Henry (by Julie)

Henry (by Julie)

It was a beautiful day on the sunny island of Nassau, and it was a day that would change Henry’s life in a way he would never have imagined. It was a little after noon, the time when Henry usually took a break from giving tours from his depot near the Gregory Arch. This was usually the time of day when tourists were too busy thinking about lunch to want to start a walking tour. Henry had started his business of giving tours about twelve years ago, and American tourists had kept it alive and well ever since. After the end of the Second World War, Americans seemed to have an increasing need to get away. Combined with the fact that Cuba was closed off to American visitors five years later, this made the Bahamas the newest vacation hotspot. Henry had taken advantage of this, and used his knowledge of the island and its history to make a living for himself as the island’s first real tour guide. He charged only a small fee, but made more than enough money to keep himself clothed, fed, and protected from the elements.
As he ambled down Hill Street towards the arch, he noticed that everything was not as peaceful as it usually was. The little Bahamian boy who was watching the booth was still there, but he was cowering under the glare of a pair of middle-aged tourists, his wide brown eyes locked on them like a rabbit about to be pounced on by a pair of cats. The boy spied Henry coming from a distance and his face softened a bit, but the looming presence of the couple kept his eyes hard. The woman was wearing a rigid gray dress with a belt at the waist and four large buttons leading up to a collared neck. Her shoulder-length blond hair flowed out from under a floppy gray wide-brimmed hat. Her face was masked by a large pair of dark sunglasses, but Henry could tell from the rouge on her pouting lips and the porcelain appearance of her cheeks that her makeup had been applied with impeccable care. The man next to her, presumably her husband, was dressed just as stiffly, wearing neatly ironed tan khakis and a crisp collared shirt with a sweater vest over it. He squinted into the sun, one hand shielding his eyes and the other in a fist on his waist, looking for the man who was supposed to be there to lead them on their tour.
Henry quickly sidled up to the little booth, slipping the boy a couple bills before he ran off. He smiled at the couple, his brilliant white teeth shining against his deep brown skin. “Hello, how can I help you fine folks today?” he asked, clasping his slender hands together over his chest.
“We’d like to go on a tour,” snapped the woman in an American accent. “We’re a little short on time, though. Can we go now?” She glanced at her husband’s wristwatch. “If we leave right this second, we’ll make it back in time for our tennis lesson at the resort.”
“Well, folks,” Henry explained, “I usually wait ‘til the hour to leave, ‘cause it gives a few more people a chance to show up. B’sides, the tour is pretty long, and dat’s no good if you don’t have de time to enjoy it.” The woman wrinkled her nose, and her pout grew even more pronounced.
“Can’t you just give us the short version?” she huffed, folding her arms in front of her. “There’s really no other time we can do it.”
“We’ll pay you extra,” her husband offered before Henry could respond. “We’ll even give you double the normal cost. Please.” His brow furrowed in worry as he glanced over at his impatient wife. Henry sighed and rubbed at his salt-and-pepper stubble with his thumb. He didn’t like compromising the quality of his tours just to make them fit into someone else’s schedule, but at the same time, he didn’t want to disappoint the couple. He looked around him to see if anyone was approaching the tour booth, and when he found the street nearly empty, he relented.
“All right, I s’pose I can do dat for you, just dis one time,” he said smiling. For the first time since he had laid eyes on her, the woman broke into a grin. The man, looking strangely relieved, handed him two twenty-dollar bills. Henry put the money into the brown cloth pouch that he kept fastened to his belt, set a sign up on the table, and then looked up at the couple. “All right folks,” he said, stepping out from behind the table. “I s’pose we’re off.”
Henry led the couple underneath the pink stone arch. It jutted out of the rock cliffs, splitting the hill neatly in half. “Dis is de Gregory Arch,” he explained to his charges. “It was built in 1852, so dat de workers who traveled downtown could go through the hill instead of havin’ to go ovah it.” The couple smiled as Henry outstretched his arm, signifying to them the greatness of this achievement. The group emerged on the other side of the arch into the midday sun. It was blistering hot, and the two tourists’ rigidly starched clothing was sticking to their sweaty skin. Henry walked on, oblivious to the heat in his loose tan shirt and pants, woven from palm fibers by a local artisan. Palm trees and glossy shrubs spilled off of the rock cliffs on either side of them, splashing dappled sunlight across their path and infusing the scenery with life.
Henry turned to the two tourists. “So, where have you been since you got to de island?” he asked.
“Oh, mostly downtown,” the woman replied. “We shopped the market district, and we’ve gone on some excursions through the resort. Mostly snorkeling and dinner cruises. Oh, and eating out as well. The Chez Willie is wonderful, you know.” She gave a little cordial laugh as if Henry should know all about dining in expensive French restaurants. “We were recommended to you by a man we met in town,” she continued. “He said you were a very knowledgeable guide.”
“Well I’m glad he told you to come heah,” Henry said. “There is a lot mo’ to de island of Nassau than just downtown. I’ll show you what you been missin’ by just staying in de resort- I’ll show you de heart of de island,” he proclaimed with a smile and a wink. The couple managed only a weak smile, but Henry continued. “De area we ah going into is where I always start my tours. Dis is de area where most of de natives live. Folks call this part of de city “Ovah-De-Hill,” but it’s neah Grant’s Town and Bain Town, de original British settlements of de island.”
