Henry

A war veteran gets a surprise visit from an old acquaintance.

 

     A recluse strand in Henry’s mind vibrated with subtle irritation; the intruder he detected a few minutes ago still lurked in the bedroom. Henry rummaged a collection of vinyl albums, probed decades of scars and imperfections, found a cover with frayed edges. Trembling, he unsheathed a record and steadied it under the needle.

 

     He leaned forward and gripped the top of a waist-high dresser. Scuffed and Spartan, the blind man had no use for vanity mirrors or framed photographs.

 

     Henry stumbled in the fog of interrupted sleep. There was something familiar about this voyeur. Buried in his kaleidoscope of thoughts, a faint hum intensified.

 

     The hum strafed and buzzed overhead; a dozen squadron propellers churned in unison. Young Henry rushed to the aid of a company lieutenant, his helmet and infantry pack rattling. The wounded officer gaped in shock at blood spurting from his phantom limb. Henry was fumbling with a cravat bandage when the air shrieked; a blast hurled Henry into the trench wall. As he lost consciousness, rust-colored streaks in the mud expanded and obscured his vision. The earth wrenched Henry’s body from his soul and he fell through strata in naked exorcism, fell far away from sight and sound.

 

     Nostalgia was a stiff drink, mortality a sobering chaser. Henry finally recognized his visitor; the rush of childish curiosity and adult astonishment was tempered by the resignation of a tired, old man. No longer doubting himself, the absurdity of speaking out loud to an empty room evaporated.

 

     “You were there with us, in the war.”

 

     For a few moments, only the low strain of the phonograph punctured the silence. Then the soldier behind him, an elderly man looking outdated in dirty fatigues and a blackened helmet, whispered through limbs of barren trees.

 

     “You know when I am present?”

 

     “I know you are not a burglar. My age and condition... have heightened my senses.”

 

     Henry could not convince himself to turn around. With mild disgust, he added courage to a mental list of things that failed him in life.

 

     “Age is irrelevant,” the visitor replied. “Every time you claim to be old, someone older will ridicule your perspective. You have outlived all of those voices except mine, and I am everlasting.”

 

     Henry felt an undertow, the pull of the earth reclaiming what a tide once spared. He caught his breath and fought the urge to reminisce. He would absorb this moment without distraction.

 

     “Is my wife waiting for me?”

 

     The soldier placed his hand on Henry’s shoulder. Henry smelled the mixture of soot and sweat, heard the crackle of fire in bombed ruins.

 

     “You were wrong about me. My service was dishonorable, because I am a thief.”

Author's Note

An interesting thing happened with this story. Instead of trashing it, I cut the last paragraph. To my surprise, I think the ambiguity makes it a stronger scene.

Reviews

[Damian Alan Gray]

You know, Michael, this really isn't all that bad. If you want some constructive criticism, I wold only suggest that you lengthen the piece. A short story is one thing, but just as I was beginning to get interested in it, it was over. Develop Henry's character, give some depth to his persona and make the reader give a damn whether he lives or dies. Only one mention of his wife near the end is more a tease than a reason to bring it into the story at all.
Overall, however, I can see this turning out to be quite an interesting read and certainly something that I'd be all about reading if you ever do get around to fixing it.