Henry and Jim

Henry and Jim

By J.M. Snyder

Published by
JMS Books LLC

This story is included in the print book
So In Love
by J.M. Snyder.

Visit
http://www.jmsnyder.net
for
more information.

Copyright 2010
J.M. Snyder

ISBN 978-1-93575-307-0

Cover Photo Credit:
Brett Mulcahy
,
Elena Ray

Used under a Standard Royalty-Free
License.

Cover Design:
J.M. Snyder

All Rights Reserved

WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is
for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it
is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will
be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

No portion of this book may be transmitted or
reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in
writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts
used for the purposes of review.

This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It
contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language
which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store
your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s
imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be
made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.

Published in the United States of
America.

NOTE: “Henry and Jim” was originally
published online through Amazon.com’s Amazon Shorts program and
appears in the anthologies
Best Gay Romance 2008
, published
by Cleis Press, and
Best Gay Stories 2009
, published by
Lethe Press.

* * * *

Henry and Jim

By J.M. Snyder

His folded hands are pale and fragile in the
early morning light, the faint veins beneath translucent skin like
faded ink on forgotten love letters written long ago. His fingers
lace through mine; his body curves along my back, still asleep
despite the sun that spills between the shades. I lie awake for
long minutes, clasped tight against him, unable or unwilling to
move and bring the day crashing in. Only in sleep am I sure that he
fully remembers me. When he wakes, the sun will burn that memory
away and I’ll have to watch him struggle to recall my name. After a
moment or two he’ll get it without my prompting but one day I know
it will be gone, lost like the dozen other little things he no
longer remembers, and no matter how long I stare into his weathered
blue eyes, he won’t be able to get it back.

Cradled in his arms, I squeeze his hands in
my arthritic fists and pray this isn’t that day.

After some time he stirs, his even breath
breaking with a shuddery sigh that tells me he’s up. There’s a
scary moment when he freezes against me, unsure of where he is or
who I am. I hold my breath and wait for the moment it all falls
into place. His thumb smoothes along my wrist, and an eternity
passes before he kisses behind my ear, my name a whisper on his
lips. “Henry.”

I sigh, relieved. Today he still remembers,
and that gives me the strength to get out of bed. “Morning, Jim.” I
stretch like an old cat, first one arm then the other, feeling the
blush of energy as my blood stirs and familiar aches settle into
place. Over my shoulder I see Jim watching, a half smile on his
face that tells me he still likes what he sees. As I reach for my
robe, I ask him, “How about some eggs this morning? That sound
good?”

“You know how I like them,” he says, voice
still graveled from sleep. His reply wearies me—I don’t know if
he’s forgotten how he prefers his eggs or if he simply trusts me to
get them right. I want to believe in his trust, so I don’t push it.
After fifty years of living with Jim, of loving him, I choose my
battles carefully, and this isn’t one either of us would win.

Leaning across the bed, I plant a quick kiss
on the corner of his mouth. “Be down in ten minutes,” I murmur.

His gnarled fingers catch the knot in the
belt of my robe and keep me close. My lower back groans in protest,
but I brush the wisps of white hair from his forehead and smile
through the discomfort as he tells me, “I have to shower.”

“Jim,” I sigh. When I close my eyes he’s
eighteen again, the fingers at my waist long and graceful and firm,
his gaunt cheeks smooth and unwrinkled, his lips a wet smile below
dark eyes and darker hair. It pains me to have to remind him, “We
showered last night.”

He runs a hand through his thinning hair,
then laughs. “Ten minutes then,” he says with a playful poke at my
stomach. I catch his hand in mine and lean against it heavily to
help myself up.

* * * *

We met in the late spring, 1956, the year I
graduated from State. It seems so long ago now—it’s hard to imagine
we were ever anything but the old men we’ve become. My youngest
sister Betty had a boy she wanted me to meet, someone I thought she
was courting at the time, and she arranged an afternoon date. I
thought she wanted my approval before she married the guy; that’s
the way things were done back in the day.

But when I drove up to Jim’s parent’s house
and saw those long legs unfold as he pushed himself up off the
front steps of the porch, I thought I’d spend the rest of my life
aching for him. I could just imagine the jealousy that would eat me
alive, knowing my sister slept in those gangly arms every night;
family gatherings would become unbearable as I watched the two of
them kiss and canoodle together. By the time he reached my car, I
had decided to tell Betty she had to find someone else. That nice
Italian kid on the corner perhaps, or the McKeever’s son around the
block. Anyone but this tall, gawkish man-boy with the thin face and
unruly mop of dark hair, whose mouth curved into a shy smile when
those stormy eyes met mine. “You must be Henry,” he said, before I
could introduce myself. He offered me a hand I never wanted to
release. “Betty’s told me all about you.”

Betty. My sister. Who thought I should spend
the day with her current beau, checking up on him instead of
checking him out. My voice croaked, each word a sentence as final
as death. “Jim. Yes. Hello.”

