Henry
A few months after we bought our row house, Brynn and I had a bench installed out front in the plot of cement between the house and the sidewalk.
I suppose in most cities “installation” isn’t required for a bench, but in Baltimore things that aren’t permanently affixed tend to vanish in the nighttime, so Cal came over one day and literally bolted the thing to the ground.
I’m on Brynn’s bench now trying to talk to her.
I update her on the Ravens and the wintry weather.
Apparently there’s a storm coming—flurries off and on this week, heavy stuff later.
I tell her about Ian. If we’d decided to have a kid and it had been a boy, I bet he’d have been like him: sweet, arty, a little weird.
I thought being here at our house might help me talk to her, but still nothing. Maybe I should just stop trying.
My phone does that weird FaceTime ring in my pocket now. I smile, because it’s Grace, but when I answer I’m surprised to see Cameron Diaz and Jude Law.
“Um, hello?” I say.
The camera flips and there’s Grace. Her hair is wilder than usual. The sweater beneath her coat matches her eyes. She points her phone back at the TV. “Look who I ran into. I saw Jude Law and thought of you.”
“Wow. I can honestly say that’s the first time anyone’s ever said that to me.”
Grace’s face again, laughing, pretty as always. “It’s The Holiday. We were supposed to watch this, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I owe you that one, huh?”
She shows me a long row of flat-screens, at least a dozen Cameron Diazes and Jude Laws. “Come to the Costco in Owings Mills. I’ll get them to rewind it.”
“They’re playing that at Costco?” I ask. “Isn’t that the scene where Cameron Diaz tells Jude Law they should have sex?”
I hear Bella’s voice now. “What’s sex?”
Grace flips the phone around again and it’s all three of them.
“Oh, crap,” I say. “Sorry. Didn’t know you were there, Bella.”
“Whatever,” she says.
Ian pops his head up now. “Henry, do you have colored pencils?”
“Um,” I say.
“Ian, chill for a sec,” says Grace. “Hold on, guys, okay? I’ll be right back.”
Grace walks a bit, leaving the kids at the cart.
“I was kidding about coming here,” she says. “They don’t have the sound playing on the movie, and Costco is basically the seventh circle of hell right now.”
I’m certain she’s right. Still, though, seeing her up close again, Ian and Bella a few paces behind her in their puffy coats, I find that I wish I were there, too.
“The real reason I called,” she says, “is that I have a question for you, but you can’t ask any follow-ups, because it’s a surprise.”
“Okay.”
“What size are you in clothes, like, generally? The kids want to get you something, and I’m terrible at guessing guy sizes.”
It’s cold here on Brynn’s bench—freezing, actually—but I feel warm suddenly. “Oh wow,” I say. “That’s really sweet. Large is usually a safe bet.”
“Large,” she says. “Got it. Cool. I’ll talk to you—”
“Wait,” I say. “When should we watch The Holiday? I’m hanging out with my brother tonight. What about tomorrow?”
“Not tomorrow,” she says. “I’ve got the Edgar Allan’s holiday party.”
“Oh, okay, well—”
I hear Cal’s truck approaching, then I feel it, rumbly under my feet.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “Just text me or whatever.”
I put my phone back in my coat pocket just as Cal pulls his truck into a spot right in front of my house. The driver’s side door opens, and Kelsey lets out a happy little shriek.
“Hey, Griswold!” Cal shouts. “Where do you think you’re gonna put a tree that big?”
“Bend over and I’ll show you,” I say.
There’s no tree in sight, of course. This is just what we do.
He stands before me now carrying a toolbox and wearing his winter fleece, a black stocking cap, and my niece. Kelsey, also in a black stocking cap, holds her hands out and opens and closes her mittens like puppets.
Cal looks up at the house. “You ready?”
“No,” I tell him. “But let’s do it anyway.”
A year of exposure to four mid-Atlantic seasons hasn’t been kind to our Christmas decorations.
Cal and I start with the wreath on the door, which crumbles in my hand as I pull it from its hook.
Cal brought a ladder. He holds it for me while I unstring the lights from the front of our house.
The green plastic casing is threadbare in spots, the tangle of coppery wiring beneath is jagged and exposed.
I drop him a strand, which he catches and throws into the bed of his truck.
