WHO: Elvera and Henry WHEN: 7/1, after this WHERE: Henry’s home SUMMARY: Elvera and Henry talk about the pregnancy and some revelations come forward about Henry’s past. WARNINGS: Secrets. Talk of murder, child death, and affairs.
“You're going to use my lawyer.” Henry held his hand up to stop any inevitable push back from that. “El, I'm already going to call her in the morning. I'll pay her rates, but you're going to let me do this for you.”
Elvera wiped away at the prick of tears in her eyes, her face scrunched as she bit back the impulsive urge to argue with him.
That spark of independence had always been part of what drew him to her, even when it had seemed crushed under her blind adoration of Chip. But this wasn't the time to be stubborn and Henry could be just as if he wanted to. “But. There's a lot I'm probably going to need to talk to her about outside that.” He breathed, hands folding back together as he leaned forward, closer to her. “So let's talk about the baby elephant in the room.”
As Henry leaned forward, Elvera leaned down, letting her head rest in her hands, elbows propped on her knees.
“I can’t,” well, no. That was a lie. She could. She had done it with Rosie, and now that Jules was moved out she had one less mouth to feed. Nolan would be going to college, and that was one less still. Even so, she corrected herself, “I don’t want to do this on my own. I refuse. I understand if this isn’t something you want, and if you don’t, I-- I think adoption would be best if that’s the case. What… do you think? What do you want, Henry?”
The idea that his own opinions would be worthwhile or even considered was a novelty, a curiosity that knitted his brow together. At least she wasn't arguing about the lawyer, that point could be moved past.
“Ideally, what would you like to do?” He asked instead, pushing off his own thoughts.
“Ideally?” She sunk back in her chair now, as if the weight of the conversation itself was pushing her back. “I love babies. I love being a mother. It’s my favorite thing to be, but I…”
There it was: a flicker of resolve, the strength she’d drawn upon so many times over the years, even when it felt like she had none left.
“But if that’s something you want with me, I need you to step up. I’m not going to deal with another guy who promises to be home, or around, and tries to fix things with money, or is only there for the good. And there’s a lot of good! But it’s hard, too, Henry, and I need you to be there. I need you to be present.”
The confusion became more evident. The idea that anyone would want him there, around a child, to be present for things instead of just some nameless, formless thing was strange. He didn't fix things, or make things better. Everything about you had only made things worse for those around.
His mouth hung open for a moment, forming around words that wouldn't come out. Or maybe he wasn't sure what to ask. “You want me around?” Finally came out, his finger tips pushed to his chin as he frowned.
“Of… course?” she sounded halfway between confused and insulted, leaning towards the former only due to the fact that he seemed to be perplexed as well. “And if you don’t want to be… Then I just don’t think… we should do this.”
Somehow she seemed to think it was obvious when it was anything but. “El, you don't even want your kids to know you come over here.” He pointed out carefully.
There wasn't any judgement in the statement, just the continued thread of confusion. No one really wanted people to know they came to him. He was, and always had been, a strange sort of tolerated pariah. And he was fine with that, or at least he had become fine with it.
“You’re not the only one who likes privacy, Henry. Can you imagine Nolan’s face? He doesn’t need to know his mom his sexually active.” She guessed that was a moot point now...
“I.” His voice caught for a moment and he wasn't sure what to say. It was a confusing mixture of emotion that he wasn't sure he could process or push away, his usual options for nearly anything. Henry pushed up to his feet, the sudden shift of perspective seeming useful in the moment. “I'm not.”
He wasn't what? A father? In a way, yes. In the ways that counted, only almost and a ghost of that. And no one, not even Elvera, had thought he should be more than that until this exact moment. “I'm not a good... Kid person.” The words came out numbly. “It doesn't end well.”
“I don’t know what that means,” she offered, a little franker than she usually may have been comfortable with, yet still with that ebb of compassion and a genuine want to understand. Uncomfortable with the sudden level imbalance, she stood as well, arms folded defensively over her chest.
“Sure you do.” Henry answered off hand, almost manic in a strange rush of confusion and pain. The same reflection with the joy in others faces while he was comfortably kept away. Air in the room felt like the dust was clogging it, catching on every bit of moisture to make it thick and inhospitable.
“Bad things happen around me. I'm not a good person.” His own self imposed exile hadn't changed that. No form of amends mattered.
The beginnings of this conversation felt similar in another she had recently had, if not in words, than in tone and in action. But Henry was not the sort of person who she could bundle up and hold to her chest and never let go, so instead she stepped forward, one finger reaching to hook through his while her other hand moved to his cheek, seeking to comfort.
