Лиза Макманн - Gone

And then she turns to look at Henry. Runs her fingers through her tangled hair as she stares at his agonized face, frozen into the same horrible expression as in his dream when he screamed over and over again.

“What’s wrong with you?” she says. Her voice is like the static in the nightmare.

She bites her bottom lip and still she watches from a distance, remembering Henry the madman.

He’s unconscious. He can’t hurt me.

She doesn’t believe it, so she says it aloud, to herself and to him. “You can’t hurt me.”

That helps a little.

She steps closer.

Next to his bed.

Her finger hovers above his hand and Janie imagines him jumping up, grabbing her with that cold death-grip. Tearing her throat out. Strangling her. Still, slowly, she lowers her hand and lays it on top of Henry’s.

He doesn’t move.

His hands are warm and rough.

Just like a father’s hands should be.

2:43 a.m.

It’s too late for the bus.

When she is able, Janie meanders her way through the hospital and down to the street. Slowly limps home in the dead of night.

MONDAY

August 7, 2006, 10:35 a.m.

A dream catcher. Her father. Just like her.

Unbelievable.

Janie slips into her running clothes and makes her way to the bus stop. Takes it to the last stop on the edge of town. And runs the rest of the way.

Things in the country are so much slower than they are in town. Janie’s feet slap the pavement as she runs along, the whole world seemingly coming to a stop before her eyes. Row after row of ripe corn begs to be harvested—Janie can see the soft brown tassels go by in a blur as she runs.

Her glasses slip down on her nose from the sweat, and she is reminded yet again that she needs to take in the sights for as long as she can. It makes her sick to think about losing all of this, so she absorbs it, one step after another, until her mind wanders again.

She hears the buzz of tree frogs and remembers how, when she was little, she used to think that the intense buzz was not an animal, but the sound of electrical wires, bustling with energy. When she learned the noise came from frogs, she didn’t believe it.

Still doesn’t.

After all, she’s never actually seen one.

And as she sucks in stale, humid air, the faint odor of cow manure becomes common. Alongside it is the sickly sweet smell of wildflowers and the searing hint of recent road patching.

Janie’s mind is clear and her purpose is sure when she reaches the long, overgrown driveway of

Henry’s house. She slows to a walk, trying to cool down.

Just as she reaches the clearing, her cell phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it, knowing it’s probably Cabel. Needs to think. To do this alone. She opens the door and steps inside the house.

That eerie feeling comes over her—the one that makes her shiver and feel a little bit dizzy and sick all at the same time when being somewhere overtly quiet and extremely off-limits. Janie huffs, still winded, and the noise breaks the silence. “Talk to me, Henry, you creepy little strangler,” Janie says softly. “Show me how I can help you.”

She walks to the kitchen, wipes her sweaty forehead on a kitchen towel and grabs a glass from the cupboard. Turns on the faucet. The water chokes and spurts out, a lovely rust color until it run clears a moment later. Janie lets it run for a minute and then fills the glass. Drinks it, the tepid water not quite raunchy enough to make her gag.

She decides to tackle the computer first. Boots it up and realizes that it’s on dial-up. Not surprising for way out here in the country, but still totally annoying. “Talk to me,” she mutters again, tapping her fingers impatiently on the table.

First, she looks through his bookmarks. Immediately finds Henry’s online store account and logs in, his username and password unprotected, already filled in. Janie peruses the online store, called Dottie’s Place. Finds a collection of odd, unrelated items including babies and children’s clothing, small electronic equipment, books, and glass figurine collectibles. She clicks on a pair of “gently worn” name-brand overalls and reads the description. Reads the words Henry chooses.

Sees his intelligence and marketing ability and business savvy all rolled into the little store.

There are several auctions in progress, plus a few that have ended in the days since Henry became ill.

And then she sees his rating. 99.8% positive.

Janie doesn’t recognize the feeling that wells up in her chest.

Makes her eyes water.

All she knows is that Henry Feingold has a near-perfect rating.

She’s not about to let that record get tarnished.

Janie freezes the inventory. Assesses the items that were already sold and searches for them on the inventory shelves. Packs the few items up and finds the UPS slips in the drawer. Fills them out. Wonders if she needs to call for pickup, but then finds the link online in Henry’s favorites.

She schedules a pickup for before five p.m. Sets the boxes outside the door so she doesn’t forget.

Back at the computer, Janie inhales Henry’s other bookmarked pages. A political message board, a cooking website, several links to marketing professionals, a Jewish holiday website.

Gardening sites.

Dreams.

And a link to a Wikipedia page about Morton’s Fork.

Janie clicks on that last one.

Reads the page.

Finds out that Morton’s Fork is not literally a fork. It’s a term for a dilemma of sorts. In summary: a forced choice between two equally suck-ass things.

Janie reads about it and sees a comparison to a catch-22, and she glances at the book on the table that coined the phrase. She furrows her brow. “Okay, Mister Creepy-pants,” she mutters, back on the computer, typing wildly searching keywords. “What are you all about? What’s your big choice?”

And then she stops typing mid-word.

She sinks back into the chair, remembering the last time she read about a catch-22. Just a few months ago, in a green spiral notebook.

Knows, of course.

It’s clear what Henry chose, years ago.

He didn’t have Miss Stubin to help him. To teach him.

He had no one.

12:50 p.m

The rattling, house-shaking noise of a truck breaks Janie’s attention. Through the window she sees it rumbling toward her and her heart races, knowing she shouldn’t be here. But when the driver raps on the door and she shouts in a friendly voice, “Hey Henry, you gotta sign for this one! You out back?”

Janie hesitates, and then she opens the door. “Hi.”

The delivery woman looks up, machine in hand. Sweat streaks her tan cheeks and she has wet stains under her arms. She wears the company brown shorts and her tan legs are covered in bug bites and bruises. She looks surprised and confused for a moment, but then says, “Hi, uh, are you eighteen? You can sign.”

“I . . . yeah.”

“Where’s Henry? Out garage-saling? Well, obviously not, because there’s his car . . . Well, you can tell him I saw a sign for a big rummage sale that the Luther’ns are putting on. Over on

Washtenaw, Fridee and Saturdee.” She looks uneasy.

“Henry’s—he won’t be able to make it. He’s . . . sick. Not doing well.” Janie feels her throat growing tight. “In the hospital, probably not going to make it.”

The woman’s jaw drops. She grips the door frame. “Oh, my heck. You’re not serious. Are you . . . who are you?” She pounds a fist to her hip as if to get a hold of herself. “If I may ask, I meanit’s none of my business but Henry’s been my customer for years. We’re friends.” She turns abruptly and stares at the woods, her fingers now fidgeting at her lips and then shoving through her mullet.