He took his alarm clock out of the bag and plugged it in on his nightstand, pressing the “time set” button with one finger and the “forward” with the other. Setting the time. It is just past midnight.
The following days were spent coming and going from the hospital. Whole days passed without Henry using more than a hand towel to wipe his mouth after brushing his teeth. His lack of personal hygiene a reiteration of impermanence—he’d found himself thinking several times that he would take a good long shower once he returned home, to his apartment.
But Edgar Powell took a turn for the worse—“too much time passed after the stroke,” the doctor had said. “It’s highly unlikely we’ll see any sort of significant recovery.” And then “I’m sorry” mumbled in haste. Within days his father was dead. And Henry’s first thought, the first thing that popped into his head when the nurse on duty called to say his father “passed” was, he passed? Like he passed gas?
It comes back to him full force: it was a dot com. Henry remembers now. Mike’s business going belly up. He had to move back to town because he lost it all when the bubble burst. God, I’m such a jerk, he thinks. He’s always been a good guy. A really good guy come to think of it. And here I stand him up so he’s forced to pay for drinks I was going to pay for because he hasn’t got the money. And he’s back here and so nice about it really.
“Hey, Mike?” he walks over to his old friend. “Can we try again? How about this weekend? We can watch college championships at that new place down the street on Sunday if you’re up for it. I swear I’ll be there this time.” He says this with a no-hard-feelings smile.
Mike exhales and appears relieved for the clean slate this invitation is providing. Eagerly he nods. “How about you come over to my place and we can watch. I just got a new TV. All the work’s finally done. You’ve got to come see it.”
“Sounds good. Before you go just leave me your address. What time is good? I think the Notre Dame game starts at five.”
“Five’s perfect. Here’s my card.”
“You got a new job? Where’re you working?”
“No, not really. Just had these printed up to make things easier.”
Henry finds the fact that Mike Dean has a card but no job uncommonly sad. A face-saving move. Things must be worse than he had thought and here he had always assumed Michael Dean would surprise all of them with his success. All those brains, all that education (Henry seems to recall Dean went to Harvard), and he’s unemployed and handing out cards with just a name and address and an e-mail. Then again, maybe he’s onto something, Henry thinks. Maybe I should get cards made up. Not with Baxter’s on them—Jesus, no—but like this one. Come to think of it that would make things easier, dammit. How grown-up to be able to hand someone a card like this one. Heavy stock. Here’s how you can reach me, accompanied by a James Bond flick of the wrist. This is a damn good idea. Damn good.
Kelly and her husband appear to be satisfied with their loot and the promise of the new life these clothes will afford them. The husband is sliding his leather wallet out of his back pocket, Kelly is sorting through the items she is carrying over to the register, to be added to the two already on hold.
“I think we’re good to go,” the husband says to Henry.
Henry carefully folds each sweater, each shirt, the down vest, the flannel jacket, and of course the Nantucket Reds, ringing each up as he folds.
Mr. Beardsley, beaming, stands behind the counter next to Henry and makes conversation. “We’ve got raincoats fifty percent off, just so you know.” To which the husband replies, “Oh, Jeez, we’ve got foul-weather gear up to here.” He holds his hand above his own head to indicate the size of the pile. “We’re Noah without the ark, heh.”
Henry accepts the credit card and the implication that, since it was handed over before the final tally was made, this couple does not care about hearing the total. What he cannot accept is the fact that raincoats are now referred to as foul-weather gear. When did that happen? It’s foul-weather gear if you’re the Gordon’s fisherman, Henry thinks, but when you’re driving down Main Street on your way to the supermarket, it’s a raincoat. Or a slicker. He could accept that term. But foul-weather gear? Come on.
He fits the card into the four tiny brackets and takes a blank receipt, with its three tissues of carbon paper separating each level of nearly equally thin paper, and places it carefully on top of the card. Henry has always enjoyed the clunking sound of the slider across the imprint machine—back and forth it goes, pressing the raised credit card number all the way through the receipt. It is as satisfying in sound as it is in action. In much the same way pressing elevator buttons is thrilling for little children lifted up by amused parents.
