As Jack put the day's money in the register, Mr. Wilson parted the thick black curtain that separated the back room from the rest of the store. He walked through, holding the .45 Colt automatic pistol he always carried and passing the mirror on the wall without looking at himself. "Morning, Jack," Wilson said with a raspy voice.

"Mornin', Mr. Wilson. Still got that cold?" Jack asked not looking away from the money.

Wilson groaned as he answered, "Yeah, seems I'm sick all the time these days." He walked to the coat rack and stuck the pistol in the holster hooked to his waistband before taking his jacket from the hook. "How did my Mets do last night, Jack?"

"They lost," Jack said as he shut the cash drawer. "And the Braves?"

Jack cleared his throat and shook his head. "They won again, Mr. W." Wilson ran his fingers through his messy gray hair saying, "Glad I didn't watch then."

"I know what you mean," Jack said, although he really didn't. Jack liked the team very much but understood that winning and losing was the nature of the game. Wilson didn't take the news of their losing very well; it clearly affected him much more than a sport should in Jack's estimation.

Wilson started for the door, pulling the jacket over his arms as he walked. "I have to go out for the day, Jack."

"I'll hold down the fort," Jack said, smiling genuinely as he always did when he had a chance to take charge.

Wilson seemed preoccupied, staring down at his reflection in one of the glass display cabinets that held hairbrushes, combs and hand mirrors. "Today is Sara's birthday, and I'm going to Brooklyn to visit her grave."

Jack watched his long time friend and boss as he had done over the last few years, wishing he could help him but knowing Wilson couldn't be helped.

"I have plenty to do around here, Mr. Wilson."

Wilson looked up at him as if Jack were a stranger. "Plenty to do?"

"My paperwork and all," Jack said with a motion of his hand toward a ledger and mound of papers.

"Yes," Wilson nodded, "of course you do."

"You can count on me, Mr. Wilson," Jack said flashing a smile again. Wilson nodded and started toward the door again. "I know that, Jack; you've always been the one person I could count on. I'll see you later." Jack watched as Wilson went out the front door with the bell jingling on top of it. He waited until he saw his boss disappear around the curve of the store window, picking up some of the papers and preparing to begin his work.

Jack had been working for a long time and was lost in his paperwork as the bell jingled, the door opening along with an unusual gust of cool air on a pleasant autumn day. He saw a tall, thin young man in a long black coat enter the store. As the man walked slowly toward the counter, Jack thought he was a rather gaunt fellow though starkly handsome with dark green eyes and high pale cheekbones. The man held a worn cap in his hands and his coat was old and dusty.

"Can I help you?" Jack asked, shuffling some of his papers.

"I'm here to see Wilson," the fellow said robotically.

Jack put down his papers and held the small of his back, fighting the pain from bending to write on the counter all morning. "Gee, I'm sorry, but Mr. Wilson is out right now."

The man looked around the store, his green eyes reflecting the fluorescent ceiling lights. "When will Wilson be returning?" he asked dryly.

"I think he'll be out all day."

The young man moved up to the counter and touched the side of the cash register. It was an old crank model that Wilson insisted on using. "I remember this register," the young man said, looking up at Jack, his voice quivering. "Does it still have that certain smell when you open the drawer?"

Jack nodded as he looked at the man's intense expression. "Uh, yeah, a real funky odor. How did you know?"

"I know a lot of things," the man said as he stared at Jack with vacuous green eyes.

"Exactly how well do you know Mr. Wilson?" Jack asked. "Extremely, well," the man whispered. "More intimately, I suppose, at one time."

Jack looked away from the man, unsettled by his strange green eyes, and fiddled with his papers nervously. "Look, I don't mean to be rude, but I've got lots of work to do here. I can give Mr. Wilson a message for you if you like."

The man dropped his hand in front of his body, holding the cap loosely between his long, thin fingers. "My name is Henry."

Jack looked at him sideways. "Henry?"

"You remember me?"

Jack looked at him and crinkled his eyebrows. "You can't be Henry. Henry Wilson?"

"Come on," the man's voice had a slight lilt to it, "you remember me, Jack."

"Yes," Jack caught himself, "well, not you really."

"I was ten years old when you came to work here. I showed you how to use this register on your first day of work," the man said gliding his seemingly paper-thin hand over the bright surface of the cash register. "You were always nice to me, Jack."

Jack felt like he should be happy but his skepticism stifled any emotions he felt. "Henry? It can't be; it just can't be."

"Oh yes, it is I, Jack. Remember how you used to call me Mister Henry? You were always so polite, Jack."

