Henry
I was doing an okay job staying close to Grace, then it’s like she just vanished.
My lungs burn, and my calves are on fire. My heart is pounding, too, but I actually kind of like that. It’s been a while.
“Grace! Are you up there somewhere?”
I hear, “Keep going!” from a distance as I pass the dilapidated cement shell of an old building.
There’s the sound of rushing water up ahead.
And then, a minute later, there’s Grace.
She’s at the base of a roaring man-made waterfall bent over with her hands on her knees breathing hard.
I slow to a jog, then a trot, then a limp.
“My god, I’m out of shape,” I say.
“What’d you pull?” she asks.
“I won’t get into details, but let’s just say it’s in the groinial region.”
She stands up straight and puts her hands on her hips, laughs as she rolls her shoulders. “I have that effect on guys.”
“Very funny,” I say, and then, “Oww, Jesus. I’m injured.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says.
We stand together and look at Lake Roland, which spreads out in every direction.
“This is nice,” I say. A hundred yards ago, the view from the running path was pure urban decay. Now there’s a big, open park with trees and picnic tables and serene water views. We’re alone out here because it’s December, but I bet this place gets packed in the spring and summer. Who knew?
“So, what now?” I ask. “Screaming?”
“Yeah. Screaming.”
“Cool. Do you want to start or…”
“Hold on a sec,” she says, breathing hard. “Still feels like I might throw up.”
Two ducks crash-land in the water, splash around, then settle. Cars honk somewhere nearby because we’re still in Baltimore. Then Grace takes a deep breath and screams violently at the waterfall.
“Wow,” I say. “That was a good one.”
“Thanks. The waterfall makes it so it doesn’t echo because of…some reason.”
“Science, probably,” I say.
“Right. Science. Okay, you go.”
I take a deep breath, too, clap twice, hop a couple of times. “Ahhhhhh!” I say.
“Henry, Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“That was terrible. You screamed louder at the mice in my kitchen. Go again.”
I do, and it’s maybe a little better, but my lungs are scorched from running, and it’s tough to scream when you’re actively in pain and out of shape.
“Okay, not bad for a first-timer,” she says. “Maybe let’s do it together. On three. One, two…three!”
We scream. Then we take a breath to reload, and we scream again. Grace was right, it is therapeutic. It burns my throat, hurts my chest and cheeks. But like my pounding heart earlier, I like it.
“Fuuuuu-uuuuu-uuck!” Grace screams.
Her face goes flushed, and her eyes look wild in this light as her chest heaves.
“Fuuuuu-uuuuu-uuck!” I scream back.
She rises up onto the toes of her running shoes, her fists clenched. “Fuck you, cancer!”
“Fuck…um…fuck you, airplanes!”
“Yes! Fuck you, airplanes!” Grace’s face has gone from flushed to burning red. “And fuck you, Christmas!” she screams.
“Oh my god, totally,” I tell her, then I scream, “Fuck you, Christmas! In fact, fuck you, especially!”
I notice an old lady approaching with her elderly dog before Grace does, so she screams a few more times. Fuck you, Boxing Day. New Year’s Eve. Michael Bublé. Common Core, which I think is something to do with math.
“Um, Grace,” I say, touching her shoulder.
The lady is standing in a puffy coat with her mouth open, horrified. Her dog is wearing a holiday sweater and also looks horrified.
“Oh, shit,” Grace says, but she’s laughing.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say. “We’re just…we’re just mad at some stuff over here. Happy Holidays.”
“Well, we gave her a story to tell, at least,” I say.
“City living,” Grace says. “You gotta be tough.”
We’re walking now, which I prefer to running any day, but particularly now because the right side of my groin will likely never be the same. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the route she led me on was a loop, so we’re not far from our cars.
“Any other grief tricks up your sleeve?” I ask. “Because honestly, that was great.”
She looks up into the mostly barren trees like she’s thinking. “That’s about all I got.”
“Holiday movies and rage running,” I say. “We could do worse.”
She folds her arms over her chest. We were sweating before at the waterfall, but she’s obviously chilly now, and I wish I had something to give her.
“So, what movie are we watching next, Henry?” she asks.
We’ve barely begun, so my mind goes blank with the possibilities. “I don’t know,” I say. “Any requests?”
“The Holiday, maybe?” she says. “I remember liking that, I think. Or maybe I just remember Jude Law looking hot in glasses. Who knows?”
“We’ll add it to the list,” I say. “Whatever we pick, though, let’s watch at your house. I have a surprise for you guys.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“My brother and I went to the hardware store the other day.”
She laughs.
“What?”
“I’m imagining you in a hardware store,” she says. “It’s inherently funny, like when people take pictures of their dog pretending to drive.”
“Laugh if you must, but I found something I think’ll help you with your mouse problem.”
“Yeah?” She looks up at me, shivers a little. “No death, though, right?”
I think of Cal’s ominous speech outside Mick’s but decide to keep all that to myself. “Yeah,” I say. “No death.”