Season of Gifts (Neighborly Affection #8)

79. Henry

Chapter seventy-nine

Henry

F ather’s ancient desk dwarfed Mother. Rummaging in the top drawer, she seemed a rebellious teen hunting for a flask to spirit away to an illicit gathering.

Henry distanced himself at the window. Standing before the desk provoked a disdain for Father’s periodic interrogations about his various accomplishments at school, and he needed no more complicated emotions to juggle. The yard outside bore the trampled paths and raised defenses of the snow forts they had built yesterday. Every participant had come out a winner, owing to Jay’s ingenious rules for the snowball battle, which called for fifteen-minute periods with a rotation of team makeup at the end of each.

“It was pleasant to see Robert’s sons enjoying themselves. Lina’s granddaughters…” Henry cast through his memory and retrieved scant details. Her daughter would be twenty-five now? Twenty-six? “They are a bit younger than the boys, aren’t they?”

“Oh, yes. Brooke is teaching second grade, and Lina is caring for the girls when their preschool enrichment program ends for the day. Ah. Here we have it.” Mother triumphantly raised an unassuming keyring, from which dangled a cluster of small keys. “I’d quite forgotten where I’d tucked these away. But it has occurred to me, these past few days, that the contents might be useful for you. Contextual, shall we say.”

“The contents?”

“We’ll get to that in a moment, darling. Come sit with me.” Mother daintily claimed a perch on the leather sofa, setting the keys aside. “I suppose I rather surprised you at breakfast.”

Only yesterday he’d claimed the selfsame seat with Robert at his side as he laid out his assessment of Mother’s health and what they were to do about it. Utterly unnecessary, as it turned out. “You did. Though had I not been so stubbornly focused on addressing the problem myself, I might have expected you would have an idea in mind. My determination to effect a solution blinkered me to other possibilities.”

“And to accepting help.” She grazed his shoulder with a consoling caress. “It doesn’t behoove us to attempt to match the divine. We have neither the omnipotence nor the omniscience to complete such tasks alone. The role you assumed is more weight than one person ought to carry.”

How quickly the coin flipped. He’d been on the obverse of this conversation with Alice many times in the last six months as she defined what dominance would mean in her life, what expectations and obligations it would demand of her. Reminding her that she need not achieve—or even seek—perfection, godhood, came easily enough. Accepting his own counsel, innocently echoed now on his Mother’s lips, was far more difficult.

“That would explain why I did such an abominable job at it. You have quite capably constructed your own elegant solution without me.” His self-deprecating smile met with Mother’s unamused stare.

“Henry.” Mothers the world over had perfected just that disappointed tone. “I won’t have you brooding over this. You are my son, and I will always need you and value your advice in addition to your company.”

Chastened, he bowed his head. “I do know that, Mother. I am irritated with myself for seizing control in such an intrusive manner, but I am not stricken with fears of losing your love. You have been clear all my life that your love is not contingent upon any particular behavior or accomplishment, nor upon meeting some standard of perfection.” Would that Father’s love had been so freely offered.

Mother wrapped his hand in both of hers and laid them upon her knee. “Your presence has aided my recovery, eased my mind, and encouraged me to treat this illness with the seriousness it deserves. If you were overzealous and bedeviled by the past, so too was I. This incident, however, may have been beneficial for us both.”

True, the experience had surfaced emotional detritus he needed to address before it negatively impacted Jay and Alice again. And it had raised his attention to the fact of Mother’s aging, which perhaps all grown children shied from facing. She might need more and different support from him in the years ahead, and better that he be prepared for it now than fail her later. What she had gained, though— “How so?”

“Having you here has reminded me”—her face turned soft, her smile wistful, the delicate skin beside her eyes crinkling—“of how much I have missed daily companionship. After your father’s passing, I had Lina here. And then her family needed her, and she too left. Sometimes it seems as though this house has been fifty-three years of people slowly leaving me. A bit more macabre, and it might be an Agatha Christie whodunnit, wouldn’t you say?”

