Henry of Atlantic City Read online

  Henry said let me go.

  “Shut up. You’re a prisoner.”

  Henry said prisoners aren’t allowed.

  “You’re a dead prisoner, dude.” The boys laughed and one of them whacked Henry on the head with the flag. “What’s your dorm team?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “You’re in Mr. Willis’s class.”

  Henry said nothing.

  “Wussy Willis.”

  “Pussy Willis.”

  Then they pushed Henry onto the ground. The three boys stood over him. “Let’s strip him,” someone said. They began pulling off Henry’s pants. Henry kicked and yelled for them to stop. One boy’s nose began to bleed. “That’s it, fucker! You die!” He kicked back and Henry’s nose began to bleed too. Then when Henry was naked they took their flags and bound Henry’s hands behind his back and his feet and bound his knees and left his clothes in a pile next to him.

  “That’s for when Hatchet Harry finds you.”

  “See you later, sucker!”

  Then they all disappeared into the woods laughing the Hatchet Harry laugh. There was blood all over Henry’s chin and in his mouth. He rolled onto his stomach. The dirt stuck to his face where the tears rolled. His angel cried out, Henry is one of your creatures, Lord! His instinct is to know you. He bears about him the mark of death to remind him that you abandoned him. Still, he wishes to know you. He cannot be content unless he knows you. You made him for yourself, and his heart will find no peace until he finds you. Then the angel fell silent and Henry began to shiver because it was cold.

  ATLANTIC CITY

  Henry was called into Father Rogan’s office the next morning. “Are you feeling better?” Father Rogan asked.

  Henry nodded.

  “Pretty tender, huh?” Father Rogan touched his fingertips to the blue swelling on Henry’s cheek. He sat down behind his desk. “Until you tell me who did this, I’m holding everyone responsible. That means I’m cutting free time until the end of the year, and no more capture the flag. Do you think that’s fair?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “By protecting those boys, you’re punishing the rest. Is that what you want?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “Think about it,” Father Rogan said. Then he got up and opened the door.

  Farley the policewoman came in with two other people. One was a social worker and the other was from the adoption agency. They looked at Henry while Father Rogan said some things and one of them wrote in a pad.

  “Looks like you got hit pretty hard, Henry.” Farley bent down and looked at Henry closely. She still smelled like cough medicine and the ring on her finger still looked too tight.

  The social worker bent down and asked some questions but Henry didn’t answer. Father Crowley had told him to hold his tongue.

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Farley asked.

  “Some of the older boys got rough with him,” the priest said. “We’re still trying to straighten it out.”

  The man from the adoption agency asked Henry some questions. He repeated every question twice but Henry didn’t answer. “It looks to me like the boy’s been traumatized,” the man said to Father Rogan.

  Father Rogan frowned. “It looks worse than it is,” he said.

  The man from the agency nodded and made notes. Then he opened up his briefcase and took out some papers. “Adoption papers have been filed,” he said and he gave them to Father Rogan to look over.

  Everything came down to questions after that. There were questions about Henry’s current status and his previous status and his background and his condition and his prospects and his interests. “Answering the questions is not just a matter of record,” Farley said. “It is of real concern to everybody.”

  Mr. Miller knew all about depositions and status and parental-rights termination because he said he had been through it all himself. He took Henry on a walk around the campus and told him a little about all the things that had happened to him when he was a boy. While Mr. Miller talked, Henry listened to the angel in his ear. The angel said there was a householder who had every conceivable thing, be it son or slave or cattle or dog or pig or corn or barley or chaff or grass or meat or acorn. He was a sensible fellow and he knew what the food of each one was.

  Henry asked Mr. Miller if he had a dog.

  “Nope. Never had a dog.”

  Henry asked Mr. Miller if he ever had a pig.

  Mr. Miller stopped walking. “Have you been listening to any of what I’ve been saying?”

  They were in front of the chapel, where the dead had gathered the night before. After the game, when Mr. Miller realized Henry was missing, he had led a group of boys from the dorm into the woods with his flashlight. Henry could hear them calling his name but he didn’t answer. Henry watched Mr. Miller’s flashlight beam cut through the darkness and when it finally landed on him Henry didn’t look up into it. He lay on his side and shivered while the angel in his ear said love your brother like your soul. Guard him like the pupil of your eye.

  “Let’s sit down,” Mr. Miller said. They sat down on the steps of the chapel. Henry watched some boys throwing a Frisbee on the lawn. On Saturdays it was free time all day and you were allowed to do anything you wanted. You could check out equipment from the gym as long as you weren’t on probation. If you were on probation you couldn’t check things out unless you asked special permission first. Probation could last for a day or a week or a month at Saint Jude’s, but Henry’s angel told him that real probation lasted a lifetime.

  “Can we get serious now?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “There are things in motion that have a lot to do with determining your future.”

  Henry asked Mr. Miller what he wanted.

  “I want you to be straight with me.”

  Henry said nothing.

  “You could have answered some of the questions they asked you in Father Rogan’s office. They left with a bad impression because you wouldn’t answer any questions.”

  Henry said he’d never had a dog or a pig.