As they advanced into the town, the changes were noticeable. Instead of the pink stucco and white brick that comprised almost every building in the downtown district, there were simple homes of cement and aluminum siding. The hustling pace of downtown was completely absent here, and everything went at the normal speed of life. An old man sitting on his porch waved at Henry with one hand, while lazily flicking the ashes off of his cigarette with the other. Two little black girls wearing pigtails and overalls ran along the side of the street, bouncing a colorful inflated rubber ball between them and giggling wildly. As Henry passed, they called out to him with choruses of “Grandpa,” which was the nickname he had earned among the town’s children. He waved and chuckled, his eyes twinkling from beneath his large straw hat. There were a few shops and bars along the road, barely distinguishable from the homes except for the carved and painted signs that hung above their porches.
The group walked on in silence for a few minutes as Henry gave his visitors a chance to soak in their surroundings. Then, he started to speak again. “De island was first settled by de British in 1666,” he started. “It actually started as a haven for pirates and rum-runners, but later…”
“Oh, who cares,” the woman snapped. Henry and the woman’s husband both turned to look at her in startled silence. She noticed their stares, and glared back at them. “I’m sorry, but why did you take us here?” she demanded of Henry. “There’s nothing historical here; there aren’t any monuments or tourist attractions at all. It’s just a backwater slum. I could see a town like this in any rural part of America.”
“Dear, you’re being rude,” her husband said in a sudden rush of courage. “This town is where this man grew up, of course it is important to him.” The couple turned to each other, completely ignoring Henry and started to argue. Henry stood and watched, bewildered.
“I don’t care if it’s where he grew up. How is that important to this tour at all?”
“You’re embarrassing me! Why don’t you just give him a chance to talk? He was right in the middle of a sentence when you…”
“You know what? I’m sick of you thinking you know it all! This is complete garbage! We’re here in the middle of some hick town in the Bahamas when we should be in our hotel room getting ready for our tennis lesson!” By this point the bickering had turned into shouting, and a couple of older women had stopped their conversation and looked over to see what was the matter. The American woman spotted them and wrinkled her face up. “Stop staring!” she screamed, aiming her words directly at them. “Mind your own goddamn business!” Her husband grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him as the two women hurried away.
“What is the matter with you?” he shouted, his eyes growing wide with disbelief. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you! It was your idea to go on this tour in the first place!”
“Folks,” Henry said firmly, cutting in to their dialogue. “De most important part of de culture of Nassau is its people. If you want to know about de real history and culture of dis island, then you can stop yellin’ and come with me. If you don’t, you can go back to yo’ hotel and eat in yo’ fancy restaurants, and you can pretend dat’s all de island really is. It’s up to you.” He stood there, breathing heavily, trying not to let his anger get the best of him. The woman had started to cry, and her confused husband was still holding her by the shoulders at an arm’s length away from him. Finally she looked up at him, salty tears mixing her rouge and mascara together in a gooey mess.
“Don’t preach at me old man,” she sobbed. “You don’t know what it’s like. You live on this perfect little island filled with happy people, and you have no idea what it’s like to lose a child.” She broke down crying and fell to her knees, as her husband knelt down beside her.
“Is that what this is all about?” He asked her. “Honey, I…” He paused and turned to Henry, a pained look in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he explained, “but we lost our young son in the war over ten years ago, and I guess she’s never gotten over it. I’m sorry.” His voice trailed off into a whisper.
Henry was at a loss for words. His heart ached, but not because of the woman’s great loss. Her stinging words had made him remember his own loss so many years ago. He turned and started walking away from them, and mumbled, “De tour is ovah. Goodbye folks.”
“Where are you going?” the woman demanded, calling up to him from her prone position on the ground. “What about our money?” Henry paused, reached into his pouch, and pulled out the two twenty-dollar bills they had given him. Walking over to the woman, he knelt down, pressed the bills into her palm, and whispered, “I may not know what it is like to lose a son, but I do know what it is like to lose a daughter, a wife, and twenty years of my life. You’ll be all right.” He gently folded her fingers closed around the money, backed up, and shuffled away. The woman just watched as he left, her mouth gaping, fishlike, unable to say a word.
Henry’s slender frame slumped now as he walked back toward his stand. The familiar scenery which had always been so comforting to him now seemed hostile, repressed memories jumping out to attack him at every corner. There was the intersection where he had held his wife in his arms as she passed away; there was the little graveyard where he had buried the two people he loved most in this life. A single tear escaped his eye and rolled down his cheek, the first tear he had cried in nearly twenty years. He managed to stumble back to the tour booth, and started stuffing his brochures and signs into the battered suitcase he kept under the table. Just then his friend Slim passed by, and noticed Henry there.
“Hey, Henry!” he exclaimed. “You packin’ up early, mon?” Henry sighed, not looking up from his suitcase. “No mo’ tours today,” he answered. “I’m not feelin’ too good.” Slim furrowed his brow and fixed Henry with a stare. “You take care of yo’self now, Henry,” he admonished. “If there is anythin’ you need, come find me.” Henry responded with a grunt, still not raising his head to look his friend in the eye. Slim walked off, glancing back momentarily at the old man before continuing on his way.
