You make your way over to Henry’s apartment that same afternoon. It is not warm. There is very little summer left. You huddle behind the turned-up collar of your jean jacket, staking out his building. And then, before you even have to summon the courage to face her, you see Mrs. Miller exiting the lobby, coming down the steps. A happy miracle. She glances suspiciously around her property then makes her way down the street towards her car. Her walk is pained and furtive at the same time.
You wait several minutes then scuttle across the road. Enter the lobby and ring every buzzer but Henry’s. Someone lets you in and you climb the stairs to your friend’s door.
You knock.
You hear shuffling.
You knock again.
More shuffling. Though it doesn’t sound like it’s getting nearer.
“Henry,” you hiss.
Quiet.
Then, weakly, “Lee . . . ?”
“Yes. Open.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
“Open!”
“No . . .”
Okay, what is it with people unwilling to let you in these days? You plant a sincere look on your face, can see from the shadow that he’s watching you through the peephole.
“Henry — listen to me. This is serious. I need to see you. I need to speak to you.”
“Go home. I’m not opening.”
“Henry. Open up. This is something important. This is something you have to do. Understand? This is something that could be . . . dangerous. To you. Are you listening? I have to see you.”
And then you hear movement. Soft, tentative. His slippers against the floor, the handle turning. You see the door pull back.
Henry stands framed in the doorway. In his bathrobe. Looking at you.
His face is swollen in every possible direction.
He is bruised. He is stitched. He is bandaged. His lips look too swollen to speak. His eye sockets seem too swollen to possibly see from. He is hunched over, moves like an old man.
Someone has put the beats on Henry.
You catch your breath. Say, “When?”
“A few days ago. Nights ago. It was at night. I was coming home. Lee, I never even saw who they were.”
“Why? Why did —”
And then you stop.
You know why. You know who. Of course you do. After all, what had you come to warn him about?
Henry says nothing now. Just looks at you.
The humiliation in his eyes is unbearable for you. He looks as though every ounce of self-worth has been pummelled from him.
You look away. Can’t stare at him any longer. His eyes drop to the ground at the same moment.
You think, It was Henry’s fault. It really was.
So why does this feel like it’s on you?
You turn and flee before Mrs. Miller comes home and catches you bothering her son.
Four days later, Henry is gone. Out west. To Vancouver, Stacy tells you. Mrs. Miller has family there. The plan is that she will sell her buildings and join him as soon as she can. Henry Miller will never set foot in Montreal again. She wants you all to know this.
The Boy watches cartoons in the background. The sounds of Bugs Bunny and Yosemite Sam fill your apartment as Stacy quietly tells you about the last time she saw him. Her eyes, you are surprised to see, are wet. You lean in close to hear her say that the last time she saw Henry his cuts were healing but his eyes were scared and confused like a child’s.
You spoke to him. You didn’t tell Stacy this but you did. He called you from the airport with five minutes left before boarding. It was nine-thirty at night. On a Friday. You could tell his mother was standing right there beside him.
“I can tell your mother is standing right there beside you,” you said.
“My mother’s not interfering.”
“She’s standing next to you.”
“She’s a few feet behind me,” he said, “actually.”
“Ha! See? You’re funnier,” you said to him. “Have I told you that?”
“Yes. You have.”
You were walking around the apartment cradling the phone against your neck. Hands jammed into your pockets. Kicking a balled-up piece of aluminum foil along the floor with each step. Which had your cat’s undivided attention. Not a hard thing to get.
“Vancouver?” you said.
“Yes. I’ll stay in at first, until my face is better.”
Kick.
“I’ll get an apartment and my aunt will get me a job and then I’ll start to learn the city.”
Kick. Kick.
“It rains a lot there but it’s warmer.”
Kick.
“After a while I’ll make a couple of friends, I guess. From work, probably. Which’ll be good.”
You’d given the foil ball a last boot, watched it skitter off the base of the stove, behind the fridge. Watched Sam trot her way over, begin sniffing around. Devising a plan to root it out.
“Just put down the phone, Henry,” you’d said suddenly, in a kind of loud whisper. “Leave there now.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t have to go.”
“I want to.”
You’d taken a long, sad breath. Decided to try one last angle.
“There’s nothing there for you, Henry. Pay attention to me. You’ll have to meet people. You won’t have your friends. There’ll be no one there who knows you. Your friends are all here. There won’t be anyone to help.”
And here Henry addressed you as though you were somehow incapable of understanding a very simple concept.
“But I think that’s the idea,” he said.