Jack went around the counter and hugged the young man; Henry seemed stiffly cold and unreceptive to him. Jack moved away from him and looked up at Henry's rigid features. "You got so tall and handsome, but you haven't been eating right."

"I don't need to eat, really," Henry said, his voice fading.

Jack slapped Henry's arm and dust rose from the sleeve of his coat. "What do you mean? Everyone needs to eat. I can run in the back and cook you up some eggs, beans and bacon like I used to make you."

"Please don't bother, Jack."

"It's no bother, Henry," Jack said. "I wish I could do something for you."

Henry turned and looked around the store, touching the top of the counter with the hair supplies under the glass. "Father always dealt in such tacky merchandise, this plastic crap and all. Doesn't it sicken you, Jack?"

"Well," Jack looked around at the items hanging from various hooks and pegs and said, "I never thought about it before."

Henry spun one wire rack with items hanging in plastic bags. "Why don't you ask me some obvious questions, Jack?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know," Henry said, pulling a water pistol from a plastic bag, "the standard ones."

"No, I really don't," Jack said, feeling the smile leave his face.

Henry aimed the water pistol at Jack. "You know the questions, Jack. Where have you been? What have you been doing? Are you married?"

Jack rubbed his hands nervously on his apron. "I…I don't want to be nosy."

"You ask the questions," Henry said, examining the water pistol as if he had never seen one before, "and I'll answer them."

"Well," Jack said anxiously, "where have you been, Henry?"

"I've been in hell." Henry pulled the trigger on the water gun several times, breaking it on the last pull. He shook his head and placed it on the counter. "See what I mean about this cheap stuff, Jack?"

"I guess," Jack said as he stared at the orange pistol on top of the glass.

"Okay, next question," Henry said, snapping his fingers.

Jack looked up at him. "Are you married yet?"

"I was once," Henry said sullenly. "She was a bitch."

"A witch?" Jack asked, cupping his ear.

"Bitch, witch, it really doesn't make a difference, does it, Jack?"

"I guess not," Jack whispered.

Henry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his long black coat. "Okay, next question."

Jack rubbed his hands nervously on his apron. "What…what have you been doing?'

"Good question," Henry said walking toward him. "I'll answer it by saying that I've been in a situation that is not at all desirable. Do these answers satisfy your curiosity, Jack?"

"I…I guess so."

Henry put his hand on Jack's shoulder, chilling the man through his shirt. "Where is my father?"

"He went out."

"Where?" Henry asked, squeezing Jack's shoulder slightly with his skeletal fingers.

Jack felt compelled to answer truthfully as Henry stared at him with preternatural green eyes. "He went to visit your mamma's grave; it's her birthday today."

"Mother's dead?" Henry asked as he removed his hand from Jack's shoulder.

"Yeah, she's been gone ten years now."

"Surely she's in heaven," Henry said softly. Jack shivered as Henry looked around the room for a moment. "I haven't been in this store in over twenty years; that's a long time, right Jack? You're an old man now. I didn't recognize you at first with the gray hair and mustache. It's a nice touch, very distinguished."

Jack took a step backwards and said, "I know your father thinks about you often; he keeps your picture on his desk in the back room."

"Really? How touching."

"I think your running away has always haunted him," Jack said, gaining some strength as he backed away from Henry. "Why'd you run away, Henry?" Henry's green eyes widened as he said, "Now, now you ask the pertinent question. It took you awhile there, Jack."

"I'm sorry if I asked something too personal; I know it's something between you and your father."

"It's always been between him and me; that's sort of the problem, Jack."

Henry walked around the counter and stood in front of the mirror. "Does he still fuss with himself in this mirror?"

"No, he really doesn't take to looking in it at all. He goes around with his hair all messed up, in old clothes and squeaking shoes."

"Really?" Henry asked. "My father is no longer vain?"

"I think your father fell apart after your mamma passed away."

"You think?" Henry asked as he stared at his gaunt reflection in the mirror. "Maybe you shouldn't think, old Jack; thinking can be hazardous to your health."

Jack shivered a bit, listening to the iciness of Henry's voice. "I never really think about too much around here, Henry. I just do my job and do it right."

"That's what I always liked about you, Jack."

"Thank you, Mister Henry."

Henry touched the mirror with his fingers, tracing his face in the reflection. "What's happened to my brother?"

"He lives in New Jersey now," Jack said, his hands shaking. "He has two sons."

"Life turns and turns, doesn't it Jack?" Jack didn't respond and Henry turned to him and said, "It just goes on and on, despite its absurdities."

