When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

Mary thought about this for a moment. "He's shy," she said at last. "I… think maybe he's afraid. Of hurting people, I mean."

  Sarah looked dubious. "Hurting people? That's silly."

  "No it's not," returned Mary, quickly. She paused. "It's from the war, I think, seeing all those boys killed. He doesn't like folks getting hurt, not in any way. I like that about him. He does talk, though, Sarah. When we're alone. Not at first, he didn't, but now I don't think he even notices." She smiled to herself.

  Sarah was quiet for a minute. "Aren't you—afraid?" she asked finally, barely a whisper.

  "Of what?" Mary sensed her tone. "Oh. Marrying a cripple, you mean?"

  "Mary, you shouldn't—!"

  "Well," she said, plainly, "there's no sense in tiptoeing around it, is there?" She turned onto her back, studying the ceiling as Sarah watched her profile. "I don't know. A little, I reckon. Mostly—well, I guess I don't much care." Her voice was thoughtful. "I think he knows that, but he doesn't quite believe it's true, not really."

  "But you're marrying him!"

  Mary looked at her sister and grinned. "Well, it's the only way I can think to make him believe me. And I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him. That, too." She shifted again, and took her sister's hand. "I know everyone's worried," she said. "I ain't deaf dumb and blind. Folks think I'm crazy—no, they do, Sarah, I feel it. It’s not a thing people do, what we’re doing. But we'll manage, and if we can't, there's folks around plenty willing to help. Lord help me, Sarah, I love him."

  "But… how do you know? You've never been in love." Sarah was worried.

  Mary only laughed. "That's right—but I know it must be, cause I feel like it'll go forever. Once in love is all I need, Sarah, that's what I think."

  At night in his room, Henry undressed and hung his clothes in the closet. He closed the door and walked across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward to put the cane against the chair, but hesitated and then sat back again, holding it tightly. He sat for a long while, his knuckles white, until his hands slipped on the smooth wood.

  "Kinda wish you were here," he whispered, to the empty mattress on the other side of the room.

  When it was late, and the stifled giggles in the next room had faded to quiet snores, Henry stood up again and crossed the room. He opened the closet door, pausing for a moment before he removed the uniform. He carried it back to the chair by his bed, folding it gently across the back. He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, to prop the cane against the chair. For another moment he continued to start at the uniform. Then he slid into bed and, coughing lightly, blew out the candle.

  Henry was not a passionate man. In his childhood, he had not been one of those boys who wept one moment and ran wild with joy the next-- that had been John, if anyone. Henry had been quiet, mostly withdrawn, though not intending to be secretive, especially. And he had grown into a man of generally the same character. When he was happy, he did not advertise, but felt it small and glowing within. Sorrow, too, was inward, deep and aching. And because of this—well, perhaps, in this way, he was more passionate than any man.

  But today, this day, he felt something more, a kind of mixed sorrow and joy, and he had to blink for a moment because his vision blurred. If he had been given the opportunity, he would have gone away, into a closed room (in his youth it would have been out onto the plain), to sit and examine it and ponder it. Today, though, there was no time, nor will in his heart, because he could not wish to be anywhere else.

  She was—the most beautiful creature on earth. He saw her emerge in white from the carriage and all of his uncertainties were suddenly gone. His discomfort at wearing his uniform subsided, and the stares and whispers that had plagued him as he waited, before everyone and with only the priest at his back, no longer unnerved him.

  She looked up through her hazy veil and smiled at him and he met her eyes and then looked down, conscious again that everyone was staring at him when they should have been looking at her, because they had not known that he was a captain. He felt small and somehow ashamed. But then, suddenly, there was a communal intake of breath, and he looked up and was relieved because every eye was upon her. She walked towards him, slowly, and their eyes met and all he could think was how very much he wished for her to have made the journey already and to be there next to him, close and secure. The distance between them which seemed like forever closed, little by little, and soon all he could think of was how much he loved her and how proud he was to be able to stand here with her and be her husband, and most of all how unworthy he really was.

