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Henry

Al Causey

    Henry awoke to a slap in his face. It was one of his brothers, asleep on either side. He traced the hand to the arm of the brother asleep to his right, who turned away and rolled against the wall.
    “Someday,” he thought, “he’ll leave, and I won’t be stuck in the middle.”
    The morning light crept through the cracks between the gray boards of his bedroom. He pulled his legs out from the tattered blanket, sat up, crawled to the foot of the mattress, and placed his feet, still wearing his stained white tube socks, onto the floor. He felt the cold boards. The dirt on the floor made a grinding sound as he shuffled toward the bedroom door, which squeaked when he pulled it open and sifted into the drafty family room. In the kitchen, he plucked a glass from the sink, placed it under the crusty spout, and turned on the faucet.
    “Today,” he whispered, as water trickled into the glass, “I’ll stop by the construction site after the workers leave and find some boards for the fireplace.”

    On the other side of town, the phone rang. It was in a small room in the garage of a large house. Shelves of empty mason jars, flower pots, romance novels, and a sofa bed lined the walls. Asleep, Richard, on the sofa bed, woke up and answered.
    “Hello, Richard Stanley,” he said.
    “Hello, Mr. Stanley,” a woman on the line said. “We need you to substitute today at Brighton Middle School.”
    “Okay, I’ll be there. For which class?” He cringed, thinking of his day conducting band practice. “What could be worse than music?” he wondered.
    “We need you for seventh-grade Social Studies.”
    “Ah, yes. Thank you for calling. I’ll see you at seven forty-five.”

    Henry’s second class was Social Studies, just one hour before lunch, and he was already hungry. The teacher, Mrs. Carmichael, maintained a sharp classroom filled with maps and pictures of leaders. He looked forward to sitting at his desk in the back row, where he could see everything.
    When he entered the room, a lean, dark-haired man sat behind Mrs. Carmichael’s grimy wooden desk. The bell rang, the man stood, pointed to the name on the blackboard behind him, and said, “I’m Mr. Stanley, your substitute teacher today.”
    “All right!” someone said.
    “Mrs. Carmichael left instructions for reading and exercises.”
    “Ugh,” several groaned.
    “But first, I’ve got a thought exercise for us.”
    “What kinda exercise?” Clarissa, sitting in the front row, asked.
    Henry sat up in his seat.
    “Glad you asked,” Mr. Stanley said. “Everyone get out a pencil and a sheet of paper.”
    Everyone reached under their seats and pulled out notebooks - the room filled with the sounds of shuffling books, tearing paper, and metal rings snapping.
    Aaron, seated in the second row, raised his hand.
    “Yes?” Mr. Stanley said.
    “How long’s this exercise gonna take?”
    “About ten minutes. There will be two questions about yourselves. First, I want you to write five things you like about yourself.”
    “Do we have to write our name on the paper?” Clarissa asked.
    “No, and only you will see your answers. You have five minutes, starting now.”
    Everyone stared at their papers except Clarissa, who started writing immediately. At the five-minute point, most were erasing or biting on their erasers or tapping their pencils on their hands and faces.
    “Time’s up,” Mr. Stanley said.
    “I’m not finished,” Aaron said. “Can we have more time?”
    “No, Sir. It’s time for the second question. Now write five things you don’t like about yourself.”
    Henry noticed that everyone, including Clarissa, hunched down over their papers. No pencils were scratching. He knew what he could write, but if he did, would anyone see it?
    After three minutes, a deep silence brooded upon the class. Henry raised his hand.
    “Yes?” Mr. Stanley said.
    Everyone sat up and looked back.
    “Mr. Stanley, do you have,” he paused, “a dictionary?”

    Richard had conducted this exercise with students many times, but this was a first. No one had ever asked for a dictionary. His mind reeled through the possibilities. “Is this kid a jokester? After all, he is sitting in the back. Why does he need a dictionary?” He looked around the classroom. Everyone was staring, and Richard realized every face shared the same perplexed look. Every mind contemplated one question, partly formed, in various stages of comprehension: “What was it Henry didn’t like about himself so complex or so unfamiliar that he couldn’t spell it?” He couldn’t answer. He felt paralyzed. Time stopped. He looked at the small boy in the back row, who had lowered his hand and now shifted in his seat. He looked at all the other students. “Just what could this terrible thing be?” he thought. He realized that his game, designed to provide a stepping stone to self-acceptance, had taken a dangerous curve.
    However, in this frozen moment, Aaron waved his hand. He shouted in his loudest voice and instantly completed everyone’s partial thoughts, “What’s wrong, Henry? You don’t know how to spell - uuugly?”
    Students opened their mouths wide and howled, pounded desks, and doubled over their desks, crying with laughter. Richard mused that Aaron was a first-rate comedian. He had to smile, uncomfortably, but when he locked eyes with Henry, he saw that Henry’s face shared the same uncomfortable smile. Richard’s eyes showed his apology, and suddenly Henry’s eyes sparkled. The two began to chuckle. Soon they joined the uproar and laughed so much that tears ran down their cheeks.

    Henry was known for his spelling.

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