The Nearly Girl

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “That’s hardly her fault,” Megan was indignant and she moved to close the door.

  “I’m watching you,” the landlord said, and he gestured with a two-fingered eye-poke at himself and then at her. “That’s me, watching you, girlie.”

  She shut the door, and decided not to tell Henry what had happened.

  He strolled out of the washroom, naked and content. “Clean can feel like heaven sometimes,” he said. “Have you not had enough TV? I am feeling largely positive that I can find another way to entertain you…”

  “Largely, I agree you can,” she said, looking pointedly at his enthused erection and she pulled off her T-shirt. “Let’s head for the bed, Mister.”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said the following day as the train headed east. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

  “Are you high?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then everything should be fine. I’m the one who should be nervous, not you. To put things in perspective about my family, you should know that our lives are furnished by The Brick, we dress at Sears, and we shop for groceries at the No Frills.”

  “Consider me in the know,” Henry said. “And just so you know, that that kind of stuff matters naught to me.”

  “True.” She snuggled up to him.

  He was wearing a new hospital uniform. This one was pale yellow with white diamonds and squiggles, and he had a new pair of sandals she hadn’t seen before. They were a neon green.

  “It’s like four degrees out there,” she said. “Even though I know you don’t feel the cold, I worry. It’s like those people who hold their hands over flames — their skin must get burnt. You must suffer ill-effects.”

  “I suffer all right,” Henry muttered, “but not from the cold. It is my head, darling, you were right, my broken, broken head. Humpty Dumpty’s got nothing on my head.”

  “I love your head,” she said, and she stopped short. The L word.

  “As I love yours,” he returned simply, and she could breathe again.

  They had to catch a bus after the train and Megan thought the ride would last forever. She hated Canada in November; everything was grey and dreary, dull and dark.

  “At least it was Halloween a few days ago.” she said out loud.

  Henry turned to look at her. “I thought you didn’t like Halloween.”

  “I don’t, but at least the houses are brightly decorated. I hate this time of year because I don’t like the fact that winter is coming.”

  “Everybody does. You’ll be okay once we get snow. Snow makes people happy.”

  “Not everybody,” she reminded him and he nodded.

  “Where are we?” he asked. “I can’t see out the windows, they’re too dirty. No wonder you moved to Toronto. This is the far side of the eastern world.”

  “We’re nearly there,” she said as she pulled her scarf tight around her neck. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  They walked up a long tired street, the houses fronted by dead grass lawns and the smatterings of left-over dollar-store Halloween cheer. A few dogs barked noisily and someone was testing the revs on a car that needed a new muffler.

  “Here we are,” Megan said and she turned into the driveway of a low-slung bungalow with aluminum siding.

  “Here’s the garden gnome collection,” she pointed as they walked toward the porch steps, although the procession of gnomes that lined the pathway would have been hard to miss. A large one-toothed cardboard witch that had seen better days sailed across the front door on her broomstick and cobwebs hung in clumps around the door frame.

  “Mom loves Halloween,” Megan explained unnecessarily, putting her key into the front door lock.

  “Mom? Dad?” she called out. “You home?”

  “Meggie!” Her mother sounded delighted. “What a surprise, sweetie!” It sounded like she was in the kitchen. “Dad’s in the basement, I’ll go and call him. Megan heard her open the door to the basement. “Dad, Dad,” she yelled. “You’ll never guess who’s here!”

  Megan could hear her father clumping up the rickety basement stairs and he and her mother rounded the entrance to the living room at the same time, coming to an abrupt halt when they spotted Henry.

  “This is Henry,” Megan said.

  “Of course it is,” Megan’s mother replied. “I’m Ethel and this is Ed.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Ed said and he shook Henry’s hand. “Beer for you?”

  “Ah, no, I’m good, thank you, Ed. I would love some water though.”

  “Sure thing, come on. Meggie, you want a beer?”