  Mr. Miller folded his arms across his knees and dropped his head onto them. “Give me a break, Henry. Please?”

  Henry said if he had a dog or a pig, guess what he’d feed them?

  Mr. Miller sighed. “I give up, Henry; what would you feed them?”

  Henry said he would feed them nothing.

  Mr. Miller lifted his head from his arms and watched the boys playing Frisbee for a few minutes.

  Henry said he’d let them feed from the crumbs that fell from the table because everyone got the lot that fell to them.

  “You’re making a big mistake, Henry.”

  The Frisbee landed at their feet and Mr. Miller picked it up and threw it and it sailed over the heads of all the boys and landed at the edge of the woods. Then the chapel bell rang once, which meant it was time to go to lunch. “Any more nosebleeds?” Mr. Miller asked.

  Henry shook his head.

  “I don’t blame you for being angry, Henry. But you should try not to let it prevent you from doing what’s right. I have a pretty good idea who it was, so even if you don’t cooperate, I’ll get the truth one way or another.”

  Henry said names did not bring truth but truth brought names into existence.

  “What are you saying, Henry?”

  Henry said nothing.

  “All I want is the names of the boys who beat you up,” Mr. Miller said and stood up. “If you don’t want help from anyone, just keep it up.” He brushed his pants off and went to lunch.

  In the lunchroom Father Rogan announced that free time was being cut by ten minutes and capture the flag was suspended until the boys responsible for beating up Henry stepped forward.

  “That’s not fair,” Field Marshal Rommel said. He looked around the room as if he were talking for everybody.

  “I’m the one who decides what’s fair,” Father Rogan said. “If I hear reports of any more fighting there will be serious conse
quences.”

  Everyone snuck glances at Henry but nobody spoke to him. He was hidden from the living in the tomb of his thoughts, and everyone was mad at him for spoiling their fun.

  Henry peeked into Father Rogan’s office. Father Crowley and Dr. Alt were both there. “Separation of church and state is one thing, but this is absurd,” Father Rogan was saying.

  “I’m meeting with the cardinal,” Father Crowley said. Then he noticed Henry peeping in the door. “Stop spying and come in, Henry.”

  When he came into the room Dr. Alt beckoned to him. He touched the purple-and-yellow bruise on Henry’s cheek. Father Crowley leaned forward for a look. “Has he been seen by a doctor?”

  “The nurse will be in on Monday. Henry will get a thorough looking-over.”

  “What if something’s broken?”

  “I’ve seen enough scrapes and bruises to know what he needs. I’m running a home for boys, remember?”

  “Would you like some time alone?” Father Crowley asked.

  Dr. Alt shook his head. “I thought it might be nice if we all talked together. What do you think, Henry?”

  Henry shrugged.

  “Has your angel talked to you lately?”

  Henry nodded and looked sideways at the two other priests, who were sitting with their legs crossed. Father Rogan had his elbows on the arms of his chair and was making a tent with his fingers.

  “What has the angel said?”

  Henry said stuff.

  “What kind of stuff?”

  Henry said just stuff.

  “What’s the last thing the angel said to you? Think hard. I want to know exactly.”

  Henry said it is always a matter of the will, not the act.

  The other priests were listening with eager looks on their faces. “What do you think the angel meant by that?” Dr. Alt asked.

  Henry said it depended.

  “What does it depend on?”

  Henry said it depended on whether you had been resurrected.

  Dr. Alt was quiet for a minute. He looked at the ground, not at the other priests. “Could you explain it a little more?”

  Henry said those who say they will die first and then rise are in error. If they do not first receive the resurrection while they live, then when they die they will receive nothing.

  “Did the angel tell you that too?”

  Henry nodded.

  “What do you think the angel was trying to tell you?”

  Henry shrugged.

  “What were you doing when the angel spoke?”

  Henry said playing capture the flag.

  “Did the angel speak before or after the boys beat you up?”

  Henry said before.

  “Interesting,” the old priest said.

  “I don’t think so at all,” Father Rogan interrupted.

  “Why not?” the old priest asked.

  Father Rogan dropped his hands into his lap. “I’ve been around boys long enough to know when they’re playing games. Henry is leading us around by the nose. He’s been doing it from the beginning.”

  Dr. Alt straightened up in his seat. “How do you suppose that?”

  “You know as well as I do, Father. You know full well that the boy is merely repeating things he has read.”

  “That may be the case,” the old priest said. “But the interesting thing is not where the words come from. It’s the spontaneity of his utterances.”

  “Rubbish. There is nothing mysterious about any of it. The boy is merely parroting.”

  “You mean to say that you don’t find his statements interesting or revealing?”

  “Look, nobody doubts that the boy has a photographic memory. I’m as impressed by that as anyone. It’s remarkable. But he’s obviously unable to comprehend any of what he says. Why, he just said so himself.”

  “He did?”

  “You heard it. Didn’t he just say, ‘It is always a matter of the will, not the act’?”

  The old doctor smiled and nodded. He rubbed his chin but didn’t say anything.

  “It’s all haphazard, nothing more,” Father Rogan said.