She laughed, squeezing his hand tightly, and he covered her clasp with his free hand. He too had lived alone for several years. Integrating Jay so deeply into his life, his daily habits, had been a challenge. But it remained the most important step he’d taken in securing happiness. Without Jay, his heart and mind would not have been ready for Alice. Without Alice and Jay, his happiness would be shallow indeed. “Even those of us who enjoy the quiet must allow that a bit of fuss enriches our souls.”

Her soft hum accompanied a gentle nod. “The cardiac care therapist has encouraged me to explore that feeling, which prompted me to review and realign my priorities. I may have five years left on this earth; I may have a decade or two. Regardless, I know who I would care to spend that time with. You and Robert have settled your roots elsewhere”—perhaps his shoulders dipped, and that necessitated Mother’s forceful rattling of his hands—“and that’s as it should be, though your rooms will ever be waiting for your visits. My close call spurred Lina and I to discuss our regret at how our lives have drifted. Had I not had this heart attack, I would have hesitated to intrude by suggesting she and the girls move in. But I did ask. And to my delight, I find that she also would have hesitated to ask despite devoutly wishing for that very reconnection. As I said: beneficial.”

“I’m pleased you’ll have the opportunity to reinvigorate your friendship. Lina’s absence in the house these last few years has been odd to me as well. She’s as much a fixture of my childhood memories as you and Father.” The oppressive weight of the dark wood crowded him, the sofa he and Mother shared a life raft lost in the sea of Father’s storm. She ought to have chosen the parlor for this talk; her own décor reigned in that space, gave it life and love. Perhaps that explained why the masculine mahogany of Victor’s office at the club remained warm and comforting while Father’s cherrywood retreat seethed and roiled: No amount of good hearts could cheer this loveless space. “Well, perhaps more than Father.”

Grimacing, Mother clicked her tongue. “I do wish you’d had a chance to air your emotions with your father. It would have done you both good.”

“I doubt he would ever have countenanced such a thing. And it is, of course”—a lump unexpectedly developed in his throat, forcing him to clear it with a cough—“too late to change now.”

Mother chafed Henry’s hand, rotating it palm up and open. “It’s too late to speak with your father, yes. But if you choose, you may still come to know him better.”

She settled the keys in his hand and folded his fingers around them. Metal edges pressed into his skin.

“The small brass one opens the barrister bookcase.”

The bookcase had stood in the same spot along the wall since before his birth. Row after row of narrow ledger books filled the shelves. “If you mean to show me Father’s business acumen, that may be a knowledge better suited to Robert.”

“I thought they were financial records myself for a great long while. But on our wedding anniversary, the first one after his passing—” She gusted out a hard breath and gave a quick headshake. “Well, it hardly matters the reason. I opened the bookcase, thinking to run my fingers across the pages he’d spent so much time with, to trace the neat lines of his penmanship.”

A howling wind swirled in his chest. Selfish of him to wish to go first, to not be left yearning for Alice and Jay the way Mother pined for Father after his death. “You loved him a great deal. Seeking out touchstones to recover that closeness is a sensible response to the pain of loss.”

Mother abstractly nodded agreement, her gaze fixed on the bookcase across from them. “Imagine my surprise when I discovered those ledgers are journals.”

Imagining was unnecessary; his heartbeat tripped over itself trying to accommodate the sudden rush of adrenal confusion. “Personal writings?”

“Mm-hmm.” Sliding her arm around his back, she hugged him to her side. How Mother, so slight in height and build beside him, could generate such an excess of warmth and comfort that returned him instantly to a state of small and protected must surely be one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Your father being your father, he seems to have written an entry for every day of his adult life. You may find them illuminating.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Speculation cast great swathes of color across the canvas of the mind. A man like his father might daily record the dishes at meals, the visits from colleagues throughout the workday, the precise moment he stepped away for a turn in the garden with Mother in the evening. Or his buttoned-up exterior might have hidden a passionate poet at the heart. He had so little to draw upon to sketch a true portrait of Father. “Are there volumes you would prefer I leave untouched?”

