you, anybody could fool me.”

  “Give my cleaning rag back!” I scream, extending my hand to catch him.

  But the little devil moves like lightning. He dives under the couch and rolls out the other side, heading straight for Henry’s bedroom and messing up the bed that I made this morning. I chase after him with the bottle of Lysol still in my hand, huffing, knocking things in my way like a bull on a rampage.

  “Come here, you brat. I’m not letting you off today.”

  Just as his cheek hits the door, the door to the apartment fans open. Lucien leaps back in the nick of time to avoid getting hit.

  Emilia Stone sweeps in like a queen and arches an eyebrow at the scene in front of her. I’m holding the Lysol bottle over my head, as if I plan to throw it, and Lucien’s bracing himself for an attack. From her point of view, this does not look good.

  “Mom, she was going to hit me!” Lucien wags a finger at me accusingly.

  “I wasn’t!” I scream, quickly hiding the Lysol behind my back. “It was a game.”

  Emilia Stone passes me a cold stare, then passes Lucien a colder stare. I’ve never met her before, only seen her in the family photo on Henry’s desk when I was dusting. She seemed warm in that photo, but right now she could give an ice queen a run for her money.

  Clothed in a pale green shift dress with matching pumps, she struts past the living room. A designer necklace gleams at her throat. She’s pretty fashion-forward for a doctor. Really dressed up, too. Doesn’t wearing so much jewelry interfere with surgeries?

  “We’re going home. Pack up,” she commands Lucien in a prim voice.

  The excitement in his eyes peters out.

  “But you said I was spending the whole day at Uncle Henry’s house,” he protests, looking at me longingly. My gut tells me this kid would make a great actor.

  “Change of plans. You’re going to sit in the hospital reception and do your homework. The receptionist will watch you. Hurry up now.”

  Lucien is clearly disappointed by this news, but he doesn’t protest.

  “I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, getting close to her, when Lucien’s out of earshot. “I shouldn’t have given in to Lucien’s demands.”

  Her nose turns down. “Yes, you shouldn’t have. But at least it got him out of the house. God knows he needs to exercise more and get vitamin D. A sedentary lifestyle increases the risk of heart diseases later in life.”

  I don’t know whether to be glad or mad that she’s such a health freak.

  “I guess,” I mutter.

  She doesn’t say anything more, so I conclude that Henry hasn’t told her about the credit card thing yet. My hide’s safe for today.

  “We don’t have all day!” she tsks at Lucien, who is still figuring out where to put what in his bag.

  When I rush to help him, he refuses to accept my assistance, so I go back to Emilia. She doesn’t talk to me, only regards me like I’m a worm. I must say, she’s not making a great first impression on me. I already don’t want to see her again.

  “How’s Lucien doing?” she asks finally. “Have you noticed anything strange about his behavior?”

  I look to the curtains, think of Lucien’s split-personality, and say, “Please keep an eye on him. I’m afraid he’s on the path to becoming a sociopath.”

  Emilia’s eyes shoot daggers at me, but before she can open her mouth, Lucien pops up at her side, his backpack slung across his shoulder.

  “Mom, what’s a sociopath?” he asks brightly.

  “Something every mother hopes her son won’t become.” Emilia zips his open backpack and nudges him out the door.

  “Bye, Max.” Lucien gives me a dazzling smile. “Next time, I’ll tell you about Uncle Henry’s antique vase from the Ming Dynasty.”

  “You little—”

  The door clicks shut before I can finish.

  All the energy in the room withers and dies. Quiet looms over the spacious house once more, with only the washer’s drone interrupting it. I keep gazing at the door, hoping Lucien will burst back through it and say something.

  It’s true what they say: Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Chapter 9

  Mornings are the quietest time of the day after Henry leaves for work, when my heartbeat cuts back to a hum that mirrors the drone of the dishwasher. Without anybody in the apartment, I’m free to relax. Turning on some easy listening tracks, I rest on the couch, spread-eagle, singing softly.

  Until the blaring siren that is my ringtone reaches my ears, almost blowing out my eardrums. Sheesh. I need to lower the ringtone volume before I go deaf.

  Emilia Stone’s number flashes under the glass screen of my mobile phone.

  I gulp. Why is she calling me now? It’s too early in the morning for me to get into trouble.

  The phone continues to wail.

  Doesn’t matter why she’s calling. The thing is, I can’t ignore her calls. She’s my employer.

  Grudgingly, I set the phone to my right ear. “Hello?”

  “Max. I need you to head to Lucien’s school ASAP.”