  Father Crowley cleared his throat. “Father Rogan has a very good point.” He cleared his throat again. “I’ve been doing some interesting reading lately. I find myself agreeing with William James on certain things.”

  “What does William James have to do with anything?” Father Rogan cut in.

  “Well, not a lot, I suppose. Just something I noticed in my reading. Made me think that maybe we should look at the way Henry’s particularities work as a whole.”

  “Precisely,” Father Rogan said. “And taken as a whole, all I see is one mischievous little boy leading us all around by the nose.”

  “Fine. But even if you’re entirely correct, you’re still left with plenty to explain,” Father Crowley said. “We should concentrate on the pragmatics of it, use a sort of Jamesian approach.”

  “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, it means looking into the sources of the boy’s inspiration. As well as the contents of his statements and the objects of his intentions. Everything taken as a whole.”

  Father Rogan stood up and waved his arm. “You’re taking it all too seriously. Both of you.”

  Father Crowley’s face got red. “If you’ll allow me to continue. To quote James, it means reading in common matters superior expressions of meaning. I was quite taken by that line, Father. Are you going to accuse me of haphazard recapitulation?”

  “Come, come now,” the old priest cut in. “We’re not here to argue.”

  “That’s right,” Father Rogan said. “I have a school to run, and it’s boys like Henry that make my job difficult enough. I don’t have time to ponder the objects of their intentions or the sources of their inspiration on top of all the baggage they arrive on my doorstep with.” Then he went over to his desk and sat down and put on his reading glasses and started looking at papers.

  Henry watched Father Rogan sorting through the pile on his desk. Then he said the resurrection is not a matter of the act. To receive it in this life is a matter of the will.

  “Hmmmm,” Father Rogan said and went back to sorting though his papers.

  Father Crowley began to say something but Dr. Alt held up a hand. “Now is not the time for this discussion.” He turned to Henry. “Why do you think your angel isn’t trying to tell you anything?”

  Father Rogan looked up and let the paper fall to his desk. “Maybe because it isn’t.”

  “You don’t think your angel is trying to say something to you? To communicate?” Dr. Alt asked Henry again.

  Father Rogan stood up and leaned on his desk with both hands. “I think I’ve heard enough,” he said. “Why don’t we just take the boy at his word and drop the intellectualizing? We have more urgent business.”

  “What business is that?” Dr. Alt asked.

  “The visit we will soon be paying to court, for starters. Or maybe you’ve forgotten.”

  “We are right on course, Father. I’m simply preparing for the testimony I’ve been asked to make.”

  “All they want to know is your opinion of the boy’s emotional state, Father. Whether you think it important that he remain here, at Saint Jude’s. They’re not interested in a long discussion of psychoanalytic practice.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know about his collection of books?”

  “I do indeed,” Dr. Alt said. “I know very well about them.”

  “Then I don’t understand why it is so hard for you to accept that the boy is merely regurgitating. He’s too young to understand what he’s saying.”

  “Not only am I able to accept that,” Dr. Alt said, “I’m prepared to go quite a bit further.”

  “Very good,” Father Rogan said. “Could we get on with it, then?”

  “If you’ll indulge me for a moment,” Dr. Alt said and held up his hand again. “What Henry is regurgitating are the esoteric writings of a gnostic community that flouris
hed in the second and third centuries in Egypt. The recent discovery of these texts points to an interesting paradox. As you know, despite hermeneutical and other critical tools, such writings are exceedingly difficult to interpret. On top of that, it is the nature of esoteric writings to be incomprehensible to everyone except those who have been initiated into their secrets.” He crossed his legs and rubbed his kneecap and smiled a knowing smile. “Jung was, as you probably know, very interested in the gnostics.”

  “Why bring Jung into it?” Father Rogan said. “Or any brand of psychology, for that matter?”

  “Because we live in an age of psychology, and today experience is formulated in those terms. We possess a different vocabulary and are working with completely different precepts than the authors of these ancient writings. Jung took a great interest in gnosticism, provided valuable interpretative tools. We must not let our prejudices blind us to opportunities that present themselves—however strange they may seem at first. You see, Father, not only do I think Henry is unable to understand them; at present I don’t think any of us can.”

  Father Rogan looked at Father Crowley and Henry and then turned back to Dr. Alt. He ran his hand back and forth over his bald head as if he were shining it. “I don’t see how this has anything to do with anything.”

  “I’m a little puzzled too,” Father Crowley agreed.

  “I’m sorry. All I mean to say is that you are merely stating the obvious when you say Henry is regurgitating. He is doing exactly that. Regurgitation is the only way to recover what has been lost inside us. But it is a process of returning—returning, as a whirlpool returns in on itself, engulfs itself, swallows itself. Its symbol is the Uroboros.”

  “Uroboros?”

  “The snake that devours its own tail. It is a perpetual act of recovery and return. The material that is being recovered and returned is the texts that the boy is regurgitating.”

  Father Rogan rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I asked.”

  Dr. Alt patted Henry’s knee. “I’ve been consulting on Henry’s case with an old friend, an expert on the gnostics. He believes there are all sorts of implications.”