Henry, Himself, page 7
As with anything mechanical in the Maxwell household, the clocks were his responsibility. He waited until Emily was ready to head up to bed and went around the downstairs room by room. She used the stove and microwave every day, yet claimed not to know how to change the time. What was she going to do when he was gone? His computer would adjust automatically, and the atomic clock on his bookshelf. He wound the Black Forest cuckoo clock in the breakfast nook, waking the bird, inserted the key in the face of the grandfather clock and twisted, making the chimes ring as he brought the minute hand full circle. He’d locked up and turned off the lights when he saw the glow of her stereo.
“Tricky,” he said, because it always got him.
Upstairs Emily had left the bathroom light on for him and was reading in bed, Rufus sacked out at her feet. Henry fixed the clock radios in the children’s rooms and the banjo clock in the den before adding an hour to his father’s watch and setting it on his dresser.
“We are officially in the future.”
“What?” Emily lowered her book.
“We’re living in the future for the next couple of hours.”
“That’s great,” she said. “I’m reading.”
The new time seemed wrong. It wasn’t really that late, but he didn’t feel like reading, and didn’t bother turning on his light. His back ached from lifting all that mulch. He stretched, absorbing the warmth of the electric blanket. He’d forgotten to take his Aleve. Too late. He’d be up in three hours to pee anyway.
Finally Emily closed her book and rolled away from him, raised up on one elbow.
“I’m setting my alarm for eight,” she warned.
“I don’t think we’ll need it,” he said, but in the morning he was dreaming and didn’t want to get up.
It was too early. His back hurt, and his eyes burned as if he’d been on the computer too long. As he was brushing his teeth, the cap of the toothpaste got away from him, bouncing along the counter. He lunged to catch it one-handed and batted it off the glass of the shower stall so it rolled into the corner behind the toilet. Stiffly, bent over, bracing himself on the closed lid, he was reaching for the cap when his back spasmed, making him grunt and straighten up. “Dammit.”
The only handy tool was the plunger, which he immediately vetoed. Ultimately he used a towel, limply fishing in the corner. On his third try he managed to snag the cap, but as he was dragging it out, he knocked the toilet paper loose, the spring-loaded holder coming apart, sending the roll unfurling across the floor.
“Nothing’s easy,” he said, an observation his father applied to the universe when frustrated by a stripped screw or a balky engine, and deliberately, with the grim efficiency of a hired killer, Henry retrieved the roll and fit it back in place, rinsed off the cap, screwed it onto the tube and stuffed the towel in the hamper.
As every spring, the last clock he changed was the one in the Olds, a single touch of a button. After the bathroom, he was careful driving, remembering what Margaret had said. In church he prayed for her, for all those in the grip of addiction, and their loved ones. He was looking forward to talking to her, for once. He wanted to share his misadventures with the cap of the toothpaste and tell her she was right—a small point of agreement, but something. He knew she’d enjoy imagining him playing the fool, and that he’d exaggerate his bumbling to make her laugh. When she was a girl he used to make up stories for her. Please, she asked. Pretty please? Okay. Once upon a time there was a brave little chicken named Margaret. The plot had something to do with a fox and a dog and a chicken coop, he couldn’t remember. Maybe she would. All afternoon he waited for her to call, but she never did.
The Fearsome Foursome
Good Friday, Kenny and Lisa and the grandchildren were scheduled to land around five, meaning Henry would have to battle rush hour traffic through the tunnel both ways. All week they braced for the invasion, getting the house ready, making beds and emptying dressers. Emily planned her menus like a general, her recipes marshaled on the dining room table. At Christmas her mashed potatoes had been salty, and though it had been Arlene who’d pointed it out, what she remembered was that Lisa had agreed too quickly.
“And she didn’t have to say anything,” Emily said. “That’s what a polite guest would do. Arlene I expect it from. You wouldn’t do that, would you?”
