Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,11

rifling through the random contents—dead batteries and a collection of broken pencils, empty pill bottles. One drawer held hundreds of plastic forks and a single packet of ketchup; another held nothing but pink ribbon tied into miniature bows. Next to an old bag of syringes on top of the fridge, Henry found the flashlight he was looking for, though the batteries were weak when he tested it.

Bigger windows in the laundry room let in more light. A thin door stood behind a rolling cart filled with cleaning supplies, and the wheels squeaked as Henry pulled it out far enough to reach the doorknob. A narrow set of stairs led down into the dark. The air, released on opening, was cool, smelling of age and dust.

The boards creaked on the first wooden step but they held his weight. The flashlight shook with his movements, making the shadows jump around him. Cobwebs came in and out of the light as he turned around, looking for the path to the circuit box to reset the breaker. Shallow footprints were visible in the dust from the last time he’d had to do this, and he followed them through the maze of boxes stored in the basement.

Sweat coated his skin, and kicked-up dust stuck to his arms and face. The metal door of the circuit box squealed in protest as he slid the latch to open it, and the heavy switch fought against him as he flipped it back into place. The air-conditioner kicked in immediately, a loud roar in the silence.

He’d forgotten to pull the cord to turn on the single bulb hanging from the ceiling; as the batteries of his flashlight died, he was plunged into darkness. Henry shook the flashlight. A weak glow cast shadows but the beam didn’t travel very far. He reached his other hand out, back and forth, sensing for boxes, hoping to find the string attached to the light.

Near the circuit breakers? Behind the boxes? Closer to the stairs?

He took a step, his arm swaying back and forth, patting the air as the flashlight died a second death. He shook it, harder and longer, banging it against his hip when it still refused to work.

“Damn it.”

The words echoed in the basement as he dropped the flashlight. He took another step, both arms moving to lead the way; the blind leading the blind. His fingers ran into a cobweb, the spider silk sticking to his hand, and he wiped it off on his jeans. Another step and he kicked a stack of boxes. He steadied them with an unsteady hand, continuing to shuffle forward in the darkness.

A hint of light appeared—the sunlight through the windows in the laundry room leaking down the stairs. Another step, a little lighter, until he could actually see the string hanging down a few feet away.

With a sigh, he pulled it, flooding the basement with light. Henry blinked. Again. The brightness and the dust brought on a sneeze.

He walked back to the circuit breaker to pick up the flashlight. It wasn’t there; a trail through the dust showed where it had rolled next to the box he’d kicked. Another inch or so and he would have stepped on it, probably would have tripped and fallen over everything.

As he picked the flashlight up, a feeble beam came out of it and he smiled.

SCRAPBOOK SUPPLIES was written on the bottom box in his father’s nearly impossible-to-read scrawl. Henry thought about the photo album upstairs in his room, now battered and torn with use. The mad flipping of pages in his bed late at night when sleep was slow in coming and the pain of forgetting was lessened, somewhat, by the handful of pictures his father had collected for him.

The box on top was heavy, with nothing written on it. He moved it to the side to get to the supplies. Inside, pages of scrapbook paper and little tape dispensers and archival pens were thrown together. He took a few of each. Beneath, he found scissors and stickers, unopened, which had probably come with the paper and pens. He took those as well.

He tried to pick up the other box with his hands partially full. It seemed even heavier than before. In the poor lighting and worse ventilation, dust kicked up and he almost lost his hold on the box.

He sneezed.

The box slipped, reached its tipping point, and fell to the floor. Henry’s papers, pens, scissors, and tape went flying.

On its side, the heavy box had opened