Henry Himself

  Also by Stewart O’Nan

  FICTION

  City of Secrets

  West of Sunset

  The Odds

  Emily, Alone

  Songs for the Missing

  Last Night at the Lobster

  The Good Wife

  The Night Country

  Wish You Were Here

  Everyday People

  A Prayer for the Dying

  A World Away

  The Speed Queen

  The Names of the Dead

  Snow Angels

  In the Walled City

  NONFICTION

  Faithful (with Stephen King)

  The Circus Fire

  The Vietnam Reader (editor)

  On Writers and Writing by John Gardner (editor)

  SCREENPLAY

  Poe

  VIKING

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Stewart O’Nan

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: O’Nan, Stewart, 1961– author.

  Title: Henry, himself / Stewart O’Nan.

  Description: New York, New York : Viking, 2019.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018031783 (print) | LCCN 2018032378 (ebook) | ISBN 9780735223066 (ebook) | ISBN 9780735223042 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781984877635 (international edition)

  Subjects: LCSH: Domestic fiction. | GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3565.N316 (ebook) | LCC PS3565.N316 H46 2019 (print) |DDC 813/.54–dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018031783

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_2

  For my father and his father before him

  Contents

  Also by Stewart O’Nan

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  In Memoriam

  Pedigree

  Near Miss

  Hide-and-Seek

  Spring Song

  Isn’t It Romantic?

  Double Coupon Days

  The Inconvenience

  The Second Sunday in Lent

  The Record

  Spring Ahead

  The Fearsome Foursome

  The Designated Driver

  Tulip Fever

  St. Henry of Assisi

  Solutions

  Mimosas

  Root-X

  Add It to the List

  Memento Mori

  True Value

  The Duty Rooster

  A 100% Chance

  Puzzles

  Kiss the Cook

  The Evening’s Entertainment

  Night Owls

  The Five Warning Signs

  The Last Antenna on Manor Drive

  Pillow Talk

  Too Quiet

  The Poor Chair

  Attic Treasures

  Visiting Nurse

  Funny

  Wish List

  GetGo

  The Last Time

  Fly Me to the Moon

  Sleeping Arrangements

  Fairness

  Waste Not

  The Brabenders

  Luck

  The Lost Art of Conversation

  Double Exposure

  No-Show

  A Debacle

  A Present

  Useful

  Thin-Skinned

  Dog Days

  Incompetence

  Aries and Virgo

  Side Effects

  FOD

  Seeing Things

  The Company of Heaven

  Depósito

  The Birthday Boy

  Good News

  Singleton

  Mr. and Mrs. Henry Maxwell

  Nature Boy

  Temptation

  Whole Life

  A Tough Cookie

  The Borrowers

  The Gold-Plated Anniversary

  Highway Robbery

  Standby

  11 at 11

  Honeydew

  The Host with the Most

  The Old Lamplighter

  And Then There Were None

  Bon Appétit

  ’Tis the Season

  Charity

  Clutter

  Do You Hear What I Hear?

  Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

  In Memoriam

  Signs and Wonders

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  The autumn wind

  on its way

  sets a scarecrow dancing

  BUSON

  In Memoriam

  His mother named him Henry, after her older brother, a chaplain killed in the Great War, as if he might take his place. In family lore the dead Henry had been a softhearted boy, a rescuer of stranded earthworms and fallen sparrows, presaging his vocation as a saver of souls. Salutatorian of his seminary class, he volunteered for duty overseas, sending home poems and charcoal sketches of life in the trenches. At church the stained-glass window that showed a barefoot Christ carrying a wayward lamb draped about his neck like a stole was dedicated in loving memory of the Rt. Rev. Henry Leland Chase, 1893–1917, the mock-Gothic inscription so elaborate it verged on illegibility, and each Sunday as they made their way to their pew up front, his mother would bow her head as they passed, as if to point out, once more, his uncle’s saintliness. When he was little, Henry believed he was buried there, that beneath the cold stone floor of Calvary Episcopal, as below the medieval cathedrals of Europe, the noble dead moldered in cobwebbed catacombs, and that one day he would be there too.

