Wait and Hope: Chapter Nine
Late Lunches and Admissions
Harry remained sitting on the bed listening to the retreating sounds of Rafe’s footfalls on the stairs outside his apartment door and to the sound of Rafe’s cheery whistling tapering off as well. The frown on his face as Harry thought about going on a date at his age, granted it was just a picnic, only lasted a moment before being replaced by a wide grin as the older man harrumphed to himself.
The broken, middle-aged nothing to look at, no great catch that he was had a date. Rafe had assured him that he, Harry Furnham, was who the admirable and incredibly handsome man wanted to be with. The girlfriend, Sherry, was quite lovely and Harry was reasonably sure had a personality to match-regardless of how she reacted last night, Rafe wouldn’t have gotten involved with her otherwise-to be chosen over a person like that, well Harry couldn’t help but feel euphoric.
Yes, John chose me once before over another beautiful, talented, good woman who would have been perfect for him. My own mistrust and disbelief that John actually wanted me had strained our relationship, hurt John so much that I had almost lost him to her. My lack of faith in us, her death and its aftermath drove John into the dark place from which he nearly never returned. We were separated eventually by something beyond either of our control. But now, now I have a second chance; Rafe wants to be with me. I won’t allow Harold’s doubt and fears to become Harry’s. Harry won’t hurt Rafe the way I once hurt John.
“But, first things first,” Harry chuckled to himself. “I have things to do today,” he informed the empty room, “Jack needs his bath. I need to clean this place up. I need a haircut and… What in world do old fossils like me wear on picnic dates?” Harry shrugged his shoulders and sniffed, “And I need to stop talking to myself,” before bending down to finish tying the laces on his shoes.
Harry wasn’t much for cleaning, which was probably why Martha had stepped in; she didn’t want him succumbing to some incurable disease brought on by dirty dishes piling up in the sink or soiled laundry festering in a clothes hamper more than a week. But, since Jacob wouldn’t be back for at least another hour with the dog, the barber shop where Harry preferred to go was already closed and he’d decided to take a chance dressing for his date tomorrow in an almost new pair of khakis with a matching polo; the only thing he could do at the moment was clean up the apartment.
The first thing on his to do list was gather up the clothes he’d worn the previous day, that now were haphazardly strewn from the living room, down the short hallway, and into his bedroom. Those he chucked into the hamper along with the rest of the virus carrying contaminated clothing.
Next thing Harry did was pick up the still half full tumbler of scotch, the bottle of single malt and dump the remaining contents of both down the drain. The pain of loneliness he’d drank to escape from was gone with finding Rafe; the blue-eyed man Harry couldn’t hold on to in his whiskey dreams, was once again solid flesh and bone, determined to stay.
Harry had just finished drying the omelet pan, the last of his and Rafe’s breakfast things, when there was a rap at the door. Assuming it was Martha’s grandson returning with Jack, he put the pan down on the counter and went to let them in the apartment. Jacob was waiting on the landing, but Jack was nowhere to be seen.
Jacob apologized, “I have to get going right away. My friends and I are heading to the lake to camp-out tonight, one last summer get together before we go back to our fall classes. Grandmom wants you to come down for a late lunch and is holding your dog hostage to make sure you do.” The teen shuffled his feet nervously thinking Harry might get angry.
“No problem, son. Let Martha know I’ll be down shortly.” He patted the young man on the shoulder to reassure him there was nothing to be angry about. When Jacob turned to go, Harry stopped him, handing him the twenty Harry pulled from his wallet, “For your camping trip. Go on take it!” when Jacob started to refuse.
Harry pulled the door shut behind him while he watched the youth descend the stairs three at a time. Jacob hollered, “He’s coming Grandmom!”, not even bothering to open the woman’s door before he bounded out the brownstone’s entry, down its steps and walkway to jump in a car loaded with the teen’s young friends. Harry went down the stairs more slowly taking one step at a time and once at the bottom limped over to knock on his neighbor’s door.
