The Happiest People in the World by Brock Clarke Page A

was in control, that everything would be just fine. But Henry had a method. And Ellen had given it to him. Henry had known her for only a couple of hours, but already she seemed like the most incredible woman he had ever met. How could Matty have cheated on her (Henry had not asked with whom, and Ellen had not volunteered the information, but he had a hunch it was Locs, because Locs had said, “Matthew doesn’t even know who
he
is,” and you don’t say something like that about a person unless you’re in love with him), Matty who apparently went to this Cornell? Henry had never heard of it, but the way Matty had said the word—“Cornell”—made it sound like some mystical, faraway place. Timbuktu. Kathmandu. Atlantis. “I went to Cornell,” Matty had said.
    â€œAnd when did you get back?” Henry asked.
    Ellen laughed. But Matty did not laugh. He lifted the mask up off his face and seemed to be prepared to say something unpleasant when a woman and a man walked by. The woman was dressed like an Arctic explorer with her fur-lined and hooded anorak. The man was wearing what seemed just to be a lined, checked shirt and a tasseled hat with the word SKI-DOO ringing its perimeter.
    â€œHello, Bossman,” she said to Matty. “Hello, Me,” she said to Henry. The woman smelled strongly of alcohol. She might once have had other smells, but the liquor had eradicated them. The man didn’t say anything. He just extended his hand in Henry’s direction and Henry shook it. There was clearly something wrong with the hand—the fingers seemed fused together and hard, so that it was like shaking a closed frozen lobster claw with human skin on it—but Henry shook it anyway, the man looking deeply into his face, seemingly daring Henry to in some way acknowledge the claw. Henry didn’t; he didn’t even need to frown, since the man wasn’t actually saying anything. Finally the man retracted his hand, and he and the woman walked away, past a group of sweatshirted teenagers standing next to a chain-link fence, whispering conspiratorially and not even trying to hide the fact that they were pointing at Henry. It was easy to read their pointing: it said, Who the fuck are you?
    â€œI fart in your general direction!” someone yelled in what seemed like a French accent. Henry looked in the direction of the voice. It clearly had come from a large man wearing a very colorful short-sleeved shirt who was looking—but as far as Henry could tell, not farting—in Henry’s direction. A woman descended the bleachers behind the man, long braids trailing out of her ski hat. She had a martial look on her face, and sure enough, she struck the man in the arm, then ran back up the stairs. The man rubbed his arm but otherwise seemed unaffected by this sudden violence. Although he did seem cold; he wrapped his arms around himself and yelled in Henry’s and Matty’s direction, “Hey, chief, play ball already!” Henry looked at him. Henry looked at all of them, the whole crowd. And what did he see? What did he not see? He did not see one Muslim in the crowd. He did not see one person who by evidence of their skin color or headgear or dress or
anything
seemed likely to want to kill him. Henry did not like himself for noticing this. But neither did he like himself being around people who might be trying to kill him. He turned back to Matty, who was busy feeling that crushing combination of shame and defiance known only to people in small towns who are forced to welcome an outsider into that small town. I know this place is awful, was Matty’s feeling, and also: But don’t even think about telling me how awful it is. “I apologize for the freak show,” Matty said.
    â€œI really think I’m going to like it here,” Henry said.
    â€œYou do?”
    â€œYes,” Henry said. “I think everything is going to be just fine.” He