Henry Franks Read online

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Copyright Information

  Henry Franks: A Novel © 2012 by Peter Adam Salomon.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2012

  E-book ISBN: 9780738734347

  Book design by Bob Gaul

  Cover design by Lisa Novak

  Cover art: Grunge floral frame: © javarman/Veer

  Photo © Alex Stoddard

  Interior Art: Chapter art © Llewellyn art department

  Newspaper tears © iStockphoto.com/Mehmet Ali Cida

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  To my wife, Anna Michelle Salomon, and our three sons:

  Andre Logan, Joshua Kyle, and Adin Jeremy.

  one

  Spanish moss, bleached to gray in the heat, stretched down from the trees and the breeze barely stirred the air. From his bedroom window, Henry watched oak branches reaching for the house, close enough to scratch against the bricks. The marshes surrounding St. Simons Island stretched to the horizon, flashing with light where the rising sun reflected off the water.

  With the blinds pulled up, he pressed his hands against the glass. Scar tissue ringed his index finger like jewelry made of flesh, matching the bracelet on his left wrist and the necklace of scars circling his neck. More snaked around his legs, beading with sweat in the Georgia heat.

  Henry closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then counted to ten. A pushpin stuck out of the wall next to the window and he grabbed it without looking. A branch grated across the house with a hiss that seemed almost alive.

  Where the sharp metal point broke the skin of his right index finger, a single bead of blood welled up. He opened his eyes, took another breath, and then counted again.

  Pressing against the glass, he pushed the pin the rest of the way into his finger. Blood ran like rain down the window, but Henry Franks didn’t feel a thing.

  He stumbled through the doorway to Brunswick High School as everyone rushed inside to get out of the heat. “Watch where you’re going,” someone said without turning around. Henry’s backpack slid off his shoulders and, thankfully, stayed zipped when someone else kicked it out of the way. On his knees, he clutched the pack to his chest as classmates walked around him.

  “Breathe, Henry,” he said as a slim hand appeared before his half-open eyes. Pink nails and long fingers reached toward him. When he looked up, his next-door neighbor’s smile was as warm as always. Her shoulder-length brown hair was tied up for summer, exposing far too much skin, and he couldn’t figure out where to rest his eyes.

  “Come here often?” Justine asked, letting her hand fall back to her side as he stood up on his own.

  Henry shrugged. “It’s the law,” he said, staring at the floor. Her toenails were painted pink as well, and when he finally looked up at her, she was smiling. “You match.”

  She laughed as the homeroom bell rang and then waved before running down the hall to her class.

  “Breathe,” he said again, as she turned the corner and disappeared from view.

  Snow and ice flashed across the screen but, as Henry looked around the science lab, it was obvious no one was paying attention to the movie. A gap in the miniblinds gave a view of the picnic area where lunch was already being served, a haze of heat floating off the cement. In the back of the room, students had their feet on the tables and their eyes closed. At her desk, the teacher read over some paperwork, red pen in hand.

  Second row, third seat over, Henry kept his head down, watching his classmates through unruly brown hair that kept falling into his eyes. In the heat, his scars itched, and he clenched his fingers into a fist to keep from scratching.

  Four thousand, three hundred and seventeen stitches, his father had told him once. All the King’s horses and all the King’s men had put Henry Franks back together again.

  Next to him, a cheerleader scribbled in her notebook while chewing on a long blond ponytail. As he tried not to watch, she ripped the paper out, one inch at a time to keep down the noise, then folded it up. She looked at the teacher, stretched her hand out, and dropped the note on Henry’s desk.

  The small square sat there, resting on the desk’s edge, and he stared at it, unaware he was holding his breath. His fingers, busy rubbing the scar circling his wrist, ceased their movement before crawling across to the note.

  In the darkness, he had to squint to make out the writing on the outside, but his eyes weren’t all that great to begin with. Still, as he unfolded it, he felt the lines where her pen had pressed too hard against the paper.

  He could sense her watching him, as though she was trying to tell him something but didn’t want to make a sound during the movie, and the sensation was a warm heat against his skin.

  Inside, the words were easier to read, but she slid down in her chair and kicked him under his desk before he even started. When Henry looked over, she made shooing motions with her hands and pointed to the other side of him.

  He turned around. Bobby Dixon, at the next desk over and wearing his football jersey as usual, had his hand out, waiting for the note. Head down, Henry refolded the paper and passed it over, unable to look at either of them.

  From behind him, he felt a tap on his shoulder before another student slid a ripped piece of paper down his arm. Even in the dim light, the words were easy to read:

  Did you really think her note was for you?

  On the bus ride home, he sat alone as always and thought about invisibility until Justine took the seat in front of him.

  “I heard.” She turned to face him, her arms on the back of the bench. “Small school.”

  Henry looked out the window and shrugged. “Been that kind of life.”

  “Could’ve been worse,” she said, then turned away from him as the bus started moving.

  “How?” he asked, but the question was drowned out by the diesel engine. He pushed himself up and leaned forward to talk to her.

  “How?” he repeated.

  She looked back at him and smiled, lighting up her soft brown eyes. “Could’ve been a longer movie.”

  She was a sophomore, too, but not in any of his classes, and she was t
he one person at school who seemed to know his name, mostly because she lived in the house next door to him. She knew everyone, it seemed, and he was … well, he was Henry.

  “Any plans for summer?” she asked.

  Henry opened his mouth, though he didn’t have an answer. No plans, ever.

  “Football practice,” came from the seat behind him. Bobby stretched his arms over Henry, pushing him out of the way in order to drum a quick beat on Justine’s backpack where it sat beside her. “You cheering again?”