Harry reached up, but only tapped lightly when he noticed the door had been left slightly ajar. No wonder Jacob only shouted in passing; apparently Martha was expecting him and her grandson was just confirming that Harry was on his way down. Jack poked his head out the door pushing it open further; his tail was wagging furiously in greeting like he had been separated from Harry for days not the few hours the dog had spent running in the park with Jacob.
With the overly-excited dog dancing circles around him, Harry walked into the apartment when his neighbor called from her kitchen, “Come on in and take a seat! You know where! Lunch’ll be ready in five!”
Jack ceased his happy dance around Furnham once both were inside the apartment. The dog heeled next to him, nearly glued to the man's side, while they made their way to Martha’s dining table where Harry took his usual seat. Normally Jack in what had become routine and without instruction would lie at Furnham’s feet but this time the dog sat perfectly to Harry’s right. Although the canine’s liquid brown eyes were fixed on him waiting for a command, Harry didn’t believe it was imagination that he saw more life, more bridled excitement peering up at him than had been there in months. On the command Jack did settle at Harry’s feet, but instead of putting snout on paws and closing his eyes, the dog kept his head up as if expecting something wonderful to happen at any moment.
It was less than five minutes when Martha brought out a pitcher of a strawberry colored drink and a smaller sized serving bowl of cucumber salad. She returned to the kitchen briefly before laying out a small platter of what appeared to be fish fillets in a golden browned crust and parslied potatoes.
After the abuse Harry knew he’d put his system through the night before and the Rafe the cook specialty breakfast he’d ravenously eaten only a few hours ago, he didn’t expect to be able to finish more than a few bites of the lunch Martha prepared. But thirty minutes later, after eating two garlic crusted cod fillets, seconds of the potatoes, a third helping of salad, and watching his neighbor’s smile of satisfaction grow wider every time he accepted her offer of, “More?”, he finally pushed his plate away.
They both laughed riotously when in one of the lightest moods he had felt in months and even rarer for him, if ever, Harry patted his full stomach and begged in jest, “Please, not another bite. I just might explode!”
At his neighbor and best friend’s suggestion Harry took his refilled tumbler of the strawberry juice-Harry had been simultaneously impressed and touched that it wasn’t some store bought concoction, that Martha had taken the time to make the fruit juice from scratch with fresh strawberries, kiwi, lime, honey and water-and sat in in the living room to wait, while she cleared up the table.
The moment Martha took a seat next to his on the roomy, aged but still immaculate divan and turned to look at him with her piercing eyes, her lips pursed together, Harry knew their friendly banter over lunch was ended.
Harry braced himself, fully expecting questions about last night. Why had he been so rude to her? Of course, she would want to know about what he guessed was no longer a secret, about Rafe having obviously spent the night. What had happened in the interim? His friend was caring and astute. What had happened to change Harry from the deeply depressed man that abruptly dismissed her concerned question last night to the light-hearted Harry that just now joked and conversed lightly over lunch? What did Rafe have to do with it, if anything? Those questions he expected, was ready for, but this?
Hesitation was clearly written on her face, when Martha sighed heavily still uncertain. “Please don’t be frightened. I hope you know by now I would never betray you nor do anything to cause you harm. But I think you should know that I have been aware since the beginning that you are not the real Harrington.”
Harry was not ready for this. He tried to cover his total surprise at her revelation, but his whole body stiffened and the blood drained from his face. Maybe he looked about to pass out when Martha grabbed his hands and told him, “Breathe!”
Gulping in mouthfuls of air then, Harry managed to gasp out, “How?”
Martha squeezed his hands and looked him over until she seemed assured he was going to be okay then let go, taking a deep breath herself. “I have lived here fifteen years. The lady, who resided upstairs before Harrington, before you, was here almost as long and became almost like my sister. We both were saddened when she had to move out west for her health. She wanted to make sure the person who sublet her apartment met my approval too.”
