Part 26 (2/2)

”Behind a bunch of penguins,” Henry said.

”We've hardly seen each other.”

”I see you right now,” Henry said.

”You know what I mean. I spent the night with you, Hanky. I'm not just some girl, you know,” she said.

Some girl was exactly what she was, in Henry's opinion. She was some girl who happened to have been working at the restaurant the day he first stepped in. She was some girl who happened to have been the first girl at Disney he met. She was some girl who happened to have wanted him to want her. was exactly what she was, in Henry's opinion. She was some girl who happened to have been working at the restaurant the day he first stepped in. She was some girl who happened to have been the first girl at Disney he met. She was some girl who happened to have wanted him to want her.

They walked together toward the bicycle racks, then strolled on through the back lots. Side by side, with their bikes between them, they walked past the London rooftops where Bert and the chimney sweeps did their dance; past the park pavements where Mary, Bert, and the children popped into a chalk picture; and onto the set for Cherry Tree Lane. Behind the sweet whitewashed front of the Bankses' home, there was, of course, no home at all. It seemed as fitting a place as any to try to appease Cindy with a kiss.

”You're not a nice boy, are you?” she asked him.

”No. I'm not a nice boy,” he said, though of course to Annie that was exactly what he was and was expected to be, and to Fiona-well, he tried not to think of Fiona while he was here with Cindy. And to Mary Jane-well, he tried not to think about Mary Jane at all.

IN ART CLa.s.sES BACK IN HENRY'S DAYS at Humphrey, Charlie had talked a fair amount about how to see things not as symbols but as shapes in relation to one another. Charlie had told the students that whenever they were having trouble getting something right, they should turn the subject upside down. Then they could draw without their eyes tricking their minds into believing things were shaped and sized differently than they really were. Henry was good at this.

Apples were not circles; chair legs were almost never perfectly perpendicular to chair seats; it was the eyes, not the nose, that bisected a human face-and so on.

In this way, Henry eventually came to see the three current women in his California life as well. It was as if he had turned them all upside down, to study how they were in reality. He could see in each the relations.h.i.+p of beauty to personality, neediness to generosity, humor to brains, silliness to insecurity. He could see their mouths and hands, their hair and clothes. He could see their attraction to him, and-understanding every aspect of them individually-he could understand where he found beauty in them. But he never let his eye trick his mind into seeing them whole, as symbols of anything greater than their parts.

ON A LATE FRIDAY MORNING in November, Henry walked through the tunnel to the Nunnery with a small and barely legitimate stack of drawings and, much to his delight, managed to meet Fiona on the other side.

”Come down with me for a minute,” he said to her loudly. ”I need your help.”

”We're fooling no one,” she said as she followed him down the stairs. ”And we're not the first, you know. They do call this the Tunnel of Love.”

”I don't care,” Henry said.

Henry put the drawings on the top rung of a work ladder and stood close to Fiona, smelling her lemony perfume.

”I do in fact have to get back to the shop,” she said. The way she said it, shop shop almost rhymed with almost rhymed with hope. hope.

”You do in fact have to let me kiss you first,” Henry said.

”They're going to miss me up there,” she said. ”It's not even raining out.” Not Not sounded like sounded like note. note.

”Say shop shop again.” again.”

”Shope.”

”Say not.” not.”

”Note.”

He kissed her at length, moving a hand gingerly from the back of her head to the back of her neck, then across her shoulder and down to her breast, where he let it linger, as if he was nervous to do more.

The tunnel was cooler than usual somehow, emptier than usual, quieter than usual.

After a long time, Henry cupped Fiona's breast and pressed against her, kissing her, his other hand high on the cool wall.

”What do you suppose is the longest time anyone's ever stayed down here?” Fiona asked him.

”Not long enough,” Henry said.

”Odd that no one's come through, though,” Fiona said.

”Yes. Quite,” Henry said, trying to mimic her accent. ”Odd indeed. You sound exactly like Julie Andrews.”

”Have you met her?”

”Yes. Say 'supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.'”

”Say goodbye for now,” Fiona told him.

The corridor echoed with her laughter, and with the promise of more silent moments to come.

OF THE NINE OLD MEN, Milt Kahl was the most irascible, and it was commonly understood that around his office in D-Wing, silence was an absolute. So when Henry came back from the tunnel and heard loud radio noises, he couldn't fathom why anyone would risk inviting Kahl's wrath.

The noise of the radio, however, quickly resolved itself into words.

Henry heard: ”The shots apparently came from the fifth floor of the Texas School Book Depository building, possibly from an automatic-type weapon.”

He heard: ”Police were looking for a young white man dressed in a white s.h.i.+rt, with Levi's ...”

Chris ran over to him, all pretense of coolness gone.

”He's been shot. Kennedy's been shot.”

Chris pulled Henry toward the desk of an in-betweener who had a radio.

Into the utter blankness of Henry's mind there rose a single image: the black-and-white campaign poster from Charlie and Karen's kitchen. The promising eyes, the white teeth, the straw layers of hair.

Henry looked around the bullpen for a face-any face-that wasn't contorted in pain, shock, or grim concentration.

”Just a moment, just a moment. We have a bulletin coming in. We now switch you directly to Parkland Hospital.”

Whatever conversation there had been beneath the radio now ceased. Henry heard: ”The president of the United States is dead. I have just talked to Father Oscar Hubert of the Holy Trinity Catholic Church. He and another priest tell me that the pair of men have just administered the last rites of the Catholic Church to President Kennedy. I asked the father, 'Is Mr. Kennedy dead?' And his quote, 'He's dead, all right.'”

Everything stopped. Office doors that were usually closed were opened. Everywhere-outside and in-people stood in cl.u.s.ters. The reason was the need to have proximity to the radios; the effect was the sense that no one could bear to be alone.

HENRY FOUGHT THE URGE to run back into the tunnel, as if that could reverse time. He wanted to talk to someone, but he didn't know to whom. Charlie and Karen came into his mind, no doubt because of the poster. But then he imagined their shock, and their need to comfort the students around them at Humphrey. He thought about Mary Jane, but in light of her ”don't be ridiculous,” she was the last person with whom he wanted to risk seeming in need.

Henry left the Animation Building and wandered over the studio grounds. He found himself hoping to see Annie. He didn't find her, nor did he find Cindy when he stopped at the coffee shop. Lots of people had gone home already. The front gate was deserted. There was a hush over the whole place, as if a director had just called ”Action!” But the only actions were listening, and crying, and comforting.

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