Page 38 of Mr. Broody

“Only a little while. I have a job,” I lied because there wouldn’t be much reconnecting unless I wanted to sit in his office and refill his whiskey and cigarettes.

I loved my dad, I really did. It wasn’t his fault my mom moved back to Chicago when I was seven. But a little effort on his part wouldn’t have killed him.

I went downstairs in my childhood home, walking past the pictures of me growing up on the wall in the stairwell. I grew up in a house full of love. I knew I shouldn’t always be looking for my dad’s love, but somehow, that was always easier said than done.

Reed was in a chair, the newspaper propped up in his hands, reading glasses in place on his face.

“You do know that you can go digital with that now, right?” I asked.

He tipped one end of the newspaper over and peeked at me. “Your generation needs to learn that not everything newer is better.” Then he folded the corner back up and went back to reading.

I sat on the couch across from him, waiting for my mom, who was upstairs yelling at my brothers to get dressed.

“Reed!” she screamed.

He set the paper on the coffee table and rose from his chair. “I swear, those two.”

As he fled from the room, I looked down to see that he had been reading the sports section. And there it was, an article about Henry being traded back to Chicago.

No one had told me. How did I not know?

The paper crinkled when I grabbed it, desperate to read what had been developing in his life that I knew nothing about.

After graduation when I left for Holland, Henry started his career in Chicago. As hard as I’d tried not to look him up, I felt as though Henry’s dream had become mine over the years, and I wanted to make sure the pain I was living with was worth it. But Henry struggled, and the game announcers and the anchors on the sports channels said as much. There was some commentary about how maybe he didn’t have what it takes, and he was one of those guys who couldn’t perform at the professional level. My heart sank watching him struggle for two years. So, it wasn’t a surprise that he got traded to Colorado.

I wasn’t sure what Colorado had brought Henry. If it was a new coach, a new team, but he just excelled. The first year was still a little wobbly, but by his second year, the old Henry was dominating again, and the announcers were eating their words about their predictions that he didn’t have it.

I read the article before the distraction of my family came down the stairs. The assistant coach from Colorado had gotten a job in Chicago as the head coach, and he wanted Henry with him. The reporter stated in quotes from Coach Buford that Henry was the start of the dynasty he was building in Chicago. That without Henry as a building block, he wouldn’t be sure where to start.

Down a little further in the article, the reporter reached out to Henry, and he was quoted as saying, “Chicago’s my hometown. Why wouldn’t I want to go back and prove myself? That’s what I plan on doing, and I’m thankful the organization saw my value when others didn’t.”

Oh, Henry. He was never spiteful or mean. Just said how it was. Always able to keep his emotions in check. Maybe that was why I had fallen so hard for him. He tended to lose control of those calculated measures when he was with me.

The footsteps barreling down the stairs made me toss the newspaper on the table and stand as if I wasn’t reading it. We filed out to the car, and I put my suitcase in the trunk since I was leaving that night and staying at a hotel closer to the airport to catch an early flight.

I didn’t see him when we arrived at the church, and after mass, Henry still wasn’t there. I figured maybe he wasn’t coming because he was busy packing up boxes in Colorado to move back to Chicago.

As we all stood to watch my brothers, Reed, and three other men carry my grandma’s casket out of the church, a feeling washed over me, and I knew Henry was there. The tears I’d thought were done pierced my eyes because I could always rely on Henry to be there for me when I needed him, even if we didn’t speak anymore.

I escorted my mom to the aisle, following my grandma until they slid her casket into a hearse as everyone bowed their heads. We stood at the church’s entry and watched.

When it was done, I stepped farther out onto the sun-soaked concrete, and there was Henry. At the end of the stairs, dressed in a black suit, his hands in his pockets and his gaze solely on me. Relief washed through me at seeing his face, feeling his calming presence surround me. He still had that effect on me after all those years.

My mom walked down the steps, thanking everyone for coming, and I did my job of asking everyone to join us for lunch at a restaurant down the street.

When we reached the end of the crowd, Henry hugged my mom, whispering something I couldn’t hear. He’d known death at too young of an age to understand what losing a parent meant. My mom drew back, placed her hand on his cheek, and nodded.

Then it was my turn, and he wasn’t as gentle with me. Maybe he saw on my face that I was moments away from breaking down. No one knew or saw me the way Henry did. He tucked me into his body, his arms sheltering me from the pain that had been coming at me from all directions that past week.

“I should’ve been here sooner, I’m sorry,” he whispered.

I hadn’t noticed that he’d moved us into a corner on the other side of the cement stairs of the church. No one was watching. I didn’t have to be strong or pretend to be there for my brothers or my mom. All the grief, all the regret for being away from Grandma in her final years on Earth crashed down.

He tightened his arms around me. “She loved you so much. Don’t do this to yourself.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, hating that he knew why I was so upset. He ran his hands down my back and patiently waited for me to stop crying and calm down. By the time my back stopped racking, and I inhaled a cleansing breath, I realized everyone was gone.

“I waved at Reed to go ahead, that we’d meet them there,” Henry said.

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