Henriad (History Plays, Book 5)

5: uneasy lies the head that wears the crown

Harry

We think death goes quickly but it doesn't. Even if you die quickly, for everyone left living it drags out forever. When my mother died, she was there one instant, gone the next. But the business of death still lasted a lifetime.
My father's grief, mine, the strangely quiet house. The funeral. Every time I turned around I had to tell someone else that now my mother was dead so yes I was the one picking up materials from parent teacher night or at the doctors signing for my siblings. Every single time I blinked I found some thing of hers that I didn't have the heart to move but I knew didn't belong there anymore. It went on forever, until suddenly she was nothing more than a ghost in our lives and I wanted to scream for the tangible reminders that she'd once been real.
When Richard died, there was this eerie quiet. Then Anne was gone as well. And Edmund was torn apart with grief and no one would speak his father's name to him. And when I walked in the hockey rink or into school some well meaning teacher would ask me where my aunt and uncle were. Or offer a recipe or a trinket Anne wanted to borrow, or tell me to ask my uncle to help me fix my skates. And I couldn't say anything because if I spoke all my grief would come out. And so people gone in an instance linger on a lifetime after.
With my father it's the opposite. We all know he'll be gone soon, but it doesn't seem true. And the waves of his illness are unrelenting. I have no concept of time anymore, it seems. Weeks pass from the day that we tell my siblings that he's terminal, to the day that he finally can't rise from his bed, but they do so in the blink of a moment. And we are left with a surprising amount of nothing at all.
It's all death duties. Preparations. Paperwork. I take on more and more of the family affairs. He grows steadily weaker. The little ones are in denial, I think. Thomas and Edmund and I, we believe in death. We've seen enough to greet it as a matter of course. The others, their minds still protect them. and they don't wish it to be true.
And the days slip by with no regard for our hearts. Knowing that they draw short, my father tries to stretch them. He rises nearly when I do, and retires not much before I, visiting the little ones before bed each night, and insisting on eating each meal with them. He sends them to school regardless, myself included, though after the first week he relents and lets me return to help him in the transfer of our affairs. Any small semblance of my childhood is neatly ended, and I am to be a man whether I know how or not.
Ned keeps me sane most days. He'll talk of nothing or whatever I require, running errands for me as needed, double checking accounts and figures that I trust with no one else. When he can manage it he stays, letting me wax on until the early hours of the morning, lying next to me using my feet as a pillow, forcing me to be still and finally sleep.
I have no will or mind of my own anymore. It's well, I suppose, that I could find no wants of my own anyway. I don't need them now nor should I know what it is to want things. I am strong for the others, counseling them to ask our father whatever they wish now. I write a schedule he doesn't know about, and give them topics to ask him about before it's too late. Yes, too late. We have to say those words now. The hour is dawning and we don't know when but we know most assuredly it will happen.
Our father is strong in front of everyone, but myself and Joan. For us he allows himself finally to lean on our shoulders, body wracked with fever, shaking. Ill. Terrified. Soon he can't rise from his bed. I bring in a wheel chair. He gets mad at me for an hour then relents and uses it. Joan has to help him to the shower, to and from the chair, everything. She doesn't complain either, blessedly taking over the job of monitoring his pills and medications. We get whatever we think will make him comfortable, including copious amounts of morphine.
The three of us have a weird bond, and develop something of a gallows humor after a while. We discussed the possibility that we're no longer sane but we discard that because insane people don't question their sanity. I come up with that and my father mutters something about that being why he keeps me. My father's running joke is that we're waiting to see which of his major organs fails on him first. Ned finds us all three betting on it and laughing deliriously and says we're all either horrible or terribly sleep deprived. I tell him it's both. He believes me after he finds us in a heated argument that goes as follows:
"Why the fuck would you think I need that much morphine?" my father, looking at the medicine I brought.
