LXIV
The afternoon before the dance, Henry answers the door seconds after someone knocks.
To his surprise, the person on other side of the door is none other than Jim Hopper. Henry's eyes rest for a moment on the colorful bag that he carries in one hand.
"Official." Henry's smile is courteous without being friendly. "To what do I owe the pleasure? And, if I may inquire… what do you have in that bag?"
Hopper picks up his bag, giving it a scornful look. "Uh. Good afternoon. This is the makeup bag of Karen Wheeler, Mike's mother," he explains. "She lent it to me so I can do Jane's makeup."
For a moment, Henry doesn't know what to do with this information. "Excuse me?"
"Didn't Joyce tell you?" Hopper asks then, placing a hand on his waist. "That I'd come to do her make up?"
"I was under the impression that someone would come, indeed… When she told me she already had everything planned, well, I thought it would be Joyce herself who would come."
"Joyce?" Hopper chuckles. "Nah, busy mending her son's outfit for the night. No, you're talking to the assigned makeup artist," Hopper proclaims with something akin to pride filling his voice as he points a thumb at his chest.
"I don't mean to offend, but do you really know how to…?"
Hopper purses his lips and closes his eyes for a moment. Then, he decides to open the bag and remove a book from it, which he then offers Henry. He takes it in his hands: the cover illustrates the profile of two beautiful women and the title reads Changing Faces: Make-up for Day and Evening.
Henry finally looks up and can't hide his surprise when he says: "Really?"
Suddenly, Hopper's gaze changes: it's more… intense. With hidden nuances that Henry can't decipher with the naked eye.
"Once, boy…"
"I'm pretty sure we're almost the same age." Henry stops himself from rolling his eyes.
"Boy," Hopper repeats, as if he hadn't interrupted, "I once had a daughter."
This isn't news to Henry. As soon as Jim Hopper had set foot on his property, days ago, his mind had surrendered everything to him like an open book. He finds it even hilarious that the man intends to pull the dead-daughter-card to make a good impression on him, considering that it was his own bad decisions born out of his desire to be "a hero" which doomed her, to begin with.
If there's anyone familiar with this kind of hypocritical behavior, it's him.
"Is that so?" he says nonetheless, pretending to empathize with him.
"Uh-huh," Hopper confirms. "And when you're a father, you're prepared for this kind of thing, you know? At the very least, one should be prepared to do her hair and makeup on the day of her first dance."
He just nods; that's a point he can concede to the man.
"Then, may I? I've got a lot to do…" At this, Henry steps aside and gestures for him to come in.
As Hopper walks up the stairs to Eleven's room, Henry takes a moment to reflect on his words.
He suddenly thinks of his father: had he ever done his sister's hair or makeup? No, as far as he knows, that task had always fallen to his mother… And yet, it's not something he can say unequivocally. Because while his family shared these kinds of moments, he was very busy developing his abilities and with his plans, his spiders, and his drawings.
It just never occurred to him.
But I'm not like them, he finally resolves, heading for the stairs. I never was.
Despite his early resolve, when Hopper is finally done with Eleven's hair and makeup and Henry sees her in her freshly polished little shoes and speckled dress, he considers the possibility that he has, in fact, missed out on something.
Don't be foolish, he is quick to think. You are not the same. Not you nor her; we are not equal to them.
When Eleven sheepishly asks for his opinion, Henry doesn't hesitate to answer truthfully, too focused on her to notice Hopper's arrogant expression behind her: "You look beautiful."
He hates, then, to think of his father.
Of his mother.
Of his sister.
Of the way they gave each other compliments like these all the time.
Of the way that he's falling into the same thing, as if he didn't know how that story is bound to end.