“Hey… hey, come here,” she tried, looking up-- way up-- at him. “What’s all this about? Talk to me.”
What was he even supposed to tell her? The only people who turned out half all right were the ones he had nothing to do with. There was the urge to recoil, like some fanciful hunchedback monster or something equally dramatic and ridiculous. Instead he allowed her touch, even as his fingers remained loose as she took his hand.
“You don't get it.” The weight felt squeezed through it. “You can't.”
“Help me understand.” She tugged him a little closer before her hand abandoned his in favor of moving to his back, offering gentle strokes up and down, rubbing with slight pressure.
“Stop.” He pulled away, his hands up as if it created some sort of barrier. Which it did. He was a good foot or more taller than her, a step back was more than one forward for her. How was he supposed to make her understand that he was the last person she should want involved, the same choice that Lola and Mary had made in full measure. Because without full measures, everything fell apart.
“I'm not a good father.” He said flat, bitter. Hell even Chip was a better one than he was. “It's safer.”
Elvera was quick to pull away, not wanting to push him into comfort he didn’t want. She took a step back, too, hands wringing in front of her as she struggled to put any kind of puzzle together with what little Information she had. _ _ m _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ r. No letters remaining, time to solve. She hated game shows.
“But you’ve never been-- I don’t understand what you’re saying, Henry.” She did a good job at concealing her frustration because she was a mother, and it wasn’t the first or the last time she wanted to comfort with little information to work from.
This wasn't a situation that was supposed to happen. The others they'd come fully formed and adults that he couldn't hurt in theory. They had families, everything had been fine. But this was different, this was like that sweet smile he'd have done anything for, a promise when she couldn't hear him, and everything that had fallen apart despite any intentions. And Elvera just didn't get it, and never would, that it was better he had nothing to do because it was the only way things didn't fall apart.
“Because my daughter's dead, El.” He snapped, teeth clacking together with force as he could have nearly bit his own tongue out, his nails digging into his own palms as words found some from of life.
Elvera flinched, her eyes widening as she took another half step back. She couldn’t help the reflexive whisper of, “what?” as her mind struggled to make sense of these words before realizing that no, that was not a good thing to say.
Blinking hard and shaking her head a little, she took that same half step forward. Her nose wrinkled and she sniffed and blinked and blinked some more as she tried not to start up another waterworks show. She didn’t need to ask questions. Who. When Where. Why? He lost his child. That was all she needed to know.
“I’m so sorry. I’m-- Oh, Henry that’s… awful. I’m so, so sorry.”
He shook his head, turning away from her because he didn't want that pity or tears. They weren't allowed and he couldn't handle them right now. It felt weak, undeserved. He'd never even gotten to tell her. He'd never deserved the idea he could have protected her.
Instead he walked over towards the window, frowning out into the dimming light of the summer sun. “Stop.” His voice was quiet, distracted.
To fight against her natural instinct to comfort was to fight against her nature, and it was something she could not do, even at the risk of him angering him, or upsetting him. She stepped up behind him quietly, but not so quietly as to spook him, and wrapped her arms around his waist, letting her head fall on the middle of his back.
“You’re one of my best friends, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. I’m sorry it happened to begin with. I don’t think any of this makes you-- you deserve the chance to be a father again, if you want, and… we… don’t have to make any kind of decision right now. I’m just--” Nothing felt like the right thing to say because there was no right thing to say. “We can talk about something else right now, if you want. Or if you want to keep talking about it, I’ll listen. I-- Whatever you want, hon.”
“You were at the funeral.” His words felt bitter on his tongue but he didn't pull away from her this time. There was nowhere else to go without pushing her away, she had him trapped at the window.
There was a squeeze around his middle amidst the silence, and then a tighter squeeze still that rode the exhale of an, “oh my god…. Oh my god, oh my--” as she put two and two together. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. Maybe it wasn’t her place to feel betrayed by Cora; she hadn’t been completely faithful to Chip, either, and maybe there were many things in this town that could only be referred to as the Quiet Things That No One Knows.
And in as much as Cora had been her friend, Cora was dead, and her loyalty was tucked away with Henry, who the town thought of as an Uncle.
It wasn’t fair. Nothing about this was fair, and maybe it wasn’t fair, either, that all she had to offer was a choked, wispy sigh after he bore his soul to her.