"Do you want to drown in your own blood?" I ask, hands on hips, very sassy about this. "Or do you want me to overdose you on morphine so you pass quietly in your sleep?"
"I am not a fucking pussy, thank you, I will fucking shoot myself before I drown in my own fucking blood. Also what makes you think my lungs will be the first to go?" he says all this while barely able to breath.
"I dunno, that's weird," me, very sarcastically.
"Oh, please don't shoot yourself," poor Joan.
"Do you have a particular gun you and your masculine lungs would like to use? Should we get a pillow to soften the sound or would that be too effeminate for you?" I ask.
"Yes, my Glock is fine and no I don't need a pillow what kind of question is that?"
"One that bore asking," I start laughing.
"You are not shooting yourself, where would the bullet go?" Joan asks.
"In my brain?" in his obvious voice.
"After your brain, you dumbass, the kid's bedrooms are up here," Joan says.
"Well, I wouldn't do it while the kids are here," again, be aware he's saying this while coughing and struggling to breath.
"Will you use the oxygen or does that insult your masculinity?" I ask, getting the mask off the tank.
"You shut up—"
"You cannot plan when you're going to start drowning in your own blood," Joan reiterates, "And you are NOT shooting yourself while you're barely able to function; you could shoot one of us."
"You're both always here that's not my fault!"
"Oh good, he can breath again," I point out.
"I'll get him to shoot me; he can make sure he doesn't hit anything," my father says.
"No, leave me out of this—I will assist suicide with injection nothing else,' I say.
"When the fuck did you come with that standard of patricide?"
"Last night when I ordered the fucking morphine!"
"Okay, I know he always has the gun, but I really don't want him shooting himself—," Joan implores me.
"You would rather I die because my stomach bursts open and floods my insides with blood?" My father, entirely confused.
"There is no way that's gonna happen before your lungs give out just, no, I've read about this—," I sigh.
"You've read about everything also shut up—,"
"You tell me to shut up a lot considering that you want me to shoot you to preserve your masculinity in front of absolutely no one."
"Not no one, you and she will be here," disgusted, like we're both dumb.
"And I don't want to shoot you!" I groan.
"And I don't want you to be shot I won't think less of you if you die in a manner that isn't shooting," Joan sighs.
"I don't care, you might later, also it's my fucking death you two don't get to dictate it," he says, coughing.
"Okay, if you agree to let me dictate your death I'll agree to let my probably very horrible offspring also named Harry dictate mine," I say, holding up my hands.
"You'd have only girl children to fuck with me," immediately, without even thinking about it.
"I'm still gonna name her Harry," I say.
"How, it's a boy name?"
"Harriet is a girl name, wise ass," I growl.
"Your name isn't Harry. it's Henry."
"I fucking know that—"
"Well you said Harriet—"
"Henrietta, then, fine—"
"I'm gonna need it in writing," he says, haughtily, trying to sit up in bed and failing.
"Okay, you want it in writing? Fine, we'll get it in writing—NED COME IN HERE PLEASE—,"
"Please don't do this," Joan sighs.
"Do not pretend to know what we are doing right now because I don't," my father coughs.
"Ned, come on, we're gonna need you, a neutral party, to draft up a contract in which it states that I get to dictate how my father commits suicide if I agree to let my inevitably chaotic and sarcastic offspring dictate the manner of my death should I not die in a violent accident or suddenly of natural causes," I say.
"No, deal is off, forget it— you still plan to die violently?"
"Father, we're criminals."
"I noticed, genius," spitting out blood.
"Ned, just tell him that he can't shoot himself in the head if he's drowning in his own blood," Joan says, reasonably.
"You remember how I said the three of you needed to maybe have a therapist who isn't me and then you all said 'shut up, Ned'—," poor Ned.
"Write up the contract," I say, snapping my fingers at him.
"No, I decided I don't agree, fuck you— you already almost got yourself killed once like this month already; you're never gonna live to see that happen," he starts coughing again, "You probably won't even have a kid. The only person I've ever seen you kissing on is him."
