Dreams.
And a link to a Wikipedia page about Morton’s Fork.
Janie clicks on that last one.
Reads the page.
Finds out that Morton’s Fork is not literally a fork. It’s a term for a dilemma of sorts. In summary: a forced choice between two equally suck-ass things.
Janie reads about it and sees a comparison to a catch-22, and she glances at the book on the table that coined the phrase. She furrows her brow. “Okay, Mister Creepy-pants,” she mutters, back on the computer, typing wildly searching keywords. “What are you all about? What’s your big choice?”
And then she stops typing mid-word.
She sinks back into the chair, remembering the last time she read about a catch-22. Just a few months ago, in a green spiral notebook.
Knows, of course.
It’s clear what Henry chose, years ago.
He didn’t have Miss Stubin to help him. To teach him.
He had no one.
12:50 p.m
The rattling, house-shaking noise of a truck breaks Janie’s attention. Through the window she sees it rumbling toward her and her heart races, knowing she shouldn’t be here. But when the driver raps on the door and she shouts in a friendly voice, “Hey Henry, you gotta sign for this one! You out back?”
Janie hesitates, and then she opens the door. “Hi.”
The delivery woman looks up, machine in hand. Sweat streaks her tan cheeks and she has wet stains under her arms. She wears the company brown shorts and her tan legs are covered in bug bites and bruises. She looks surprised and confused for a moment, but then says, “Hi, uh, are you eighteen? You can sign.”
“I . . . yeah.”
“Where’s Henry? Out garage-saling? Well, obviously not, because there’s his car . . . Well, you can tell him I saw a sign for a big rummage sale that the Luther’ns are putting on. Over on Washtenaw, Fridee and Saturdee.” She looks uneasy.
“Henry’s—he won’t be able to make it. He’s . . . sick. Not doing well.” Janie feels her throat growing tight. “In the hospital, probably not going to make it.”
The woman’s jaw drops. She grips the door frame. “Oh, my heck. You’re not serious. Are you . . . who are you?” She pounds a fist to her hip as if to get a hold of herself. “If I may ask, I mean—it’s none of my business but Henry’s been my customer for years. We’re friends.” She turns abruptly and stares at the woods, her fingers now fidgeting at her lips and then shoving through her mullet.
“I’m Janie. I’m his daughter,” Janie says. It sounds weird.
“His daughter? He never told me he had a kid.”
“I don’t think he knew about me.”
The woman sighs. “Well, I’m sorry about it, that’s for sure. Will you tell him I wish him well?”
“Sure, I . . . he’s in a coma, or something, but I’ll still tell him. But—can you tell me a little bit about him? I mean, I just found out he’s my dad when he got taken to the hospital, so I don’t know anything. . . .” Janie swallows hard. “You want some water?”
“Naw, thanks. I got plenty in the truck.” Still in a state of shock at the news, she swipes mindlessly at a mosquito. “Henry Feingold is a good guy. He don’t bother anybody. He might look a little strange but he has a heart of gold. He just does his business and lives here, all alone, but he says he prefers it. He studies a lot on the computer, researching for his business and some other stuff—I think he took an online course once. Not quite sure what, but he’s usually always got something interesting to talk about.
“Did he say he was feeling sick at all last week?”
“Nothing more’n his usual headaches. He’d get migraines sometimes. Never got ’em checked out, though I told him he should. Said he didn’t have insurance.”
“So he’s had headaches for a while?”
“On and off. Is that what . . . ?” The UPS woman nods in place of saying the words.
“Yeah. Something in his brain, maybe a tumor. They don’t know much, I guess.”
The UPS woman looks down at the dirt. “Well. I’m real sorry. You take care. I’m . . . yeah. Heck. I’m real sorry.” She picks up the packages that Janie prepared for shipping.
“Thanks,” Janie says.
“If something happens, you know—if you could maybe leave me a note on the door? I come by a lot, sometimes twice a day if there’s an afternoon pickup. I’d sure appreciate it. Name’s Cathy with a C.”
Janie nods. “I’ll try. Hey, Cathy?”
“Yeah?”
Janie fidgets. “He’s not, like, blind or anything. Is he?”
Cathy gives Janie a quizzical look. “No,” she says. “He doesn’t even wear glasses.”
1:15 p.m.
Janie sits in the old La-Z-Boy, thinking it all through.
Isolation.
He lives here, he’s in his late thirties, he’s not blind or crippled.
“Oh, jeez,” Janie says. She lets her head fall back in the chair. “What the hell am I doing? It makes perfect sense. I’m such an idiot.”
Her phone won’t stop buzzing.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” Cabe says, sounding miffed. “You got something going on or what?”
“I just needed to get away,” Janie says. “Why, what’s so important that I can’t be gone for three hours without somebody chasing me down?” Her tone is sharper than she intends. But Janie was really beginning to enjoy the quiet.