Page 6 of Grace & Henry's Holiday Movie Marathon
“Has she tried, like, turning it off and back on again? You know I’m not an IT guy, right?”
She pushes her glasses back up. “Well, I guarantee you know more about the internet than Maryellen does. She still has an AOL email account.”
I look up at the ceiling fan and consider my options. I could refuse. I’m a grown-up after all. Most of the appeal of adulthood is being able to tell your parents no. But then my dad, who’s hugging my Camden Yards picture to his chest now, lowers his voice—his scolding tone, like when I was ten. “Come on, bub. Maybe just do it, okay?”
Shit.
“And how about running a comb through your hair first,” my mom says. “Kinda looks like you just woke up.”
And so, with my jacketon and my hair quickly tended to, I go outside. It’s chilly, but not cold, which is nice, but honestly, the leaves are too much with all their color. They peaked a couple of weeks ago, but most of Baltimore still looks like it’s bursting into flames.
Aside from some new paint colors, updated lawn furniture, and an electric car charger here and there, the neighborhood hasn’t changed much in the last thirty years. A plastic skeleton watches me from a nearby tree, because the Dodds haven’t taken down their Halloween decorations yet, which is typical. Also typical, the Wileys are putting their Christmas lights up already. Mrs. Wiley is wearing a Ravens hoodie and detangling a knot of extension cords. In a matter of hours their house will be visible from the International Space Station, and I think of the lights inNational Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. And then I think of my favorite line from that movie, when Todd, the Griswolds’ next-door neighbor, asks Chevy Chase where he’s going to put a tree that big and he replies, “Bend over and I’ll show you.”
Mrs. Wiley spots me and waves. “Hello there, Henry!”
“Hey, Mrs. Wiley. Lights’re going up, huh?”
“Yep. We’re gonna tone it down a little this year, though,” she says, cheerfully lying. Then she asks how I am, her head tilted slightly to the right.
I’m careful to keep moving so I don’t get sucked into her friendly vortex. “I’m on vacation,” I say. “So, you know, living the life.”
“That’s great.” She tucks the mess of wires under her arm, and Iknow what she’s going to say—I could lip-sync to it if I had to. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?”
I understand that this comes from a nice place, but I’ve heard it so many times in the last ten months that I sometimes invent alternate replies, like,How about a hundred bucks?orMaybe you give me that Ravens hoodie.I don’t say either of those things, though, because Mrs. Wiley is a sweet lady. “Will do,” I say. “Have a good one.”
I wrote Mrs. Denison’s addressdown because the last thing I wanted to do was ask the wrong stranger about her Wi-Fi. I check my notes app now and look up at what should be her house. It’s old and charmingly well-maintained, like most of the houses in my parents’ neighborhood. I head up a stone path, step over a fallen Orioles garden gnome, and triple-check the house number. When I knock, a dog barks wildly inside, and a kid shouts, “Mom! Mommy!”
The door opens, and there’s no way the woman standing before me has an AOL email account. She looks about my age. She’s short, in a flannel and jeans, no makeup. Her dark hair is a little curly, and she’s pretty in a tired, grown-up way. Her prettiness, along with the fact that she’s clearly not expecting me, throws me off, and for a moment we look at each other and say nothing. When she closes the door behind her, the dog scratches from the other side.
“Um, hi,” she says. “Can I—”
“My mom sent me,” I say, which I immediately realize makes me sound like either a child or a murderer—or maybe a child who is also a murderer. “Something about the, um, Wi-Fi?” I say. “I’m Henry.”
Her expression eases. “Henry? From a few streets over? Our moms are in book club together?”
I say yes, and she shakes her head, which is confusing, but at least I’m in the right place.
“The Wi-Fi, huh?”
“Yeah. I’m not an IT guy, by the way.”
Sighing, she leans back against the door. “Goddammit, Mom,” she says. The dog is still scratching.
“Is this not a good time? I could—”
“No, it’s fine. Hi, Henry. I’m Grace. You might as well come in.”
When I step inside, mysenses are immediately assaulted. There’s the oniony smell of food cooking, but also smoke, like a campfire. The Ravens game is blasting from the other room, and a boy and a little girl stand together in the entryway like the twins fromThe Shining. The dog leaps at me, climbing my thighs with its front paws and pushing me backward.
“Harry Styles, down!” says Grace.
The dog barks but obeys. Now he and theShiningkids are staring at me.
“Sorry,” says Grace. “He’s ungovernable.”
“Did you call him Harry Styles?” I ask.
“It’s a long story.”