"Okay, for one thing, you're not going to see me kissing anyone because I don't bring people I like around you voluntarily—you can go Ned this will go on for hours—,"
"Oh, thank god," leaving.
"Don't assume his sexuality; every teenager I've ever seen with Ned wants to kiss him, he's very pretty," Joan says.
"He still only hangs out with him also what woman is gonna stand him?" pointing at me, "We don't even like him."
"We like you," Joan says.
"Don't lie it's fine---my rules are very simple father—,"
"Something for you is simple?"
"Yes. I have no types. I kiss whoever seems kissable and I punch whoever looks punchable, there you see? I'm a simple man, I just pretend to be complicated," I inform him.
"That sentence did not convince me you will ever have a wife, based off the little bow shit thing you did and the gay way you said it and how you moved your hands constantly," he growls.
"Who said anything about getting married?" I say this purely to irk him. I would marry before I slept with any woman. Man, not so much, you can't marry them also there aren't babies involved so it matters less.
"I will ascend from purgatory and smack you if you have some kid out of wedlock—" as a reminder, reader, he has a child out out of wedlock.
"I can add and do basic mathematics, so I know I was born three months after you married my mother," I say, flatly.
"Shit, I forget you can add—"
"How can you forget he adds? He adds things constantly the little ones use him and Ned as human calculators," Joan sighs.
"Whatever, you're impossible."
"Don't think I've forgotten this conversation started arguing over morphine," I say, flatly.
"Ah shit," he sighs, seeing I'm still holding the case of morphine.
"I lay there on the ice my head feeling like it was coming apart if I knew I wasn't gonna come back I would give anything to be out of that pain," I say, seriously now.
"Right. The gun does that," like I'm stupid.
"It's not safe to shoot off a gun in here," Joan says.
My father and I, unison, "Wouldn't be the first time."
"You're as bad as the other."
In unison, completely offended, "Take that back!"
Yeah, we get nowhere and he's probably gonna shoot himself rather than let Joan or I get him out of pain with the morphine but at least he'll die as he lived, being impossibly stubborn and doing something wholly unnecessary and overly dramatic.
My schedule becomes more and more erratic as the days go by. I cut my morning walks and rides short to the detriment of my own mental peace, in favor of getting a few more hours work in before the little ones are up and needing to have breakfast. When they are up now I rush them through breakfast then take them up to our father to say goodbye before school. We do that now. Because he might not be here when they get back.
When he is finally bedridden I have a productive discussion with him about writing letters to the others. Joan helps me on that. I tell him Pippa doesn't deserve not to know her mother or her father. And she's eight. She isn't going to properly remember him, as there are days when I can't even recall my mother's voice. He gets really angry then finally relents.
"Just tell them what you remember about mom," I say. And that does finally break him. He gives me a folder of envelopes one day, telling me not to give them to them until after he's gone. I agree, sealing it in my safe in my room.
Joan cares for him round the clock and neither she nor my father will consent to another nurse. The long time servants do their best, but. I help sometimes, she's strong, but not strong enough to fully lift him from the bed.
The days drift by and I'm moving in a dream like state. I can't imagine that this is about to be the rest of forever and yet I know it is. The others go into shock and then slowly denial, as it becomes more and more apparent our father is slipping away more each and every day.
I sleep less and less. My own health is returned by the time school ends and the eerie heat of summer finally settles upon our estate. I am so caught up in work I barely notice the change of seasons. One day has as little meaning as the next. My days are full with duties, errands for my father, shepherding the others to visit him when he's strong enough. Leaving no time for myself. He and I converse mostly about work and the others, never ourselves anymore. We probably both like it better that way.
One night I find myself not sleeping, as usual. I wake for no reason after barely an hours sleep. Ned is not over to keep me still so I rise and realize I don't hear my father coughing. I cross the hall to his room. The room is hospice now, with oxygen tanks, medicine, and all else required for end of life. He lies peacefully in the bed, quiet. His face sunken, skin ashen and pale.
