Another one down and one more to go - possibly Monday. Many thanks to Brette O'Connell for correcting my error in the previous chapter - Abe is 70, not 80 (a septuagenarian). I'll correct that after work today.

As usual, not mine.


I couldn't tell who was more nervous or afraid, Henry or me. Abe, on the other hand, look like he'd been looking forward to this moment all his life.

"Please, come in." Henry stood back from the door to let me through. "Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea?" he stammered.

"No, thank you."

Henry seemed momentarily lost for words, "Ah, maybe we should go upstairs. We might be more comfortable there." He gave Abe a look that reminded me of lost boys, not for the first time I wondered what their relationship was really. Then I thought of the picture. Maybe today I'd find out.

Henry sent me up the stairs ahead of him while he hung back a moment with Abe. When he came up his hands were empty. "Abe will be up in a moment, he went to get some photo albums." He clasped his hands together, "Are you sure I can't get you something? It's no trouble, really."

"I'm too nervous for coffee." I confessed, deciding to relent a little.

"Tea is good for the nerves!" Henry almost shouted his relief, once again his chipper self.

I prepared myself for some off the wall trivia and was surprised when he quietly stepped into the kitchen and put the water on to boil.

"You were going to tell me about the picture." I reminded him after the silence had stretched on long enough. "The woman, was that Abigail?"

"Yes," Henry whispered, avoiding my eyes.

"And the baby?" I pressed after another long silence.

"Abraham." He swallowed compulsively, "We found him after Belsen was liberated. He was just a tiny baby." Henry's eyes lost their focus, swallowed up by memories. I held my breath, afraid to distract him. "Abigail wanted to keep him, but the authorities said that children should be placed with families. We pretended to be married so she could keep him – and I fell in love…" Once again lapsing into silence.

The kettle whistled, shattering the moment. Henry turned off the stove, fetched two mugs and prepared the tea – all in uncharacteristic silence. It occurred to me then that Henry hid behind noise – his chatter, the odd history lessons and arcane trivia was the barrier he hid behind, the crafted persona he used to keep people at arm's length. Now that he was being compelled to reveal some secret he was silent.

"How long ago was that?" I accepted the mug he gave me and smelled mint tea. Not my favorite, but ok.

"Seventy years," he finally answered. Was that a look of resignation replacing the fear in his eyes? Henry's hands were shaking, sloshing tea on the floor. I quickly took the mug from him and set both on the nearby table before grabbing a towel and cleaning up the mess.

Henry was still standing in the middle of the kitchen watching me intently with the same air as a condemned man. I had never seen him so terrified, not even when facing down murderers. It was more unnerving than what he said. I checked his hands just to give me an excuse to avoid his eyes, gently pulling him to the sink and washing them in cold water. "Where do you keep your towels?" I asked after realizing I'd grabbed the only one in sight for the floor.

"In there," he gestured with a jerk of his chin, his hands still imprisoned in mine. Opening the drawer, I grabbed the first bit of cloth I saw and dried his hands. It was only after he chuckled that I realized I'd grabbed a washcloth by mistake. Henry took another towel and dried my hands. "It seems I'm not the only one unnerved by this." He was smiling. I could still see the fear in his eyes, but it was beginning to retreat.

"I'm not sure yet what this is." I quickly replied before mentally kicking myself. The unease flooded back into his face, but at least it wasn't that unnerving fear. "You're saying that you're over 70 years old, fell in love with Abigail, and posed as Abe's father."

"I am Abe's father." He corrected me. There was a flash of something in his eyes – pride, relief? Then he lapsed into that awkward silence again.

"I knew you two were more than just roommates that first day you invited me over for dinner, and I knew Abigail was very special to you when we found her body. When I saw that picture…" my voice failed, thinking of the abandoned subway tunnel and those odd gunshots that still rang in my ears.

"You knew that the man in the photograph had to be me." He smiled again and suddenly I realized he was still holding my hands and quickly withdrew them.

"Yes," then I asked the question that had dogged my heels all the way over from the subway. "But how is that possible?"

"He's immortal." Abe offered from the doorway. "He dies, but then ends up in the East River and I go and fish him out." Abe set down several albums next to the tea. "Spilled some?" He asked, pointing to the towel in Henry's hands, then noticed the towel on the floor and washcloth in the sink. "I'll take care of that." Abe took both the towels and washcloth and left the room. "I'll be right back." He shouted over his shoulder.

I looked at Henry. He looked frozen. "Really immortal, like Highlander – immortal?"

"I don't actually watch tv, I don't know anything about Highlander, but if they end up naked in the river every time they die, then … yes, like Highlander."

I couldn't help myself, I giggled. "No, I'm pretty sure they couldn't put that on tv." Henry was turning red from embarrassment, which just fed the giggles. Maybe it was the shock. I didn't really believe his story, did I? How does someone become immortal? Were there any others out there? I couldn't stop giggling long enough to ask my questions. "I'm sorry," I gasped. "Do very many people laugh when you tell them?" then winced at my lame question.

"I've only told Nora. She didn't take it very well … she had me committed."

I gasped, the last giggle turning into a hiccough as my hand flew to my mouth.

Henry turned away, picking up the nearest album and burying himself in photographic memories. I placed a hand on his shoulder, "I'm sorry…" my voice faded away, as insignificant as my apology. "I'm sorry." I repeated, unable to think of anything better.

"That's not your fault, it's just a reaction to shock, and what Nora did isn't your fault either. She only did what she believed was right." I couldn't judge his feelings on the matter; he kept his face from me.

I sat in the chair next to his, "But it's not alright. It taught you to fear opening up to other people, to fear their reaction to your secret." I peered into his face, imploring him to trust again.

Henry looked physically worn out. His eyes evaded mine, remaining fixed on some distant spot I couldn't see. "I never told Abigail. I died in her arms. When Adam shot me today, I thought for sure you would be finding out the same way. That was his intention. I couldn't endure that." Henry's face crumpled and his eyes shone with tears that refused to fall. I found myself pulling my chair closer and holding him in my arms, shushing him like a child and promising him that it would be alright. While the cop in me wanted to know where this Adam character was so I could put him away for good. Henry held me, lightly at first, and then he buried his face in my hair and cried.