In my dream, Mr. Henry is standing in a doorway wearing a white dinner jacket, a fat cigar plugged between the thumb and index finger of one hand. He’s thinner than he was in his prime, and standing completely erect, unlike his later years when he’d navigate Pennsylvania Avenue half stooped over, with a shuffling gait. In my dream he’s greeting guests at yet another opening of a new restaurant…or he might be standing in the doorway of a newly renovated house on Capitol Hill as friends and neighbors come to survey his latest tour de force, the artwork hung while the last coat of paint is still drying, a few details left undone but the whole effect designed to delight and impress.

Mr. Henry and my mother, Libby Sangster, became friends in the 1960’s. But they were more than friends because he cosigned the loan so she could buy the building on the corner of 7th Street and North Carolina Avenue, SE. She had the business – “Antiques on the Hill” – started in half of what became the Hawk ‘n Dove, and he had the credit and the reputation as a successful entrepreneur. For years, his name on the property was a source of anxiety and contention in my family, particularly after my mother died and Henry’s health began to fail. Would he try to collect compensation; would his heirs demand a percentage of the property if he died suddenly? All kinds of fears lurked in the shadows, until I finally gathered up the courage to give Mr. Henry a long overdue call.

We hadn’t spoken in a number of years, so I didn’t know what to expect. Instead of any of the worst case scenarios being realized, Henry and I became friends again and were able to arrive at a reasonable settlement of his interest in the property my mother had left in my care. Some who knew parts of the story thought Henry was owed nothing for lending his good name long ago; and there were times he had parlayed his partial ownership into financial gain for himself. He was what we always called a “wheeler-dealer.” I chose to reach an agreement with Henry because I believe more in resolution than resentment, because I believe that forgiveness and reconciliation are life-affirming, and because of the Mr. Henry I remember from my childhood on Capitol Hill.

My mother was a great cook and liked nothing better than to collect a group of friends for an impromptu dinner after work. If you stopped by the store and sat awhile to talk you might find yourself giving her a ride home and taking a place at the table along with an assortment of friends who dropped by. Mr. Henry was a frequent guest – though really a member of the family – as we were in his various homes on the Hill. He liked to keep a couple of dachshunds around at all times, along with cats he adopted from my cat Minnie’s endless litters. I think he named his pets after his lovers, names like Jake and Randolph. I remember Henry’s ready comeback if you claimed you knew someone wasn’t gay: “How do you know – did you sleep with him!?”

For some years my mother kept a chaise lounge in the dining room. Henry affectionately referred to it as a “chaise-lunge,” exactly what he’d do after a hearty dinner, practically lunge from chair to lounge and take a nap right there in the dining room while the rest of us continued with coffee and conversation. He was a man of robust appetites. He loved good food, cigars, beautiful men, movies, buying and selling art, real estate, making a fast buck and moving on to the next big idea. When he answered the phone he never said hello, but barked “Henry!”

After we reconciled, Henry and I kept in touch now and then. He’d call me at work or home and we’d catch up on the latest. I visited his house on Fifteenth Street a couple of times, the little dogs yapping up a storm as soon as you rang the bell. He gave me fresh donuts if I walked by the Capitol Lounge where he worked a few hours a week in his last years. When I heard he was in the Washington Home, I thought about going to visit. But then a mutual friend said he wasn’t recognizing the faces of friends anymore. I decided to keep the image of the Mr. Henry I knew fresh in my mind. Fat cigar plugged between thumb and finger, a big laugh and the sweet aroma of fresh burgers sizzling on the grill, as he gracefully moves through a dimly lit room adorned with Victorian memorabilia.

Gina Sangster Hayman
April 2006
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