I panic momentarily, then detect in the near indescribable rise and fall of his chest. I gasp a little as I realize that in fact one night I will come and he will not be breathing. That is something that's going to happen to me. And soon. And we'll be orphans. And all will truly fall to me.
I slump by his bed, sobbing. I will take everything, but I don't want him gone. I don't know if he somehow held the secret to what sort of person I'm supposed to be, but whatever key there is to becoming a man I cannot find it. And that door is forever locked and I will forever be this. Walking into his room at night to find him passed. And my own age dawning and it is for me to rise or fail gloriously. And I want to know how to do that I don't know the trick I don't know the answer to the riddle. I have nothing. I have none of it. It's the middle of the night and I am scared.
I hug my knees, sobbing bitterly. I don't note him stirring, not until his hand reaches and feebly touches my hair.
I twist around, tears wet on my cheeks still and snatch his cold fingers in my own.
"You're not rid of me yet," he says, his voice dry and shallow.
"I didn't think I'd hear you speak again," I sob, kissing his fingers.
"And this is your response? You're not happy?" he asks, eyes half closed.
"I don't know who you believe me to be but it is not me. Though I cannot tell you who I am, because I don't know that myself, only it isn't the son you despised I know that. I am not him, if I ever was I am not anymore," I beg, kneeling by his bedside.
"You are my boy, don't," he touches the scars on my face, "Can you listen me closely?"
"Of course."
"You already are, the man who you are to become. I am passing everything I have to you however I don't pass the blood that I got it with. I've done many things I ought not have I suppose. I'm not proud of everything I have done. But I am proud of you. You can do this and survive because you will not make my mistakes. You'll make your own certainly but those shall be yours to bear. Don't buy your way with blood. You use your own wiles which are trickery, schemes, you don't need to intimidate when you can inspire. Above all else do not try to become me, you can't walk my path."
"What if I don't know my path?" I ask, my voice shaking.
"Find it, you alone can, and I know you will," he says, almost smiling.
I nod, tears still freely running even from my blind eye.
"If I learned anything from being alive. It's that---Harry, look at me now. Do not live to make me proud. Don't live to make your mother proud. Live to make yourself proud. Live so that when you look in the mirror you're inspired by the man you see. Live so that God will smile upon you. And when you do fall in love do it because the person you see reflected in their eyes is the person you always wanted to become."
"I will honor you," I say.
"Honor God, and honor Harry. Your mother always knew—" he breaks off coughing. "Your mother knew you would be someone someday. All of you. She believed in you when I didn't. I didn't deserve you. And I only hope you get a child you don't deserve someday. Because then you'll look at them and know what I always meant. I hope that you fall in love and realize it's the most impossible feeling in the world. And more than that, I hope somebody tells your story because you are worth it, Harry. Don't let anyone tell you you aren't, including me. You're the sort of man who the poets sing of. So go and make legends for the poets to sing of. Become the stuff of stories. Not everyone can burn so bright they set the world afire. But you can. Don't weep now. This day was always meant to happen. It's the end of my story, but just a small part of yours."
"I weep because I'm not ready to lose you," I say, tears flowing freely down my face.
"You were always ready. You just don't want to. And this world will never give you what you want, Harry. You must take it yourself," he says, touching again the scars on my cheek then my hair, "The world isn't ready for you though. You'll lose some. But you will win so many more my beautiful boy."
I sob, clinging to his fingers.
"Come sit with me now, stay until I sleep again. I see your mother in you now, when you're gentle, it's well. I wouldn't want to see myself."
I oblige, holding his fingers and sitting with him there in the dim room. I don't sleep but instead lie against the bed, on the cold floor, listening to the ticking off the clock, and as his breathing gets shallower and shallower. He tries to say my name again but nothing more, and before dawn comes he breaths his last.