The Small Blue House on Germaine Avenue

The small blue house on Germaine Avenue is where Henry’s father moved after his parent’s marriage finally came to a tumultuous end. It was worse than a fixer-upper then, with peeling paint, a lawn made of dry cracking dirt and weeds, and a broken front porch. It was all he could afford and exactly what he deserved. Henry was seventeen then, and though he’s ten years older, the drive to his father’s house is the same as it always has been.

With a clover lawn and a flower garden wrapping all the way around the front of the house, clean paint and a maintained porch, the little house is halfway inviting now. It hadn’t gotten that way overnight, and some might say the house and the man were fixed up in tandem. But Henry knows Jameson’s strongest relationship is with a bottle and that he believes everything he’s done is justified. That little house is all he has left in the world and so he’d made it count.

Henry pulls into the driveway and parks his truck, sitting behind the wheel and taking in the quiet. The trees rustle in the strong breeze and the clear blue sky is patched with clouds, birds chirp and cars drive by on the road behind him. When he looks up to the living room window, no one is there. There hasn’t been for some time, yet he always looks. Henry makes a fist in his lap, comforted by the weight on his left ring finger, and takes a deep breath as he steps out of his truck.

A gust of wind makes him pause, turning his head away from the grit it carries. He watches the heads fly off several flowers in his father’s garden and starts toward them on a whim. Of what remains, Henry picks a handful of the heaviest, healthiest orange and yellow marigolds from the bush, tucking them together into a nice little bouquet and heading back to the front walkway.

The front door opens while he’s climbing the porch steps, and Henry steels himself, only to let out a heavy breath and put on a smile when he realizes it isn’t his father.

“Hi Henry,” greets Ellen, Jameson’s nurse of five years.

“How’s he doing today?” Henry asks.

Ellen waits as Henry wipes his boots on the welcome mat and steps aside to let him in.

“He’s alright, bit cranky from the pain but the new meds are helping.”

“That’s good.” His voice is low, and he looks between the kitchen and the living room.

“He’s asleep,” assures Ellen.

Henry scratches the back of his neck, nodding. “Okay.”

“Let’s get those flowers into some water, shall we?” she says.

“Yes, absolutely.”

They make their way to the kitchen, where a pot of cold coffee sits in a carafe on the counter, and a collection of mugs sits both in the sink and in the dish rack with a few plates and bowls. The scent of the flowers hits Henry as he adjusts the bouquet in his grip, and he takes a deep slow breath.

“They turned out real nice this year, Jameson is proud of them,” Ellen says, putting a vase down on the table a little more than halfway full of water.

“Glad I got this bunch before the wind could take all their heads off.”

He places the flowers in the vase, carefully arranging them until he’s happy with their presentation.

“You’re here to tell him something you don’t think he’s gonna like, aren’t you?”

Henry looks at Ellen, wondering how she’d seen through him.

She gives him a knowing smile, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “As much as you might dislike it, you and your father are both rather easy to read.”

Henry scowls, resenting the comparison, but shakes his head. He holds up his hand, showing off the silver band embedded with a stripe of diamonds on his left ring finger.

Ellen’s eyes widen.

“You haven’t gone and eloped have you?” she says, voice hushed.

Henry laughs, genuine hearty laughter. “No, we’re engaged.”

She grins, stepping over to him and taking his hand, holding it tightly in both of hers. He’s moved by her intensity, holding her gaze, feeling his eyes prick with tears. Henry laughs again, clearing his throat and quickly dabbing under his eye.

“You’re a lucky man,” she says.

Henry laughs again, nodding emphatically. “I am so fucking lucky,” he breathes.

Footsteps creak at the bottom of the stairs from the front hall.

“Ellen?” Jameson calls.

“In the kitchen!” she calls back, glancing at Henry as she turns to refill the kettle. “Henry is here.”

He gives a grunt and appears in the doorway, a little bed-rumpled but ever put together in some self-imposed uniform. Trousers, an undershirt, and a stiff button-down shirt were some of the only things Henry ever saw his father wear, and for a long time, he’d wondered whether his father’s military service had simply made him comfortable being uncomfortable.

Jameson looks at Henry, a stony expression on his face, and clears his throat.

“You hear that wind, Ellen? It was howling a bit,” he says, gaze remaining, uninterested, on Henry. His tone is kinder than it ever was with Henry’s mother.

“I did,” Ellen replies, “Henry brought us some of your marigolds from the garden.”

Another grunt. “You picked some of my flowers?”

The back of Henry’s neck feels cold. “Yes,” he replies. “The wind was blowing their heads off, so I picked some to bring in.”

Jameson exhales heavily, raising a brow and leaning to the side a bit. “Lemme see ‘em then,” he says, carefully coming over to the table. Henry moves out of his way.

“Can I get you anything, Henry? Coffee, water?” Ellen asks.

“Just water, thanks.” Henry nods.

Standing still, Jameson’s appearance hasn’t changed much; he still holds a proud posture, his demeanor doesn’t give away his fragility, and even though Henry knows he can easily defend himself now, this is still the man who could knock him over with one swipe, and so Henry remains ever on edge within arm’s reach of him.