Mr. Beardsley flutters to this customer and that throughout the rest of the day and, while Henry does, too, he finds himself already planning what to bring to Mike’s house on Sunday. The poor guy is out of work, probably spent whatever he had in severance—is it severance if a company goes out of business or is severance when you get fired, he cannot be sure—on doing work to his apartment or condominium back in a town to which he probably never thought he would return.
He helps a short woman reach a peacoat for her son and thinks maybe he will bring chips and salsa along with beer.
He imagines hanging out with Mike the way he used to with Tom Geigan before Geigan got married and moved into a tiny brick house he is perpetually working on. Do-it-yourselfers, Geigan and his wife. Henry pitched in when it came to moving their few belongings into the house (and was as startled as they were to find that even just that one U-Haul’s worth of boxes and furniture packed their home so tight it sometimes required a sideways turn between chairs in order to pass through a single room and the surplus of chairs had the unfortunate effect of lowering the ceiling). But when it came to tuck-pointing and cabinet replacement he bowed out and Geigan halfheartedly called him a “pussy” though never held it against him.
Yes, now that he thinks about it, Henry and Mike have possibilities. It’ll be nice to have someone in the same boat, he thinks.
He helps a tall man find a jacket with sleeves long enough but that will require taking in along the back seam (the man has length not girth) and Henry rethinks the chips and salsa. Beers from around the world would be cool, he thinks, pinching and pinning the jacket from top to bottom down the man’s spine. Finding beers from different countries. Beer from Poland. What’s that one called? Oh, anyway. People think about German beer but there’s beer from all over. Belgium. There’s John Courage from England. He’ll like that. It’s kind of bitter but it’s an amber, it’s a good winter beer. Gives you a real thick head. Hint of fruit in it. There are always the Mexican ones: Tecate. Dos Equis. Foster’s is big, too. Australian. He’ll have had that, though, so maybe that’s too obvious. I’ll just go to the store and see what they’ve got.
The store Henry is thinking of is almost an hour away, just outside the city, but well worth the trip as it carries hard-to-find liquor and beer at warehouse prices. Since it opened in 1985, when skyrocketing incomes allowed for more than Pabst and Schlitz—indeed craved more if only to showcase a worldliness Wall Streeters were eager to cultivate—Henry has been there with some frequency, picking out a different six-pack each time, secretly appreciating his own sense of adventure.
We could make it a regular Sunday night thing, he thinks, carrying the jacket up to the register unconcerned that a pin or two fell out on the trip through the store. He knows pinning all the way around sleeves, cuffs or along seams is overkill—the tailor only needs one or two to lead the way. One week at his place with a beer I chose, the next week at mine and he brings the beer.
“When can I pick it up?” the long-armed customer asks.
“Huh? Oh, ah, how about next Saturday?” he says.
Unlike other years, this year has brought only a few familiar faces into the store, a discomfiting fact that sticks in the back of Henry’s mind like the forgotten toothbrush on the way to th
e airport. Whenever someone he does know walks through the door (Neal Peterson aside but then that turned out so different from how he thought it would which tells him not to be so judgmental and jeez next time I sure won’t be judgmental that’s for sure, he thinks), he is Giving Tree happy, branches shaking with delight over the return of whomever has remembered his store, remembered him.
Ted Marshall is therefore practically hugged when he stops in, surprised to see Henry but still warm, friendly and, Henry thinks, grateful for the chance to reminisce.
“Whoa, now there’s the man,” Henry says, rushing over to his old teammate from a middle-aged woman who did not really need his help, anyway. She’d been trying on fleece pullovers meant for men but she is large so it made sense in her case. She had been at it for nearly twenty minutes but none pleased her as they all seemed to hit in a very unflattering place along her hips.
