Everything Must Go. Elizabeth Flock

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СКАЧАТЬ of euphoria would overtake Henry every Wednesday when his mother left for her tennis game. It was not the fact that Betsy the babysitter was cute and let them do whatever they liked as long as they left her alone to read Tiger Beat. She even let them eat two Devil Dogs if they wanted (Henry always took two of whatever was offered but stowed the spare in his tiny desk drawer, to be savored later in little bites).

      No. It was the sight of his mother so carefree that meant the rest of the day and night would be okay. She might even talk his father into taking them all to the drive-through for hot dogs for dinner. Anything seemed possible on Wednesdays.

      But then a Wednesday came and went without the tennis game. Henry checked the calendar to make sure he had not gotten the day of the week wrong but he knew it was Wednesday because Wednesday was sloppy joe day at school and on that same day he had a stain on his school shirt to prove it. When he got home from school his mother was out in the backyard, on her knees pulling up weeds. No tennis whites. No pom-poms.

      The following week was the same except this time his mother was in the kitchen sitting at the table, angrily flipping the pages of a magazine. Henry could not have known the subtle gaff that banished his mother from the country club (Helen Wellington had grown tired of Henry’s mother, who had developed a nasty habit of arriving early at the court and greeting the others as a hostess would), but he felt its sting as acutely as she did. Wednesdays became like any other day of the week for Henry’s mother. Except on bridge nights, but by then there was an unmistakable hollowness to her that dulled even the joy of playing cards with friends.

      Two weeks after her last tennis game, Henry’s mother burned the roast but only Brad brought it up with a mean “this tastes like my shoe” that felled whatever tree of hope was left standing in the center of the family that night. Moments later she got up from the table, carried the platter of meat into the kitchen and threw the whole thing out. The flick and hiss of her cigarette lighter could be heard through the swinging dining room door that slowly swung itself back to center.

      Henry watched Brad look down at his plate, his mouth open in shock at the effect his words had had on their mother. His brother’s face moved from shame to sadness and then, on looking back up, to surliness. “What are you looking at?” They both knew that Brad had been about to cry.

      “Boys, go to your rooms,” their father said.

      Henry stopped in the kitchen before going upstairs. “I thought it tasted fine, Mom,” he said. In a whisper so Brad would not hear in case he was still nearby.

      On his way to his father’s study he stops at his mother’s purse and fishes past lipsticks, a compact and her wallet to find the pill bottle. He pours the little blue pills into the palm of his hand one-two-three … it is clear she has taken three today instead of the one that is prescribed by the family doctor he has never liked because he still offers Henry a lollipop after every annual visit. Usually she only doubles the dose.

      “Dad?” he stands at the doorway to Edgar Powell’s study. “Mom said you wanted to see me.” With the toe of his shoe he traces the strip of metal that is meant to smooth the transition between carpeted and hardwood floors.

      Henry’s father looks up from his work and takes off his glasses, a signal that this will be a difficult talk.

      “Have a seat,” he says to his son. “How was school today?”

      “All right, I guess.” Henry shrugs and shifts in the chair that faces the desk.

      “Good, good,” Edgar Powell says. He clears his throat and Henry shifts again, aware that his armpits are tingling in sweat preparation. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. School.”

      Henry sits up straighter. “What about it?”

      “I’ve noticed the light in your room stays on later and later into the night,” he says. “I am concerned your schoolwork might be suffering under the pressure of all your … ahem … commitments.”

      “My grades will be fine,” Henry says. He concentrates on keeping his voice from climbing into the fear register. “Classes are going to be easy this semester, I can already tell. It’s senior year.”

      “Nevertheless,” his father continues, “I want to raise the possibility of streamlining your schedule. Your allegiance must be to the academic curriculum, after all.”

      “I’m not going to cut football,” Henry says. “I know that’s what you’re getting at and I’m just saying I’m not quitting the team.”

      Henry’s father tilts his head and even though his glasses sit on his desk blotter he gives the impression of looking over bifocals at his son.

      “You’re not playing, Henry,” he says. “I wonder if the coach has any more intention of putting you in this year than he had last year. And if this year is a replication of last then I suggest we take a long hard look at your mission. At your objectives.”

      Henry hears a rushing sound in his ears, like the ocean in a sea-shell. He feels his face burning.

      “My mission? What do you mean my mission? He doesn’t want me to push my ankle, is all. He said the next game I’m starting and staying in.”

      “Watch your tone, young man,” Edgar Powell says. “And I do not appreciate that look on your face.”

      “Yes, sir,” Henry says. “But he said I’d start.” His jaw is clenched through this last bit.

      He starts to repeat himself but stops when his voice cracks and his tear ducts tingle. “He said …”

      Every family has its own sign language. Every family has its own complicated set of signals, unintelligible to outsiders but loud as a shout in a tunnel to its members. In the Powell family it is Edgar Powell’s habit to clean his eyeglasses with the end of his tie when he wants to be finished with a conversation.

      “I simply don’t want to see a scholarship evaporate because of some fool’s errand on the football field. Or because of an after-school job.”

      “It’s senior year—they’re not going to take my scholarship away senior year,” Henry says, now composed.

      “Attitude, young man.”

      Henry notes the glass cleaning and decides not to challenge his father any further because the end of their talk is in sight. Which is, of course, his father’s original intention in rubbing the tie on either side of the tiny square of prescription glasses. No more words from you, the subtitles say.

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Good,” he says. “I’m glad we had this talk.”

      Edgar Powell turns back to his work. He holds the glasses up to what little light is coming in through the small window and inspects his cleaning. That is the signal that Henry is dismissed.

      The old headphones are huge, the springs have remained factory tight so that if he wears them too long they give him a headache. But at least they seal the sound of music into his head so none of it leaks out. Henry sees himself in the mirror that hangs over his dresser and thinks he looks like a fighter pilot.

      But this image is in contrast with the one he has cultivated in his mind so he is careful not to look in the mirror once he clamps them on.

      He СКАЧАТЬ