They came to the building the next day, while he lay on the couch. He heard them down the hallway, but couldn't bring himself to open the door. He stood by the peephole instead and listened as Sunderland sorted through his keys at her door.
"I'm sorry about your daughter," Sunderland said. "She was such a nice young lady. Never caused any problems. Always paid her rent on time."
"Thank you," a male voice replied. Her father, probably.
"That's Henry's room, there," Sunderland said. "He was almost killed by that maniac, too."
Silence.
"He's back from the hospital, if you..."
"I don't want to see him," a female voice said. An older woman. "I have nothing to say to him."
"Melly," the male voice said. "Don't. It's not his fault."
"Maybe, maybe not. I don't care. Why did he have to live when my little girl couldn't?"
Henry slid slowly to the floor as he realized that he would never have the answer to that question.
What could I tell her? She deserves to know what happened. What would I say? That her daughter died because I couldn't get the job done? It's the truth.
The muffled sound of voices and movement came through the wall. After a while, he couldn't bear it any more. He stood and shuffled down the hall.
The hole at the end of his hallway had disappeared, soundlessly, at some time the previous night. The hall now extended all the way back, as it should have done, and terminated not in a smelly dusty room, but in two smaller rooms, one on each side.
Henry opened the door to the room on the left. A single folding metal chair occupied the small space. It faced a bare window above the narrow balcony outside the apartment. The walls of the little room gleamed white in the sunlight.
It took him a couple of tries to get the long-unused window open, but eventually he succeeded, and he dumped the chair onto the balcony. His good hand grabbed the window frame. He pulled himself through, and swung himself into the chair.
It was a beautiful, sunny day in early fall. The bright light and the noise of traffic and people flooded his senses. The sun's warmth felt like a violation of his body, fingers crawling along his skin, insinuating themselves into his being, pulling at him. Henry wanted so badly to slip back into his room and never come out…but he gripped the chair with both hands and forced himself to stay.
He watched the cars go by and the traffic lights change from green to yellow to red and back again. He watched people walk down the street, past the subway entrance cordoned off with bright yellow police tape. Buses went by, carrying people back and forth. He heard laughing, yelling, talking, arguing.
He watched the people in the other apartments. Richard's ugly striped chair still sat in 207, empty. The kids in the next apartment played, and the audiophile in 107 bopped around to his favorite records. Everybody else seemed to be at work or otherwise absent.
Normal. It was all very normal.
He'd hoped that this would help, that this would bring him back into reality. But he found himself feeling more alone than ever up on his little balcony. Still, he stayed seated in his chair and let the afternoon wash over him.
Evening came. The restaurant across the street buzzed to life. People came and went. Somewhere over there, people were laughing and enjoying drinks at the Southfield, or winding spaghetti around their forks at the Fuseli…
His gaze rested briefly on the hotel across the street, beyond the other half of South Ashfield Heights. Near its roof, two dark round holes stared at him like sightless eyes.
I think those wouldn't go anywhere…they never had that writing around them. They should have by now. I don't remember them being there when I was standing by that neon sign. But things looked very different from over there.
It's a moot point now anyway.
Darkness fell, and the rhythms of the day slowed. Lights went out in windows, street noises grew quieter and less frequent. Across the way, Mom put the kids to bed, and the record player played no more. Eventually the city slept. Only the occasional passing car disturbed the thick quiet.
The stars moved in their ageless paths, in the all-embracing vault of the heavens. He gazed up at the thin sliver of moon hanging in the sky, and felt the earth turn under him. On his hard metal chair surrounded by the velvety night, Henry found respite for his frayed nerves.
The next morning, he got up from the chair to find a small rectangular object under his door. For a moment, he froze, but then he realized that the thing wasn't red, but a creamy white …an envelope. He picked it up with shaky hands.
It contained one piece of heavy paper. A man's writing broke the expanse of white with its jagged black spikes.
Tomorrow, four PM.
Must have been dropped off yesterday…so, today, then.
He didn't know whether to smile or cry.
Sleep was unnecessary. Eating was out of the question.
He dug his old black suit out of the back of his closet. The whole thing, complete with shirt and tie, was still hanging in its plastic dry-cleaner's bag, untouched since his grandfather's funeral years ago. He pulled off the bag and shook the hanger out, and put his nose to it. Not musty at all.