One of his hands fell to rest on the ones she had clasped around him. For now he didn't pull her away, instead just resting there as she composed herself. “There's one. Maybe two others. But they've got loving families who have nothing to do with me.” The words felt cold against his teeth, sharp and aching as he kept his voice steady and dead. “It's better for them.”
“That’s-- not right.” She could understand it, maybe, from a mother’s perspective. Almost. She had fought tooth-and-nail to make her husband take any sort of accountability and responsibility and their children's lives that extended beyond fun trips to Disneyland and new toys. In some ways, she could see why someone would fight for the opposite. But that wasn't her, and she couldn't wrap her head around it. “And you can't say that it's better for them. You don't know that it's better for them. It breaks my heart that you feel that way.”
He didn't have to pull her away because she pulled away on her own, hands lingering in his space should he want them.
“They're not dead.” Was his answer. Diamond and Hugh both had good mother's, ones who had tried to protect them best they could. Cora had been good mother too, but Alice... had Alice even had a chance? His bright eyed girl who ran to him whenever he could be around, whose smile looked so much like his but no one ever saw it. She took so strongly after her mother.
Henry turned to look at her. He'd never wanted to make life harder for her. “I don't want them to get hurt.” Came out, his hands gently looking for hers. “I can't do that again.” “Henry…” She clasped her hands around his, tugging them closer still, towards her belly, near the little swell she had mistaken for gas. “I can't tell you that they won’t get hurt because they will. They're going to get hurt. And we do the best we can to take the hurt away from them, but they hurt. God forbid another tragedy should happen, but… I can’t… promise you that an accident couldn’t happen. I can’t. I can only promise you that I've tried my best with mine so far, and I would try my best with ours, too.”
His teeth gritted tight at that word. Accident. “It wasn't an accident.” His hand stayed put, the feeling that it might tremble if he pulled away from what was growing into a child inside her. “I don't know who did it. But that fire wasn't an accident. And I can't.”
The sound cracked in his throat. The hand she hadn't taken found her cheek. “I don't want to bury two more.”
Seeing Henry this way was foreign, and it pulled at every part her that was tied to him. Every string that the wound itself around the parts of him that upset her, in the parts of her that found comfort in him, and the parts of her that wanted very much for him to be happy.
“I don’t want you to have to, Henry. No one should have to. And I’m not… going anywhere. I’m not going to put myself and this baby in harm’s way. I would never. Never.” She tilted her head to the side, leaning it into his hand.
It was a nice promise but it didn't mean anything. Cora would have never let anything happen to Alice. He would have never let anything happen to Alice. And yet here they were. His thumb ran against Elvera’s cheek, small gentle circles as they stood together but apart.
“I can't protect either of you.” He let the hand on her stomach go flat. There was the tactile memory of Cora's swelling belly, the very specific rules and distance that were put in place. The rules he wanted so badly to break.
She sighed softly, settled into the morbidness and frank mortality of their conversation enough where she felt she could speak without wincing. “Well, I’ve gotten along this far on my own. I know you can’t protect me. Or--” Her eyes looked down, at his hand, at her stomach. “It’s a nice thought, to think you can, or I could. But… there are some things we’ll never be able to help. Most of the time that’s just… smoking pot, or whatever the kids think they’re getting away with that we don’t know about.”
This was more than that. Henry knew someone had killed Alice. He couldn't prove it, he didn't have any leads, his money was functionally worthless. But he knew it had been murder, which meant that Alice could have been targeted. None of that made Elvera’s words any more comforting. He wasn't worried about pot or stupid kid mistakes.
Alice had been so small. He remembered seeing ultrasounds from maybe around this time. How proud Ed and Cora had been. The copy he still had tucked away.
“I don't want to send it away.” He finally admitted, even if he couldn't feel anything through her skin. Not yet.
Elvera nodded, though her brows were fraught with worry and concern. There would have to be other conversations-- other worries and concerns that they could address later, outside of this moment.
“Okay. Okay, hon. We won’t.” She tried a smile on, leaning in and up to kiss the center of his cheek, familiarly, as she was used to with him.
He took a long, steady breath. “Okay.” Henry wasn't sure where they were supposed to go from here. His eyes flickered to hers again. “You're sure you want me involved?” He asked, one last time.
“Yes,” she answered clearly, despite the bubble of anxiety that came with every big decision she’d ever made. “Of course I do.”
“Okay.” The answer left a weary weight through his shoulders, left behind by the fear that hadn't gone away since Alice's death. And maybe never would. “Then I will be.”