  “Love one, Dad,” Megan said, pulling off her coat and flinging it onto the sofa.

  “Not home five minutes and already making a mess,” her mother scolded and Megan laughed.

  “You love it,” she said.

  “I love you, so that makes it okay.”

  As Henry inspected an oil painting of a wide-eyed kitten, Megan’s mother gave her a quick thumbs up and Megan relaxed.

  Ed returned with their drinks and they sat in the living room.

  Megan cracked open her beer. “Henry’s never been this far east before,” she teased him and all eyes turned to Henry who had crossed his legs, balancing the glass of water on his knee.

  “True,” he agreed. “I have not. I am not a well-travelled man.”

  “But you are poet,” Ethel said with a genuine smile. Megan was sure her mother was flirting with Henry, just slightly but still, there it was, and she exchanged a grin with her father.

  “Guilty as charged,” Henry said. “Here is a sample of my wares.” He closed his eyes, paused for a moment, and then he let fly a stream of poetic consciousness that left his audience speechless.

  “That sort of thing,” he said, into the silence after he finished.

  “Bravo,” Ed said, raising his beer can. “I didn’t understand a single word but it sounded very impressive.”

  Henry laughed.

  “Megan said you’re studying math or something,” Ethel said.

  “I am trying to untangle syllogistic logic,” Henry said and a look of frustration crossed his face. “Mainly to explain my own … issues … I guess. I am fascinated by time, space, cause, effect, and consequence and how they logically interact. As humans, we like to find explanations for fundamental actions and behaviours, and we are not happy unless there’s a reason for things. We like to know that this led to this, that led to that. But what if nothing led to this and that, but random chance? I think that is the underlying truth, but most people cannot handle it.”

  “I know I can’t,” Ed said. “Call me square, Henry, and I don’t mind if you do, but you’re right, I need my reasons for things. I need my this causes that. Otherwise, we’re all just corks bobbing on the crazy seas of some unnamed ocean and if that is truth, son, then I don’t want to know.”

  Ethel and Megan stared at Ed in surprise.

  “I tell you what, Ed,” Henry said. “If I ever prove my theory conclusively, I won’t tell you, how’s that?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Ed said and he sounded relieved. “You want to see some birdcages?”

  “I’d love to!” Henry jumped to his feet and the two men wandered off, leaving Ethel and Megan behind, both of them speechless.

  “Well, I never,” Ethel finally said. “You ever heard your father talk like that?”

  Megan shook her head. “Nope. But Mom, Henry’s lovely, isn’t he?”

  “He is, sweetie, he really is. Are you hungry? I can make you something if you like.”

  “Oh, yeah, Mom, an omelet! With three kinds of cheese and onions and green pepper and olives.”

  “You’re not pregnant?” her mother asked and Megan swatted her.

  “No, Mom! Don’t be silly! Let me ask Henry if he wants something but I’ll bet he
says no. He had mushroom soup for breakfast and that’s usually all he has in a day.”

  “Tell him I’ve got fresh-baked caramel cookies if he likes. I made them for the bingo ladies for tomorrow’s game, but I can make some more later.”

  “He says yes, please, that’d be wonderful,” Megan said when she returned.

  Her mother handed her a plate with a pile of cookies. “They’re still talking birdhouses down there?” she asked.

  “Yeah, non-stop. Wait, save one of those cookies for me, for after my omelet.”

  Megan carried the plate downstairs and handed it to Henry who was gesticulating angles with his long arms. He took a cookie without pausing, bit into it with relish, and carried on talking.

  “They’re in their own world,” Megan reported with satisfaction as she sat down at the small Formica-covered table and watched her mother cook. “So, Mom, what’s up with you? How are the bingo ladies? Spill the beans, give me the down and dirty.”

  “Now that you mention it, Frances’ boy is in trouble again….” Her mother got right into it, with Megan nodding and saying the right things, but the only thing she was actually listening to was the happy murmur coming from the basement.