Henry headed back into the native area of town, carrying his suitcase in one hand and his wooden stool in the other. As he passed through this village that had been his home for so many years, his mind now turned to the day of the accident. It played out in front of him as if it were happening all over again. He honestly couldn’t even remember how the argument had started- if the rich merchant had tried to cheat him, or if he had done something to upset the man. Whatever the cause, it had escalated into a yelling match, and ended with the merchant getting into his Ford Model T and slamming the door, screaming obscenities the whole time. In his rage, the man had put the car in reverse and swerved, narrowly missing Henry. Lily, Henry’s wife, was not so lucky. The force of the moving car had knocked Lily to the ground, and she was crushed under its wheels. Henry saw her in his mind’s eye, trying to push Anna, their young daughter who she had been holding, out of the path of the car only to watch her tiny body snap under the car’s front tire. The merchant, realizing what he had done, sped off never to be seen again, but the damage he had done stayed with Henry for years to come.
The death of his little family had affected Henry profoundly. For weeks, he didn’t eat or sleep, haunted by his last memory of his wife struggling for air at the side of a dirt road, her dying breath used to proclaim her love for him. He couldn’t bear to re-enter the house that they had shared, and left it standing vacant. He moved into a room in the house of an old neighborhood widow, who took pity on him. He barely left the bedroom, and the kind woman brought him food and tended to his every need. He lived like a hermit for nearly twenty years, until the day that the old woman died in her sleep. Jolted to the realization that he, too, was mortal, he resolved to put his past behind him. He was almost fifty, and had wasted nearly a quarter of his life away.
Henry realized now that he had made a mistake all those years ago- instead of coming to terms with the pain he felt, he had ignored it and shoved it to the dark and dusty corners of his mind. All the town’s men knew him as “good ol’ Henry,” and the young kids were charmed by his friendly demeanor. Beneath the glowing exterior, though, Henry had been ridden with guilt this whole time. He blamed himself for the deaths of Lily and Anna- he was involved in the argument that eventually lead to their deaths, so he should have been the one squashed under the tires of the angry man’s car. He would rather have died himself than watch his beloved wife suffer. Even his chosen name was a testament to how badly he missed her. Henry was only a nickname- his real name was Onri. After Lily’s death, however, he couldn’t bear to hear anyone say his name, because all he could think about was how those syllables had sounded so beautiful rolling off the tongue of his wife. He had requested that people start calling him Henry, numbing any connection that he had to his wife and daughter. It had only worked for so long, though- the American woman’s breakdown had sent all of the fear, pain, hatred, and guilt that Henry had been suppressing for years rushing back into his blood, tainting every movement and thought he had until he almost couldn’t bear to stand up straight anymore.
Henry stumbled up to the doorstep of his old house. It had been empty and waiting for him all these years, but up until now, he couldn’t bring himself to cross its threshold. He had lived the life of a vagabond, sleeping at neighbors’ houses, on front porches or empty stairways, and sometimes under the protection of the Gregory Arch itself. The house was a meager structure, made of dark brown wood siding with an aluminum roof, but it held more memories than anyone could imagine. The yard had become overgrown with shrubs and weeds from years of neglect. Two large trees grew on either side of the doorway, forming a protective arch for Henry as he almost crawled up the front stoop and across the floorboards of the entryway. He made it about five feet into the front hallway, kicking the door shut behind him. By this point he was crying. He collapsed on the wood floor, breathing in the musty, dirty smell between sobs. All he wanted right now was to sleep, so that maybe he could forget this horrible, heavy feeling that weighed on every part of his body. He laid his head down and prayed that unconsciousness would overtake him soon.
Some time later, Henry felt himself floating. He wasn’t sure whether he was awake or not. He couldn’t feel anything beneath him, and all he could see was a thick bluish fog, as if in a dream. Then, there she was, right in front of him. Her flawless chocolate skin, her beautiful almond-shaped eyes, her ebony hair flowing over her shoulders- everything about her was just as he remembered it. Lily was dressed in a colorful African dress, and a smile parted her full lips. “Onri, I’m so glad to see you,” she greeted him. He opened his mouth to speak, to tell her it was all his fault and how sorry he was for everything- for the accident, for trying to forget her- but she drew closer and put her outstretched index finger to his lips. “Don’t say a word, my dear Onri,” she whispered. “I’ve already forgiven you for everything; it’s about time you forgave yourself.” Lily leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she drew back and smiled lovingly at him once more before fading into the fog. He didn’t remember falling asleep or waking up, but when he became conscious, still huddled on the hard wood floor of his entryway, he felt warm and comfortable, as if he had been sleeping in Lily’s arms all night.
The next morning, Henry strode downtown into Rawson Square with a beaming smile on his face. He passed by Slim, who was there performing with his steel drum trio.
“Henry,” Slim called out. “ You’re lookin’ much bettah than de las’ time I saw you. Glad to see you around!”
Henry grinned at his friend with a sparkle in his eye that Slim had never seen before. “Yes, I am feelin’ bettah, mah friend,” Henry replied. “Only, I would like it if you started callin’ me by my given name. Call me Onri.”

