by Randy Prachar
Splash!
Henry kicked a fist-sized piece of the crumbling dam into the spring’s floodwaters below. His morose gaze penetrated the maelstrom to its depths. He removed one hand from the railing to stroke his silvery, chest-length beard and rub the thinning grey hair on his forehead. Then the hand returned to the rail, his wiry frame swaying gently as if to regain his equilibrium.
I had been standing beside my friend for most of the past hour, albeit safely perched behind the railing that he clung to. Henry had said very little as he tempted the edge of the old structure, leaning periodically at arm’s length over the angry wash below, only to pull himself back to rest against the rail. With each passing moment, I became aware that I was witnessing something more than an old man feeling his spring oats. What had begun as a simple walk with a friend had taken on an increasingly ominous air.
“Henry.”
Henry’s spell was temporarily cast aside. “Yeah.”
“Don’t you think it’s about time that we moved on?”
“You go ahead.”
Well, that is something that I had done many times before at Henry’s request. Our bond had always been one that knew where the fine boundary between companionship and meddling lay. Indeed, respect for each other’s emotional space was an enduring trait of our friendship. Given our history, it should have been easy for me to be on my way. But instead, I stood by his side, matching his gaze into the bubbling cold below. I wasn’t leaving, but I didn’t know why.
“Jim, you go on.”
I glanced at Henry. He didn’t turn his head one iota to address me but instead continued what had become a torturous stare into the waters below. Something was wrong—very wrong.
“Henry,” I asked, turning toward him, “what’s going on?”
I paused. This simple question struck a nerve, and his agitation was palpable. I knew this man, and I sensed the distress was not directed at me, so I pressed on.
“Tell me. We’ve stood here for over an hour now, not passing more than a couple of grunts between us.”
“You’ve said no more than me.”
“Yeah, but I’m on this side of the rail, while you’re dangling over that hell hole—and I’m not the one who’s fallen in love with that!” I exclaimed, gesturing to the icy waters below.
At this, Henry looked off from the water into the jack pine forest that edged the river. The remorse in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Well,” he groaned, barely whispering, “better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”
Tentacles of fear crept into my heart as I came to understand why Henry was standing where he was. Hopelessness had not merely caught up with him at this dam. Rather, it was the architect of the plan that had brought him here.
“How’s about you and me going to my place and talk about this,” I said.
No response.
“Henry?”
“You go,” said Henry, “I’ve got nothing more to say.”
I stood in mortified silence. Henry’s body language screamed of a sudden mood swing from quiet contemplation to that of despondency. What should I do? My desperation surged as he dropped his eyes to his feet, then stomped on the edge of the catwalk with his right foot. A football-length piece of concrete slid off the edge from the glancing blow, exposing a profile of rotten concrete below his other foot. As I was about to go into an open panic, Henry cleared his throat and spoke.
“Fifty-nine years. Fifty-nine years, and I got nothing to show for it,” moaned Henry. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
I hesitated. I’d never dealt with anyone so distraught and was stunned by the gravity of Henry’s plight. Despite our friendship, I had no clue that he was so miserable.
Henry relieved me of my discomfort as he continued. “Jim, don’t you ever follow in my footsteps. I’m an old fool who’s alone, most of that being of my own doing. I’ve made my own hell to live in and now, with retirement staring me square in the puss,” he said, “I’m scared to hell of it.”
Finally, an opening. I found my voice.
“Why? You always talked about how much you’d enjoy being retired.”
“Well, not by myself!” he thundered. “I’ve got no family, few friends, and my ticker ain’t so good. First sign of trouble, they’ll throw me in one of those—you know—old folks’ homes. One of those prisons where they warehouse you until you die.”
“How can you,” I nearly shouted, “a man who’s made his way in this world by way of good horse sense, stand here, ready to jump . . . and drown . . . over something that hasn’t even happened?”
“But it’s what I’ve done and not done with my life that’s got me in this corner. Don’t you see?”
“No, I don’t.” I felt a surge of confidence now to press my point forcefully. “I don’t see that you’re in any corner at all. I can see how you might be lonely from time to time, but you are not alone. I, for one—and I’m not the only one—care about what happens to you.”
Henry flinched as I said the last. It dawned on me that what this man needed was so simple. He needed to know that he counted. With this perception in hand, I went on to recall the names of several others who genuinely cared about Henry, in what manner they cared, and speculated on how all our lives would be lesser without him.
Henry was quietly reflective through all of this. I would like to say that a look on his face or a shift in his posture indicated that his disappointment with his life had dissipated. But Henry always played his cards close to his vest and was not easily read. Uneasiness crept into my chest again as I awaited his response. Perhaps he needed another prod . . .
“Jim?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t suppose you could forget this ever happened, could you?”
“I s’pose.”
“You got coffee at the house?”
“Yup.”
With that, Henry climbed through the railing, and we set off at a brisk pace to a pot full of reflection.
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