At the press of Mother’s hand, he obligingly bent his head for a soft kiss on the cheek.

Her perfume whispered of the garden in late spring, the flowers venturing out after the final frost. “I leave it to you to decide what and how much you want to know, darling.”

She rose from the sofa and raised a stern finger at him. “If you linger here too long, however, I will send your spouses in after you.”

He assumed a neutral expression, cloaking his face in innocence. “That is hardly a deterrent, Mother. I quite enjoy their company.”

If he wished to disrupt the dour atmosphere of Father’s study, Jay’s sunny disposition and Alice’s fascination with new knowledge would accomplish the feat handily.

Narrowed eyes gave way to Mother’s enigmatic smile. “I sense a spark of Jay’s playfulness in that cheeky response, darling. I’ll leave you to it.”

She exited, closing the door behind her, and he remained in the profound stillness, with only the motion of the antique clock for company.

Uncurling his hand revealed three small keys. He pushed aside the others and raised the coppery brass one—an old-fashioned skeleton key with a narrow barrel and a wide, artful grip. The barrister bookcase boasted five shelves behind glass, and ledger books filled each row. By a rough estimate, if Father had truly written an entry every day of his adult life, more than twenty thousand waited for his examination.

But did he want to know?

The question crawled across his skin, leaving vellus hairs standing on end. His psyche had decades invested in painting Father into a specific frame: cool, distant, judgmental. His sons were provided for but neither coddled as children nor confided in as adults.

The leatherbound volumes awaiting his decision might reveal a different man entirely. Such a feat might leave him with regret for the man he’d never known. The journals would not be an objective measure, either, no more unbiased than the lens of Henry’s childhood. But Mother expected he would find them rewarding.

Henry rose from the couch slowly. Each step became a deliberate choice, listening to the currents of his body. If he came to know his father as a man, the grasping remembrances of childhood moments in this room might fall away—carry less importance in the overall map of his life.

He was nothing if not an eager student of knowledge.

The key slipped into the first lock, silent and well-oiled despite their age, and turned until a sharp click granted him access. He laid the keyring atop the bookcase and raised the glass, sliding it neatly back into the shelf and smoothing the front edge. Many hands had traveled the same path, giving the wood an almost waxen quality, soft and rounded against his palms.

“All right, Father.” He pulled a ledger from the right side of the shelf. “I would see you as you saw yourself.”

The pages fell naturally open at the sewn-in bookmark, a ribbon so deeply green he might have called it black in some lights. The date in the corner, written with strong, precise strokes, would have put Father in his late twenties.

Miss Bennett arrived with her parents for tea this afternoon. Father has been pursuing a business venture with her father in refrigerated trucking. I was determined to dislike her, as I sense Mother’s strong hand in the familial invitation. She works herself into a state at least once a month to impress upon me her despair that I have not yet wed and produced heirs. I suppose I ought to be glad she has stopped trying to pair me with Annalise’s school friends. Though she will not say so to Mother and Father, Annalise has told me that her compatriots are “smart gals” who will not “waste themselves” on marriage. She herself is undecided on the subject but would very much like to continue her musical education. That ought to be an interesting dinner conversation some evening soon.

I should like to marry her. Helen, obviously, not Annalise. She is smart, with a sly wit, and so poised she put Mother to shame, though I think that a front. Her hand trembled as we strolled among the oaks and maples on the grounds, never far from the watchful eyes of both sets of parents. She is twenty-two, soon to be twenty-three, with delicate features and the green of spring in her eyes. And observant, my heavens. She carries on silently, listening as I explain some thorny matter, then stuns me with a question that shows more insight than the most senior of my associates.

He sat heavily on the floor, re-reading the lines. Turning the page merely advanced him to the next day, with no more said about Mother. But even these glimpses were more than he’d imagined had existed beneath the veneer of the rigid, unemotional man who’d lived by appearances.