Martha turned to take a photo album full of newspaper clippings from an end table drawer. “I never met Harrington in person, Emmy was the only one. But she knew of my hobby collecting newspaper articles and showed me these.” Martha handed the album to Harry who gave his friend a puzzled glance, before looking down at the clippings. The majority in that section of the album were about same sex marriages in New York and photos of couples from around the country who had come to New York City to be wed.
Martha continued her story while Harry skimmed through the clippings. “Emmy told me about Furnham’s tragic story of coming to New York City to finally be married to his life partner and two weeks later losing his new husband in an auto accident. How the last three years Furnham had spent convalescing and how he just wanted to move to the city where his final fond memories were spent. How much Emmy knew I could help the man.
“We agreed Harrington Furnham was the one, Emmy moved away, Furnham moved in. Only I never saw him but this one time. He kept to himself, never left the apartment and he never had anyone up except for the occasional delivery person. Then one night I couldn’t sleep; I was sitting at my bedroom window, in the dark, looking out at the street when I saw Furnham leaving with a dark haired woman. I never saw them return.”
Harry quickly looked up and over at Martha; he didn’t have to guess who that woman was. But all the photographs upstairs, the ones of him and Eric, the clippings with his photo, how did Martha know he wasn’t the real Furnham? As if she had heard his unspoken question, she turned a page and pointed out the genuine newspaper article about the wreck and the real photo of Harry and Eric Furnham. Why was I so ready to foolishly believe The Machine had found my doppelganger?
“Of course that’s why when you first saw me you were so surprised. It wasn’t the gunshot wound, was it?” Harry asked quietly, still looking at the photo. His eyes darted back and forth when he looked up at her again, “But why tell me this now?”
“I have spent the last six months getting to know you or who you pretended to be. It didn’t take a detective to figure out you were running or hiding from something.” Martha reached out and cupped his face, “And whatever that something was it separated you from someone important to you, someone you have missed very much.” She dropped her hand from Harry’s face to grab his hands once again, “You tried to pretend to move on, to be Harry Furnham putting his life back together. But being without that person hurts you, whoever you really are, terribly; so much so, you were ready to give up. Last night I believed you had.”
Harry blinked in surprise when his tough as nails friend and confidant sniffed and wiped away the tears threatening to fall, “I was so afraid for you. I sat and worried, then made up my mind to go up and check on you. It was when I opened my door that I saw him. I heard you let him in. I waited and listened for anything to happen that you might need my help, for him to leave.” Martha’s tone made it sound like she had failed Harry somehow when she admitted to falling asleep on the couch and being awakened by her grandson calling her from the park with the news of Harry’s overnight guest.
“He’s the one, isn’t he Harry, the person you have missed?”
Harry regarded this woman for a moment before answering. She was a true friend, someone he had come to trust implicitly. “Yes. I can’t tell you who we are, not that I don’t trust you, but because knowing the truth could put you in danger. I haven’t seen him since we were separated and I was so afraid that his being anywhere near me once again could put his life at risk. So I sent him away for good … or so I thought. He doesn’t want to let me go, and so help me, I can’t let him go either.”
Martha nodded her head in understanding, but cleared her throat before looking at Harry directly, “If you two are in so much danger is he really worth taking the chance?”
Harry had never admitted this to anyone, maybe not even himself, “I love him and I can’t live without him. I hope he feels the same way about me.”
Martha had kept Harry’s hands gripped in hers all this time. She gave them both a squeeze and a reassuring shake, “Oh honey, your Rafe feels the same about you.”
When Harry looked at her, totally dumbfounded again, Martha laughed and winked, “You didn’t think I would let him get away without giving him the third degree, do you?”
Jack heard both people laughing and squeezed in between them on the sofa. Instead of scolding the dog they ruffled Jack’s fur in unison. “Now Harry Furnham, what can I do to help keep your Rafe coming around, to make sure you and your furry friend here stay happy?”
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Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue