When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  "You're welcome, Mrs. Peterson," replied Mary, and hurried down to the creek.

  The younger boys were splashing in the small river already, skipping rocks and spattering mud on one another. "C'mon!" one of them called to Mary, but she only waved, laughing at his mud-stained face, and went to sit next to Henry, who was leaning against a tree on the bank.

  "Where's young Simon?" asked Henry.

  "Back with his Ma. She fusses over him almost as much as he fusses over everybody else, I think."

  Henry laughed. "That's the truth," he said. They were silent for a while, enjoying each other's company. "Fair's next week," he commented, at last.

  "Yes," she said.

  "Would you go with me?"

  "Yes," she said.

  Henry came by on Tuesday, to give Mr. Jacobs his calculations. "Well, son," said the big man heartily, "thank you plenty—and a day early, too! Here's your pay, and well earned."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Robert Coleson, over the river, he's real interested in your services, too, if you're willing."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Grocer even said he's got space to rent out, where you can set up shop. There's a lot of ignorant folk around here, son, when it comes to readin' and writin', and your kind of services are needed. Shoot, maybe even you'll put that durned lawyer outa business."

  A faint smile lighted Henry's face. "I wouldn't want to do that," he said.

  Pa burst into a booming laugh. "Of course not, son. But competition, remember. It's what this country's founded on, you remember that."

  "Yes sir. Thank you, sir, for everything."

  "Don't you thank me. It's Martha there that's been doing all the gossiping. I wouldn't have this ranch if it weren't for her blasted chatter. It's why men put up with it all, y’see?"

  Henry grinned. "Yes, sir." He nodded. "I should be going."

  "Say, son, you look a little white. You all right?"

  Henry shook his head. "I'll be fine, sir. Just a little tired, is all."

  "You sure? Never mind; I'll get the buggy and take you home."

  "I'll be fine, sir," he assured him again. "I can make it--"

  "Nonsense, son. It's no bother. The horses are already hitched, anyway."

  The next morning, three of Mrs. Peterson's younger children came over to play with the twins, and informed the family that Henry had taken ill. Mary set out immediately for the Peterson ranch, taking some hot broth Ma had made and picking wildflowers as she went.

  Mrs. Peterson met her at the door, carrying Simon and looking harried. "You go to him, honey," she said. "We think he caught the flu from Simon, and he's not so strong as he was. I've lost children before, but I'm not sure Pa can take losing another of his boys, and if Henry don't make it, I'm certain this little babe won't." She jiggled Simon a little, who was crying again. "You go to him. Sunshine like you is what he needs."

  "Yes ma'am," said Mary, and hurried upstairs to Henry's bedroom, where he lay feverish on the bed. "Hello," she said, holding up the flowers. "I brought you some Spring." Henry was hot and shivering, but he managed a smile, and breathed in the sweet scent of the flowers when she held them out to him. She laid them on the little table by the bed and took the pot of hot broth out of the basket she had been carrying, placing it on her lap as she sat to spoon-feed him a little. "Listen, Henry," she said after a while, "you gotta get well by Friday, you hear?"

  "Wh-why?" he whispered.

  "Cause you gotta take me to the fair on Saturday, don't you? I ain't goin' if you don't take me. So you gotta get well."

  "Ok-kay."

  "Promise?"

  "P-prom-mise."

  Mary stayed the night over at the Petersons and helped put the little ones to bed after dinner. "Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Peterson, as Mary helped pull another nightgown down over a little head. "More I think about it, more I realize how much I'd miss that boy. He's a real helping hand around here these past few days, and these little ones just worship him, even if he don't wrestle with the boys anymore."

  "He'll be all right, Mrs. Peterson," said Mary. "You just wait. He'll be up and around by Saturday, I promise."

  Mrs. Peterson stopped and looked up at Mary. "You know, honey, I think you just might know what you're talkin' about." They smiled at each other. "Now, you run upstairs and say good night to my boy, and I'll get to fixin' you a bed on the sofa."

  "All right, ma'am," replied Mary, and headed up the stairs.