  Henry squeezed up against the window as they drove over the only bridge onto St. Simons and Bobby’s elbow kept hitting his shoulder. In the heat of the bus, his shirt was sticking to his skin and the thin white scar that circled his neck appeared for a moment when he pulled the collar out, but he quickly hid it away.

  Justine pushed her backpack to the floor, breaking the beat. “No, my parents didn’t appreciate the three Bs I got this year. They decided I would get better grades without distractions.”

  The bus stopped with a squeal of hydraulics and Henry ducked beneath Bobby’s arm.

  “Bye,” Bobby said, slapping Henry’s shoulder and pushing him forward so that he stumbled down the aisle. Someone laughed, but he didn’t turn around to see who it was.

  “Henry,” Justine called to him as he walked down the street.

  He stopped walking but, for a long moment, didn’t turn around. When he looked over his shoulder at her, she was lost in the shadows of the oak trees lining the street.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Henry shook his head before turning around to face her.

  “I was actually asking you,” she said, taking a step closer to him, “on the bus, about summer.”

  He let his hair fall into his eyes before finally brushing it away. “No plans,” he said. “You?”

  “Junior counselor at the Y camp, that’s about it.” She walked a little in front of him, maintaining most of the conversation as usual. “I overheard my parents talking about a trip somewhere but I didn’t pay much attention.”

  He turned into his yard even as she was speaking, and as he walked up to his house he could still hear her as she continued walking home.

  Henry waved, even though she had already disappeared inside, and slipped his key into the lock. He jiggled the handle up and to the right, then turned the knob. Repeat steps two and three as needed. A bare bulb burned right inside the door, the weak light reflecting off the dark wood paneling and darker floor with a strange yellow tinge. Curtains, thick and dusty, were pulled across the windows and allowed knives of sunlight to sneak through and slant across the room. Dust danced and tumbled around him as he walked down the hall. Spanish moss fell against the windows, adding a diseased pallor to the heavy air.

  Upstairs, Henry closed his bedroom door, dropped his backpack on the bed, and slid down to the floor. The room was sparsely furnished: a small desk with a laptop attached to an LCD monitor, and mismatched furniture. There had been a mirror over his dresser once but he’d taken it down, leaving blank walls dotted with pushpins around his desk.

  He’d put the mirror in the closet after studying his body for hours one night, trying to see all of the scars or count the stitches or remember the accident.

  He’d failed at all three and vowed never to try again.

  From a pile next to him, he pulled out a scrapbook and flipped to the back; to a picture of him surrounded by boys and girls he didn’t recognize at a birthday party he had no memory of ever attending. He was blowing out the candles and they were all smiling when the flash caught the moment. They were, he thought, friends.

  Outside, a branch scraped against the house. Henry gently pushed the scrapbook away, unwilling to further damage the book after so many nights flipping the pages. He walked to the window and scrubbed the dried blood off the glass, then rested his finger on a plastic pushpin. He took a deep breath and counted to ten. The hissing grew louder but there was no wind and the trees were still.

  Margaret Saville, PhD

  St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

  Tuesday, May 5, 2009

  Patient: Henry Franks

  (DOB: November 19, 1992)

  Official record of nine-month therapeutic anniversary: patient presents with retrograde amnesia affecting declarative memory. Medical consultation shows no physical damage to medial temporal lobe or hippocampus; diagnosis of post-traumatic stress from motor vehicle accident (patient spent extended period of time comatose after accident, mother did not survive).

  Continued monitoring of occasional blackout phenomenon in addition to twice-weekly therapy to accept the possibility of permanent memory loss.

  With his index finger, the skin a shade or two darker than the rest of his hand, Henry scratched at the heavy line crossing his left wrist.

  “They itch?” Dr. Saville asked.

  “Always,” he said before curling his mismatched fingers into a fist to stop the motion. Sweat beaded on his skin, pooling in the scars.

  “Why can’t I remember?” he asked.

  “It’s a process, Henry, the act of remembering. The accident, and before—the memories are there. It’s only been a year.” She pointed to the photograph he’d brought, resting on the table between them: Henry and his parents, bright smiles and wind-blown hair. “Have you had the dream again?”

  “No.” Henry closed his eyes. His discolored finger came to rest on the scar around his neck and he lowered his head to try to hide the movement and the thin white line. “A new one.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No.” He opened his eyes and looked out the window, anywhere but at the doctor. The heat lay heavy on the drooping palm fronds outside the window, a haze shimmering off a white pathway through the trees.

  “Henry,” she said.

  He took a deep breath, silently counting to ten. “There’s a girl.”

  “Someone from school?”

  “No,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “No. She’s a child, with pigtails.”

  “Do you recognize her?”

  He leaned forward; heavy bangs in need of a haircut fell in front of his eyes. Safe behind their barrier, he said, “I can’t remember.” His fingers clutched at the fabric of the couch as he rested his head back into the cushion.

  “Deep breaths, Henry, it’s all right. Count to ten, like we’ve been practicing.”

  Eyes closed, his lips moved as he collapsed in on himself, tucking his face between his drawn-up knees.

  “She called me Daddy. Why can’t I remember her name?” he asked.

  “It was just a dream.”

  “She felt so alive; real, so much more than just a dream.”

  From the desk, the alarm on the clock beeped once, loud in the office. Henry jumped at the sound, and then brushed the hair out of his face.

  “Time?”

  Dr. Saville nodded. “That all right?”

  He shrugged, then stood up, fingers tight on the photograph.

  “I talked to your dad, Henry” she said, “about Thursday. We’ll have to meet Friday this week.”

  He nodded without looking at her.

  “Next week we’ll go back to Tuesday, Thursday. Don’t forget your breathing exercises when you start to panic. They’re important.”

  “I know,” he said. “It’s everything else I forget.”

  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 G
eorgia 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.”