wise.
“We’ll see you on Sunday, right, Ramon?” Ramon is sweating under a huge box of outerwear and therefore cannot answer properly.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Good.” Mr. Beardsley looks back down at the checklist that’s never far from reach. “Good.” A check next to an item that by Henry’s reckoning is most likely “make sure Ramon is coming on Sunday.”
“Roughly what time will you be getting there, Henry, do you know? Just roughly.” He tries to sound casual but Henry knows that whatever time he quotes him will be etched in a Moses tablet in Mr. Beardsley’s head so he answers carefully.
“About three or so.”
“Good.” Another check on the list. “Good. I’ll be in the back room if anyone needs me.”
Sunday is the annual company picnic, an excruciating event dreaded by both Henry and Ramon, the sole invitees not counting the UPS man, whose name is mumbled by all because no one is sure if it’s Robby or Bobby. But the UPS man never shows. This year Mr. Beardsley ventured a cheerful “You’re working too hard … obby,” varying the volume on the name. (R/Bobby managed an equally cheery combination head nod and shake accompanied by “Don’t I know it, don’t I know it” on his way out the door, hands never leaving his dolly).
Once Mr. Beardsley has wandered off, Henry dials his own phone number to recheck his answering machine. But the new toll-saver feature alerts him to the fact that he has no messages. Three rings. No calls.
He had really thought his brother would return his phone call this time. Brad knew very well he was at work and Henry had assumed he’d have taken the occasion of his not being home to leave a message, avoiding a conversation altogether. It had been three days since he had left the message on Brad’s answering machine in Portland, Oregon.
“Brad? Hey, it’s Henry. Um, I just thought you should know, ah, Mom’s not doing very well right now. She’s been asking about you a lot lately and I was wondering if you were thinking maybe of coming back for a visit. Just wondering. No big deal if you can’t. But Dad asked me to call you so I figured what the hell. Okay. Well. You have my number. Or you could just call the house. Hey, Brad? Come home, okay?”
“Hi, Henry.” Kevin Douglas appears smaller, thinner, than he did at Fox Run. He had been the yearbook editor two years in a row but was ousted senior year for picking the most unflattering faculty pictures he could find. He lived in the city but had inherited his family home in town. The last time Henry saw him they had been at the pharmacy and had both been preoccupied with getting their prescriptions filled, and Henry was concerned about keeping Kevin from seeing the ointment meant to curb the alarmingly dry flaky skin he’d developed on various parts of his body.
“Hey, Kevin.” Henry smiles as he replaces the receiver behind the desk. He comes out from behind the counter and shakes the delicate hand that is offered. “How are you?”
Henry claps Kevin on the back but the friendly gesture is mistaken for a malicious one as little Kevin Douglas is pushed forward and has to right himself on a rack of jackets.
“Oh, jeez, sorry,” Henry says. He guides him into the middle of the store where all the new arrivals have just been unpacked. Away from Mr. Beardsley and his picnic planning.
“So how’s it going?” Henry asks.
“Fine, fine,” Kevin says. Henry knows Kevin is waiting a moment for the business at hand to take precedence over small talk, which he has never mastered. “I’m looking for a suit,” he says. “Maybe something double-breasted? I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Double-breasted’s one way to go,” Henry says. “I like single, but that’s me. Double-breasted can be a little boxy if you don’t get the right one. Let’s look over here.”
Henry is hoping to dissuade Kevin, who will be further dwarfed by the extra fabric of a double-breasted suit. But he does not want to alienate him, especially after the unintended shove and because Kevin Douglas has always appeared nervous around him. Henry takes care to be gentler, quieter around him.
“Let’s see.” Henry bypasses the Pierre Cardin, trendy in the late sixties, holding on in the seventies, and now in the mid eighties, Henry thinks, sadly on its way out. “Are you looking for pinstripes? Solid? Okay. Good. Yeah, I like navy, too. Perfect. Here it is. How about this?” Kevin, after careful examination, carries Henry’s choice off to the dressing room.
“We do free alterations,” Henry calls after him. “Just so you know.” The back-clapping has poisoned the entire exchange: Henry would remind any customer of their alteration policy but now worries Kevin will think this a subtle reference to his size.
“I’ll take it,” Kevin says. He has not come out of the dressing room. Henry’s eyes shift from one side of the store to the other, thinking of what to do to rectify this misunderstanding.
“What’s that?” he asks, pretending not to have heard. Buying time.
“I said I’ll take it,” the tiny voice answers. “I’ll be right out.”
When Kevin Douglas emerges, Henry decides he will act as if the suit is a perfect fit.
“Good?” He looks at Kevin hopefully.
Kevin avoids his eye and hands the clothing over to be carried up to the cash register.
“Henry, my boy,” Ned Beardsley greets him, “what’s your poison?” His arm sweeps over the foam cooler, the generous host. Henry curses himself—he didn’t note when Ramon would be arriving and now he’s paying the price by being the first there.
“Beer’s fine,” he says.
“Beer it is,” Mr. Beardsley says. He pulls the pop top off before handing it over. “Aah,” he says, swallowing a sip of his own beer, “this is great. Isn’t this great?” He’s looking out from his apartment’s rooftop across others just like it, out into the distance. The tar of the rooftop has been painted an industrial silver-gray. The metal door that leads back into the building stairwell is propped open by a brick that has also been painted gray. There is a hibachi and an old radio that’s tuned to the easy-listening station Mr. Beardsley favors. But the wind carries the sound out, away from them. Henry notes the flank steak marinating in a long Pyrex baking dish, grateful it’s not the bratwurst his boss had served last year. An abnormally huge black fly circles the bowl of coleslaw, landing on the edge then rappelling down to test it with a stick leg.
“Yeah, it’s great,” Henry says. “Great view.”
“I’ll tell you,” Mr. Beardsley says, “I was so lucky to get this place. I’m not sure I told you about that. Did I?”
He had, but Henry feigned ignorance and interest, figuring the story, however boring he knew it to be, would require little in the way of response and would fill the time until Ramon arrived.
“Oooh, it’s incredible,” Mr. Beardsley says. “I didn’t tell you? I could’ve sworn I did. A lady comes up to me in the store one day, this really funny look on her face. I’m telling you, I couldn’t read it. You know me—I can usually tell in five seconds what they’re after but with this customer, nothing. So I waited. I let her come to me in her own way. That’s something that’s always good to try to do, by the way. Let them come