  I sit back up, my knees bumping into each other, and check the time on the metallic clock nailed to the wall. “It’s only eleven am. School’s not out until two.”

  Emilia sighs. Most of the sound is overpowered by the hospital noises behind her. “The principal’s secretary called me. Lucien’s at the principal’s office. Bad behavior. I’ve been asked to come to school, but
I have a surgery in fifteen minutes, so I can’t go. Go in my place.”

  Lucien Stone at the principal’s office. Well, I knew this day wasn’t far, but I didn’t think it’d come so close on the heels of the Coney Island incident. I’m intrigued to find out what got him there, though.

  “Now?”

  “Of course now. Chop, chop.” She clicks her tongue. “And I expect a detailed report of the situation by email when you return.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The ‘ma’am’ is a new addition to my vocabulary. I’m trying not to step on Emilia’s toes, which means being as servile as I can possibly manage.

  “Bye.”

  Emilia’s voice dies, and half an hour later, I’m clambering out of a subway train. Making a mad dash for Trinity School, I arrive there breathless. I’m signed in and given a guest pass, then led to the principal’s office, where Lucien looks sulkier than I’ve ever seen him.

  There are no outward signs of injury on his face, and his hair’s tame, suggesting that he wasn’t involved in a scuffle, at least. That leaves one option—he must’ve cheated in a test or something.

  His shoe laces are untied.

  “Sure took your own sweet time to get here.” He kicks the air in front of him, avoiding facing me.

  I gesture him to shuffle to the dean’s office. “Stop nagging me like my sister-in-law. I’m having trouble telling you two apart these days.”

  The principal’s secretary walks close at my heel, closing the door when I’m in and then withdrawing.

  “Mrs. Stone?” the dean asks as soon as he sees me.

  He looms large from behind his desk, his hotdog-shaped fingers clicking impatiently at the mouse. His rotund beer belly perches comfortably on the table, next to a half-empty box of candy. I bet he ate most of them. The nameplate on his table identifies him as George Ford.

  I mesh my fingers between Lucien’s. “I’m Max. Lucien’s nanny. Mrs. Stone couldn’t make it. She asked me to find out about what happened.”

  “Have a seat, then.”

  I do as I’m told. Lucien refuses to sit. What’s with the kid today? He’s acting out of character.

  “So what happened?”

  A colony of lines appears on the dean’s forehead. “Lucien set fire to his desk. We were lucky Mr. Tracy put out the fire before it burned down the school.”

  I hear the sound of my heart screeching to a halt. Really? Why would he do that? With my eyes narrowed, I look to Lucien, who doesn’t give me an answer.

  But the dean does.

  “He says he didn’t mean to do it, but he still hasn’t told us why he did it.”

  Again we both look to Lucien expectantly, but he’s squeezed his lips into a straight line.

  “Kiddo, why did you set the desk on fire?” I ask, unable to keep the annoyance from my voice.

  No answer.

  Seems like I’ll have to ferret out the truth the tough way.

  I pull his hand. Hard. He doesn’t even flinch.

  “Fine. At least tell me how you did it.”

  Something shiny skips over the principal’s desk towards me. “Using a lighter. He had this in his possession.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.” In disbelief, I brush the cool surface of the lighter. Anxiety pounds in my chest. If Emilia catches wind of this, Lucien will be in so much trouble. “Where in hell did he get this from?”

  The dean drops his paperweight on the table. “Watch your language, miss.”

  “Oops. I’m sorry. I…I was shocked.” I smack my cheek, then smack Lucien’s arm. “Kiddo, where did you get this from? Nobody in your family smokes, as far as I know.”

  Lucien shrugs, moving away from me. “I want to go home.”

  What’s with his attitude? It’s so half-hearted. Doesn’t he realize that arson is a serious crime? The Lucien I know isn’t reckless or stupid.

  Looks like I was right when I warned Emilia about Lucien becoming a sociopath.

  “We’re going nowhere unless you tell me why you set your desk on fire,” I say sternly.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I wanna go home. I have a headache.”

  “Do you know you could be expelled from school for this behavior, Lucien?” The dean steeples his fingers, dropping his voice so it sounds serious.

  Surprise and shock dawn on Lucien, but he quickly camouflages it with a stoic expression. “Okay.”

  “What the heck does ‘okay’ mean?” I scream. “You’re okay being expelled?”

  “As it stands, I’m suspending him for two days,” the dean adds.

  “You hear that? That means I’m gonna have to babysit you all day tomorrow. I think I deserve to know the reason.”

  Lucien stays tight-lipped.

