Page 8 of Dear Henry, Love Edith
“Huh.” Lance scratched the back of his smooth shaved head. “Well, different strokes for different folks. I suppose if she hadn’t ratted me out to my parents back when I tried switching book covers in grade school because I believed my brothers when they told me ‘Wee Willie Winkie’ was an adult story, I might think she was okay. Can’t say I can ever imagine having athingfor her though.”
Henry stopped pedaling. “What are you talking about?”
“Goldie Hawn. The librarian. What are you talking about?”
“That’sGloria Haughn, you dingbat. She’s gotta be a hundred years old. I’m talking about Goldie Hawn. The actress. Didn’t you ever seeOverboard?”
“If I did, it would have been a long time ago. Isn’t she kind of getting up there in years too?” Lance twirled his finger in a circular motion for Henry to resume pedaling. “Either way, it sounds to me like you’ve got a thing for old ladies.”
Henry laughed, ignoring the ache in his knee as he pressed the pedals. “I saw a woman that looked just like her yesterday. Theyoungher. And she was beautiful.”
“Did this woman have anything to do with you reinjuring your knee?”
“No. Well, maybe. Yeah. She was there. And got to see me look like a complete idiot.” Henry winced at both the memory and the increased pedaling speed. “Doesn’t really matter. I’m sure I’ll never see her again.”
Lance stepped on the middle of the resistance band and raised the ends of it above his head. “Should you even be wanting to see her again? If memory serves me correctly, you have a girlfriend. A girlfriend who doesn’t strike me as the type to be very understanding if she ever heard you talking about beautiful women, be they young or old.”
“Angela and me... man... trying to keep our relationship moving has been like spinning wheels on this bike. We’re not going anywhere. Next time I see her, I’m going to end it. Should have done it already, to tell the truth.”
“Wow,” Lance said, dropping the band and glancing at his watch. “This is turning into a pretty deep therapy session for us. I feel like we’ve covered a lot of ground, and we’re only twenty minutes in. What other confessions do you have for me?”
“Twenty minutes? I thought it’d at least been an hour.”
“Quit being such a bawl bag. You see any of those guys griping?” Lance hiked his thumb over his shoulder.
“Griping? They’re not even moving. They’re sitting around the treadmills, drinking coffee.”
“But the point is they’re not griping about it.” Lance did the circle motion with his finger again.
Henry sighed, wiped a towel across his face, and pressed on. After several minutes of silence, needing something todistract him from his leg and the repetitive motion and the thousandth time hearing Frank Sinatra sing the same song, he said, “So... ‘Wee Willie Winkie,’ huh?”
Three hours later Henry stopped off at home to get cleaned up. After a quick shower—quick being relative—he limped into the kitchen. The welcoming scent of cinnamon and baked bread took over his senses. A note sat on the middle of the kitchen island.
Dear Henry,
I just wanted to leave you a quick note to say thank you. I’m sure having a houseguest wasn’t part of your summer plans. Kat said you had physical therapy sessions in the morning, so I thought that might be a good time to use the kitchen without getting in the way. I didn’t catch you before you jumped in the shower. I hope you don’t mind I used up some of your older-looking bananas to make banana bread. Please enjoy! Consider it a small token of my appreciation. All right. I’ll stop writing. My husband used to say even in letters I could talk a person’s head off.
Sincerely,
Edith
PS—Since I don’t know what hours I’ll be coming and going, I’ll continue using the back stairway so that I don’t disturb your sleep. Thanks again.
Henry held the note in his hand as he scanned the kitchen. Dirty dishes he’d been neglecting in the sink were washed, dried, and stacked on the counter. The island had been wiped clean. Two loaves of banana bread sat on the stove.
Well, how about that. Place looked downright homey. Put him in mind of long-ago summer nights when he played dominoes and ate chocolate chip cookies in this very kitchen. His grandma Dee’s kitchen. Her warm smile, coupled with the taste of gooey chocolate, always had a way of unraveling Henry’s tongue. He told her things he would have felt silly telling anyone else. Like who the cutest girls in his class were. Or how his teacher was always telling him he had ants in his pants—and how one day he really did.
Sometimes he wondered what he would say about his life now if Grandma Dee were still sitting across from him.
Henry helped himself to a slice of banana bread. Then helped himself to two more slices as he washed it down with a glass of milk and reread the note. Maybe banana bread had the same power to loosen his lips as chocolate chip cookies, because for some reason Henry was feeling a bit chatty.
He grabbed a blue pen out of the oversize coffee mug he used as a pencil holder on the counter, then turned Edith’s note over.
Dear Edith,
You are more than welcome in my home—especially now that I’ve sampled your baking. Help yourself to any ripe bananas from here on out. I haven’t had anything this tasty since my grandma was alive. My mom, God rest her soul, never did inherit her mother’s knack for baking. I, unfortunately, did inherit my mother’s knack for baking. Or should I say, lack of knack? Probably I should just stop talking. Seems you’re not the only one who gets chatty on paper.
A few more things. Don’t worry about waking me up. I sleep like the dead. As for using the back stairs—please don’t. A frayed rope ladder missing its rungs would be more dependable than that poor excuse of a stairway. Been meaning to get to it for years. I’d feel much better if you came in through the front door at night. I’ll leave the porch light on. The last thing I want is for you to fall and have to join me in my physical therapy sessions, although you’d probably handle it with more grace than I do. I’ve always admired the stamina of women in your generation.