  When Henry was eight, his mother enrolled him as an altar boy, a vocation for which he betrayed no calling, picking at his nails inside his billowy sleeves through the weighted silences and turgid hymns, afraid he’d miss his cue. He had nightmares of arriving late for the processional in his baseball uniform, his cleats clicking as the holy conclave paraded down the aisle. The cross was heavy, and he needed to stretch on tiptoe with the brass taper to light the massive Alpha-Omega candle. Funerals were the worst, held Saturday afternoons when all of his friends would be at their secret clubhouse deep in the park. The grieving family huddled beside the casket, praying with Father McNulty for the repose of their loved one’s soul, but once the service was done and the
candles snuffed, the funeral director took charge, bossing around the pallbearers like hired porters as they lugged the box down the front steps and slid it into the hearse. Invariably Henry pictured his uncle, his nose inches from the closed lid, on a train crossing bomb-pocked French farmland, or in the dark hold of a ship, cold water gliding by outside the thin steel skin of the hull. He had so many friends and well-wishers, the story went, that the visitation—in their grandparents’ front parlor, where his sister Arlene taught Henry to play “Heart and Soul” on their Baldwin—lasted three days and nights.

  Arlene was named after Arlene Connelly, his mother’s favorite singer, which Henry thought unfair.

  To avoid confusion, among company his mother called him Henry Maxwell and his uncle Henry Chase, a nicety her side of the family dispensed with, christening him Little Henry.

  Henry—though not one to make a fuss—would have preferred a nickname of his own choosing, something rough and masculine like Hank or Huck. He thought Little Henry was bad luck, and in private moments, rooting through his father’s workbench in the cellar for a spool of kite string, or on a rainy day, hiding from Arlene in the lumber room beneath the eaves, or after midnight, climbing the boxed back stairwell with a filched sticky bun, he felt watched over by a ghost neither kindly nor malevolent, merely a silent presence noting his every move like a judge. His mother never said precisely how his uncle had died, leaving Henry, with a child’s dire imagination, to picture, in a flash, a German shell catapulting a rag doll of a doughboy through the air, scattering his limbs over a cratered no-man’s-land, one arm caught in a coil of barbed wire, the hand still clutching a small gold cross.

  On his mother’s dresser, in a silver frame that captured fingerprints, surrounded by other, less interesting relatives from before Henry was born, stood a bleached Kodak of her brother on the dock at Chautauqua, proudly holding up a glistening muskie. Each time Henry snuck into his parents’ bedroom to puzzle over this snapshot as if it were a clue to his future, he remarked that the fish, like his uncle, was long dead, while the dock and cottage were still there at the water’s edge, awaiting them every summer like a stage set, but exactly how these facts were related he couldn’t say, only that he felt vaguely guilty looking at the young and happy not-yet-reverend Henry Chase, as if he’d stolen something from him.

  Pedigree

  The Pittsburgh Maxwells—no relation to the automakers or coffee company—came from the moors of North Yorkshire, with the main concentration around Skelton. Originally sheepherders and tenant farmers, after the signing of the Magna Carta their descendants filtered into the village proper and became at first guildsmen and then merchants, one, John Lee Maxwell, ultimately serving as a tax collector and deacon in the Church of England. Generations later, an intrepid or maybe disgraced scion of that line, John White Maxwell, sailed on the Godspeed for the Virginia Colony at Jamestown, there taking as his wife the fourteen-year-old Susanna Goode. This according to a genealogy compiled by a retired pharmacist from Olathe, Kansas, named Arthur Maxwell, a pair of which Emily, whose AOL address had been included in a mass email the week of Thanksgiving, purchased sight unseen as Christmas presents for their two grown children, Margaret and Kenny. Rather than gilt-edged, leather-bound keepsake editions, what arrived by regular mail in a crushed Amazon box several days after the children had packed up the grandchildren and as many leftovers as Emily could foist on them and fled were two overstuffed three-ring binders of cockeyed photocopies riddled with errors both typographical and factual, including the incorrect year of his uncle’s death.

  Henry made the mistake of laughing.

  “I’m glad you find it amusing,” Emily said. “I paid good money for these.”

  “How much were they?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting it back.”

  He doubted that was possible but nodded thoughtfully. “It’s fascinating stuff if it’s true. It says here we were horse thieves.”

  “I’m not happy. It was supposed to be a big gift. It’s too late now anyway. At this point I’m thinking I should just send them back.”

  They’d been married nearly fifty years, and still he had to smother the masculine urge to counsel her on how the world worked. At the same time, agreeing with her too readily would be seen as appeasement, a worse offense, and so, as he often did on matters of little import, he chose the safest response, silence.

  “Nothing?” she asked. “You have no opinion whatsoever.”

  He’d forgotten: He wasn’t allowed to be neutral.

  “I think it’s interesting. Let’s keep one for ourselves at least.”

  “Honestly,” she said, backhanding the page she was reading, “I could do this. I’m going to send him an email.”

