Henry Franks (2 page)

two

His father was sitting at the table when Henry went downstairs for dinner. Two places were set, thick plastic dishes warped, cracked, and better than anything else they owned. Fast food burgers sat, unwrapped, on the plates, with packets of ketchup, mustard, and relish piled in the middle of the table.

Around a mouthful of food, his father smiled. “Dinnertime.”

Henry sat down, dressed his burger and began to eat, keeping an eye on his father as they sat across from each other.

“Have you been taking your meds?” His father's white consultation jacket had seen better days. A faded Southeast Georgia Regional Medical Center patch was coming loose, just a little right of center.

“Yes.”

When his father smiled again, Henry looked down at his empty plate before reaching for another burger.

“Appetite's back?”

Henry shrugged. “It helps.”

“Some of the medications have stomach side effects.”

“Eating helps,” Henry said.

“And the itching?”

“Scratching helps too.”

“Need more ointment?”

Henry shook his head, dark hair falling into his face and he left it there.

“Stronger?” his father asked. “I can make it stronger next time, if you'd like. Or not, whatever you need.”

Henry shrugged again and then pushed the plate of food away without taking anything.

“You can eat it if you want.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Would you be if I wasn't here?” His father's hands rested on the table, playing with the plastic silverware, the skin white where he gripped the knife and fork too tightly.

Henry shook his head and reached for the food.

“Henry?”

“Sorry,” he said, around the first bite of the second burger.

“Me too,” his father said.

He stopped chewing long enough to look up at his father.

“Really, Henry, I'm sorry. Has Dr. Saville helped?”

With the rest of the burger in his hand, Henry stood. The metal chair folded in on itself and clattered to the floor. His father rushed around to pick it up.

“It's okay,” Henry said, but his father unfolded the chair and slid it back into place anyway.

“My fault,” his father said.

“Stop saying that.”

“What?” His father looked at him, a frown drawing ever-deeper lines into his skin.

“That you're sorry.”

“What would you like me to say, Henry?”

“Anything but that.”

“Dr. Saville?”

“I still don't remember,” he said, turning to walk out the door. “But I'm fine with that now.”

Henry sat in his room, staring at a blank monitor, fingers resting on the keyboard. A branch beat against the window in the summer wind, the sound harsh and grating. He spun around in his chair, knocking a plastic pillbox to the ground. In the small room, it only took a couple of steps for him to reach the window and pull up the blinds. A sliver of moon surrounded by haze glowed above the tree line.

Across the backyard, through the branches, he could see a part of Justine's house but the lights were off. He raised the window, and the noise of the leaves grew louder as branches skittered against the house. In the heat, he scratched at the scar around his neck.

Leaving the window, he moved the mouse to wake his computer up but focused on nothing beyond the lingering images of the dream. A ghost of a memory, a little girl calling him Daddy. And then, like his life, she was gone.

He took a deep breath. Another, counting to ten as he struggled to hold on to the memories until all that remained was his father's voice, telling him about a life he couldn't remember and a death he'd somehow forgotten.

three

William Franks rested his head in his hands, staring at his half-eaten dinner without seeing it. He rubbed his fingers into the skin of his temples, trying to knead the headache away. It didn't help. He turned to look at the empty doorway that Henry had just walked through, trying to see even a shadow of his son, but there was nothing there.

“I'm sorry,” he said, the words quiet in the stillness of the empty room.

The headache never seemed to go away lately. He sighed as he turned the lights off, blinking in a short moment of relief from the brightness before heading to the kitchen. He pushed the toaster to the side and pulled out another bag of fast food. From the cabinet above the fridge he took down a bottle of ketchup and spread some on two burgers before wrapping them back up.

William walked to the back door, pushing the curtain out of the way to stare out into the yard. Shadows blanketed the ground and it was difficult to see. He rested his fingers on the light switch but didn't turn it on.

The house settled around him, with soft squeaks from his son walking around upstairs and the steady hum of the air-conditioner. He stared out the window until his eyes began to water and only then did he turn the light on, flooding the backyard and banishing the gloom. With a deep breath, he unlocked the door, opening it slowly to cut down on the noise from the hinges.

The heat hit almost immediately, moist and almost too thick to breathe, hurting his lungs with each inhale. The pounding in his head returned with a vengeance, every beat of his heart stabbing through him. William took one step outside and placed the fast food bag on the back stoop, never taking his eyes off the shadows hiding behind the trees. His pulse raced as he slammed the door shut behind him.

He took deep gasping breaths as his fingers crawled up the wall toward the light switch, flicking it down and plunging the yard back into darkness. Only then did he turn around and look out the window. Nothing moved beyond the swaying of the branches, brushing against the side of the house in the breeze.

Half an hour later he was still standing there, and the bag of food sat on the stoop untouched. William sighed. He rubbed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars but it didn't help the pounding. Grabbing his keys, he walked out the front door, closing it as softly as he could. In his car, he rested his head back against the seat, staring at nothing before finally backing out of the driveway.