Hace solito

Hace solito

Hace solito,
Hace Solita,
Era un ritmo,
Como si fuera un mito.
Hace solito,
Hace Solita,
Del calor no se grita,
Mas ríe de la lucita.

Unrequited

Unrequited

You look at her the way I wish you'd look at me. You've had that look on your face since the day I met you and some days I am happy for you and some days it kills me to see it. I wish I had the courage to tell you how I feel but I am a coward. I wish I could have told you this before, so it could be us together now. At the same time I wonder if I glorify you, idolize you, and put you up on a pedestal. I know your flaws because they are like mine. This makes me wary to be with you, but is it because I don't know what to say to you, or how to deal with my own emotions? I think we would be so good together some days, but on other days, I think, is it really healthy for two people like us to be together? We might bring each other down. But at the end of the day, I still wish you were with me. Maybe someday I can overcome my obstacles and open up to you. But until then, I can't say a word, because you are both my friends, and it would kill me just as much to hurt you both if I opened my mouth. Love is a funny thing - if that's what this is. More like infatuation. Someday I'll get over it, but I'll always be wondering - what if?

Blues

Blues

Drumsticks padded softly against leather like stardust sprinkling down upon the midnight earth. The violin echoed the gentle night breeze, and the piano could have lulled the moon to sleep.

But it was the voice that was truly amazing; it was the voice that people came to hear. The Silver Fox was filled to the brim with an audience anxious to see Jamie Fox's last performance. Tomorrow, she would put away her microphone and her sequined dresses.

As she gazed out into the audience, her ebony hair shone under the dim mood lighting, and her chocolate colored skin seemed ready to melt. Adrenaline raced through her veins, and yet she felt strangely tranquil.

She'd always loved the atmosphere of the huge brownstone on Ninth. There was just something about it that made her feel safe, peaceful, loved.

That was back when she still had money. She'd bargained with the owners of the building to sell it to her cheap. She reasoned that once the nightclub was under way, they'd always be welcome for drinks.

The keys of the piano chimed softly, echoing Jamie's every breath, under the fingertips of Theo Scott. Wistfully, he keyed the melody of My Heart Speaks to Your Soul," Jamie's big hit. They'd had some good times at the Silver Fox, he and Jamie.

Sure, it'd been hard to work together those first few nights after they'd been together, but they'd bounced right back.

And when she told him she was pregnant...

Stop that, he told himself. You just can't think about that anymore. She's gone, and she ain't comin' back. She's gone forever...

That night with Jamie had been the best night of his life. But now it had been reduced to a painful, lonely memory at best, after the baby...