"I…I don't know what you mean." Jack said nervously.

"Sure you do, Jack; I thought you and father were best friends."

"We're friends, but he doesn't tell me everything."

Henry walked slowly toward Jack. "Nothing deep and dark? No secrets? No fantasies?" Jack kept shaking his head as Henry spoke. "Well, that's too bad. I feel for you, Jack. Being kept in the dark is not pleasant, and I should know better than anyone."

"Mister Henry, I mean Henry, please don't be sore at me. I was your friend. I don't know why you left and don't care to know either. That's between you and your daddy."

Henry walked up to Jack and touched his cheek with a cold hand. "I don't blame you, Jack. I understand and respect your situation. My quarrel is not with you." Jack shut his eyes, feeling the cold hand leave his cheek. There was a perceptibly frightening silence and then he heard the bell jingle on the door and opened his eyes to see Henry going outside. Henry looked back and said, "I'll return, Jack; I've waited far too long not to see father and speak to him."

Jack wanted to ask Henry what he should tell Wilson, but the young man disappeared quickly, the echo of the jingling bell lingering in the still air of the store. Jack headed for the front door and locked it. He turned off the lights and went into the back room, taking a bottle of Scotch and a glass from the shelf. He poured a drink and went to the desk and sat down. He stared at the picture of young Henry and wondered what Wilson thought all these years when he looked at the fading image of his son.

Wilson returned to the store after dark and was concerned to find all the lights were out. He pulled the pistol from the holster when he discovered the front door slightly ajar. Wilson closed and locked the front door behind him, proceeding into the store with the .45 steady in his hand. A thin line of light swerved through a space above the curtain from the back room. Wilson held the gun up and yelled, "Jack, is that you?"

There was no answer and Wilson made his way carefully to the curtain and pushed it aside slowly. Jack was sleeping in the chair with his feet up on the desk. Wilson walked in and noticed the empty Scotch bottle clutched in Jack's hand. He gently rubbed Jack's shoulder and said, "Jack, old friend, wake up. It's late and you should be going home."

Jack woke slowly and was disoriented. He put the empty bottle on the desk, stood with difficulty, and rubbed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson; this really isn't what it looks like."

Wilson slipped the pistol into the holster and patted Jack's arm. "We've been together too many years; you owe me no explanation."

"You don't sound too well, Mr. Wilson," Jack said, feeling groggy.

"I'm still sick, but I'll be okay. You go home and get some rest." Jack staggered toward the curtain and fell to the floor. Wilson helped him up and over to the sofa, lifting his legs on to it. "Oh, Mr. Wilson, I'm so sorry," Jack said, "I'm not used to drinking so much."

"After all these years, please call me Hank. Okay, Jack?" Jack dropped his head back against the cushion and said, "Okay, Hank, if you want."

"Yes, I do," Wilson said with a tap on Jack's arm. Jack rolled his head against the cushion saying, "Mister Henry's home; Mister Henry's home."

Wilson stood and went over to the desk, lifting the picture of his son and staring at it. "You've had too much to drink, Jack," he said as he fell onto the desk chair.

Jack struggled to sit up on the sofa. "No, I saw him." Wilson looked up from the picture. "I really saw him, Hank. He said he would be back to see you."

"It's can't be," Wilson mumbled.

Jack rested his head on one hand for support. "I thought you'd be happy he was home after all these years."

"I'm…nothing," Wilson said as he stared down at the picture in his now shaking hand. "I told him he was dead to me; I told him to go to hell."

Jack was fighting sleep. "You didn't mean those things."

Wilson just nodded as he looked at the picture. "Oh yes, I meant them."

"He must forgive you," Jack said as his head slipped from his hand and fell onto the cushion again.

"How does he look?" Wilson asked.

"Pretty different. His eyes just aren't the same," Jack said, his voice fading.

"I sent him away twenty years ago, Jack. He was a nineteen year-old zombie, freaked out on drugs and wanted for a number of crimes. I reached a point where I just couldn't help him anymore." Jack was snoring on the sofa and Wilson closed his eyes and listened to its raucousness, thinking it was loud enough to wake the long dead.

"Hello, Father," a voice came from the darkness. Wilson looked up, squinting to see in the poor light. "Henry, is that you?"

Henry's gaunt figure came into the rim of light cast by the desk lamp. He stood with his hands in the pockets of his long dark coat, his green eyes sparkling but sunken on his face. "It is I, Father, back from hell."

"What do you want here?" Wilson asked.

"Such a greeting, Father, after twenty odd years."