  Later, she had to drag Henry away.

  “We have to go, or we’ll miss the bus and even now, it will be ages before we get home,” she said. Henry looked glum at having to leave.

  “See you soon, son,” Ed said. “We can even come and visit you lot in Toronto, take you out for a meal or something. Wait one second though.”

  He rushed back down to the basement and returned with a birdhouse that he thrust at Henry. “Here,” he said and he turned a dark purple. “You liked this one best.”

  Megan was about to object and say that Henry didn’t like possessions when she saw Henry’s eyes light up and he reached for it like a kid at Christmas.

  “Wow, thanks Ed! This is the best thing anyone’s ever given me!” He cradled the birdcage to his chest.

  “Can we leave now?” Megan asked, smiling. “Come on, Henry. Goodbye Mom, Dad. I’ll phone you soon.”

  They walked down the driveway with Henry examining his birdhouse and chatting happily to Megan while Ethel and Ed watched from the window.

  “Going to break her heart, isn’t he?” Ethel said and Ed put his arm around her waist and sighed. “Yup. And ours, Eth. And ours.”

  Megan and Henry settled into a routine of sorts. “I had a word with the landlord,” Henry said. “I’m going to pay him an extra seventy-five a week and he’ll leave us alone.”

  “Seventy-five? We could live somewhere much bigger for that.”

  “Yeah, but we would have to find it, sign documents, move. It’s much easier to just pay him. Besides, I like your apartment. You have a nice view of the park and there is good light.”

  Megan wondered what domestic life with Henry would entail. She didn’t think it would resemble anything like the living arrangements that the rest of the world was used to. And she was right. Henry did surprise her by being more scheduled than she had thought he could or would be, although he still came and went at startlingly obtuse hours. She couldn’t sleep when he was out; there was always a part of her that worried he wouldn’t come back, so she found it hard to get the sleep she needed.

  Henry began to write down his poems and he pinned large sheets of paper to the wall, tracking the flow of his thoughts. Megan loved coming home, opening the front door, and seeing Henry standing there, gnawing on a pencil, mumbling, shirtless, and most of the time, entirely naked.

  The first few times she came home and he was engrossed, she tiptoed past him, not wanting to disturb him, but she soon realized that she could play the drums on the kitchen pots and pans and he wouldn’t hear a thing.

  When he was done writing for the day, he lay down on the floor, exhausted, and slept for a while. Then he would slip out to find his drugs and return at odd hours to crawl into bed with Megan, smelling of wood smoke, and holding her tight.

  “How will you know when you’re done?” she asked him, watching from the bedroom doorway as he scratched a new word across an old one on one of the sheets of paper. She had been fast asleep but a bad dream had woken her and she had wanted to see if Henry was still in the apartment or out for the night.

  He turned to her and she could see him gathering his thoughts, moving away from the world inside his head and back to her. “I will never be done. I have an editor coming around tomorrow. He’s going to read them and see what he thinks.”

  “He’s going to read them on the wall?”

  “Yes.” He squinted at the writing. “Come and tell me if you think it is legible.”

  “It is,” she said. “I read everything every day. I’ve got no idea what it all means, but I can read the words for what they are.”

  “Oh, good.” He sounded relieved and he pulled her down onto the sofa with him and put her feet on his lap. “I never thought I could have this,” he said. “You and me. I am so afraid of this happiness. Because that’s what I feel, Meg, happy.”

  “Me too, Henry.”

  They grinned at each other.

  “I am hungry,” he said. “I think a stack of pancakes would go down a treat now, what say you?”

  “It’s two a.m.!”

  “Exactly,” Henry replied, getting up. “Time for supper.”

