CXXII
Henry strengthens the defenses of what he considers his domain as much as possible: he arranges everything so that no corner is left unpatrolled by the creatures that belong to him, and he remains alert for any anomaly.
There is, of course, a determining factor: who will break this false truce first? Ideally, it is preferable that he fortify his defenses and wait for the other Henry to come to him, taking the battle to his terrain, because if the other Henry attacks him on his own territory, he will have the upper hand.
This, however, is not a risk-free bet.
But… what if he absorbs the Eleven from his universe first?
Henry rests his elbows on his desk and holds his head in his hands.
He wants to believe that he is stronger in terms of purely psychic mastery: he has trained with Eleven, and they have helped each other grow. Even, if necessary, he knows that Eleven would be on his side.
She would be… Isn't that right?
After all, the other Henry isn't him, not really.
And yet, he can follow the train of his thoughts as naturally as if they had occurred to him:
Technically, the easiest way out would be…
He could defeat the other Henry if he went ahead and consumed Eleven—his Eleven, the one close to him, the one sitting in the living room right now, petting a sleeping cat—if he made her a part of himself. If he didn't hesitate and catched her off guard, if he devoured her before she could even consider the possibility of betrayal.
A shiver runs through his body at that gloomy thought.
"If I had to choose between you and me, do you know what I would do?"
He recalls those words spoken in another context, one that seems to belong to eons ago.
And yet, even then, he had lied.
Already then, he had told her he would always choose himself.
But here it is, a real threat just on the other side of the door, the promise of death because of another's ambition—one, nonetheless, he knows like the back of his hand—and even now he is unable to entertain the thought more than a few seconds.
I cannot.
Someone knocks on the door, then.
And since he knows Eleven is relaxed and has Poe on her lap—and he doesn't want to bother her, not even with this, hells, how could he even raise a hand against her?—he lets her know, raising his voice slightly: "I'll get it."
Henry notices the woman in front of him looks… weird, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, a huge smile plastered on her face.
"Joyce?" he asks politely. "May I help you with something?"
"Uhm, hello, Henry." She's been calling him by his first name for a while now, although Henry doesn't remember giving her permission to do so. Oh, well. "No, I'm just… I'm just… Er, I'd like to… extend an invitation to you and Jane." His expression must betray his confusion, as Joyce rummages through her worn leather bag and produces an envelope. "I know… this may come as a surprise, but…" She makes a smile-like grimace that highlights her dimples, a blush staining her cheeks. "But there are certain times when we just can't hesitate, right?"
"No, I guess we cannot," Henry replies, more to say something than to actually agree. "May I?" With a gesture of his head, he points to the envelope he now has in his hands.
"Oh! Yeah, yeah, please, go ahead."
He opens it and finds a white card containing a bouquet of red roses drawn with watercolors. He can tell it's handmade, and his mind instantly goes to Joyce's youngest son.
And under the flowers…
WE'RE GETTING MARRIED!
Join us at Joyce's residence to celebrate our love.
(Please bring drinks)
Joyce & Jim
Henry blinks once, twice. The celebration is scheduled for two weeks from now.
"'Jim?'" he repeats, looking up just in time to see Joyce scratching her head in a gesture that expresses obvious nervousness, her lips pressed into a thin line. "'Jim' as in—?"
"Hopper, yeah," she finishes for him. "Uhm, we've been dating for a while now, but, well, after Bob… You know, I didn't want Jonathan and Will (especially Will) to have to pay the price if it didn't work out and—"
"And now you're getting married," Henry murmurs.
"Yeah." Joyce takes a deep breath and offers Henry a smile as she says: "It's hard to explain, but… But he's the first person I call when I need help. He… He makes me feel safe. And, without even realizing it… He has become the first thing I think of when I hear the word 'home'."
Eleven.
Her face is drawn in his mind as easily as if he had her in front of him, her shy smile curving her lips.
Henry swallows and—instead of pointing out to Joyce the obvious fact that she doesn't have to justify herself to him—replies: "I understand, Joyce. Perfectly so. And I'm happy for you." He surprises himself when he realizes these last words are not fabricated.
Joyce's smile widens; she's obviously happy someone understands her happiness. Henry, for his part, wonders how many people have reacted incorrectly to the news despite the woman's obvious efforts to be a responsible mother.
…
And then it occurs to him, thanks to Joyce's words…
"You know, I didn't want Jonathan and Will (especially Will) to have to pay the price if it didn't work out and…"
"Joyce, may I buy you a coffee? There is something… I would like to talk to you about."
"Uhm…" The woman looks down at her purse. "I still have several invitations to deliver and—"
Henry notices then that she hasn't come by car: Jonathan must be using it, and Hopper is surely still at the police station.
"I can help you hand out the invitations," he insists. "I'm free for the rest of the day, and I don't mind driving you. Please?"
Joyce must notice the urgency on his face, because she ends up nodding while giving him an understanding smile: "It's okay, Henry. And thank you very much for the help."