  Henry was worse than he had been earlier, and sweat poured down his face. Mary soaked a washcloth in the basin by the bed and wiped his neck and chest, then folded it and put it on his forehead. "Come on, Henry," she said, and his eyes fluttered. "I'll be right here, all night. Just you wait one minute and I'll be back."

  She ran downstairs, and found Mrs. Peterson in the parlor getting the sofa ready. "Here, ma'am," she said, taking the blankets in her arms. "I'll make a bed upstairs so I can watch Henry tonight."

  "All right, dear, all right."

  John's bare mattress was still in the room, yet to be sold or moved in with the younger boys, and Mary spread the blankets over it, making a bed she hardly used that night, for sitting up with Henry.

  His fever did break, however, in the early morning hours, and Mary went home the same evening, satisfied that he would be all right.

  True to his promise, Henry arrived Saturday afternoon in his father's buckboard, a little paler and thinner than usual, but in all other respects a healthy young man. Mary kissed her parents good-by and ran to hop up into her silver coach, taking Henry's hand for assistance when he offered it. Laughing, she waved, and he slapped the reins, setting the horses off to a trot.

  The fair was a small one, held once a year on the edge of town for two nights of food, cattle, dancing, and games. Henry pulled up next to the general store, in front of a group of local boys, just about the only place left for a cart. He winced, swinging his leg over the side, and lowered himself carefully to the ground.

  "Hey, Miss, need a hand down?" One of the boys approached Mary's side of the cart, offering her a hand. "Looks like you ain't got nobody fit t'help ya," he bantered meanly.

  Mary gritted her teeth and stared straight ahead, not making a move. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Henry reach for his cane, and waited as he walked slowly around the buckboard to the other side. He stepped in front of the boy.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," the young man sneered at his back. "I guess yer man's just a little slow, s'all." His friends snickered. "Gosh, you sure he could protect you in a fight? Y'know, man t' man?"

  Henry held a hand up to Mary, and she took it, head held high and proud as he helped her down. Together, they walked through the crowd of boys and off to the fair. Dusk was heavy in the sky now, and the stars had begun to show. Mary looked up as they walked. "Lovely night, isn't it?" she said, quietly.

  She could hear Henry let out a tense breath. "Yes," he answered, after a long pause. "It's beautiful out here."

  "We'll have a fine time."

  "Yes.” He swallowed thickly. “We will."

  They played games and ate pies until long after the last bit of sunlight had gone, the fairgrounds lit with red and orange lamps like big, bright fireflies. After they had done, they fell to meandering around the hub of activities, simply watching everyone. Henry, though, caught himself watching Mary more than anything else, and saw that her eyes were drawn to the center dance podium, where countless men and women spun gaily, cheeks rosy with exertion. He stopped her, putting a hand on her arm. "Go, have a dance," he urged.

  "Only if you come with me." She smiled, tugging him gently.

  "No," he said, sounding final. "No, go ask one of those boys; there's plenty who'll dance."

  "Then I won't."

  He looked as if he were going to say something, then let out a heavy breath and turned his eyes away.

  "What is it?"

  "Don't—don't, on account of me--"

  Mary set her jaw. "Come on," she said, tugging
again, this time in another direction. He followed, and soon found himself in a grove of trees down by the edge of the river. The moon was out, and pale shadows of the leafy canopy above patterned over the damp grass, leaving little cutouts of moonlight to fall on their faces and on the water, where they reflected and sparkled in little dances of their own. Mary turned Henry to face her, close, and stood silent that way for a long while. At last, she took his hand, and moved a little closer, until she could feel his breath on her face. She reached down with her other hand, and put it on top of his, tracing gently the lines where his bones stood out from holding to the cane so tightly. She moved her hand down to the polished wood, and pulled it gently away, letting it fall to the ground. Mary reached back up and took his other hand.

  For a moment he faltered, and almost fell on her, but she was a strong girl, and caught him even as he caught himself. Together, they leaned in and pressed close, supporting each other in the soft moonlight. As he moved his hand to her waist, she moved hers to his shoulder, and they began to rock, slowly, turning to the faded music carried to them on the gentle night breeze.