“No.” His mother had taught him to eat everything on his plate and not complain, advice he’d followed, for better or worse, his whole life.
“No, because it’s rude. I’m not making them again.”
“I like your mashed potatoes.”
“Tell that to her. Maybe she’ll make you some.”
She and Lisa had clashed from the beginning, a mismatch, yet at Penn Mac in the Strip, watching Emily choosing fancy organic cheeses for Saturday’s appetizers, he sensed she was still hoping to impress her, as she’d hoped, years ago, to impress his mother. His mother had liked her for trying, a small-town girl so obviously out of her depth, spreading butter on her roll at the club with her fish knife. As the lady of the house, his mother’s gift was making everyone feel welcome. Lisa felt no such obligation, and he wanted to tell Emily not to bother. There were some people who would never care for you no matter how hard you tried.
Thursday, in the midst of their preparations, Henry was supposed to go golfing. Fred Knapp was back from Sarasota and had gotten them a ten o’clock tee time at Buckhorn. Henry offered to cancel, but Emily said he should go. It was his first time out, and the weather was perfect. She had everything she needed to make the lasagna and planned on cooking all day. He’d just be in the way.
“Maybe we can get out next week,” he said.
“Let me get through today first.”
Loading his clubs into the Olds, he thought that after fifty years he still had to work at reading her. Not that he was wrong. She sounded put-upon, but if he stayed it would be worse. She honestly wanted him to go. At the same time, she needed him to appreciate the sacrifice she was making, though if anyone asked, she would say it was no sacrifice and that she loved to cook.
Golf was simpler. Their foursome had been playing together since the mid-seventies, when they were at the lab, and their games, like their personalities, were fixed. Fred, who played all year long, was a big hitter with a terrific slice, where Cy Wallace was short and straight down the fairway. Henry’s strength was his chipping, while his partner Jack Beeler lived and died by his putter. Together the Fearsome Foursome had won a dozen company scrambles over the years, and if individually they now struggled to break 80, the competition for the scorecard—the ultimate prize, after a lifetime of striving—was that much fiercer. Loser bought lunch.
The Parkway inbound was backed up to Churchill, and though he had nowhere to be, racing out of town past stopped traffic felt like playing hooky. Murrysville was dully exotic, one long strip mall of stores he’d never visit. A creek wound alongside him as he burrowed into the hills, the road lined with mailboxes and raised ranches, landscapers guiding riding mowers over sprawling lawns dotted with forsythia and wishing wells. He couldn’t imagine living out here, though it was actually closer to the lab, and probably cheaper. Safer, certainly. It was too late. He’d been born in the city and he would die there. He couldn’t say why, but the idea filled him with pride.
Designed by Arnold Palmer, Buckhorn was supposed to be the centerpiece of an exclusive new development, an adult community of custom homes clustered around a championship links. The builders completed just the back nine before the bank foreclosed, leaving behind a maze of blank cul-de-sacs and a rusting bulldozer marooned in a sea of reeds off the second tee. The course was well tended, but its nine holes were useless for leagues, and in the middle of the week it was reliably empty. The clubhouse was the construction manager’s leftover trailer with a pressure-treated deck and snack bar tacked on. Jack’s Caddy was pulled up by the carts, Jack sitting on the back bumper, changing into his spikes. Besides a couple of muddy pickups at the far end of the lot, there were two huge SUVs and a Corvette parked together.
“Are they on already?” Henry asked.
“I guess. I didn’t see them. How was your winter?”
“Good, how was yours?”
“Long.”
“I hear you. Doesn’t get better than this though.”
“Here they come,” Jack said of Fred and Cy, pulling in together. “Better late than never.”
Cy was driving a new Acura. Next to the Olds it looked futuristic, all angles, like a stealth fighter. Emily would have said it was too young for him.
“What happened,” Jack asked, “you hit the lottery?”
“It’s last year’s. I got a deal.”
“Pretty snazzy.”