Laying the book aside, he opened all of the cabinet fronts. His heart leapt with each solid thunk as they settled back in their niches, leaving Father’s life spread before him. A feast at his fingertips, with only his desires and his conscience to guide him. Someday he might make a full survey. For now, he hopped from age to age with little method behind his choices.

Nearly an hour passed before he gathered his courage to reach for the dates so formative to his younger self. His body resisted, the aches and pains of sitting on the rug for a lengthy stretch making themselves known. Stop now, his lower back throbbed in a message akin to Morse code. His knees joined the battle, the joints popping as he shifted positions.

But he persisted, pulling forth the correct book and slipping through page after page until he reached December. Cautious hope for another child. A meditation on the joys of winter. An assessment of Robert’s first semester at school and a pledge to steer him more heavily into the family business the following summer. Fingers shaking, Henry turned the page.

Our daughter is dead.

A vast emptiness of gridded ledger lines carried down the page. Father had written no more that day.

The days following took on a numb, mechanical tone—Father dutifully recording Mother’s medical condition and his instructions to Lina: withhold the news from the children, allow Christmas to go on without him and Mother, and leave the door to the nursery shut for their arrival. No overt evidence of grief showed itself, but it lay in the terse lines and the refuge of unimportant details.

He’d seen nothing of Father in those days. It seemed Father had returned home well after Henry’s bedtime and left again for the hospital before he woke. Then the bare report that Mother would be released in the morning.

They say she has healed enough, but that is surely a jest. No healing can begin in these antiseptic wards with their acrid smells and the healthy cries of other infants being taken to and from rooms with mothers eager to lay them at their breast. Our grief is offensive in this hall of merriment and rejoicing. Helen pretends to sleep; when she does not, she is racked with sobs that strain her stitches. She apologizes again and again. We will be well rid of this place in the morning.

The turning page rasped under his thumb.

Helen is listless and tells me not to fuss, that she wants nothing, though she nearly collapsed upon our arrival home. The doctor advised bedrest, as women are fragile and prone to overemotional hysteria at the end of their childbearing years. I did not deck him, but I do believe I shall strongly suggest to the head of the hospital at the next fundraiser that I am displeased with his obstetrics department.

Robert, good lad, is stoic in the face of this latest loss. He will comport himself with dignity and give his mother peace and time to heal. I have no words for Henry. I slapped him, though I promised myself years ago I would not be a father like my own, quick to correct with force rather than reason. But how does one reason with a six-year-old whose questions are endless? Certainly not in the manner I did so today. I must find ways to redirect his energy toward more appropriate subjects for a little boy. Helen will need Lina’s assistance in her convalescence, and I would not have Henry’s questions become a thousand tiny cuts when she must rest. Perhaps his maternal grandfather could be called upon. The boys will be his heirs someday; he may have wisdom he wishes to impart.

Henry tugged the ribbon loose and laid it across the page, smoothing as he went. The lines blurred, unfocused. A queasiness taunted him.

Father had never apologized for striking him. He’d harbored his regrets silently, sharing them only with these pages and not the son who’d needed to hear them. But the common refrain— if only we’d had more time— carried no weight here. More time would not have brought them to this conversation; Father’s aversion to discussing emotions would have assured continued silence.

Alice had the right of it. Nausea could be purged by forcing the poisonous thoughts from the body. The image of the man he’d believed his father to be had poisoned their interactions for years afterward. Only in these journals could Henry truly come to know the man.

Reading entries from the subsequent months would be edifying, providing perspective if not healing. But he would not read them here, sitting alone on the floor in dim light. He plucked two more books from the row and added them to his stack, then closed up the glass and relocked the shelves. The deliberate motions steadied his hands and slowed his pulse.

Seeking out his family proved simple; their voices carried from the music room.

“—simply can’t help myself.” Mother, effusive, sighed with an exaggerated hum. “I do so love seeing these stones returned to daily wear. My mother treasured them all her life. She died far too young, barely into her fifties. My father was never quite the same, though he doted on me and the boys.”