  "I don't want to dance," she said quietly, "unless it is with you."

  He held her tightly, and they remained so for a long while. "Mary?"

  "Yes?" she said.

  "Mary, will you be my wife?"

  "Yes," she said, and smiled.

  Chapter Two

  Mary turned down the sheets on her bed. They were cool and yellowed with age, comforting like grandmothers' hands. She straightened, finished, and stood in front of the mirror for a long while, brushing her hair and staring past herself into the future. She had never looked at it much before; things were so wonderful where she was. But it was fun, now, to think. Feeling a hand on hers, she stopped brushing, finding that her head missed the rhythmic motion. The hand took the brush, and she focused on the mirror to see Sarah behind her, wearing a small but genuine smile along with her nightgown. Sarah took up the brush and continued to work on Mary's hair, although it was already shiny and clean. After a few minutes, she set the brush aside and began to weave braids into Mary's hair, one on either side of her head. She hummed softly, and Mary closed her eyes.

  When Sarah finished, they traded positions, and when Mary had braided Sarah’s copper-red hair they climbed into bed, Mary from her side and Sarah from hers. They lay in silence, listening together to the moan of the house and staring up at the rafters and not blowing out the candles by mutual agreement.

  "I'm gonna miss you plenty," Sarah said.

  Mary rolled onto her side, facing her sister. She reached out, and they held hands, like when they were little girls and would scare themselves with ghost stories. Mary bit her lip. "I'll miss you too," she answered, but it didn't sound the same. "We'll see each other often."

  Sarah was silent, and they both lay there, knowing that things would never be as they had been. "I'm happy for you," Sarah told her.

  "You'll be all right?"

  "Yes."

  Mary turned the other way to blow her candle out, and Sarah did likewise. Mary lay on her back, staring into the dark for a long while after the scent of burnt wick had left the air and Sarah's breaths were slow and even. And, for a long while, all she could think was that soon, someone else would share her bed.

  When all the children had been put to sleep, Henry bid his mother good night. His father, with strong, leather-soft hands and sunburnt arms, lifted him and carried him up the stairs, cradling him like a small child.

  They had intended to move his room downstairs to the den, but there simply hadn't been time, and now there was no reason at all because he would soon be gone. So again, he saw from the corner of his eye—pretending that he did not—as his mother stepped into the next room, wiping her eyes with the hem of her apron.

  Henry's father was a kind and gentle giant, a quiet man, but tonight his silence betrayed an inner tension that was not usual. Henry was too light, his form too easy to pick up—even one of the children would have squirmed and made the journey difficult. It was a thing that unsettled him. He could feel Henry's delicacy, his frailty, and somehow it made him afraid. He knew well that the boy's spirit was strong, and his heart good—the best—but he found within himself a doubt, a worry, wondering if his son's body could withstand the trials of the world beyond. He placed Henry on his feet at the top of the stairs, and waited a moment while the younger man straightened himself. Then he nodded, and their hands embraced, comfortably, though words would not come.

  Henry turned from his father and went into his room. He undressed slowly, thoughtful. He hung his clothes carefully in his closet, but stopped before closing the door. His hesitated, then reached in and pulled out one item a little further than the others. It was his uniform, and he gazed at it, conscious that they wanted him to wear it to the wedding. For a moment, his hand trembled, but only a moment.

  The uniform was still dirty, stained with blood. John's blood. Mary had offered to clean it, but he was not yet certain—not nearly certain—that he wanted her to. He had told her that he would consider it. He wondered, with doubt, if he had done the right thing.

  He could hear murmurs through the wall now, from the next room; the children, his sisters, were whispering to one another in the dark. Their innocence—their ignorance—suddenly made him want to weep.

  At length, he slid the garment back into place and fastened the closet door. He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed in his underclothes. Carefully, he set the cane aside, propping it against a chair, and slid into bed. Clearing his throat softly, he turned and blew out the candle.