Fred was unseasonably tan and wore an old Westinghouse-logo windbreaker Henry had at home.
“How’s Florida?” Henry asked.
“Like hell—hot, crowded and full of New Yorkers.”
They would have all day to catch up, and dug in their bags, swapping their wallets and keys for gloves and tees and ball markers. Since the season hadn’t officially started, the price for eighteen and a cart was only twenty-five dollars, a bargain. They donned their Pirates and Steelers and Nike caps, strapped in their bags and headed off. As always, Jack drove, flooring it, Henry gripping the handle built into the roof as they jolted over the rutted path, the wind cold on his cheeks.
The course was theirs, the threesome nowhere in sight, furthering the illusion of Buckhorn being their private club. One, like most opening holes, was a medium-sized par-four, straight, with acres of fairway. Henry stretched, taking extra practice swings to loosen up his back. Dew silvered the grass, capturing footprints, and he dried off the head of his driver with a towel. No one could remember who had honors from last year, prompting an Alzheimer’s joke. Fred stepped up and hit a bomb that rose and then turned over, slicing sharply into the rough. “Fuck, a, duck.”
Cy skulled his. It skimmed the women’s tee, spinning up spray before dying in the wet grass.
“Ugly ugly ugly.”
“At least it’s straight.”
Jack deferred to Henry.
He tested the wind before addressing his ball. Ideally he wanted to be on the rise just to the left of the white 150-yard marker. He had a tendency to open his front shoulder, and tucked it in. Head down, follow through. His practice swing was clean. He reset his feet and squared up the ball with the club face. He tried to take his time with his backswing. He didn’t have to crush it, but he was anxious and he rushed, dipping on his back leg for more power, turning his hips early, and duck-hooked it into the rough.
“Terrible.”
“It’s all yours, Jack.”
“No pressure.”
His drive was long and straight, carrying the rise easily.
“Nice ball, Jack,” Henry said.
“Somebody ate their Wheaties.”
“You guys showed me the way.”
“The wrong way.”
The rough seemed high, but Henry made a nice recovery with his four-iron and a decent chip before leaving his putt short for a bogie.
“Hit the ball,” he said, squeezing his Titleist as if to crush it.
He bogeyed two and three as well, hitting last, which he never liked. His back was fine, and his short game, he just couldn’t get his driver going. Jack was the only one doing anything. Fred was all over the place. Cy lost a ball in somebody’s yard and another in the pond on six. But they’d picked the right day, especially with the crazy weather they’d been having. Fred passed around sunscreen. Henry didn’t need his jacket and tossed it in the basket. Waiting for Jack to hit, he stood absolutely still, arms crossed, a tee clamped in his teeth. Above the woods, hawks rode the thermals, circling, while close by a nail gun chunked. The trees were budding, bright clouds sailing through a too-blue sky, and though he knew it wasn’t true, he had a sense of the world turning, and him along with it. He saw it as a promise. Winter was over, summer was coming, unstoppable as the creeks running high and cold with snowmelt.
After the turn, wading through the tall grass, searching for a stray three-wood, he came across a fresh pile of deer pellets like black beans and felt the same elemental thrill. Like the boy he’d been, a fisher for minnows and tracker of squirrels, as he approached the pond on twelve, navigating a minefield of goose poop, he listened for the plunk of frogs. A few years back a flock of wild turkeys had crossed a cart path right in front of him, and while he’d never seen them again, today, as always, he looked for them. A woodpecker rapping unseen, a chipmunk chirping, a trio of turtles sunning on a log—everything served as a reminder that he needed to get outside more.
He wasn’t going to win, but he wasn’t going to lose either, and relaxed, parring fifteen and sticking his second shot within inches of the pin on sixteen for a gimme birdie. He gave back the stroke on seventeen, overthinking his approach and plugging it in a bunker, and closed with another bogie. After the last putt, they shook hands like the pros.