Good. Hope it still fits.
When he stepped out of the shower, he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He didn't recognize himself at first. His eyes were sunken and his face was gaunt. Blue circles hung low under his eyes. Stubble shadowed his face like dirt. He looked like death warmed over.
Which is a pretty accurate assessment.
His hand shook as he shaved, and the razor caught him just under the corner of his jaw. A trickle of red blood flowed down his neck, past the pulsing vein, and over his collarbone, disappearing into his white undershirt. He did nothing to stop it, just watched it run until it dried up on its own.
Proof of life…
Sunderland remained silent throughout the funeral. Her family avoided them, as if they weren't there. Two young women stood across from him…friends of hers, he guessed. They looked sideways at him and Sunderland and whispered to each other, but said nothing to him.
His eyes stayed fixed on the green grass around his shoes as it was slowly swallowed up by brown bubbly mud. He felt invisible, insubstantial. Perhaps, if he stood long enough in this rain, he would melt into the mud and evaporate into the air, as if he'd never existed. He found that thought oddly soothing.
Then he felt eyes upon him. He raised his head, and met the eyes of an older man. Her father, probably. He held an umbrella over a smaller woman with a gray, pinched face.
I'm sorry,Henry thought. I know you can't hear me, but I am sorry...
Her father's eyes – her eyes -- held an unspoken question.
Someday…I wish I could tell you that.
But the others were gone now, and they were alone together for the last time.
I have nothing but memories of you. Memories that never leave me. Not even at night.
The stream of blood from this morning was still on his neck. The rain that soaked him to the bone had not yet washed it off. He could feel the crackly crustiness of the dried blood.
I have everything to give, but you can't take it any more.
More than I ever knew.
…You will never see any of this. You will never feel this rain, never see your mother and father again as I saw them this afternoon. Our lives crossed that night, and never diverged. Yours ended, and mine must continue.
Time passes, and things change, but not for you.
His hand fumbled in his pocket, and drew out a small silver disc on a cord. Henry moved forward, and placed the medallion flat on the coffin.
The hollow thunk of metal on wood broke through the gray haze that shrouded his brain.
Too little. Too late.
Oh…Jesus ...
He fell forward onto his hands and knees. His forehead plopped into the mud. His back arched and convulsed as he screamed soundlessly into the white noise of the rain.
After a long while, Henry stopped shaking. He slumped back onto his heels, spent. His head fell back, and the rain and mud rolled down over his face.
If I could feel...feel anything at all...but I don't even have that any more, Eileen. I can't give you that now. I have nothing left for you.
I don't know what to do.
Footsteps were approaching slowly. Someone with an umbrella. He could hear the patter of rain on the taut fabric.
"Henry."
Sunderland stood there, holding the umbrella over him. His old shoes squelched in the mud.
"Henry. It's time to go."
Henry sat still, letting the rain wash over him.
"Someone's waiting to see you."
That was a first...
"It's her father. He says he needs to talk to you."
...What? Why?
Wait…
Could it be...
Henry's eyes fell upon the brass plate.
Eileen Melanie Galvin. Beloved daughter. Gone too soon.
No, not gone, not yet...
He had never believed in miracles and such. They always seemed more like happy coincidences to him, interpreted as divine intervention but without proof.
He reached forward to the dark wood, and rested his fingers on it.
...thank you, Eileen.
Henry slowly got to his feet, and turned to Sunderland, who was looking at him as if he was crazy.
Well, perhaps he was, but now wasn't the time to worry about that. He felt the hole in his arm throb, protesting the wet and cold.
"Your car is going to get dirty," he said.
"I'll put a blanket on the seat," Sunderland replied.
The tall man from the cemetery was sitting in the chair by the window when Henry opened his door.
Strange, to be able to pass through so freely now.
The man was looking at the picture of Henry's grandparents on the little table. He stood as Henry entered.
"Mr. Townshend."
"Henry, please," he said, extending his uninjured hand. The man's eyes flickered to his other arm, at the lump that barely lifted the black fabric of Henry's jacket. He shook the hand, and met Henry's eye.
"Andrew. Andrew Galvin."