“Hey…there,” Marshall says. Henry does not hear the hesitation in his voice as a stall for name recollection but rather as something Marshall has picked up along the way. A nervous tick, that sort of thing.
“How the heck are you? Ted Marshall. Wow. You look exactly the same. But then you used to be the invisible man, heh. On the field, I mean.”
“Aah, Henry,” Marshall says, not even trying to cover up the fact that Henry’s name has only just come to him. How could he not remember me he was always a flake this Marshall so I shouldn’t be surprised still that’s just bad form if you ask me, he thinks.
“How are you, man?” Marshall is still shaking Henry’s hand.
“Good, good. Where are you these days?”
“Colorado,” Marshall says, scoping out the store, nodding as he turns back to Henry. “Boulder.”
“Nice place,” Henry says. “I hear it’s great out there.”
“It’s great. Unbelievable, actually. So the sale, huh? Still going strong every year?”
“Yep.” Henry looks around and is pleased to see it is busy, the bustle somehow adding clout to his being there. “Still going strong. Like the ’78 Wildcats, huh? Right?”
Marshall looks back at Henry and cocks his head to the side and smirks. “Yeah, right. Hey, where are those khakis? You know the ones? The red ones?”
“Nantucket Reds. They’re right over here,” Henry says, leading the way. “Just follow me. Kind of like you did that game, remember? I looked for you, man. I looked all over that field. Here they are. I have to tell you I can’t picture Nantucket Reds in Boulder to be honest….”
“Oh, Jesus, no,” Marshall says. His chuckle warm and inclusive like an elbow in the ribs urging Henry to laugh along with him. “We’ve got a party coming up and it’s an eighties theme so I thought these’d be perfect. I hate costume stuff but my wife, you know, she’s hell-bent on us going along with it. I just wish I’d hung on to mine from back then. I figure these and one of those madras shirts you guys have—there! There they are! I’ll be damned. This is perfect. Now I’m done. I just need these in a thirty-two. I can have my tailor hem them once I get home. Hey, do me a favor and grab a medium in that madras, would you?”
Marshall’s fingers click along the row of pants to find his size.
“No problem,” Henry says. “I’m going long. I’m going long.” He is holding his arms up for the imaginary football, hoping Marshall will look up and play along and when he does not Henry becomes aware that several shoppers are looking at him so he shoves his hands in his blazer pockets and hurries over to the summer shirt rack. Medium, medium, no. A large and two smalls. No medium. Huh. He looks over at Marshall and takes a large, figuring his tailor can also make the proper adjustments to the shirt while he’s at it with the Reds.
“Sorry, pal, no mediums.”
Mike Dean would hate this guy, Henry thinks. He seems to recall Marshall being one of the bullies that tormented Mike but then so many did.
“Hey, when did Blackie’s close?” Marshall says, handing his credit card across the counter. “And wow, I can’t believe all the restaurants. We’re going to Terra Firma tonight.” And then, he stammers, “With, ah, my parents. Is it any good?”
“I hear it’s pretty good,” Henry says. “Loud but good. If you’re in town long enough you should try Imogene’s. It’s around the corner, across from the movie theater. It’s great.”
“Yeah, and the movie theater’s now a multiplex? Wow. I remember when there was just that one choice and then they bumped out to two screens and everyone thought it was such a big deal, having two movies to choose from. Remember that? Now it’s a multiplex. Huh. I have to say I thought Blackie’s would always be here. I wanted to take my wife there for a beer before dinner.”
“Blackie’s closed last year, I think it was. It hung on a long time but the rents are unbelievable now. Bud—remember the bartender, Bud?—he’s down in Florida now. Some retirement village where they all drive around in golf carts. Even to the market.”
“Bud the bartender. Man, I haven’t thought of him in years.” Marshall smiles a faraway smile. His signature is offhand and completely illegible. “Hey, thanks. And good to see you.”
