William Henry is a Fine Name

by Cathy Gohlke

  Mr. Still made me think of what William Henry could have grown into more than any person, white or colored, I’d ever met. I admire to say we became fast friends.

  It was after that first trip to Philadelphia that two letters came for me the same month, the first letters I’d ever received.

  The first one was from Ma, whose inner war and sharp tongue had raged all winter, and taxed Pa to the breaking point. Pa had finally agreed with her that maybe a visit home to Ashland would do her good. And that’s what we both thought, that she’d only gone to visit. But in that letter she wrote that she could not consider returning to Laurelea for a long time, that without Miz Laura, life there was just too harsh, too lonely, and that Grandfather needed her. She wrote that she loved Pa and me, but trusted that we’d understand.

  Pa told me to keep loving her, to think well of Ma for staying as long as she did, as long as she could. He prayed that she’d come back when she felt ready, and urged me to write to her. I did love Ma, but I did not understand her, and sometimes, though I knew it was wrong, thinking well of her did not come easy.

  The other letter came from Canada. There was no return address. It was short. The penmanship was nothing to brag on. It read, “Dear Robert, Haven’t worn any dresses lately. Are you a genuine scholar yet?” It was signed “J. Henry.” It was the best letter I ever got.

  So I helped Pa and Mr. Heath, and Joseph Henry, and Mr. Garrett, and sometimes Mr. Still on the Underground Railroad regular, for a time—as long as there was need. And every time I returned to Laurelea I gave my report to William Henry. I knew he’d want to know.