He drove slowly through Harrison Pointe, his neck on a swivel trying to see between every house, searching the shadows. William forced himself not to blink, unwilling to risk missing something. From the glove box he took out a flashlight and held it out the open window, shining the light around so he could see better. It didn't help.

Up and down Frederica, the flashlight beam moving in circles. Turning onto Sea Island Road, he studied the marshes until he reached Torras Causeway and continued his search on the mainland. He turned onto K Street and parked, closing his eyes long enough to lessen the pounding. Even with the air on high, it was too hot in the car. Still, he managed to doze off, waking with a start as the first hint of the sun broke over the horizon.

Turning from K Street onto Putnam, he slammed on the brakes as a lone figure staggered out of the trees at the end of the road. Long hair flew out behind it in the wind. William jumped out of the car, running to catch up as the person walked into a house.

Sheriff Calls Brunswick
Murder Scene “Appalling”

BRUNSWICK, GA—June 3, 2009:
The mysterious death of a Brunswick woman has now become a murder investigation. Sylvia Foote, 41, was found beaten to death at her home Sunday morning. Forensic teams were still searching her house Tuesday for evidence, and Assistant District Attorney of Glynn County Brian Winters said that investigators plan to return to the Brunswick home on Wednesday as they try to figure out how and why Foote was killed.

“From our perspective, this is being treated with the highest priority,” Winters said.

An autopsy revealed that Foote died of multiple wounds and blunt force trauma. “The state forensics crime lab has been called in and they will be up at the scene doing some specialized searches,” Glynn County Sheriff Dan Bailey said, calling the scene one of the worst he'd ever had to investigate.

The death of the popular teacher and mother of three has hit the community hard, as people continue to leave flowers and candles outside her home and at Brunswick High School, where she taught science and was instrumental in developing the Jekyll Island Sea Turtle Tracking curriculum for the district.

Winters said that they have interviewed dozens of people. “It's a process that takes some time.” He also announced a $5,000 reward for information leading to an arrest in the case.

2009 Hurricane Season
Predicted to be Active (Update)

MIAMI, FL—June 3, 2009:
The National Hurricane Center has released their updated hurricane predictions as the 2009 Hurricane Season began June 1. Original forecasts called for 12–18 named storms with 3–5 having the potential to strike the United States. The update has increased the number of total named storms to 14–20 while lowering the risk to the United States to 2–4.

Margaret Saville, PhD
St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Patient: Henry Franks
(DOB: November 19, 1992)

A palm frond brushed against the glass, stirred by the thin summer wind that had dropped the temperature into the high eighties. Henry flinched at the sound, his fingers rigid where they pressed against his legs.

“Breathe, Henry,” he said, hunched over so far he was talking to his shoes.

“Relax,” Dr. Saville said. “You're safe here.”

He looked up at her, his pale gray eyes red from too many sleepless nights. His skin was dusky olive above the thin white scar on his neck and pale white below it, where the V of his shirt showed part of his chest.

He took a breath, counted to ten, exhaled.

“Any vacation plans now that school is out?” Dr. Saville reached for her pen and loudly clicked it open, waiting.

“No.” As he shook his head, brown hair swirled away from his face and he smiled. “I know, Doctor,” he said, “no one-word answers. I remember that.”

She smiled in reply and the pen flew across the paper. “So, what about Justine?”

“She's a friend, I guess.”

“Friends are good.”

“Girlfriends are better,” he said, and let his hair fall back into his eyes.

“Anyone in particular?”

“No, no one. Not yet.”

“Does ‘no one' have a name?”

Henry scratched his wrist with his discolored finger, then clenched his hands together. “No.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I don't think anyone at school even knows my name,” Henry said before brushing the hair back from his eyes.

“Justine does.”

“She lives next door, she has to.” He smiled as the sun broke through the clouds and lightened the room. The palm frond brushing against the window fell silent.

“She has to be friends with you?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Does she talk to you?” Dr. Saville asked.

He laughed. “It's Justine. All she does is talk.”

“That's good, right?”

“Good?”

“Her talking to you, Henry,” she said. “How would you feel if she stopped?”

He took a deep breath, and then rubbed his hands over his face. “Doesn't help.”

“With?”

“Life? Memory?”

“Dreams?”

He slid down in his seat, hiding behind his hair as he tensed up. He nodded, once.

“The old dream, Henry?”

Again, the nod.

“How long has it been? Months?” She flipped through her notebook, then tapped her pen against her leg. “Did something happen?”

Henry looked at her, and then reached for his backpack. He pulled out a card and handed it to her.

HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY, SON!
blared a smiling cartoon father balancing a cake on a unicycle.

Dr. Saville read the card, then passed it back.

“He gave it to me yesterday,” Henry said.

“Why?”

“I woke up a year ago.”

“Then the dream last night?” she asked.

“Again.”

“Anything new?”

“I didn't die,” Henry said. “Does that count?”

“Well, that's something, at least,” Dr. Saville said. “Anything else?”

“She died this time.”