Journals tucked against his chest, Henry stepped into the room.

Alice proffered a gentle smile; her lifted brow inquired whether he was well. Her day collar gleamed at her throat, the pendant hanging from the shortest chain, the emerald vivid against the pale expanse of skin revealed by her scoop-neck top.

Mother, holding Jay’s hands as though they were children playing London Bridge, nodded toward the books Henry carried. “You’ve found them helpful, then, darling? I dearly hoped you would.”

“I have.” Though the claiming bracelets on Jay’s wrists might be more so for elevating his mood. His husband had pushed up his shirtsleeves, leaving his forearms bare as Mother admired the new jewelry. “I thought I might read a few more entries out here in the sunshine before we leave for your appointments. I find Father’s study doesn’t suit me; I miss all of your delightful company too much to bury myself in gloom.”

Alice strode toward him, her gaze unwavering. “Then you should come hang with us. Jay is the antidote to gloom, I’m pretty sure.” She slung her arm through his, linking their elbows, and steered him to a seat by the window. “Maybe some tea?”

“An excellent idea!” Mother clasped her hands and breathed deeply. “Tea is the magical answer to every trouble. Jay, would you care to help me put together a tea tray? Something small, I think. I thought I might ask Lina to stop by later, after we return from my appointments, so we may begin planning for the move.”

Yes, and today he ought to speak with the nurse who’d interviewed for the position, if possible. Ideally, she would begin Monday. Could he locate and hire movers for the weekend between Christmas and New Year’s? Could Lina, Brooke, and the girls be packed up in four days? A great deal of work would need to be—

Alice threaded her fingers through his hair and sat in his lap without warning. “Probably gonna want more than a borrowed beat-up van for this move, huh?”

Jay laced his hands together and flexed his arms forward as though he intended to claim a seat at the piano. “I’m good at carrying boxes. I can provide references right in this room.”

Their first meeting had been a note that grew into a symphony, the soundtrack of his life. Mother was on the verge of crafting a new soundtrack for her own life—no, of restoring notes that had gotten lost in recent years, notes that had once belonged in his symphony as well.

“Mother, if Lina and her family have no plans for the evening, shall we ask Brooke and the girls to join us for dinner as well? We’ve a truly extravagant amount of holiday leftovers, and Jay and Alice could assist me in supplementing those with an excursion to the store while you are attending physical therapy.” He splayed his hand across Alice’s back, the sun heating them both through the window, her utter comfort reflected in her casual sway into his hold. “And, of course, we’ve much to discuss regarding plans for the move and how we might delegate responsibility for all of the moving parts.”

Alice and Jay both graced him with winning smiles. Yes, he’d learned a thing or two this month about not insisting on keeping control of every element.

“That’s a lovely idea, Henry.” Mother’s grin was subtler, but she did tip her head fondly, and her eyes glowed as though he’d said something clever. “I’ll speak to Lina. You’ll be comfortable dropping me off at the cardiac center?”

His stomach twisted. Rather than attempt to master the fear, he silently thanked his body for the warning. “Not entirely comfortable, no, but I know you are capable of managing the visit without my hovering.”

Though he’d wait with her until she was taken back for the appointment and return immediately if she called.

“Thank you, darling.” Confidence rested on her shoulders. She’d regained something too, these last few days. “It feels wonderful to be in control of one’s own life again.”

“Yes it does.” He, for one, was done being led around by ghosts. Raising the journal he’d been reading, he let it fall open to the bookmarked entry.

Alice shifted in his lap. “Should I…” She nodded after Jay and Mother as they left for the kitchen, chattering about tea. “If you want some space?”

He wrapped his arm more firmly around her. “I should like company, actually. As it happens, dealing with strong emotions entirely alone can be unfathomably unhealthy.”

She laughed at his tone, as he’d intended, and he dipped his head beside hers. “Stay?”

Alice kissed his temple, her lips a benediction. “Forever and a day.”

That might be just long enough to satisfy his soul.