  She reached his side at last, and their hands clasped, needfully, fingers locking instantly and tightly together. She felt his fingers, cold in hers, and felt as they were warmed by her own. There was a trembling between them, and she did not know in which of them it had begun.

  "I love you," she mouthed silently, and he swallowed and they turned to the preacher as he began to speak. The sermon was lost to them, among the confusion and the intensity of their own emotions, but it was no matter because the sermon was mostly for others present, for crying mothers and deep-breathed fathers, and if they did not know the content already by heart, it was lost to them anyway.

  The vows were said, stumbling but tenderly, and most of all with heartfelt and plainspoken honesty. Henry felt a movement at his side, and one of his younger brothers stepped forward, bearing the rings upon a velvet pillow. With a slow, careful hand, he reached out and took one, slipping it onto her finger. It was beautiful; a small diamond, yes, very small, but held gracefully by the petals of a golden rose. It fit securely on her finger, as though it had always been there. She placed the second ring then, a plain, shining band of gold, onto his finger. His eyes flickered between their hands and her face, and she smiled at him through happy tears. The ring was on the wrong hand, but that was no matter; he would switch it later when his other hand was free.

  They said final "I do's" and he was filled with an immeasurable relief when the preacher declared them wed. She turned to face him, and with a trembling hand he reached up and pulled back her veil, finding her sun-browned face flushed and rosy. She smiled, and they fell into a warm, satisfying kiss. When they drifted apart, it was dream-like, so that the moment when their lips ceased to touch was uncertain. He put his arm around her waist, and paled slightly when he saw that everyone was clapping and cheering for them, and that the aisle was gone and they were surrounded on all sides. There were congratulations all around, then, and they were slowly herded towards the carriage, which already contained their small bag of luggage. When they reached it, she was lifted up, and he after her, and the crowd parted to let them through.

  Their hands found one another again, and he felt her slender fingers slip his ring from his right hand to the left, and he smiled, tentatively. She laughed tenderly at his reservation and clung to his arm. Almost hesitant, he reached out with his other hand and touched her face.

  Their solitude did not last for long; the carriage stopped at Mary's house, where already folks were arriving for a picnic that would last well into the afternoon. They found themselves borne off into conversation and congratulations, and soon Henry was separated from his bride, although he could hear her voice in the other room with the women, and thus was assured of her happiness. He himself, feeling a little out of place, took a seat outside on the porch swing, and was soon joined by his father-in-law. He was a little stiff in the man's presence, as always, but it was only out of respect. Mary's father was very like his own in character and form, only considerably more vocal in his declarations, both of affection and otherwise.

  The large man leaned back in the swing, groaning amiably as he stretched his legs, and surveyed the small group of older men who had joined them on the porch. "See us all here?" he said.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Ben will do, son, Ben will do. —See these men, and me? All of us been married at least twenty years, most more. In fact—anyone here been married less
'n twenty-five years?" The men glanced at one another, shrugging.

  "Joe here's goin' on twenty-seven," offered one.

  Ben laughed heartily at the good news, slapping his knee. "Y'see?" he said, turning to Henry, affection and humor in his eyes. "Either you've got yourself nothin' more t' worry about ever, or you're in for one hell of a life." He punctuated the air with a finger. "And I'd guess you're in the for the former, son, if I have anything to say about it."

  "Amen," grinned one of the men.

  "I reckon so, sir," replied Henry, smiling faintly. He looked down and rolled the cane absently on his lap.

  Ben guffawed again and slapped Henry on the back, eliciting a dry, forced cough from the younger man. He turned and called into the house, towards a group of small girls playing just inside the door. "Get this man some water!" He turned back to the group. "Well—anyone here think t’bring the cigars?" There was a general shaking of heads, and Ben looked astounded, if not too much offended. "Well," he said at last, loud, "we've got to find some cigars. Man can't not have a cigar on his weddin' day, for hell's bells!"