“I’m proud of you,” he says, looking up at me. And because she’s still in her BabyBjorn, Kelsey looks up at me, too, her eyes getting heavy. “This is big, Henry. No joke, man.”
There’s the masculine urge to downplay emotional progress, but I tell him thanks.
“I love you, man,” he says.
“Yeah, I love you, too.”
Then, from next door and above, a window opens, and now Mr. Ross is looking down on us. Cal and I look at each other. I’m suddenly a kid who’s been caught, like I’m about to be yelled at. But then I remember that I’m an adult and I own this place.
“Hey, Mr. Ross.”
“Hi there.” He’s in a white undershirt, despite the cold. I assume he’s wearing pants, but I can’t tell. “You’re cleaning up, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Listen, sorry about leaving this stuff out all year. I sort of—”
He waves me off. “Nah. Didn’t bother me. Couple of blue jays set up a nest in your wreath a while back. I was gonna chase ’em away, but didn’t seem like they were hurting anything.”
Cal and I look at each other again, and he gives me a “maybe he isn’t a shovel murderer after all” shrug. Wonders never cease.
“This is good, actually,” says Mr. Ross. “You can start fresh next year.”
“Agreed,” my brother says. “Hey, Mr. Ross. I’m Cal.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you around here. And who’s the little one there?”
“This is Kelsey.”
Mr. Ross watches me take down another string of lights. Then he says, “Maybe I’ll come down and give you a hand.”
“Oh, Mr. Ross, you don’t have to…”
His window slams shut. A moment later, he hobbles out his front door, and I’m happy to see that along with an old parka over his undershirt, he is, in fact, wearing pants. I’m also happy to see that he’s holding three beers. “You guys want a Natty Boh?” he says.
Cal and I say sure.
“Drink ’em slow, though,” he says. “I’ve only got about a hundred. Didn’t bring one for you, missy.”
Kelsey points at Mr. Ross and laughs.
“That’s for the best,” says Cal, “beer makes her mean.”
Mr. Ross goes to the base of the big tree, looks up at the broken lights. “You two keep working on the house,” he says. “I’ll handle this damn thing.”
Something I’ve learned about putting things off.
Whether you’re procrastinating because of low energy, general boredom, or crushing grief, the thing you’re dreading is never quite as bad as you fear it’ll be.
As Kelsey falls fully asleep in her BabyBjorn, just like that, all our derelict outside Christmas decorations are in the back of Cal’s truck.
“Cleans up nice,” says Mr. Ross.
Cal looks at me now. Our plan was to tackle the outside first, then, if I’m up for it, we’ll go inside. “What do you think, man?” It’s flurrying now, so he shields Kelsey’s face with his hand.
I nod but don’t say anything.
“Maybe I’ll get us some more beers,” says Mr. Ross.
When he comes back, fresh Natty Bohs in hand, we head to the front door. I should’ve taken Brynn’s wreath down earlier because it’s left a permanent mark on the wood, like when you take a picture off a wall after years and years.
“You haven’t been inside since you left, have you?” says Mr. Ross.
“No,” I say.
“Well, fair warning. It’s gonna smell like her in there.” He nods over to his house. “Found that out the hard way a long time ago. A place always smells like the lady who lived in it. Even when she’s gone.”
Kelsey is awake again, reaching for the jangly keys in Cal’s hand.
The door eases open, and Mr. Ross was right. A warm plume of Brynn flows out onto the cold stoop.
“After you,” says Cal.
I get why I told him to leave the place as is back in January.
I regret that now, though, because the effect when we step inside is like time travel.
Brynn’s shoes, her plaid scarf on the banister, the Kindle she bought but complained about because physical books are just better, the fake Christmas tree we decorated while we watched The Family Stone to kick off the season last November.
Cal pulls Kelsey’s stocking cap off. “I popped in a couple days ago to check on things,” he says. “All’s good except that light at the top of the stairs I told you about. Bad socket. It’s on my list.”
Brynn cyberstalked this house for a week before we officially saw it.
So, by the time our realtor could get us a showing, we practically arrived with a briefcase full of cash.
The exposed brick wall—the one that separates this house and Mr. Ross’s—was her favorite part.
I touch it now, the way she used to sometimes when she came in and out.
“I always wondered what this place looked like inside,” says Mr. Ross. “I like it.”