Wilson felt his body quivering and he spun around in the chair to face his son. "I asked you what you want here."

"Tell me father, do you think hell is a place or a state of mind?"

Wilson wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. "I…I don't know."

"Think about it, Father. I believe you do know." Wilson pictured Henry the last time he saw him, shaking from an overdose in the back of the family station wagon. Wilson had driven for hours up to a mental hospital in Poughkeepsie where a doctor who owed him a favor worked. Wilson handed a good amount of money to the doctor who signaled two men in white coats to take Henry. The doctor pocketed the cash and said nothing. Henry was dragged away quickly through the snow, his green eyes frenzied as he screamed, "Father, no, don't leave me here, please, no."

Wilson trembled as he looked down at the tracks his son's feet left in the snow. The doctor touched his arm and said, "Get in the car and go home if you want me to earn this money."

"I think my hell is a place," Wilson said, "but yours has always been a state of mind."

"You know, I think you may be on to something, Father," Henry said, moving slowly toward Wilson. "Whatever the definition, you must know why I've returned."

Wilson yanked the pistol from his waistband and held it up in front of him with both hands. "No, I don't. What do you want from me?"

"Good show, Father; that's quite an improvement on those cheap water pistols you're still selling."

"Why did you come back?" Wilson asked, the gun shaking in his hands.

"Perhaps I'm seeking some love and affection, a prodigal son returning."

"You're dead to me," Wilson said, truly aiming the gun at Henry for the first time. "I told that to you long ago and I still mean it."

A grin cracked Henry's stony face. "Yes, Father, and I've tried hard to live up to your opinion of me."

"You were destroying yourself with your habit; I had to do something to save your mother and brother. I had to do something."

Henry inched toward him slowly. "Of course, that something didn't involve any actions to save me."

"I didn't know what else to do," Wilson said, tears beginning to roll out of his eyes. "I had to forget loving you to try to save you."

"Yes," Henry said, "I think they call it tough love now or something like that. Yours was always a tough love, Father."

"I couldn't let your sickness destroy all of us," Wilson said, the gun shaking in his hands. "After you escaped from that place in the dead of winter, the police never finding you, I just assumed…I just thought…."

"Well, I wanted you to know that I fulfilled your desire for me to go to hell," Henry said taking his hands from his pockets and raising them palms up in front of him.

Wilson pulled back the hammer on the pistol and yelled, "I don't want to kill you."

"Really, Father?"

"Stay back!" Wilson screamed. "Stay back or I'll kill you."

The noise woke Jack and he pushed himself up. In the darkness he could barely discern Henry's form moving toward Wilson who was illuminated by the desk lamp. Henry chuckled strangely. "Kill me? You were so successful the first time; now you want to do it again."

"I mean it, Henry," Wilson said, leaning back against the wall as Henry approached.

"Go ahead," Henry whispered, "this time you'll have the pleasure of seeing my face."

Jack pushed himself up and screamed, "No, Hank, no!"

Wilson looked over at his old friend and his hands shook violently. Jack's presence rattled Wilson, reminding him of Henry as a little boy showing Jack how to work the old cash register. Wilson turned the pistol up, pressed it against his temple, and pulled the trigger. As the gunshot resonated in the room, Jack stood still for a moment. His ears stung with the remnants of the blast as he waddled over to Wilson's body slumped in the chair. Jack touched his old friend's shoulder and Wilson's body fell forward onto the desk, knocking the picture of Henry onto the floor.

"He's dead, Jack," Henry said softly. "You can't help him now."

Jack looked up at the splotch of raspberry pulp oozing down the wall behind the desk. "Why? Why'd you make him do this?"

Henry walked toward Jack and made a gun with his thumb and index finger. "It's like Russian Roulette, Jack, an ancient and mysterious game. It's quite the rage in certain quarters I've frequented. I myself have played it many times. I always win, or lose, depending on your point of view."

Jack felt his body tremble as he stood there listening to Henry. "What's happened to you, Henry?"

Henry stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. "Nothing that hasn't happened to dear old daddy, Jack. We're even now, you see."

As Henry went to leave the room, Jack reached for him but missed Henry's arm. "What are you going to do now, Henry? You can't leave us here like this."

Henry walked over and parted the curtain, causing its shadow to cast itself across his face. "You can handle it, old Jack. I'm going back to where I came from."

Jack stood next to the body of his old friend and placed his shaking hands on the desk to steady himself. He listened for Henry's footsteps but only heard the jingling of the bells on the front door and then was enveloped by the ensuing mausoleum-like silence of the empty store.

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