I vowed to keep a distance between us but
somehow Jim worked through my defenses. He had a quick laugh, a
quicker grin, and an unnerving way of touching my arm or leg or
bumping into me at odd moments that caught me off guard. He skirted
a fine line, too nice to be just my sister’s boyfriend but not
overtly flirting with me. Once or twice I thought I had his
measure, thought I knew for sure which side of the coin he’d call,
but then he would be up in the air again, turning heads over tails
as I held my breath to see how he would land. That first afternoon
was excruciating—lunch, ice cream afterward, a walk along the
boulevard as I tried to pin him down with questions he laughed off
or refused to answer. I played it safe, stuck to topics I thought
he’d favor, like how he met my sister and what he planned to do now
that he was out of high school. But his maddening grin kept me at
bay. “Oh, leave Betty out of this,” he told me at one point,
exasperated. “I know her already. Tell me more about you.”

I didn’t want to talk about myself. There was
nothing I could say that would make him fall for me instead of
Betty, and I just wanted the day to be over. I didn’t want to see
him again, didn’t want to
think
about him if I could help
it, and in my mind I was already running through a list of excuses
as to why I couldn’t attend my sister’s wedding if she married him,
when Jim noticed a matinee sign outside the local theater. “You
like these kind of movies?” he wanted to know. Some creature flick,
not my style at all, but before I could tell him we should be
heading back, Jim grabbed my elbow and dragged me to the ticket
window.

Two seats, a dime apiece, and he chose one of
the last rows in the back of the theater, away from the shrieking
kids that threw popcorn and candy at the screen. He waited until I
sat down, then plopped into the seat beside mine, his arm draped
casually over the armrest and half in my lap. “Do you bring Betty
here?” I asked, shifting away from him. Better to bring my sister
up like a shield between us, in the drowsy heat and close darkness
of the theater, to remind me why I was there. Betty trusted me,
even if I didn’t trust myself.

Jim shrugged, uninterested. As the lights
dimmed and the film began, he crossed his legs, then slid down a
bit in the seat, letting his legs spread apart until the ankle
rested on his knee. His leg shook with nervous energy, jostling the
seat in front of him and moving at the edges of my vision, an
annoying habit, distracting, and when I couldn’t stand it any
longer, I put my hand on his knee to stop it. As if he had been
waiting for me to make the first move, Jim snatched my hand in both
of his, threaded his fingers through mine, and pulled my arm into
his lap. “Jim,” I whispered with a slight tug, but he didn’t seem
to hear me and didn’t release my hand. I tried again.

He just held on tighter, refusing to
acknowledge I wanted him to let go.

Leaning closer so I wouldn’t have to raise my
voice, I tried again. “Jim—”

He turned and mashed his lips against mine in
a damp, feverish kiss.
I shouldn’t
, my mind started, then
I can’t
, then
Betty
. Then his tongue licked into me,
softer than I had imagined and so much sweeter than a man had the
right to be, and I stopped thinking altogether. I was a whirl of
sensation and every touch, every breath, every part of my world was
replaced with Jim.
Betty isn’t getting him back
; that was my
last coherent thought before I stopped fighting him and gave
in.

Later that evening, my sister was waiting
when I finally got home. “Well?” she wanted to know.

I shrugged to avoid meeting her steady gaze
and mumbled, “Do you really think he’s right for you?”

“Me?” she asked with a laugh. “Not at all.
But Henry, isn’t he just perfect for
you?”

* * * *

From the kitchen, I hear Jim come down the
stairs. He opens the front door and I force myself to stay at the
stove, fighting the urge to check on him. I wait, head cocked for
the slightest sound—somewhere outside, an early bird twitters in
the morning air and further away, a lawn mower roars to life. Only
when I hear a shuffled step do I call out. “Jim?”

No reply. Dropping the spatula into the pan
of scrambled eggs, I wipe my hands on a nearby towel and move
toward the doorway as I try to keep the panic from my voice. “Jim,
that you?”

Before I reach the hall, the door shuts
quietly. When the lock latches, I let out a shaky breath and pray,
Thank you
. Then I see him at the foot of the stairs,
thumbing through a small pile of mail I left stacked beside the
phone. The way he lifts each envelope makes me sad, and I force a
smile to combat the frown that furrows his wrinkled brow. “Bills,”
I tell him. “Breakfast’s almost done. Did you get the paper?”

He glances up at me with blank eyes and my
heart lurches in my chest. Then recognition settles in and he
smiles. “Henry,” he says, as if to remind himself who I am. I nod,
encouraging. “The paper? No. Did you want me to?”

“Didn’t you go out to get it?” I ask gently.
At the confusion on his harried face, I shake my head. “Never mind.
Go sit down, I’ll get it for you.”

“I can—” he starts.

I pat his shoulder as I move around him
toward the door. “I’ve got it. Have a seat.”

It’s only when I’m on the stoop, digging the
paper out of the roses, that I remember the stove is on. “Jim?” I
holler as I shut the door behind me. I hate that I’m like this—I
know I should trust him but I can’t. If anything happens to him,
it’ll be my fault because I know I need to be more careful, he
needs me to watch out for him. I imagine him by the stove, the
sleeve of his robe brushing across the heating element, unnoticed
flames eating along his side… “Jim, where—”