Abraham Lincoln_ Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith [2]
“Sorry, but I don’t—”
“Understand, no. No, I apologize. It was rude of me to interrupt you.”
Jesus… now I felt compelled to apologize for his apology.
“Not at all. It’s just… what gave you—”
“You seemed like someone who writes.”
He pointed to the lending shelf in the back.
“You obviously have an appreciation for books. I see you writing here from time to time… I assumed it was a passion. I was just curious as to why you hadn’t pursued it.”
Reasonable. A little pompous (what, just because I’m working in a five-and-dime, I’m not pursuing my passion?), but reasonable enough to let some of the air back into the room. I gave him the honest, depressingly typical answer, which amounted to “life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans.” That led to a discussion about John Lennon, which led to a discussion about The Beatles, which led to a discussion about Yoko Ono, which led nowhere. We talked. I asked him how he liked the area. How his house was coming. What kind of work he did. He gave me satisfactory answers to all of these. But even as he did—even as we stood there chatting politely, just a couple of young guys shooting the breeze—I couldn’t avoid the feeling that there was another conversation going on. A conversation that I wasn’t participating in. I could feel Henry’s questions becoming increasingly personal. I could feel my answers doing the same. He asked about my wife. My kids. My writing. He asked about my parents. My regrets. I answered them all. I knew it was strange. I didn’t care. I wanted to tell him. This young, rich guy with messy hair and overpriced jeans and dark glasses. This guy whose eyes I’d never seen. Whom I hardly knew. I wanted to tell him everything. It just came out, like he’d dislodged a stone that had been stuck in my mouth for years—a stone that kept all of my secrets held back in a reservoir. Losing my mom when I was a kid. The problems with my dad. Running away. My writing. My doubts. The annoying certainty that there was more than this. Our struggles with money. My struggles with depression. The times I thought about running away. The times I thought about killing myself.
I hardly remember saying half of it. Maybe I didn’t.
At some point, I asked Henry to read my unfinished novel. I was appalled by the thought of him or anyone reading it. I was even appalled by the idea of reading it myself. But I asked him anyway.
“No need,” he answered.
It was (to that point) the strangest conversation of my life. By the time Henry excused himself and left, I felt like I’d covered ten miles in a flat-out sprint.
It was never that way again. The next time he came in, we exchanged the expected pleasantries; nothing more. Have a good one. See you next time. He bought his soap and shoe polish. He paid cash. This went on. He came in less and less.
When Henry came in for the last time, in January of 2008, he carried a small package—wrapped in brown paper and tied up with twine. Without a word, he set it next to the register. His gray sweater and crimson scarf were lightly dusted with snow, and his sunglasses speckled with tiny water droplets. He didn’t bother taking them off. This didn’t surprise me. There was a white envelope on top of the package with my name written on it—some of the ink had mixed with melting snow and begun to bleed.
I reached under the counter and killed the volume on the little TV I kept there for Yankees games. Today it was tuned to the news. It was the morning of the Iowa primary, and Barack Obama was running neck and neck with Hillary Clinton. Anything to pass the time.
“I would like you to have this.”
For a moment, I looked at him like he’d said that in Norwegian.
“Wait, this is for me? What’s the—”
“I’m sorry, but I have a car waiting. Read the note first. I’ll be in touch.”
And that was it. I watched him walk out the door and into the cold, wondering if he ever let anyone finish a sentence, or if it was just me.
II
The package sat under the counter for the rest of the day. I was dying to open the damned thing, but since I