  Megan did wonder how much longer she would be able to function with the odd sleeping hours. She tried to be vigilant and maintain a regular schedule, but the days crept into the nights and the wrong hours stayed, like overdue library books gathering late fees. Megan felt as if her life was gathering late fees. She knew her concentration was slipping. She forgot to buy milk when it was the very thing she set out to get. She forgot to take her contraceptive pill for a few days, and then she took three to make up for it. She wore odd combinations of clothing to work, not realizing that she had done so until her boss looked at her strangely and remarked that it was a good thing they were a call centre, and not in full view of the public eye.

  Megan apologized and decided to plan a week’s outfits in advance but when she came home, either Henry distracted her or she fell asleep waiting for him, or she lost herself in some mindless TV.

  The evening after the editor’s visit, Megan arrived home to find the walls bare. The living room felt bereft and Henry was nowhere to be seen.

  Megan was worried. Had the editor hated the poems? She couldn’t bear to think of Henry’s devastation. She looked at her watch. It was only early evening but it was already dark.

  She had no idea where to start looking for Henry and she wished she’d taken a more careful note of where he went.

  Too restless to sit and wait, she headed out to try and find him, thinking he might be in the park, but there was no one there apart from a few teenagers passing a bottle back and forth. The wind picked up and she thought she’d get Chinese take-out and wait it out for Henry back at the apartment.

  She pulled her coat tight and slipped down a side road, heading for a Chinese restaurant that Henry loved. She thought she’d get him his favourites and have them ready for his supper, although, knowing him, he’d have them for breakfast.

  And it was then that she saw him. She didn’t recognize him at first. She only saw a tall figure in the darkness of a doorway, but something about the posture was familiar and she slowed down. Yes. It was Henry. His eyes were rolling back in his head and he was muttering and moaning and making unfamiliar noises, noises that brought a coldness to her stomach.

  She wanted to call out to him, to try to help him, but she was worried that she would startle him and she sensed that could be dangerous. At one point he seemed to look at her and she waited for him to recognize her, but he looked right through her and his eyes rolled back in his head again.

  “One of our regulars,” a voice said and Megan jumped. She turned to see a pol
ice officer standing next to her, one hand on a bicycle.

  “He’s harmless,” the cop said. “Hangs around doing his crazy eye-rolling thing and next thing you know, he’s gone. Probably from the psych ward down the road.”

  Megan couldn’t find words. She stood there, watching Henry writhing in the doorway.

  “What’s wrong with him?” She managed to get the words out, and they sounded as if they had come from someone else.

  The cop shrugged. “Who knows? No shortage of loonies around here. You from around here?”

  “No, just passing through,” Megan lied.

  The cop looked as though he would have liked to chat her up a bit. He was short and not bad-looking, youngish, dark-haired.

  “I must go,” she said.

  “Officer Kaminski,” he called after her. “In case you ever want to look me up. Fifty-Two Division. Kaminski!”

  She tucked her head down and hurried home.

  She had no idea what to think. She was ice cold and damp to her marrow but she couldn’t move. She sat on the sofa in the living room with the newly-stripped walls and waited for Henry to return. When she finally heard the key turn in the door, it was close to dawn and she was still wide awake.

  Henry was alarmed to see her sitting there under the light of a single lamp.

  “Meggie? You okay?”

  She started to cry. “I saw you, Henry. You were so out of it. You didn’t know who I was or anything. You were in a doorway and some cop saw you too. What’s going on? Is that what you do when you’re not here?”

  His face closed. “I do what I have to, Meg,” he said. “You know that. I can’t face an interrogation now. You know there are things I do that I don’t have the answer to either. I wish I did. And I wish you hadn’t seen me like that.”

  “I was so worried, that’s all.” Megan followed him into the bedroom. “I was frightened. A cop was there, and he said that you’re there often, in that state.”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” Henry said. “I can’t. Please Meg.”

  “What happened to the poems on the wall?”

  He shrugged. “The editor loved them. He understood what I was doing, the progression and regression, and he said he could read it fine. He took them down and said he is going to typeset them and even though it is a crazy deadline, he wants to have a book out by spring.”