  "It's all right, sir," interrupted Henry. "I—I don't smoke."

  "You do on your wedding day, son!"

  One of the little girls emerged onto the porch and held a glass out to Henry, timid. He took it and smiled at her kindly. She giggled, turning pink, and scurried back into the house. Henry looked back up to Ben. "I can't, sir—it don't sit right with me. My lungs--"

  "Well," the older man grumbled affably, "I s'pose you can be excused, bein' my son-in-law an' all."

  Henry took a sip of water. "Thank you, sir."

  Mary came out onto the porch then. Her train had been removed for the sake of convenience, but for it she was no less beautiful. "Why-- Mary darlin, you glow!" exclaimed her father. He extended an arm and she slid into his warm, fatherly embrace, turning suddenly a little shy. She shared a knowing glance with Henry, then bent and kissed her father on the forehead.

  "Pa," she said, affectionate.

  The leather-worn man stood, fending off her mild protests with a wave of his arm. "You sit down here with your man, and all of us old folks will leave you to yourselves. Come on men—we'll go somewhere we're wanted."

  "Pa!" she protested, laughing as they lumbered off the porch and down to the grass. When they had gone, she turned to Henry. "I hope he didn't embarrass you terribly," she said.

  "No," he said solemnly, putting aside the glass, "--not terribly." He put only the slightest emphasis on the last word.

  She rolled her eyes, but laughed and hugged him fiercely. Then she quieted, and they looked out over the field before them, littered with children and picnicking families. The light had grown dim, and the sun was heavy on the western horizon. "Shall we go now?" she asked, moving a little closer.

  "Yes," he said, relief and yearning in his voice.

  "All right," she laughed softly, standing and pulling him up with her. "You go and call the carriage, and I'll say good-bye." She led him to the stairs and helped him to the grass, then left to go inside.

  Henry walked around the side of the house to the barn, only to find the carriage there but the driver gone. He looked out over the picnickers, but did not recognize the man he sought. He began, slowly, to go back to the house, when a little boy ran across his path. "Jake," he said, quiet but distinct. The boy halted.

  "Yessir?"

  It was the first time he had ever been called "sir" outside of the army, and for a moment it unnerved him so that nothing came from his mouth. "Do you know where the carriage driver is?" he asked at last.

  "Um, sure," said the boy. "Want me to get him?"

  "Yes, please. Tell him we're ready to go."

  "Alright." With that, the boy raced off.

  Henry turned again, and retraced his steps to the barn. He paused a moment before the open door of the carriage, then quickly hoisted himself into the cabin, sucking in a short gasp.

  A few minutes later, Mary arrived, along with the driver. Seeing that he was already inside, she grinned and clambered up beside him. Her method was unladylike, but there was only he and the driver to see, and she didn't care.

  There was a jolt as the carriage started, and they waved out the open windows as everyone stood to see them go. When the crowds were behind them and there was a relative silence, they held hands and whispered tenderly into each other's ears.

  "Why do you love me?" he asked aloud, although it was more of a rhetorical question.

  She hugged him tightly around the shoulders and pressed her cheek against his. "Mmm…" she sighed. "Because you're gentle and kind and you like to picnic and because you love me." She paused, sighing softly, contented. "Why do you love me?"

  He took a deep, almost sleepy breath of her flowery hair. "Because you're sweet and you love everyone. And because you smell like flowers."

  She sat up. "I smell like flowers?"

  He closed his eyes and breathed in. "Yes. Always."

  She giggled and then was still, closing her own eyes and breathing deep. "You smell like—" her brow furrowed. "Like—tanned leather and soap!" She opened her eyes and he was smiling at her. "Oh, look," she said, pointing past him and out the window. "We're here."

  They climbed down from the carriage in the cool dusk of late afternoon, and the driver carried their bag up the stairs and into the hotel. It was the nicest hotel in town, of three, and they had reserved a small suite on the first floor. They went up the stairs and inside, where a boy was already waiting to take them to their room. It was small, but cozy and secure, with three lamps lit, warm in the chill of evening. The boy left their bag just inside the door and exited without a word.

