Henry Franks A Novel - By Peter Adam Salomon Page 0,42

here,” Bobby said.

“Actually,” Henry said to Justine before she could respond, “that is better than Scarface, and you did ask him if that was the best he could do.”

“Well, to be technical, the monster didn’t have a name. Frankenstein was the doctor,” Justine said before turning back to Bobby. “You might want to work on that some more. Maybe a six out of ten?” she asked, looking at Henry.

“I think the East German judge was a little harsh,” he said. “Probably at least a seven.”

A burst of laughter came from one of the students behind Bobby as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Maybe I could glue on some bolts,” Henry said, pulling down the collar of his shirt to show off the scar circling his neck. “It could be part of my look.”

“I’ve told you before, you don’t really have a look,” Justine said. “More of a unique personal style.”

“I’ll take that,” he said, turning back to Bobby, who pushed past him and continued down the hall.

Justine moved in closer, sliding her hand down his arm until their fingers merged. “Does that mean I don’t get to be Igor?” she asked with a laugh. “I want to be Igor.”

“Now see,” Henry said, “that was funny.”

Margaret Saville, PhD

St. Simons Island, Glynn County, GA

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Patient: Henry Franks

(DOB: November 19, 1992)

A handful of clouds, gray and hinting of rain, rode the wind across the sky. Henry watched them from between the slats of the blinds. Behind him, the ticking of the clock and the tapping from Dr. Saville’s pen counted out the time.

“How are you doing, Henry?” she asked.

He turned around to face her, leaning against the windowsill. “Was a good day. Better than ‘fine,’ at least.”

“Something happen?”

He sank into the couch, his finger idly tracing the scar on his wrist.

“Henry?”

“There’s a hurricane coming,” he said.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No, not really.” He smiled. “Justine says it’ll turn north. They always do.”

“Are you ready if it doesn’t turn? Medicine and everything?”

“Dad said he’d make more. He stocked up on milk and bread and candles. It’ll be an adventure.”

“You were speaking of Justine?”

“I was?” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulling it down to hide behind.

“Henry.”

“We’re dating, I guess. I think she’s my girlfriend.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“So far,” he said. “She says it’s been a weird summer.”

“Has it?” Dr. Saville asked.

Henry lay his head on the back of the couch, staring at the ceiling. “What would you like me to compare it to?”

“You were awake last summer, and bored, you told me.”

“No hurricanes last summer.” He looked at her, unblinking. “Or serial murders.”

The pen tapped against the paper as a cloud crossed the sun and the first drops of rain splattered against the window.

“Or girlfriends,” she said, then placed her free hand over the pen, muting the tapping.

“Weird summer,” he said as a clap of thunder rattled the pane of glass and lightning sliced through the sky.

“Have you been having any nightmares, Henry?”

“No, not since she died.”

“Elizabeth?”

Henry closed his eyes and draped his elbow across his face. “Her mother. I killed her.”

“You’re not Victor, remember?”

“Are you sure?” he asked, then turned away from her.

“How old was Elizabeth?”

He shrugged where he curled up in the corner of the couch. “Young. I don’t know, exactly.”

“Did she talk to you?”

“Yes.”

“So, old enough to talk?”

He nodded.

“How old are you, Henry?” she asked.

“Sixteen.”

“So, say Elizabeth was five. Does that sound reasonable? Do you think you had a child when you were eleven?”

He looked up at her, blinking rapidly in the light. “No.” There was a spark of relief and something approaching hope in his voice. “I’m not Victor.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not Victor.”

“I miss her.”

“Just a dream.”

“Still,” he said.

“It’s all right, Henry. Not having any more nightmares is progress.” She stood as the alarm went off. “Tuesday?”

“Unless there’s a hurricane.” He smiled. “You ready?”

“Candles, bread, water. All set.”

“It’ll turn,” he said, stopping at the door to look back at her.

Out the window, through the slats of the blinds, the white path leading nowhere was flooding in the rain.

twenty two

Henry looked out at the parking lot outside of Dr. Saville’s office. The rain was coming down in sheets and he could barely see his father’s car waiting for him at the end of a row. He pulled his shirt over his head and ran out the door, jumping over puddles and bouncing off a car as he slipped on the wet pavement. His T-shirt was soaked before he’d taken more than a dozen steps, and flashes