Instead, he just walks the eight blocks home, his duffel bags slung heavily over each shoulder. He is exhausted and hungry. Soon he is away from downtown and back in the old hood, and it looks even shabbier in the dark than he remembered, the paint peeling off the triple-deckers visible in the light from the streetlamps. He has also forgotten the smells, coming past the diner with its vent out to the sidewalk, the overwhelming smell of old frying oil, and the sounds, too, the raised voices, a “Hey, fucking Johnny, get back here” shouted out into the night from a third-floor apartment.
And in this way, Henry arrives at the house, the apartment, he grew up in. It is just past nine at night and he can picture, before he even walks up those three flights of stairs, the scene inside. His mother is flitting around the kitchen, the dishes already done, but making herself busy. His father sits in front of the television, the Red Sox game on if he can get it, an old movie if he cannot, a can of Coke in his hand.
Henry takes a deep breath. And then he climbs the stairs, aware of every creak from the thin wood, his footsteps a foreshadowing of the profound failure he is about to present to the two people he least wants to present it to.
When he reaches the door, he can peer past the curtain on the door window, and it is as he expected: There is his mother in her customary black, moving around the kitchen, and from here even he can hear the roar of the television in the other room. Henry knocks and he sees his mother stop, her eyes narrow as she turns toward the door.
When she opens it, he stands there for a moment and then drops his bags.
“Oh, Henry,” she says. “What? Why are you here?”
Henry steps forward and holds out his arms. His mother hugs him. With his hands, he can feel the curvature of the spine that will grow more conspicuous over time, until she is one of those women who are permanently stooped over. But for now he just holds his mother and she holds him until she leads him inside to the small table in the kitchen.
“Karl,” his mother shouts. “Henry is here.”
“I’m hungry,” Henry says.
“Let me fix you something.”
And like that, adulthood melts like ice. His mother is at the fridge for the eggs, and then is stirring them with a fork. A pan warms on the stove. His father is suddenly filling the doorframe, giving a nod, as if he understands something has happened.
“Dad,” Henry says, and goes to him for a handshake that becomes the awkward half hug they have figured out over time.
As Henry eats his eggs and the dark bread his mother makes every morning with the same dedication that she gives to her three daily prayers, he reluctantly warms to his story. Both his parents sit, his father to his left, his mother right in front of him at the small table. His mother’s dark eyes are on him as he tells what happened, and he cannot look at her, for he does not want to see her disappointment, her fear of a life upended, so he looks from his father to the kitchen beyond him, as if seeing it anew, the way the linoleum peels up in the corners under the metal cupboards.
His mother has a million questions, and he tries to answer them. What does it all mean? Is he going to jail? What about college? How did you get mixed up with this terrible girl?
His father breaks his own silence and says, “You come to work with me tomorrow.”
“Yes,” says Henry.
And so early the next morning, Henry finds himself alongside his father in empty office buildings, running machines over hard floors, washing and polishing them in great circles. The work is a palliative, for between the whirl of the machines and the simplicity of it all—see, move, and then circle—Henry finds he has no room in his mind except for what is in front of him. Looking over at his father, his earmuffs on, too, and alone in his own world, he finds a sudden and great comfort in why he has always enjoyed this work. The practical labor of it, and the idea that you can always see the finish line, unlike a poem, which famously is never finished and can only be abandoned.
And maybe, Henry thinks, this is where he was meant to be all along, the rest of it all some crazy lark, as if he accidentally fell down the rabbit hole and ended up in a place he had no business being in the first place.
But then at night, alone on the porch after both his parents have gone to bed, it comes on him fast as a fever and he wonders if his life has shrunk back to the dimensions he was always meant to inhabit.
But in defiance, he thinks, No, this is not possible. Margot is more real, not less, than anything that has ever happened to him. How can he deny the heaviness in his heart that takes his breath away?
And on that ragged porch, he sometimes looks into the kitchen, where the phone hangs from the wall, the same phone his mother used to answer when he made his calls from Bannister. And Henry considers going to pick it up and dialing that number on the Vineyard again, hoping Margot answers and that he can plead with her, but then he remembers her mother’s voice on the other end of the line.
It occurs to him one night that Margot has no idea where he is and probably assumes he is still at the winery. Perhaps she has tried to reach him there, and so he calls Ted and Laura’s number, even though he knows it is late. It is Laura who answers on the third ring, and he can tell from her sleepy voice that he has intruded on their lives once again.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Laura,” he says. “Has Margot called there?”
“No, Henry. No one has called.”
In the mornings, his mother makes lunches for both Henry and his father, and before dawn they are at it, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning. The day ends at noon, and one afternoon Henry tells his father he will see him at home, and then he walks out through these office buildings they have been working on, through these low-slung industrial buildings that sit on the edge of where the Providence River runs to the sea. Around him, men on forklifts move giant pallets of something, and he passes them until he reaches the seawall.