His eyes went back to Henry's arm.
"What happened there?"
"Bullet."
"I'm a doctor. Mind if I have a look?"
"Please, don't trouble yourself."
"No trouble."
"Can I get you anything?"
"You should sit down. I can get things myself."
"No. I insist."
"Well…a glass of water, then."
Henry was acutely conscious of how long it took him to pull a glass from the shelf. Thank God the tap was back to normal. The water whooshed into the glass with a familiar sound.
Then, he poured himself a half-glass of water, and reached for the bottle of pills on the counter. He struggled with the child-proof cap for a few moments. It took two hands and some small amount of force to open, and he could only grip with one.
Damn it. I'm going to need one of these to get through this …why can't they make a cap that can be opened by someone who actually needs to?
He heard footsteps behind him, and Mr. – no, Dr.Galvin took the bottle from him. He read the label, and his mouth hardened.
"This is strong stuff," he said, looking Henry up and down. "More than usual for a bullet wound."
"That's what the hospital gave me."
"You haven't been taking these."
"No."
Galvin opened the bottle easily, and extracted one pill.
"Swallow this," he said, pushing the pill into Henry's hand. Henry did as he was told. Galvin handed him the half-glass of water, and he washed the pill down. It landed in his empty stomach like a rock.
"Let me see your arm."
Henry removed his jacket and shirt and pulled his tie over his head, and Galvin unwrapped the wet bandages on his arm. It had been bleeding off and on, and the dressing would have stuck if it hadn't been soaked through. The slight movement of air across the wet wounds stung Henry almost to tears.
"It's not healing like it should," he said. "You need to be taking those pills regularly. Too much pain will slow down the healing process, and if it gets infected it will take much longer." He extracted a new dressing from the plastic bag that Henry had brought home from the hospital, and rewrapped the arm tightly. Henry saw his eyes dart quickly to the untouched bag of groceries and back again.
"And stay out of the rain."
Henry nodded, and put his shirt back on. Buttoning it took a long time, but Galvin waited patiently. Then, he put the loop of his tie back over his head and under his collar, and struggled to tighten it.
"Don't bother, Henry."
"No, sir. I want to."
The older man said nothing as Henry straightened the tie and put his wet suit jacket back on, one arm at a time. When he was done, he handed the older man the full glass of water, and the two men returned to their seats.
Galvin took a small sip and placed the glass on the coffee table. Henry sat on the edge of the couch.
"Thank you," he said.
"I need something from you."
"Anything."
"I need to know what happened. How she...my wife wouldn't want me here, but I want to be able to tell her later…"
Henry drew a deep breath. He wanted this, so badly...but suddenly, he wasn't sure if he was up to it. He had to be…had to be... had to…
He sagged.
"You're still weak," Galvin said. "This can wait."
"No," Henry said. "No, it shouldn't. Eileen was..." He swallowed. "Eileen was amazing. I saw her take on things twice her size with just a chain or a nightstick...I don't think I would be here talking to you if it hadn't been for her."
"That's the other thing..."
"Why..."
"...Yes," Galvin said. He looked very uncomfortable.
Why I'm alive and she died. Good question.
Henry knew better than to hope for absolution. Nobody could grant him that. He didn't know if he even deserved it. But the little things meant so much more now.
Thank you, Eileen, for this last kindness. For allowing me this.
"I failed her, Dr. Galvin."
Galvin looked puzzled.
"How? Wasn't she killed by that Sullivan man?"
"Yes, but...I couldn't stop it from happening. God knows I tried, but I failed her."
Galvin looked at him with sympathy.
"Henry, you seem like a decent young man. I know that you would have done your best for my daughter."
Henry shook his head. "It wasn't enough..."
Galvin sat back in the chair. Henry was reminded of the blood that soaked it once, and he could almost see the flicker of the candle in the dark...
"It's...I don't know if you're going to believe what I'm going to tell you. I don't know if I can believe it myself. I just know that it happened."
"You'd better start at the beginning. I want to know everything."
The rain fell softly outside the windows as Henry began his story.
A/N: Kudos to those who spotted Henry getting his Yes groove on while sitting there with the revolver. An odd choice under the circumstances, but I think we can excuse him just this once.