  In the night he woke, sweaty and tangled in the sheets. His heart was racing and his breaths came rapidly, but he could not remember his dream.

  When the sun rose, Mary's father hitched up a wagon for town and she joined him for the ride. He held her hand tightly all the way, as if he did not want to lose her. When they were close to town, she brought his hand to her lips and kissed the back of it, feeling sandpaper tickle her mouth. He looked down and smiled, sheepish, realizing suddenly what he had been doing. He released her, and gripped his own thigh instead.

  Mary hugged him and leaned against his body, strong as an oak, protecting herself from the cool breeze. "Everything will be okay, Pa," she assured him.

  He patted her knee, careful with his rough hand. "I know, darlin', I know."

  "You—like him, don't you, Pa?"

  Pa laughed, low and full but somehow a little sad. "Couldn't find a better man fifty miles outside the county. You make me mighty proud, darlin'."

  "Thanks, Pa."

  They pulled up outside of the general store, and Mary hopped down lightly. "Be back in a while, Pa!" she called over her shoulder. She saw the Peterson's buckboard across the street and looked around, finding only one of the younger boys. "Jess!" she called, "Jess, where's Henry?"

  Jess stumbled after his hoop, caught it, and turned to face her. "Over at the office with Pa," he replied, tossing a thumb over one shoulder.

  "Thanks!" She skipped down the packed-dirt street, avoiding the ruts, and stopped in front of the postmaster's building, shading her eyes in the sun. She sneezed once, then mounted the stairs and entered the small front office.

  Henry and his father were the only people in the room, but Henry was sitting, his body bent awkwardly with a wracking cough. Mary hurried to his side even as the postmaster emerged with a glass of water. Henry accepted it, glancing up with watery eyes. For a moment, he struggled to control himself, then gulped down some of the pure liquid. Mary bent and rubbed his back, and he coughed a little more, but soon quieted down and took another sip of water. He was still for a short while, not looking up, waiting for his body to settle.

  Silently, his father reached out a hand and touched his boy's head, and Henry looked up at him. There was a gentle question in the aging man's eyes, and Henry nodded to assure him that he was all right.

  "Come on outside," urged Mary, glancing between them. "The a
ir'll do you good."

  Henry nodded again, once, and let her take him by the elbow as he stood. He returned the glass with a short thanks to the postman.

  "Hope you get feelin' better, son," he said in return.

  Henry's grey eyes flickered and turned to Mary, who accompanied him outside. They turned south and ambled down the sidewalk, the planks sounding out hollow notes beneath their feet. Mary was silent, but squeezed his hand comfortingly.

  "I—I should tell you—" he began, at length. His voice was low, halting but definite. "It's not—just my leg. I was—in the hospital, for a long time. Took sick with lung infection, and—Mary, I—I'm going to feel poorly oftener than—than a man should be."

  She squeezed his hand again and moved closer to him, so that their shoulders touched, bumping a little as they walked. "We'll get through it," she said quietly. "We'll make it through."

  "You never talk about him, Mary. How come?"

  Mary turned, letting the brush slide down her hair of its own accord, loose in her hand. Sarah was in bed already, lying on her side and watching Mary as she worked. "I guess," said Mary slowly, "I guess I didn't think you'd want to hear me—mooning."

  Sarah grinned. "I ought to be used to it by now—I can see it all, running there behind your eyes. Do you know how long you've been sitting there, staring at that mirror?"

  Mary frowned thoughtfully. "I'm just brushing my hair," she protested at last, in defense.

  "Yes, now you are. But you haven't for the last ten minutes." Sarah shifted, propping her head up under her elbow with one hand.

  Mary looked distantly puzzled. "Haven't I?"

  "Not a bit. Go on—after all those years I spent rattling on about—about John," (it was still hard to say his name), "you owe it to repay me."

  Mary let the brush drop, grinning, and leapt into bed. She huddled down under the covers, curling her legs up into her nightgown. "All right," she said. "What shall I tell you?"

  "Well—first, how come he never talks?"