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| Next | Back | Home | Fiction | Non-Fiction | Poems | Book Excerpts | Henry Fiction by Sheila Goram Henry gave his keys a once-over before he found the key to his apartment door. As he opened the door, he remembered he’d forgotten to ask someone to stop by to clean out his refrigerator. Henry did not like the smell of rotting food. Even more than that, he hated going into any place that it had not been cared for in some time. Dust would be on everything and the dishes are dirty. When he’d gone to the hospital, he had not had time to clean his apartment. When he opened the door, he smelled the staleness of his home, like something gone sour. Henry set his suitcase down by his favorite recliner and looked at the coffee table and lamps coated with almost three weeks of dust. This was his welcome wagon. That was as a big as a hurrah as he was going to get. With the door closed, no sunlight shone in his place. Walking through, doing an inspection of his place as he shuffled, he noticed that the fern he’d bought when he moved in a year ago was drooping. It looked lifeless and listless, as if it needed water and light. He walked to the kitchen, to the smell from the souring water he’d left in the sink. He’d been doing the dishes when the pains in his chest had made him stop. He could see the water had evaporated a bit, but not enough to stop the dank, rotten smell that burnt his nose when he inhaled. Henry didn’t want to put his hand in the water, but he had to brave it if he wanted to get rid of the smell. Once the task was done, he heard the water gulp its way down the drain. He hurriedly rinsed out the sink, the thoroughly washed his hands; the film and smell the disgusting water left behind nauseated him. Henry realized he had more tasks to complete in this homecoming, but the doctor had ordered him to rest, not overdo it. Not that throwing rotten food out would be overdoing it, but he didn’t feel up to the task. He wanted to sit and think a while. Facing his mortality had to take precedence over rotten food, dirty dishes, and dusty furniture. Henry walked to his room and opened the window. Even though it was almost winter, this place needed fresh air. Henry sat down on his neatly made bed and looked around. The room had not been touched since before he left for the hospital. Henry looked at his navy blue comforter and the bulges the pillows made, and wondered why he bothered with two pillows. He never used the second pillow. It was just there to add balance to his bed. Who was going to see them? He rarely had visitors. Henry looked at the vacuum marks embedded in the tan carpet. He followed the marks to the nightstand where he had a picture of his children. In it, they were young and full of life. He could see the happiness in their eyes. As far as Henry could remember, that was the last he’d seen that look of happiness on their faces and in their eyes. Henry remembered the day the look vanished. He thought the world would be the cause their despair. Hopelessness, he had often felt, being poor, and black in those days; that look had etched so many faces of people he loved. They never felt they could get ahead, no matter how much they scratched, saved, and did the right thing. How would his kids ever have faced the world if he hadn’t done all he could to make them tough. When he made his children behave, he knew he right. To Henry fear and respect were the same thing. Henry felt he was preparing them for the world. It hadn’t been easy for him when he was young. He’d known hardship as a child; they’d been poor. His father had been a farmer who knew more about corn liquor and playing cards than taking care of his family. Henry’s mother had tried to take care of them all as best she could by being a maid and taking care of other people’s families. But she could only do so much alone. Henry had gone out into the world when he was fifteen. He had to learn about world the hard way, through the school of hard knocks. He had to teach his children about the world. The extra, the beatings, was his way of making them remember what consequences they would suffer not doing what he felt was right. The world wouldn’t be kind; he wanted them ready for all it dished out. He remembered scars and bruises. He’d always felt bad, but that had never seemed to stop him. Henry remembered when he beat his second wife, Teri, so badly her face was two-sizes bigger than it should have been. He remembered telling her she had to go to work the next day. The rage he felt after he beat her, while he beat her, was justified. He had told her dinner was to be on the table every night no later than six-thirty. Who cared that one of the children was sick? Teri only had four children to tend to; his mother had had nine, and she always had dinner on the table by six-thirty. Why was this concept hard for Teri to understand? His mother was the model wife; she was the measuring stick by which Henry judged Teri. Maybe he’d been unfair; after all they were two different people! But, who else was he to judge Teri by. She’d needed lots of improvement. She should’ve thanked him for trying to make her a better wife and mother. She never did learn how to be a good wife, but it wasn’t his fault. No one came into this world perfect, but with the right motivation, she could be better, if she’d tried harder. If his wife could not understand, how would he make his children understand? He had no regrets. They were just being emotional. It wasn’t so bad with Joan and Mary; they were women, but for Henry Jr. and Lucas to carry on like women about Henry and his temper was not right. If they could survive what he put them through, then surely they could take what the world served them. They had to know he did things as best he could. Apologize? Never. If they were waiting for him to say he was wrong, they would be waiting a long time. Henry remembered when Teri had tried to talk to him about screaming at the children all the time. Who was she to tell him anything? Who was she to tell