  The holidays were hard on her. It didn’t have to be the genealogy, it could be Rufus throwing up on the carpet, or some passing comment of Arlene’s about the mashed potatoes. Lately the smallest things set her off, and though in her looser moments she freely admitted that she’d always been a terror, an only child used to getting her way, as her husband he feared her impatience hinted at some deeper frustration with life and, by extension, their marriage. In this case his hope was that she would cool off and eventually relent, that the bother of repacking the binders and running them over to the post office would outweigh her anger. Her moods were fleeting, and the man had obviously done a lot of work. As if tabling the issue, she set the box out of the way, upstairs, on the cedar chest in Kenny’s old room, where it stayed well into the new year (1998, incredibly), until one day at lunch she asked if they had any packing tape.

  “Did you get your refund?”

  “Only after I bugged him a million times. He said we could keep them, but I’m not going to. He’s got to understand he can’t do this to people.”

  “Right.” So, his copy too. A traitor, he’d enjoyed finding out more about his Kentucky cousins, and General Roland Pawling Maxwell, the hero of Yorktown.

  “I didn’t want to tell you, they were sixty dollars apiece. For sixty dollars they should be nice, and they’re not.”

  “I agree,” he said, honestly shocked at the price. For all their differences, they were both thrifty.

  “It’s a shame, because there were other ones I could have ordered.”

  “It was a nice idea.”

  “If you want to try, have at it. I’m not doing that again.”

  “At least you got your money back.”

  Again, he was missing the point. She’d wanted to do something special for the children and it had turned into a debacle.

  He would never understand why she took these defeats to heart. There was nothing you could do about them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Why? It’s not your fault. Just let me be angry. I’m allowed to be angry.”

  He had to run out later and grab some new wiper blades for the Olds. The post office was right on his way.

  “That would be helpful,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

  He didn’t mind, though, alone in the Olds, cruising down Highland with the defroster going, he glanced over at the box on the seat beside him and frowned as if she’d tricked him.

  Near Miss

  He’d lived in Highland Park his entire life, so he could be excused if he thought of the stop sign at Bryant—installed over a decade ago—as new, but in truth, that afternoon he never registered it. He was still picking at the knot of Emily’s unhappiness when he realized a school bus was pulling out in front of him, tall as a boxcar, and that he’d ram it broadside if he didn’t stop. Too late, the driver saw him and honked, and at the last second Henry jammed on the brakes. The tires screeched and the nose of the Olds dove. The box flew off the seat, smacked the dash and bounced around the floor.

  He was short by a couple of feet. He was lucky the road was dry.

  “Damn it,” he said, because he was at
fault. The sign was behind him. He hadn’t even seen it.

  The driver threw up his hands and glared.

  “Sorry,” Henry said, and held up his own as if he meant no harm. Above him, children who might have been first graders peered down from the windows, pointing and making faces, bouncing on their seats like trampolines. He was the excitement. It was on the local news every night, the old fart who hit the gas instead of the brake and ended up inside the dry cleaners.

  Henry expected the driver to jump out and yell at him, but the bus eased forward, clearing the intersection, and kept going. The car behind it waited for Henry to take his turn.

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  He wanted to protest that he was a careful driver, not like Emily, who couldn’t see at night and four-wheeled over curbs, and the rest of the way to the post office and then coming home he concentrated, lips pinched, eyes darting to cars peeking from side streets. It was one slip, but all it took was one, and he worried that it might have happened before, he just hadn’t noticed. Near the tail end of his life, his father couldn’t see well. When they visited him, all four corners of his bumpers were smudged with different-colored paint. He refused to give up his license, even after being stopped repeatedly by the police for driving too slowly. After he died, Henry rolled up the garage door of his condo and discovered the whole front of his Cutlass was pushed in, as if he’d hit a wall.

  His father had taught him to drive in the park, on the winding road that circled the reservoir. “The more room between you and the other fellow the better,” his father said. “You don’t know what he’ll do. All you can do is stay as far away from him as possible.” Henry had tried to pass along this wisdom to his own children, but they thought they knew everything from taking driver’s ed. As a teenager, Kenny totaled their station wagon on black ice one New Year’s Eve, breaking Tim Pickering’s leg, while Margaret, coming home late from a party, took down a section of the Prentices’ fence that Henry made her pay for. He’d hoped their accidents might teach them a lesson. He wasn’t sure they had.

  This time at Bryant he stopped at the sign. When he got home, he three-pointed the Olds at the end of the drive and backed it into the garage perfectly straight, waiting for the rear tires to kiss the two-by-four he’d rigged.