  Mary faced her husband and turned down his collar, which had somehow gotten displaced, and then reached up to put her arms around his neck. "This," she said, soft in his ear, "has been the best day of my life."

  He circled her waist with his free arm, his hand almost touching her shoulder blade, and found himself suddenly trembling. He pressed her body to his, fearfully tight. "Mary," he said, "how—can I—ever thank you?"

  She sniffed, and then laughed at herself softly. "I love you, Henry."

  "Mary—I love you." They fell slightly apart, though still touching, and sat together on the edge of the bed. Delicately, almost shy, she presented her back, lowering her head and turning it slightly to reveal her slender neck. Her modesty only made her more lovely. Henry set aside his cane and reached out with both hands to untangle the ribbon that bound her dress at the back, his hands patient until at last it fell loose. He removed the crown of daisies on her head and placed them to the side, then, one by one, tugged out the pins which held her hair, letting each shining chestnut strand cascade down her back and feeling as if he might be content if that sight were the sum and whole of his existence. At last, it was undone, and she stretched, arching her back as she ran her fingers through her hair, sighing minutely at the release of pressure. She turned and the front of her dress, stiff, heavy material, fell open slightly, revealing pale, milky cleavage, a part of her that had never seen the sun.

  Her hands found his face, cradling it softly for a moment. He closed his eyes and swallowed. She slipped the jacket from his shoulders, careful of the medals, and then, slowly, unbuttoned his shirt. With a soft, fluid motion, she removed it, and he looked away, down at his hands, which lay flat upon his knees.

  She tilted her head slightly and her eyes softened as she looked at him. Barely brushing the surface of his skin, she ran her fingers down the scar that tore, ugly and uneven, from shoulder to elbow. She traced it upward again, and let her fingers continue until they reached his face. She turned his head and waited until he glanced up, fleetingly. "Everyone has them," she whispered.

  He swallowed again, and looked at the floor. "There are more," he said, low, fingering the seam of his pants.

  She smiled gently, and closed his mouth with a kiss. Slowly, tenderly, it began, and soon their warm bodies lay close and trembling together on
the bed. She moved a little closer, her heart pulsing wildly, and his arms took her in. He breathed out, almost sharply. She paused. "Am I—" she began, "am I—hurting you?"

  "No," he breathed, "no."

  Chapter Three

  Mary's eyes sparkled in the morning, like maybe she was going to start crying but didn't want to unsettle him and so she held back. He could tell, though, after a minute of staring at her, that it was mostly out of happiness, and so he smiled a little, relieved. She grinned and hugged him so tight he gave out a little cough, then patted his back in apology and squeezed his hand instead. He didn't mind because he wanted to squeeze back the same. Her stomach complained loudly.

  "Hmm," he said, and she giggled. He squeezed her hand again, experimentally, but nothing happened. "Broken, I guess."

  She laughed and sat up. "Well, I'll be fixed when I get something to eat. I kinda wish there were a kitchen in here. I'd make breakfast." She smiled at him over her shoulder. "Prove my worth."

  "So far—I guess I got my money."

  "Don't be so quick to judge. My eggs will just about kill you."

  "I'd die for you any day, Mary dear." He instantly regretted his flippant remark; not because he didn't mean it, but because perhaps she would not know he did by the way he had spoken, and because he did not take death lightly.

  "I know it," she said kindly, sensing his self-reproach. She got up, letting his hand fall away from hers, and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, trying to cover her underclothes a little. They were at the end of a hallway, away from everyone. She opened the door a crack, staying behind it. "Maybe I can get that little boy who brought our bags in to get us some breakfast." She opened it a little further, then laughed. "We already been thought of," she said, and bent down to pull in the platter sitting outside on the floor. The silver plate was still warm, and when she had closed the door again she discarded the shawl and brought it over to the bed. "Careful," she said, removing the two glasses of milk, "don't spill." She set them over on the floor.