Henry #2
The door opens, and there’s no way the woman standing before me has an AOL email account.
She looks about my age. She’s short, in a flannel and jeans, no makeup.
Her dark hair is a little curly, and she’s pretty in a tired, grown-up way.
Her prettiness, along with the fact that she’s clearly not expecting me, throws me off, and for a moment we look at each other and say nothing.
When she closes the door behind her, the dog scratches from the other side.
“Um, hi,” she says. “Can I—”
“My mom sent me,” I say, which I immediately realize makes me sound like either a child or a murderer—or maybe a child who is also a murderer. “Something about the, um, Wi-Fi?” I say. “I’m Henry.”
Her expression eases. “Henry? From a few streets over? Our moms are in book club together?”
I say yes, and she shakes her head, which is confusing, but at least I’m in the right place.
“The Wi-Fi, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m not an IT guy, by the way.”
Sighing, she leans back against the door. “Goddammit, Mom,” she says. The dog is still scratching.
“Is this not a good time? I could—”
“No, it’s fine. Hi, Henry. I’m Grace. You might as well come in.”
When I step inside, my senses are immediately assaulted.
There’s the oniony smell of food cooking, but also smoke, like a campfire.
The Ravens game is blasting from the other room, and a boy and a little girl stand together in the entryway like the twins from The Shining.
The dog leaps at me, climbing my thighs with its front paws and pushing me backward.
“Harry Styles, down!” says Grace.
The dog barks but obeys. Now he and the Shining kids are staring at me.
“Sorry,” says Grace. “He’s ungovernable.”
“Did you call him Harry Styles?” I ask.
“It’s a long story.”
“He’s not the real Harry Styles,” says the little girl, deadpan. Her hair is like a wilder version of her mom’s, and she’s holding an old-school Speak & Spell.
“Right,” I say. “The real one’s British.”
Then, gray-haired and jaunty, a lady about my mom’s age strides out from the kitchen. “You must be Doris’s son. Hi, Henry, I’m Maryellen. Thanks for coming over.”
Grace is holding her phone up. “Mom, what’s the deal with the Wi-Fi? It was fine five minutes ago, now it’s out.”
“I know. Frustrating, right? I figured Henry could take a look. No sense getting those buffoons from Comcast involved.”
Grace looks at me and shakes her head again as the sound of a crowd cheering bursts in from the other room. “Hey, Dad, can you turn that up a little? Not all the neighbors can hear it yet!”
“Ha ha” comes a friendly, disembodied voice.
“Would you like some water, Henry?” asks Maryellen. “Maybe some eggnog? It’s homemade. First batch of the season.”
I tell her thanks, but no. I have no idea what to do next, like I’ve stumbled into an improv class. Finally, Grace points over her shoulder with her thumb. “Come on, Henry. Let’s figure out this Wi-Fi drama.”
Not counting the walk down the hallway to a drafty little home office, it takes Grace and me about five seconds to diagnose the problem. Again, I’m not an IT guy, but the modem couldn’t be more obviously unplugged. “I bet that’s it,” I say, pointing at the cord curled up on the carpet.
“Are you freaking kidding me?” Grace drops to a knee and plugs the thing back in. When she stands, I take a quick step back because I’m close enough to smell her shampoo—flowers and vanilla.
“Sorry about this,” she says. “My mom, she’s…well, your mom, too, I guess. Seems like they were in on this together.”
“What do you mean?”
Grace laughs like I’m missing something. She’s barefoot, I notice. I look down at my scuffed chukkas and hope this isn’t a no-shoes house.
“Your wife died,” she says. “Right?”
It’s a startling thing to hear, especially from a stranger, because I’m still not used to this being a fact that one can simply state. The room briefly spins, which happens to me sometimes when I think of Brynn.
“My husband died, too.”
“Oh.”
“Earlier today, actually,” she says. “He was watching the Ravens game, then, just before halftime…”
I’m still wobbly, but she can’t possibly be serious. “What?”
“I’m kidding, Henry. Back in January.”
The modem blinks and hums a few feet away—a small robot coming back to life—and all I can think to say is “Shit.”
“Cancer,” she says. “A few days before your wife’s…”
Grace doesn’t say “plane crash.” No one ever does.
Sometimes they say “accident,” which sounds wrong but is technically true, or “incident,” which is one hell of an understatement.
Mostly they trail off, like Grace just did.
My bearings are back, so I tell her that I’m sorry for her loss, which feels weird to say instead of hear.
“Ditto,” she says. “Happy holidays, huh?”
“Can you believe it’s almost Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “I absolutely can’t. Anyway. Not sure if you’ve picked up on this yet, but we’ve been mommed.”
“Mommed?”
Grace folds her arms and waits for me to catch up. When I finally do I feel like an idiot. “My mom made me comb my hair before I came over here,” I say.
“Yeah?” says Grace. “Earlier, mine told me I looked like the checkout girl at an auto parts store.”
“That’s really specific.”
“She’s got a flair for details,” says Grace. “Your hair looks fine, by the way. Good job.”
I touch the top of my head, self-conscious. “They mommed us, didn’t they?”
“Bitches,” Grace whispers. Then she bites her lip, thinking. “You know, as long as you’re here, though. Do you like IPAs?”
“Um.”
She punches my shoulder—not hard, but not softly, either. “Come on, Henry. Outside. I need your opinion on something.”