The day is warm, with bright sun, and a breeze rolls off the bay and pushes Henry’s hair back as he sits down on the seawall and dangles his legs over the dark, brackish water. Looking off in the distance, he can see where the open ocean is, and somewhere out there is Martha’s Vineyard, so close, yet entirely distant from him. He tries to imagine Margot on the island, and he wonders if she sits as he does, perhaps on the beach, looking toward the mainland and thinking about him.
After a while, Henry stands up and wanders home. He walks through the old neighborhood, and a few of the typical characters shout to him and he greets them with a wave. Down a small side street, he passes a stickball game in progress, and since he is not in a rush to go back to the small apartment, he stops and watches it for a while, boys hitting a tennis ball with a broomstick as he once did, and for a moment the sight truly pleases him, the exaggerated windups of the pitchers, the ball whipping toward the brick wall that has home plate drawn on it as a white square in chalk. He watches a skinny brown-skinned kid with a mop of curly hair square one up and pull it, the tennis ball flying high into the air and landing on a rooftop, a home run. The hoots and hollers that follow it bring a smile to Henry’s face.
When Henry finally returns home, it is late afternoon. He is halfway up the rickety outdoor staircase when he hears voices coming through the screen door of the family apartment. One is his mother’s and the other is not his father’s. Henry goes quickly up the stairs, and when he reaches the door, he hears his mother say, “Here is Henry.”
Henry opens the metal screen door and steps into the warm kitchen. The door slaps closed behind him. Both his mother and father are on one side of the table and on the other is a tall, squared-jawed man who looks to be in his thirties. He wears a pale blue suit and shiny light brown shoes.
The man stands up, but he doesn’t smile. He extends his hand, though, and he says with an accent that sounds vaguely British, “I’m Kiernan Meyer.”
Henry takes the man’s hand and looks quickly to his parents and then back up to the man. He is easily six foot five and broad.
Henry is a
bout to speak when it is as if Kiernan anticipates what he is about to say and says, “I work for Mr. Thomas Fuller and I am here on his behalf.”
“What do you want?” Henry says.
“Sit down, please,” Kiernan says.
Henry looks toward his father, that impassive and unknowing face, and then to his mother, who of course tells him what he needs to do with a nod and with the stern look in her black eyes. She says, “Sit down, Henry.”
Henry sits in the closest chair, and next to him Kiernan eases himself into a matching chair, a chair too small for his folded body, like a parent visiting an elementary school classroom.
“Henry,” Kiernan says, “I’ve had a chance to talk with your parents. But you need to hear what I am going to say. It’s important. Do you understand? Are you listening?”
Henry shrugs. “I’m listening,” he says.
“These are the facts, okay? You assaulted a man and broke his jaw. No one disputes that. The fact that he is a very important man does not matter in terms of what the court will do, except that perhaps we could be helpful to you. From talking to the prosecutor, I would say you could be looking at a year in prison. Prison, Henry, understand?”
Henry nods as his mother gasps loudly, and he can hear her start to cry, but he cannot look at her. Instead, he looks only at Kiernan, who has gray eyes, and his head is so large that when he looks at Henry, it unnerves him, and while he is hearing him, he also desperately wants him to go, or to have this conversation somewhere where his parents cannot hear it.
“I have also talked to President Matthews at Bannister. They are prepared to move forward with an expulsion hearing for violating the code of conduct, which applies equally to off-campus activities. So right now you are looking at being kicked out of Bannister and a year in prison.”
Kiernan pauses as if to let this news settle in. His mother is crying harder now, and Henry finally looks over to her and says, “It’s going to be okay, Mom. Really.”
“Well, it could be,” says Kiernan. “Mr. Fuller is very forgiving man. And so against my advice, he has asked me to come here today to give you an opportunity to get your life back on track.”
“Why?” Henry asks.
“I’ll get to that in a minute. The prosecutor, at Mr. Fuller’s recommendation, is prepared to give you probation without any time, provided you agree to the following. First, you will not return to Bannister, but you will be allowed to graduate. President Matthews says you have met all your distribution requirements, so the work left is all in your major, creative writing. Professor Deborah Weinberg has agreed to advise you in the production of a thesis that will be a substitute for normal coursework. You can do the work from here or anywhere else, but you will not be allowed back on the Bannister campus for a period of five years. If you successfully complete the thesis, your transcript will not reflect any detriment to you.”
Henry takes this in. He looks around the kitchen and then out the small window that stares at the identical house next door, and for a moment, incongruently, he thinks about this, houses next to houses, all of them the same other than their colors, many of which were once garish but now are dulled by time, like so many things.
“What’s the catch?” Henry’s father says from across the table, shaking Henry back to what is in front of him. “There’s always a catch.”
“Just an agreement,” Kiernan says. “Henry will agree not to contact Margot Fuller ever again. And Henry will write her a letter now, to be approved by me and mailed by me, that will explain to her that he is not interested in seeing her again and this is of his free will. He will tell her he has left Bannister College. And should he try to contact her in any manner in violation of this, or inform her in any way of this agreement, it all goes away. He will be expelled from Bannister. He will be tried and convicted. A stain he will carry for the rest of his life. And given the gravity of what has happened, he will go to prison. Is this clear?”
