A QUIET MAN
By
Russ Durbin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Russ Durbin
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Henry Willeford III was a quiet man.
He never said much but went about his business unobtrusively. He was tidy and he was thorough. Whatever else might be said about him, one thing was certain—he never did anything half way.
If anything about Henry suggested vanity, it was his carefully-trimmed mustache which rested like a light brown shadow beneath his inconspicuous nose. He shaved with a straight razor like his father and grandfather before him, taking particular pains with his upper lip.
His wife, Harriett, didn’t like the bone-handled razor reverently handed down from Senior to Junior to Henry the Third; but then, she didn’t like most of Henry’s things. His impeccable attire from his carefully ironed white shirt (which he himself ironed) to his precisely creased trousers distinguished Henry from what would have been oblivion in the nine-to-five crowd.
Although he arose somewhat earlier this particular morning than his accustomed six o’clock, his movements were as precise and deliberate as always. He cleaned his razor and carefully placed it on the shelf next to his shaving mug and his Old Spice cologne. Then he prepared his usual breakfast of hot tea, a small glass of orange juice and a slice of raisin toast.
Picking up his black derby hat, umbrella, and black leather attaché case, Henry walked out the door and caught the 7:55 bus for work.
At the office, he placed his hat on the shelf over his allotted clothes hanger in the men’s lounge and smoothed down his thinning brown hair as he glanced at the mirror over the wash basin. Then he selected his timecard with a precision movement born, nourished, and matured with countless repetitions. In thirty-six years, never had he failed to walk through the office doorway at exactly 8:59, nod slightly to the receptionist, and take his seat at his desk.
Invariably, Henry’s first act was to take a small white cloth from the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk. With this he meticulously dusted the desk, his telephone and his combination pen-and-clock set. He would allow himself an extra moment to polish the brass plate on the base of the clock, making the inscribed words stand out on the bright bit of metal.
The cloth disappeared as the office manager walked in.
“Good morning, Willeford.”
“Good morning, Sir.”
A quick adjustment of his large, shell-rimmed glasses on his small nose and Henry was ready for another day at the office.
The only break in Henry’s daily routine usually came at 4:45 when Harriett called to remind him to pick up the groceries on his way home. Today, however, she didn’t call.
Promptly at five o’clock Henry rang out his timecard and placed it in the rack. With just the barest of nods to Mr. Watkins, the elderly janitor, he stepped into the crowded elevator.
Henry was a quiet man. Whether in the office, or on the street, or at home he rarely spoke to anyone unless he was spoken to. Thus, in silence he boarded the northbound 5:05 bus and seated himself in his usual seat near the rear next to a poster advertising, “Flannigan’s Body Building Course for Men.”
His black case propped on his bony knees, both hands clutching the handle, Henry gazed thoughtfully out the dust-streaked window, not really seeing the teeming masses of people outside.
He always got off the bus at the intersection of Elm and Maple streets, two blocks from his home. He liked the walk and the fresh air. Besides, it took him past Golf’s Meat Market where he could pick up the groceries Harriett wanted.
Henry stopped at the market and stood uncertainly in front of the door, feeling he should go in, but knowing there was no reason to do so. Finally, he turned away from the store and walked slowly home. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts he had forgotten that Harriett hadn’t called.
He walked up the flagstone walk past the neat flower gardens and the carefully manicured lawn which reflected the same quiet pride that Henry’s mustache did. Before entering the white frame cottage with the green shutters, he patiently wiped his shoes on the rubber mat at the door. Harriett was always furious with him if he didn’t. It had become habit with Henry. He placed his hat on the shelf in the guest closet as Harriett had insisted he do. His attaché case went in beside it.
He paused for a moment in front of the hall mirror, adjusting his bow tie and expecting momentarily to hear Harriett’s strident and somewhat belligerent voice saying, “HENRY, is that YOU?” Habit caused Henry to form the usual reply, “Yes, my dear,” on his lips before he remembered. Then he went to the telephone in the hall, dialed a number and listened to the ringing. There was a click and a man answered.
“Hello, officer? This is Henry Willeford. Yes, W-i-l-l-e-f-o-r-d. I live at 4213 North Elm. I want to report a missing person. Yes, my wife, Harriett. Yes, that is H-a-r-r-i-e-t-t,” he said, adjusting his bow tie with the barest hint of a smile.
* * *
Other short stories by Russ Durbin
The Comeback
The odds are stacked against him, but Jim Roberts, once great pitcher, is determined to make his comeback to the Major Leagues from a devastating injury and an alcoholic limbo that threatened to end his career permanently.
The Old Woman from Catspaw
Felicity Furr was a cranky old crone nobody liked. Known as “the cat lady” in Catspaw, Indiana, she lived high up Devil’s Elbow with her black cat, Lucifer. The night before Halloween, young Tommy Wilson and his buddies set out to do mischief at the old woman’s cabin. Surprise and mystery await.