Jamie caught him looking at her, with the same nostalgia she herself had been feeling. She stared at Theo for a long moment, then shook herself out of her reverie.

She winked at Theo, smiled at him, and turned back to the audience. The lights had begun to fade dangerously low in anticipation of her final verse. She couldn't even make out the people in the front row now. Life seemed a blur.

And the last I saw of you,

You took my heart with you.

My heart speaks to your soul,

The pieces of my broken heart

Make you once again whole.


The lights faded into darkness, and Jamie remained alone, peaceful, on stage, remembering a love lost and a life ended before it could start.

"Jamie," It was Theo. Jamie opened her eyes. "Show's over."
"Of course, Theo. I'll just get my things and then I'll go." Theo smiled kindly, his brown eyes alight.

The room suddenly filled with the noise of the last of the audience members still shuffling their way out the door.

Jamie didn't look back but stopped just once to pick up a book of matches with the words, "Silver Fox: One Three Six Ninth Street" printed on it. She closed the door behind her.

*This story was inspired by a painting called Enchanting Keys by Monica Stewart.

Wandering Star

Wandering Star

The wandering star tries to convince itself that it has a path to follow.

It floats around in the empty vastness of space, its celestial body giving off a soft yellow glow.

Its journey has been long and hard, but the wandering star never gives up hope.

It has been travelling for aeons in the darkness, but the wandering star never gives up hope.

One day, it finally reaches its destination:
A glowing blue orb, floating in the midst of the abyss.

The orb's glow comes not from light, but from its soul, its heart, its very being as it is filled with the essence of life.

The wandering star has found its place -- it belongs here and its mission is to watch over the blue orb.

The orb recognizes its guardian and it moves closer.

"I've been waiting so long," the orb says. The two begin a dance.
"You have done well child," the star says. "You have no more worries; I am here to protect you."

Both the wandering star and the glowing blue orb are filled with love and happiness for one another, for the blue orb now has someone to care for it, and the wandering star has found where it belongs.

The star fixes itself in space; it no longer wanders but remains ever silent, ever regal, watching over its precious blue orb.

*This story was inspired by the title of a Portishead song called "Wandering Star."

The Dust of Life

The Dust of Life

Every rose has its thorn,
Like ice has fire,
Like the grass has wind.

How do you know when your time is up?
The wind swoops down to carry you away, the ice begins to melt and the rose begins to wilt.

Everything turns to dust and goes back to the earth,

While the stars above continue to sprinkle the earth with new dust to create new things.

¿Qué podría decir?

¿Qué podría decir?

Yo sabía que ella me había dicho que no, que no podría contárselo, pero ¿cómo no podría hacerlo?
...Me miraba con ojos amorosos – amorosos para ella – mas enojados...lo sentí...en ese momento, sentí su fervor, su pasión...debía contárselo, debía contárselo.
“Bueno, Ferndando...Elena sabe...ella sabe todo,” yo le di.
“Yo lo se, María.” Ahora, tenía un gesto perfectamente, extrañosamente tranquilo. Su voz era como si fuese de plomo. No pude sentir mis piernas.
Entonces, estábamos callados, todo sereno...nadie sabe ese tipo de quietud. Era como la calma antes de la tormenta.
Ella viniese con toda fuerza...
Esa fue la primera vez, la única vez, que me golpeó. Fue el fin de mi vida y el comienzo de mi vida.
Apenas sabía lo que me había pasado. Fernando nunca me había tratado de esa manera...entonces yo sabía que tenía que escapar, de huirme – no había otro modo.
Todo el tiempo, Elena, su esposa, no había salido de la cocina. No sé si lo nunca supo o si siempre lo suspechaba.
Yo le di unas palabras a Fernando y me fui. Fue la última vez que lo vi.

Nunca pensé que olvidase ese día...era impreso en mi mente para siempre.
Pero, ahora, le agradezco. Si no fuera para Fernando, no tendría la vida que tengo hoy. Me mudé a la ciudad, más para el centro, más allá que esas afueras...yo tengo un piso. Y tengo Rafaél, él por quién vivo. Todo está seguro...

* * *

“María – ”
“Qué pasa, mi amor?”
“El bebé está llorando – está gritando...¿no lo oyes?”
“Estoy preparando la cena, mi amor. Tú puedes cuidarlo,”
“María, él está llorando....llorando, llorando...”
“Vale. Ahora yo voy.”

The Sea of Your Dreams

The Sea of Your Dreams

Quisiera raptarte y tomar el camino
hacia el sur de Andalucia y perderme
contigo en el mar de tus suenos.

- Anonymous poem I found written on a wall in Spain.