him how to talk to his children? She was just a woman, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t know what it meant to be a man in this world. “Henry,” Teri started in a tensely soft voice, “I talked to Junior’s teachers today. They say he ain’t doin’ well in school. They say when teachers’ try to help him or talk to him, he just start shakin’ and cryin’. Henry, they want to know why he do that.” “Awww, Teri, the boy just soft; what you s’pect me to do? They don’t know what kind of dummy they got sittin’ in that class?” Henry watched Teri. He could see her mind working. He could see her wheels spinning. He knew this was far from over. “Henry, they think he shell-shocked. They think we beat him and scream at him all the time. They said they could help him better if we. . . .” Henry watched as Teri thought of her words carefully. He could tell she knew what she was going to say before she said it; he suspected she’d practiced it. “. . . . if you wouldn’t yell at him all the time, when you help him with his schoolwork. You know when he get the answers wrong, you scream and hit the boy. I know you just tryin’ to get him to learn, but his teachers’ talkin’ bout bringing social services in. Henry, I think-- I think I should help him from now on. Just till he get over this?” Teri finished. Henry remembered feeling the cold glass of beer in his hand and watching his frightened wife. Seeing the look of fear and pain on her face he remembered taking a long swig of his beer before answering to her. Then he finally spoke, “That boy is mine. Long as I have to feed him and clothe him, I will do what I want. Ain’t nobody-- you, social services, school, or police --goin’ tell me how to teach that dummy how to read. The boy read like he in the second grade and they passed him to the sixth, and they worried bout him cryin’ and shakin’ like some sissy! He probably scared they goin’ make him be in class with the second graders,” Henry explained. He took another swig of beer and watched his wife; she was still thinking. He could see her wheels turning. He had to shut her up. Henry finished his beer and stood up; he walked to Teri and stood over her. He saw fear on her face, and he felt a rush of something stirring in him. Henry almost wanted to smile, but he knew couldn’t. He watched as Teri began to shake from his being so close. Henry was not sure if he should hit her, or just make her think he was going to hit her? She was not a small woman, but not fat, just big-boned. Teri had big strong hands. When she wore pumps, she was taller than he was. Henry never let that stop him from beating her if she stepped out of line. He watched as tears began to slide down her cheeks. She was scared, and he liked her this way. Henry felt the vein in his left temple throb as he stood, deciding what he would say and do to Teri, how he would punish her. He raised his left arm as if he were going strike her, and he watched as she cowered and tried to cover her face; he scratched his head. Henry rolled his eyes and wondered why she’d even started this? He sat down opposite her on the couch. Teri was wiping the tears from her face ; he looked in her dark eyes and saw fear, and feeling chased through his body again. “You scared, I’m gonna hit you? I ain’t goin’ hit you. But listen to me. I told you what I plan on doin’ I’ll take care of Junior. But don’t take yo’ ass back up to that school talkin’ to them teachers. I’ll talk to ‘em from now on.” Henry stated flatly. He watched Teri as her trembling hand wiped her tears away. She had not bothered to acknowledge him with words or a head nod, and Henry thought she was trying to get him. She was trying to make a fool of him. He leaped from his side of the couch to Teri’s. He was in her face. Grabbing Teri’s neck with one hand, squeezing as hard as he could, he screamed, “When I say something to you, answer me. You hear me?” Teri tried to speak, nothing came out but gurgles and raspy sounds as she was sobbed and tried to free herself from Henry’s hand. His grip on her neck was much too tight. She struggled against his hand, but it was useless. Henry began yelling and screaming at her, “Stop movin’. Stop movin’, I said. You don’t listen to nothing I say do you?” and slapped her across the face with his free hand. He hit her once more, and she stopped moving. Henry finally let go of her neck, and Teri tried to gulp in as much air as she could. She raised her hand to her neck to assess the damage, but Henry thought she was trying to strike back, and he hit her again. This time his hand was closed, and when he struck, blood flowed from her bottom lip. Teri screamed from pain. Henry bellowed for her to shut up, and she did. She continued to whimper, and Henry hit her again. She had to know when he said shut up, he meant it. Even now as Henry thought of that night, all of the pain he’d caused his wife and what his children must have heard, he still felt no guilt or shame. Teri could not leave well enough alone. She had to push. Henry knew he could be cantankerous, but he was the way he was out of necessity. He was this way with everyone, but his family just saw him more. Henry could never explain why he behaved as he did. He only had a few regrets in life. Maybe if he’d been nicer to his family, they’d be here for him now. No he had made his children strong. Who was he to feel bad about how his children’s lives turned out? Children always blamed their parents’, but in this case maybe it was true? He pushed them away forever. How could a few scars destroy a family? They had had happy times. But those times never seem to be the fore front of his memories. The bad days seem to stay with you forever; especially, when the bad outweighs the good. Tired of thinking of his family, Henry decided he was strong enough to water his fern and clean the refrigerator. As he made his way to living room, he noticed dust on the baseboards. He needed to do some major cleaning. He liked a spotless home. A clean home meant a clean mind. He could see and think clearly if he didn’t have