Right-hand Man

Claire Brankin / 2013 Henry Oppenheimer works behind the bar at The Waterhole. Your plants dyin back there. An older, blonde woman points to a wilting ficus by the entrance. She has ordered one glass of chardonnay within the past hour. She likes the weight of the glass. Hes got a good doctor. Whatre you watering that thing, Smirnoff? Whiskeyll keep it going, but just that, chimes a young regular who sits in front of the mirror to groom his mustache. His third Budweiser is untouched. Hes been prescribed good, old-fashioned water. Henry asks a waitress to throw the plant out when she gets the chance. A young girl enters and inspects the room through the corners of her eyes. She appears about thirteen years old. She sits at the bar. What can I do for you, miss? Walking over, Henry is startled to discover he can see through parts of the girl. He smiles at the dying plant behind her. Can I see your wine list? Oh. Well. Henry shuts his eyes and opens them. Her left side continues to evade his vision. Can I see some ID? The girl reaches into the pocket of her small coat. The fabric strains around her, and Henry sees a dark circle shift around the left shoulder. He discerns that the sleeve is empty and neatly tucked back into the coat, out of view. He looks away and wills his face to relax. She offers Henry the ID. Both sleeves are filled in the picture, and her hair is longer. She is twentyfour. Henry hands the card back and gets the wine list. He gets the blonde woman her bill and does a sweep of refills. The girl is hunched over the bar, her hand in her lap and her face hovering inches above the menu. The blonde womans face twists into a grimace as she walks past, stealing glances at the shoulder. "How're we doing, sweetheart? Everything all right?" The words horrify Henry as they leave his mouth. Ill have a bottle of the pinot grigio. She hands the menu back lazily, nearly tossing it to him. A bottle -- my God! interrupts a large man with a round, flushed face. What are you, seven? He had had two Fat Tires and a bowl of clam chowder. Im twenty-four. She says this without looking at him. The man laughs. Others chuckle nearby. I dont believe it! Ah, give her the wine. Wines good for the heart. Shes had a rough life. He acknowledges the empty sleeve without reservation.

CLAIRE BRANKIN RIGHT-HAND MAN 1

Shes twenty-four. The words come out louder than Henry intends. The round-faced man does not notice. Another Fat Tire. Henry brings the Fat Tire. He brings the girl a bottle of wine, a glass, and an ice bucket. A middle-aged couple watches as he fills the glass. The bottle gulps as it empties. Henry keeps himself busy but not without one eye on the girl. She downs the bottle and orders another. She holds the glass by the stem. Tucking the sleeve in like that, thats clever, comments the round-faced man. The man with the mustache clinks his glass with hers. On busy nights like this one, Henry separates from his body. Henry's body takes tabs and makes jokes faster than Henry can keep up with. Henry marvels at his hands' efficiency and his mouths articulacy. He loathes his body for going on without him. It laughs despite his weariness; it encourages drunkenness despite his disgust. Everyone in the bar smiles when Henry's hands serve the girl. Henry's face too smiles. It says "I like a girl who likes her wine!" He wants his enthusiasm to hurt her as much as it hurts him. His hands serve her more often than anybody else. "How about a round of shots for the little lady?" his voice fills the room, "On the house!" The girl takes the shot as if it is medicine for a flu. Many people pat her on the back. She wobbles down from the stool and over to the bathroom. Henry's hands take it upon themselves to assist her, supporting her shoulders through the door. They hold her soft head over a toilet. "Everyone loves you," he tells her. "You're pitiful as hell." The stiff coat hinders the girls neck and shoulders from stretching over the bowl. She allows Henrys hands to unbutton the coat and maneuver her right arm out of its sleeve. Beneath, she is wearing a sleeveless blouse, exposing the smooth surface where her left arm should begin. Her hand slips around the bowl. Henry's arm wraps around her waist to keep it in place. Her torso flexes and contracts in his palm in sync with the waterfall sounds of vomit. "There you go, now," he encourages her. The hand that holds her hair scratches her scalp like it would a sick dog. "Just let it out. Let it all out. You got it. Good girl. Good girl." Between heaves, the girl's torso goes soft. Her face pinches to the center like a rag. She gasps and moans like a lost animal, as children do when they cry. The moans reverberate in the toilet. "Youre pitiful as hell. When she seems to be finished, Henry stands her up. She falls against him with all her weight. Burying her face into his clothes, she slides down his side to the floor. He picks her up. She is lighter than he expects, so he lifts her knees to cradle her. The bare stub presses against his collarbone, and Henry expects to fill her sleeve when the coat is placed back on. He expects to begin a new life as this girls arm and forgets everything from this previous life as Henry Oppenheimer. He becomes a young woman in a quiet house with a baby. The young woman only knows a life of rocking the baby, as she has done every night and day since her life began at the babys birth. The baby knows nothing. It does not yet differentiate objects. It cannot comprehend any separation between the sky and the land, between the window and the trees beyond.

CLAIRE BRANKIN RIGHT-HAND MAN 2