Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

9: sport would be as tedious as work

Harry

I attend classes, but the rest of the day drags. Thomas has made no signs of forgiving me for whatever trespasses I still do not comprehend, ergo I assume I am not welcome back at hockey practice. That makes me the first of my siblings out of school. I take the Bentley home, Godfrey can pick up Thomas after practice. I'm sure he doesn't want to talk to me as it is. Also, I have business with our father.
I find him in his office, as was to be expected. I forced Ned's hope to the forefront of my mind and have mostly calmed myself. The sight of my father brings it all back though. He's wearing just a wife beater, and his arms are rife with track marks from the many IVs and blood draws he's suffered over the past couple of weeks. I see miserable purple bruises forming past the tattoos on his forearms. His chest is sunken and the c-shaped incision that they used to take the lymph nodes is red and irritated, held together by tight blue stitches. I steady myself from the sight of it, steeling my face. He doesn't need to see my grief; he has his own.
He looks up at me and then back down.
"Do you need help with anything?" I ask, forcing my voice to be calm for him.
"Yeah, can you possibly explain what goes on your brain?" he asks, holding up two of my ledgers.
"Those---those were in my room---" I stutter.
"Yes, I know, that's where I found them. Because I am not blind or dead. Yet," he snarls.
"But---I left the ones for you in your office---" he did not go through my office. No.
"You left mountains of insane scribble and undid five years worth of work—"
"Anything I did was an improvement on the current system. I offered to explain things to you this morning!" I cry, all the anger back.
"I need you to explain nothing to me," he says, his voice dangerous.
"Tell me my things are as I left them," I say, taking a step back. No. All that work. I took days setting that up. He can't undo it again just because he's cross with me.
"You have no 'things'. You have your schoolwork which I couldn't fucking find by the way, which should be in your room which no longer contains your bullshit schemes to steal my work from under me—"
"I'm not taking anything!" I cry, feeling tears flow down my face unbidden.
"Right because I'm gonna be dead soon? You could at least possibly wait to destroy my legacy and your siblings fortunes after I'm dead?"
"That's not what I'm doing! It's going better than---did you even look at the numbers?" I stutter, gripping the door frame my knuckles going white.
"Of course it's going better because you think you're so much fucking smarter than everyone else, well I am you father and against my better judgement I'm going to risk what's left of my sanity and attempt to parent you. You're cut off. You're done. Do whatever the fuck you want with your time far away from me because you can do your worst after I'm dead so you're just going to have to wait. Until then I am still in control not you," he says, folding his arms.
"No," I say, wiping my face angrily, "That isn't what I wanted that isn't—"
"The crying bullshit act worked on your mother but it doesn't work on me. You already sent one parent to an early grave I'll be damned if you do it to me too."
"Fuck you," my voice is shaking. I turn and run.
"Don't you walk away from me!"
"You said you don't want me anymore! So I'm going," I shout, descending the stairs two at a time, far quicker than he can in his state.
"Get back here I'm not finished with you---" he stops, wheezing, then he starts coughing, clinging to the railing for support. I see blood splatter his white shirt and the gleaming wood railing. I stop, my anger suddenly abated, to go and help him. He has knife in his hand.
"I'm fine," he growls, his voice hoarse as blood drips from his lips. "I am not dead yet."
"Let me get you to your room," I say, my own voice shaking.
"Why? So you can undo what I've spent the last seven hours fixing after you spent the last three weeks undoing years of work—"
"I am not undoing I'm improving I---"
"You're done. I am home now," he growls, knife still in his hand. I take a step back down the stairs. "I am still your father."
"I can help, I'll do what you say," let me salvage some if it, goddamn it.
"I'm not being twisted by you anymore. You're through. Thomas can follow simple instructions ergo he will do whatever I need doing," he says, "It's over, Harry. I tried to trust you. And look what you did."
"I didn't do anything," tears flow fresh down my cheeks.
"Quit crying. You're not a child," he straightens, trying to limp back up the stairs.
"Yes I am," I whisper, my voice shaking. At first I don't think he hears me, but when he gets to the top of the stairs he says:
"Then it's high time you figured out how to be a man."