  I’m starting to grow frustrated. I don’t understand how to get him to talk. He’s never clammed up like this before. It’s worrisome and annoying at the same time.

  “Did someone bully you into doing it? Did someone threaten you?” I take another shot at cracking his quietness. “You can tell me. I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

  “Max, I want to go home.”

  “Stop saying that!”

  The dean watches dispassionately as I battle it out with Lucien. Lucien doesn’t give anything up, and after a while the dean’s patience is exhausted.

  “You should take him home now,” he says. “He’ll think clearly once he’s had more time. If you find out anything, be sure to let me know.”

  “I will.” I impale Lucien with my eyes.

  He shuffles ahead chirpily, relieved that this confrontation is over. Too bad for him, I plan to keep up with the interrogation until I find the answers I need. That’s the tactic the police use: they keep bombarding suspects with questions until they crack.

  “What’s for lunch?” he asks on the subway. “Don’t tell me you made instant noodles again.”

  Pasting on my best hurt and upset expression, I shake with fury. “I’m really disappointed in you, Lucien Stone-Carter. Setting fire to school property. What’s gotten into you?”

  “Drop it, Max.”

  “I will, once you come clean about your reason for doing it.”

  He must’ve realized there’s no way to change my mind about this, because he doesn’t say anything after that.

  It’s a quiet ride back home.

  *

  “Uncle Henry? You’re at home?”

  Henry’s getting his shoes off when we land in the apartment. He beams at the both of us, loosening his tie.

  “Hey, Lucien. Max. I was wondering why the house was so empty.” He shrugs off his suit jacket, slinging it over his arm. “My client presentation wrapped up early, so I thought I’d come home. I was surprised to find it empty.”

  “I went to Lucien’s school to pick him up after Emilia called me,” I explain. “He was suspended for setting his desk on fire.”

  “Now why would he do that?” Henry pretend-scratches his head, aiming the question at Lucien.

  Lucien runs off to the bathroom and shuts the door. Great escape tactic, but he can’t evade me forever. I will follow him to the ends of the earth to get an answer. And if I don’t succeed, I’m sure Emilia will. Because that woman? She’s a shark.

  Knocking on the bathroom door, I try to coax Lucien out, but that boy has a rock for a heart. No amount of pleading and begging can melt him. I wonder if he’s crying in there…probably not. I can’t imagine Lucien being so emotional.

  “I’ve reached an impasse with him,” I admit, leaching irascibility. “At this rate, I’m gonna have to hire a detective to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Lucien’s usually talkative,” Henry muses. “It’s odd.”

  “Maybe he’s being bullied. Or maybe he did it for a girl and doesn’t want to tell on her,” I speculate.

  Okay. The girl theory is too far-fetched. I can’t imagine Lucien doing something stupid for a girl. He’s not that type.

  Henry
pulls away his tie, cocking his head to one side. “I think he’s embarrassed to admit why he did it. He’s a very image-conscious child.”

  “His image ain’t flying high right now.”

  “By the way, how did he set the desk on fire?”

  I produce the lighter I received from the dean and give it to Henry. “Using a lighter.”

  Shock spreads over Henry’s features. It seems he recognizes the lighter. Is it his? No, it couldn’t be. Henry’s not a smoker. At least I didn’t think he would be, after his bout of cancer.

  While I’m wondering about it, Henry moves to the bathroom door and raps on it. Nothing but gurgled sounds of water running in the bathtub. I hope Lucien’s not mucking up the bathtub I cleaned this morning. Moreover, I pray he’s not trying to drown himself. He wouldn’t do that, would he? But kids these days give up on life so easily, I can’t really tell. Yesterday, Coop shared an article on Facebook about an eight-year-old girl who committed suicide because her teacher gave her a bad grade. Those kinds of things frighten me.

  “Come out, Lucien; I want to tell you a story,” Henry calls out.

  “You want to tell him a story? We need to make him spit out the truth,” I snip at Henry.

  Does nobody except me realize the magnitude of this situation? Lucien is on the path to delinquency (and possibly suicide), and I’m trying to save him from becoming a full-fledged criminal. To start with, he already displayed sociopathic tendencies. But really, what in hell seized him to set a desk on fire?

  Henry lays a finger over his lips. “Shhh, Max. I think he’s stressed enough.”

  Calling out to Lucien in a soothing voice, he knocks on the bathroom door again. It doesn’t budge. At all.

  “You don’t have to tell us anything you don’t want to,” Henry coaxes, pressing his ear to the door. Whatever he hears makes him frown.

  “Lucien’s crying,” he mouths to me. “Not good.”