“The flowers look nice,” Jameson says, giving a contemplative hum. “Ellen, I left my book and glasses in my room, could you get them for me please?”

Ellen sets a tall glass of water on the island for Henry. “It’s on your nightstand?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Before Henry can step over to get his glass of water, Jameson holds up a hand.

“I think the flowers would look nicer on the island next to the fruit basket.”

Henry hesitates, but reaches over for the vase, taking the flowers over to the island with him. Jameson remains a few paces away, holding onto the island for support.

“What are you wearing?”

Henry lays his palms flat against the surface of the island.

“It’s a ring,” he says.

Jameson’s posture doesn’t have to change at all, just one tilt of the head and Henry feels cold and hot all at once, scrutinized.

“That girlfriend of yours has had the balls in this relationship from the start,” Jameson says, simultaneously expressing begrudging respect and deep insult.

“I asked,” Henry replies, moving over to the sink, turning his back to Jameson, who takes a few deliberate steps closer, not letting Henry put much more distance between them.

“Took you long enough.”

Henry looks back at him.

Jameson shrugs. “You’re not gonna get another one like her.”

“It’s only ever been her.”

“Figured that out when she almost killed me.”

Henry turns around, leaning against the counter. “I was seventeen.”

He scowls. “You needed a teenaged girl to defend you.”

“You broke my eye socket!” His voice is hushed but angry. “You broke two of her ribs and her wrist.”

Jameson turns away, gesturing dismissively. “We remember things differently.”

“You were blackout drunk, you don’t remember a goddamn thing,” Henry retorts.

“You ungrateful piece of—” Jameson growls, jerking back around. His leg buckles. He flails as he grapples for the counter, knocking over the vase of flowers. It clatters and rolls off the counter, shattering faster than Henry can step over to catch Jameson by the arm to keep him from falling.

Henry looks Jameson in the eye.

“I’m grateful that you lived,” Henry says calmly. “I’m grateful that teenaged girl saw through my angry shell and chose to uplift the soft parts of me that you tried so hard to destroy. I get to marry someone who inspires me and who I’m excited to come home to every day, who makes me a man I’m proud to be. Don’t tell me a damn thing about being ungrateful, because she’s the reason you still have this house and quality in-home care.”

Ellen appears in the doorway. “Is everything alright?” She looks concernedly at the carnage of marigolds and broken glass.

Henry lets go of his father’s arm.

“My leg gave out,” Jameson says without looking away from Henry.

“Can I get you anything? Do you need to sit down?” she asks.

“No—no, let’s get this cleaned up. I’m fine Ellen, please— the flowers—” Jameson says gruffly.

Henry’s phone starts buzzing. “Excuse me,” he mutters, pulling it out of his pocket. “I need to take this.” He rushes from the kitchen, his face hot and his eyes stinging.

He steps onto the front porch, sitting down heavily on the steps and fumbling with the phone to answer the call and bring it to his ear.

“Baby?”

Henry lets out a wet laugh, his eyes welling with tears at the sound of her voice.

“I told him, Molly,” he says clearing his throat and pressing his hand against his eyes as tears drip down his cheeks.

“Are you alright?”

Henry nods to himself, taking in a shaky breath. “Yeah,” he replies, but silent sobs wrack through him. “He’s just really good at twisting the knife.” He sniffs.

“Take a deep breath for me,” she says.

Henry lowers his hand, looking at the ring on his finger as he takes a slow deep breath and listens to her do the same. He does it again a few more times, glancing at the wind-whipped marigold bushes.

“Better?” she asks.

“Not really,” he says with playful sarcasm, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. He sighs.

She hums laughter. “Are you done there? I’m picking up dinner on my way home.”

“Yeah, I won’t be long.”

“I’ll see you soon. I love you.”

Henry smiles. “Drive safe, I love you too.”

Once he hangs up he gazes at his lockscreen, a photo he took of Molly a few months earlier, standing by the kitchen window with a mug of tea, her face lit up in a smile over spotting a family of raccoons in their back yard.

The front door opens slowly behind him.

“You heading home?” Ellen asks.

Henry stands and faces her, offering an even smile.

“Yes, I’ll be on my way.” He comes back in only as far as the inner entrance, spotting his father in the kitchen doorway with his book and glasses.

“It was lovely to see you,” Ellen says. “Safe home.”

“Thank you.”

“Henry,” Jameson calls before Ellen can shut the door.

She hesitates.

“I’ll get the door, go ahead,” Henry says, and she smiles and heads back to the kitchen.

“Do you have a date yet?” Jameson asks.

“Three weeks, actually.”

“Not trying to have a shot-gun wedding, are you?”

Henry shrugs. “The date is important to us.”

“Alright.” Jameson clears his throat.

“We’ll have a get-together in August.”

Jameson nods, starting toward the living room.

“Goodnight, Henry.”

Henry sighs. “Goodnight.”

As Jameson retreats and Henry reaches to close the door, he spots a flash of orange in the kitchen. His forgotten water glass is on the island, and inside it are two surviving marigolds.

Thank you so much for reading! Your engagement helps me reach a wider audience! If you like my work and would like to support me, please share and consider leaving a tip. No amount is insignificant. ♡

— Rooney