Henry stands up quickly, the metal legs of the chair scraping against the floor. He pushes his hands through his hair. His mother, ever the survivor, is saying something to Kiernan. Henry is not listening to her, though he knows she is expressing some measure of gratitude, for his mother always sees the horizon. It is what got her here and what has kept her here.
Henry opens the screen door and moves out into the warmth of the stale summer afternoon.
Margot, 1991
All the simple things about summer that used to please her don’t matter anymore. Things she used to love, like the washing of sticky sand off her feet in the surf and the feeling of putting a clean white shirt on after a day on the white-hot beach, the way it tingles against her tanned skin, are suddenly irritants. She doesn’t want to see anyone. And the sight of her father sitting all day on the deck, hat over his eyes, with his big glass and the straw, the visible wires holding his face together, his sustenance reduced to this, reminds her of the moment love crashed into the sun.
Otherwise, it is like this thing never happened. They have one conversation about it when her father returns, and Margot bites her tongue, for she wants to tell him what she has realized, that Henry did what he did only to protect her, and wouldn’t they want her involved with a man like that?
Of course, it is more complicated than that, and she knows it. Her parents will never actually say it, but to Margot, it is clear that they believe they had no business being together, and it is not lost on Margot that, yes, this is about money, but it is also about the fact that he is a Jew, for this is the thing about the truly wealthy: Old prejudices fade slowly.
All Margot wants to do is stay in her room. She wants to sleep, but the sleep doesn’t come easily, so she lies in her bed and in her mind she turns over all the time she spent with Henry, and just as she once thought she could never love another person with this kind of intensity, she also didn’t know it was possible to grieve with this kind of intensity. The anger gives way to abject sadness, and despite the coaxing of her mother, she doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t want to play, doesn’t want to swim in the ocean or go to the many parties the idle rich kids hold at the place where the beach meets the tidal river most every evening.
It is as if she has forgotten how to crave anything at all, and she wonders if it will ever be possible to be whole again.
One morning, Margot lies in her bed, her head pressed between two pillows, when a loud knocking comes at the door.
“Honey,” her mother says. “May I come in?”
“Go away,” Margot grumbles, though she sits up and rubs her eyes. What time is it? she wonders. Bright sun streams through the windows.
“You have mail,” her mother says.
“Come in,” Margot says.
The door swings open and her mother marches in and comes over to the bed. She hands her a letter. “I thought you might want this.”
Margot takes it from her and, seeing the handwriting, she is suddenly wide-awake and yet dreaming at the same time. She wants to peel it open, but not in front of her mother. She looks at her mom and says, “Can you leave?”
“Of course,” her mother says, and then departs.
Margot opens the seal with her fingernail and reaches in and pulls out the folded piece of paper. And there in Henry’s precise handwriting, it says:
Dear Margot,
I tried to call, but I don’t really know what to say. I am sorry for what happened. I didn’t know it was your father—I thought you were being hurt, and I couldn’t allow that to happen. It was like I lost my mind and then it was over.
I would be lying if I didn’t say I miss you like I miss spring in the middle of a snowstorm. But I also am a realist and try to be as practical as a poet can ever be.
It is clear to me that something changed between us that morning. Maybe everything changed. And that we can never have back whatever we had for the time that we had it. We don’t belong together, I realized, and this is harsh to say, but it is true, and I know you know it as well as I do. I just felt t
he need to say it.
Whatever happens as a result of that day, I now know two things to be true. First is that I won’t be returning to Bannister. I don’t know what I will be doing, but I will never be there again. It has too many memories for me, and I don’t belong there, either.
The second thing I know is that I won’t be seeing you again. That pains me to no end, and maybe it doesn’t pain you because you have already decided the same thing, but in case you haven’t, it’s the right thing for both of us.
I have had time now to think about all of this and I am clear-minded about it. I don’t love you anymore. And suspect you don’t love me. It is time for us to move forward with our lives and forget, as much as we can, that this ever happened. I wish you all the best.
Love,
Henry
Margot stops reading. And then, as if she didn’t understand it, she reads it again. And then she lets out something like a yell, though different, more of a primitive yawp, and then slumps over on her bed and begins to cry.
She doesn’t leave her room that entire day. But the next morning, she comes down and without a word to her parents or her sister, she walks the entire length of the beach. The sky above her is mottled with clouds and a strong wind is coming from the south, and as she walks, the surf is higher than usual, the kind that they would post warnings about at the public beaches on the other side of the island. It is just what she needs. The sound of it tumbling over and over is almost deafening, and as she walks, she feels it all begin to lift off her, Henry, her father, all of it. The way she was raised to deal with matters like this. The sea somehow gives her a sense of her own capability to get through things.
That night after dinner, Margot is up in her room when her sister, Katherine, comes in.
“Hey,” Katherine says, and Margot is reminded of how little they do this, how much they have been avoiding each other, when as children they were inseparable. It pangs her a little to think of how growing older often means growing apart.
If I Forget You Page 12