“Good game, Henry.”
“Good game.”
He managed an 83, not bad for his first time out. Jack, solid all day, took the card. Cy stood lunch, thanks to the penalty strokes—sandwiches and beers on the deck. They replayed their favorite shots, bemoaning their fluffed chips and yipped putts. The sun was warm and the course was empty. The temptation was to stay and play another eighteen, but they had to get back. They sauntered to their cars and changed into their shoes.
“Any big plans for Easter?” Jack asked him.
“My son and his family are coming in from Boston.”
“Nice. We’re heading down to my daughter’s in D.C. Seven hours in the car.”
“Good luck,” Henry said.
Driving home, he marveled at how fully he’d put their visit—and Lisa—out of his mind. It was why he loved golf. On the course he concentrated on the next shot and let go of his worries. Now they returned, inescapable as the fast-food drive-thrus and nurseries and discount tile outlets of Murrysville, and as he crawled from light to light, he fretted, trying to recall the awe he’d felt watching the clouds scudding over the hills, but the spell, being delicate, was broken, and he felt foolish for thinking it had meant anything.
In the garage, while Rufus barked, Henry lifted his clubs out of the trunk to make room for their luggage tomorrow. He was tired, and the bag was heavy. He’d be going out again next week, maybe with Emily, and leaned it against the stepladder.
“Yes,” he told Rufus, “I’m home. It’s very exciting.”
Emily had the back door open, so he could hear her music. She was stirring something at the stove and looked up when Rufus pushed through the screen ahead of him.
“How was it?”
“It was beautiful. What can I do?”
She pointed past him with her free hand.
In the corner behind the door sat the silverware tray and the drawer in pieces.
“Hell,” Henry said.
“Hell, indeed,” Emily said.
The Designated Driver
He hated US Airways. They’d been delayed twice already, thanks to the rain in Philly, and no one at the ticket counter could tell him anything. When the arrival time on the monitor slipped again, he used his cell phone to update Emily, who was busy entertaining Arlene. By now she’d had a few glasses of wine and laughed at the absurdity of it all. She’d keep dinner warm for them, though with the drive they wouldn’t sit down to the table till well after nine.
“Go ahead and eat,” Henry said.
“We’re eating. We’re having appetizers.”
In the background Arlene added something, but the concourse was noisy and he could barely hear Emily. He wasn’t good with the cell phone. He always felt like he was yelling.
“The children should get something,” she said. “There’s no reason they should go hungry.”
The concession was unnecessary. Henry hadn’t mentioned it, for fear of upsetting her, but they’d eaten a good hour ago. He was hungry himself. At the end of the day his energy faded. He could use a coffee, but it would keep him up later, and guiltily, aware that he was spoiling his dinner, he bought a Clark Bar at a newsstand and gobbled it down, the chewy nougat sticking to his back teeth.
Upstairs, in the one bar outside security, the TVs were showing highlights from the Masters. He watched until a hockey game came on and then wandered the hall, scrutinizing crayon drawings by schoolchildren and reading about the Tuskegee Airmen.
Their flight had boarded and was on its way, according to the monitor.
“Hallelujah,” Emily said.
He waited in an atrium between the rental car desks, watching the arriving passengers descend a pair of tall escalators that emerged like chutes from the ceiling, clusters of loved ones gathered at the bottom recognizing them and stepping forward. Was it spring break? There seemed to be a lot of college students. Each reunion reminded him of waiting with Emily, years ago, for Kenny, coming back from Emerson. At the time, Margaret had shacked up with one of her druggie boyfriends and stopped talking to them, leaving him an only child. Their holidays were quiet, Kenny going out at night with friends from high school and then sleeping late, drinking all their beer. For Henry it was enough to have him home. Emily, of course, wanted more. In the car, after they’d seen him off, she cried, and while Henry felt for her, Kenny had his own life now, as they had theirs, and that was as it should be.