clutter and dirt in the way. He retrieved his fern from the living room and took it to the bathroom. He turned on the light and placed the plant in the sink. He looked in mirror at his reflection and wondered where the time had gone. Who was this old man staring at him? Henry examined the grey hair and the deep circles under his eyes. Skin hung from his chin to his neck, and he saw hair sprouting from his ears. Was he the same man who could command respect from his family with one glance? Not anymore. Time has a way of moving, and humans have a way of not paying attention until it‘s too late. Henry had the look of an old man, but he didn’t feel like one. He felt the same for the most part, except his heart. It was a noisy clock that let him know time was precious. He still had much to do, not just cleaning, but with his family. He had not seen Henry, Jr., in fifteen years. And the last time he’d seen Mary, his oldest daughter, and Lucas, his youngest son, had been terrible. Lucas was angry and Mary was quiet. Lucas snapped at him every chance he got. When an argument finally erupted between Henry and Lucas, it almost got physical. Before anyone knew what was happening, Henry and Lucas were squaring off. They were in each other’s faces. These men seemed so unequal. Lucas was tall and gangly, and Henry was shorter and stocky. Towering over his father, Lucas looked down and said in a calm but commanding tone, “If you think about it, old man, I’ll lay you out before you finish the thought. If you ever think about laying a hand on me or mine again, I’ll kill you. Who would miss you? Nobody! Who do you think would go to the police over you? Nobody! You ain’t worth lovin’ or missin’. You cause pain and misery everywhere you go. You’re going to die a lonely old man.” Henry felt his body shake in anger. Who was this boy to talk to him like this? There was a time he would have laid him out with a two-by-four. He could not let Lucas talk to him like this; he had to make him understand he was the parent and Lucas was the child. “Boy, who you think you talkin’ to? You don’t raise your voice to me. Nigga’, I know you lost your mind!” He looked at Lucas and saw a taller version of himself at that age. He had jet black hair, walnut shaped eyes, the irises as black as coal. His pug nose was small; his deep mahogany skin glistened with hints of red tones. His lips were thin and now grimaced over his teeth. Lucas’s face contorted in anger reminded Henry of himself. He began laughing at the boy, and then he said, “You think you better than me, Boy? Better than Me? You just a taller version of me. You ready to beat an old man into the ground because you’re so angry. You not better than me Lucas, you just like me.” Henry finished slowly with a deliberate look of satisfaction on his face. He realized he could not fight Lucas; he was too old and too weak. But his mind was still sharp. That was the last time he’d seen Mary and Lucas. They never called, stopped by, or even sent holiday or birthday cards. Joan was the only one he ever saw. She was the only one who never harbored any resentment or anger; maybe because he favored her a bit and did more for her than for the others. Henry turned the faucet on and let the water run on the plant until he thought he had quenched its thirst. He went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door; the smell hit him like a ton of bricks, and it seemed to say, “Nobody’s been here for a week. Nobody cared enough to clean this out for you; nobody cared enough to make sure you didn’t have to bother with this kind of work when you got home.” Why should he be so concerned about people who were not concerned for him? Henry knew Joan would stop by sooner or later. They would make small talk, but they never spoke of her siblings. It wasn’t that Joan didn’t have a close relationship with her siblings; the two of them just never talked about the others. Talking about his other children meant reliving the past, and that was something Henry was not about to do. He would answer to no one, especially his children. Henry stood in front of the refrigerator, with the door wide open, alone, pitching one rotten thing after another into a garbage bag. Almost everything in here had gone bad. He knew he’d need to go grocery shopping, especially now that the doctor had put him on a special diet. Pitching in the last rotten bit of garbage bag, then he tied it. The bag was heavy and sagging on the bottom. Not wanting to waste another bag, he knew he had to take this to the garbage chute now. Henry closed the refrigerator door and walked though his apartment, then into through the hall of his apartment building, dragging the heavy garbage bag behind him like a child. His walk was slow but steady as the bag slid across the floor. He opened the door to the small room and walked in with the bag. The door closed behind him. The room’s faint scent of garbage became more pungent when Henry opened the chute door and the smell of rotting trash began to permeate the small space. Lifting the bag with both hands and tossed it in the chute. As closed the chute door, he felt a sharp pain in his chest. Henry tried to breathe through it. Then another sharp pain burst through his chest. The pain was so severe Henry felt his knees give from beneath him. “Uhhh, ugggg!” Henry said as he fell to the floor. Trying to say something, he tried to call out for help, but nothing would come out except gasps and gurgles. Henry realized this pain was more severe than the last attack, and if help didn’t come, he wouldn’t make it. Trying to move towards the door by sliding his body across the floor; only making it a few inches, but the pain was too much. He turned to his side and clutched his chest. Suddenly the room was dark. Not seeing anything, the last thing Henry heard was garbage swooshing down the chute from other floors. Opening his eyes one last time and seeing the grey metal door closed tightly in front of him. Sheila
Goram, contact: SBG917@aol.com
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