Just like that he is gone.
I never did like him, Henry thinks. He was always such a flake, never there when you needed him. Not really a team player. I really did look around for him that time. Okay, maybe I didn’t study the field for him but I didn’t have time. They were coming at me so I had to run. Maybe he’s still holding that against me: that I made the touchdown not him. That’s probably it. Why he was so quick to leave. Heck, I might hold a grudge if the tables were turned. The scout was there, after all, and maybe he thinks it should have been him. But he was fine, I think. He ended up at Princeton so it must not have been the scout so much as the way the team thought of him after that. You could just tell. They didn’t look at him the same way. Not the way they looked at me, that’s for sure. So come to think of it, that explains a lot. Maybe I should stop by Terra Firma later and really shake his hand. An apology shake: the kind that’s tighter, moves up and down a few times for the grip to sink in so words aren’t needed. I show up, give him the apology handshake and let him know I’m sorry, that I hope he lets it go. He shouldn’t be letting it eat him up after all this time. He needs to let it go. This is great. This is a great idea.
Henry pulls out the phone book but it is a year old and Terra Firma is new so he has to call information to get the number for the restaurant.
“Hi, this is Henry Powell,” he says to the smooth voice of the hostess he knows is required to wear black head-to-toe because that is what everyone is used to in the city and the town does not want the newcomers—the city transplants—to feel they’d made a mistake moving to a town that might appear completely out of touch. “From up the street? Baxter’s?”
“What can I do for you?” she asks.
“I’m wanting to come in to surprise an old friend who’s having dinner there later tonight. Can you tell me what time the Marshall reservation is?”
“Marshall, Marshall,” she says. He can tell she is moving a forefinger down a long list of names in the reservation book. “Oh, here they are. Marshall party of ten. Eight-thirty.”
Party of ten? Henry was sure he’d said they were just having dinner with his parents. Huh.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“Oh—” Henry had almost forgotten he was still on the phone “—no. That’s it. Thanks.”
Who eats at eight-thirty? That’s kind of late. But he’s still on Colorado time so I suppose it makes sense.
Mr. Beardsley’s voice coming from right behind him startles Henry.
“They’re back” is all he says.
“Who’s back?” Henry asks, looking around the store for a reference point. There are only two people sifting through the half-off bins and neither of them looks familiar.
“Schmidt and Logan. They’re back and they’re interested.”
“I’m still not following. Schmidt and Logan?” He racks his brain, hoping i
t will come to him.
“I told you about them years ago,” Mr. Beardsley says. “They’re the turn-around ones. They specialize in clothing stores. Stores like these. Remember? They were interested in beefing us up all those years ago. When was that…in the eighties sometime. You remember.”
And Henry does recall a fragment of conversation, a wide smile from Mr. Beardsley, excitement, something like that he is sure of it now. “Oh, yeah. I remember. They worked on Clarke’s, right? Clarke’s in Westtown?”
He’s pleased he can give Mr. Beardsley this: a clear sign he has indeed been listening to him all these years. The problem is Mr. Beardsley has no wide smile, no excitement, no pleasure in Henry’s gift of recollection of the tiniest of details.
“So what’s the problem? That’s good, right? They’re interested in beefing us up. What’s wrong with that?”
Mr. Beardsley shakes his head. “It’s not good this time. They’ve got partners, architects, planners.”
“Still not following,” Henry says. Hearing the door announce another customer he says, “I’ll be right back.”
“Can I help you find something in particular?” Henry asks then realizes he knows this face. “I’ll be darned. Craig Eddy, right?”
They shake hands, the tutor and his old protégé. “Hey,” Craig says. Henry sees he is no longer shy but still appears a bit starstruck so Henry tries to put him at ease.
“How are you? Good to see you,” he says, clapping him on the back that is filled out now. “How’s Hampden-Sydney? You home for the holidays?”
Everything Must Go Page 26
