I knocked on the door.
I heard the scrape of a cane, and the muted clearing of a throat. The floor creaked.
I heard Henry’s dark brow touch the inner door panel.
“I know that knock,” he murmured.
I knocked again.
“I’ll be damned.” The door swung wide.
Henry’s blind eyes looked out on nothing.
“Let me take a deep breath.”
He inhaled. I exhaled.
“Holy Jesus,” Henry’s voice trembled like a candle flame in a soft breeze. “Spearmint gum. You!”
“Me, Henry,” I said gently.
His hands groped out. I seized both.
“Lord, son, you are welcome!” he cried.
And he grabbed and gave me a hug, then realized what he had done and pulled back. “Sorry …”
“No, Henry. Do it again.”
And he gave me a second long hug.
“Where you been, boy, oh, where you been, it’s been so long, and Henry’s here in this damn big place they going to tear down soon.”
He turned and wandered back to a chair and ordered his hands to find and examine two glasses. “This as clean as I think it is?”
I looked and nodded, th
en remembered and said, “Yep.”
“Don’t want to give you no germs, son. Let’s see. Oh, yeah.” He yanked a table drawer open and extracted a large bottle of the finest whiskey. “You drink this?”
“With you, yes.”
“That’s what friendship is all about!” He poured. He handed the glass to the empty air. Somehow my hand was there.
We waved our drinks at each other and tears spilled down his black cheeks.
“I don’t suppose you knew nigger blind men cry, did you?”
“I know now, Henry.”
“Let me see.” He leaned forward to feel my cheek. He tasted his finger. “Salt water. Damn. You’re as easy as I am.”
“Always was.”
“Don’t ever get over it, son. Where you been? Has life hurt you? How come you’re here—” He stopped. “Oh, oh! Trouble?”
“Yes and no.”