There’s work to do: the tree, the random decorations, endless straightening and sorting. For no good reason, though, I head for the kitchen. Cal broke protocol and apparently cleared out our fridge of anything perishable, which makes sense. The coffee machine could use a cleaning. The sink, too.
When I open the snack cupboard, I find a bag of Hobnobs cookies from Great Britain, and I have to grip the counter because the entire kitchen spins.
“Henry?” says Cal. “Henry, you okay?”
The day of the crash, Win and I were in our office feeling good about ourselves.
We’d just come out of a very long pitch to a regional bank who’d hired us to launch a campaign for a credit card aimed at college students.
The bank’s marketing manager was a British guy named Walton Andrews.
Walton was one of those stuffy executives who emotionally needy creatives like Win and me fear most because they’re so tough to sell.
Brynn, who knew we were stressed, had suggested we serve gourmet English tea and a big plate of Hobnobs at the pitch in Walton’s honor.
She’d done a semester abroad in London back in college and was a low-level Anglophile.
One of the affectations she’d carried into adulthood was an undying love for the digestive biscuits that Brits go crazy for.
Hobnobs were her favorite. Crumbly, covered in waxy chocolate, bone dry—she always kept a stash of them in the snack cupboard.
Our dumb fight had just begun. I was annoyed with her because she was about to go to L.A.
, and she was annoyed with me because I was annoyed with her.
I knew a good idea when I heard one, though, so I asked the admins to arrange a spread of tea and Hobnobs for the pitch.
Walton snagged a handful off the silver tray as he walked into the conference room.
“Off to a good start, lads,” he said. “Reminds me of home.”
The moments after a successful pitch are a kind of euphoria. Win and I had our feet up on our desks and were gorging ourselves on leftover biscuits, riffing in British accents.
“The name’s Bond, Winston Bond,” he said.
“Cheers, mate,” I said.
“Good show, old sport,” he said.
“Old sport isn’t British,” I told him. “It’s from The Great Gatsby. Read a book, man.”
“Piss off, wanker.”
Our laughter stopped suddenly when we heard the unmistakable sound of a sob.
It came from somewhere outside our office—a burst of anguish.
A second later, someone gasped. Reflexively, I grabbed my phone to check the news for all the obvious horrible things: mass shootings, terrorism, natural disasters.
That’s when I saw three notifications from Brynn: a missed call, a voicemail, and a text message.
They’d arrived during the pitch when I had my phone on silent.
I tapped her text first. It said, simply, I love you.
She’d sent it during those horrible, frantic moments.
Some of the other surviving spouses and partners got similar messages.
I didn’t know that yet, though, so I felt like an asshole because Brynn had been right the whole time.
The trip to L.A. was important to her, and my brother would have at least fifty more birthdays. Then I listened to her voicemail.
Brynn and I rarely left each other voicemails, opting instead for texts, so as I waited to hear what she had to say I felt a tug of anxiety in my chest. She’d called about an hour before sending her text. Someone in an office nearby was crying.
Cal puts his hand on my shoulder now. “Those cookies are probably still good if you want one,” he says, taking the Hobnobs out of the cupboard. “I tossed a few stale ones, but these were never opened. See?”
I pull my phone out and stare at it.
“Hey, man. What’s wrong?”
I’ve listened to her last words to me a thousand times. I need to hear them again, though, right now, so I push Play on her voicemail.
Through my crappy phone speaker she says, “Hey, it’s me. Um, obviously. I bet you and Win are doing your pitch.”
Cal’s eyes go wide as he takes Kelsey’s hands. Mr. Ross steps into the kitchen.
“Anyway, you’re still pissed at me, I think, but I’ve got some good news.
I sweet-talked my way onto the jet for the return flight, so I’ll be home way earlier.
If I’m not too full of caviar and truffle oil or whatever people eat on private planes, let’s go out to dinner somewhere good tonight.
I hate when we’re mad at each other. Okay. Well, see you soon. Bye.”
We’re all silent: me, my brother, Mr. Ross. Kelsey watches us. The refrigerator hums. My phone screen goes dark.
“Henry,” Cal says. “Shit. I…I didn’t know.”
“That pause,” I say.
“What?”
“That pause there,” I say. “The one right before she says ‘Okay.’ I hate that pause. It’s like maybe she had something else to say.”