When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  Mary pulled him up and gave him his cane. "Go on, then," she said, still in hushed tones, so as not to be overheard. "I ain't never felt so—so grown up, I guess."

  Henry half-smiled. "I reckon I've felt grown up all my life."

  Mary put a hand over her mouth to quiet her giggle. "It's fun." Henry gave her another odd look and she waved him forward. "Go on. It ain't good business to keep him waiting—is that how it goes?"

  Henry smiled fully for a second before turning to go through the doorway. "I reckon," he said.

  Mr. McGovern, like the majority of the ranchers in the area, was a harsh man, though smaller than the norm of his robust species. And, like most, his harshness was purely in appearance, in his squinting eyes and in his skin, which was burnt to a generally pervading ochre. Rather than accepting his inferiority in size, he had exploited it, capitalized upon it whenever possible. He was wiry and tough, and often called upon when size was a factor—perhaps wedging under a downed wagon in the mud to secure straps, and even once rescuing a child who had fallen into a well. As he sat there in the small office, in the rather large leather chair, he looked as wound as a tin toy, as if at any moment that lithe energy might spring unbound from within, prompting him to pounce across the room like a wild cat. Such pent-up strength gave him a nervous quality, although he did not feel it and would have told you that he was perfectly at ease.

  "'Aft’noon," he greeted Henry, his voice quick, though heavy with drawl.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. McGovern," he returned, crossing the room slowly to open the top drawer of his file cabinet. "I've got your sums right here." He pulled out a file and retraced his steps, sitting down on the other side of his desk, across from McGovern. He handed him the papers. "I've got it all written out there, but if you'd like to go over it we can."

  McGovern sat forward in his chair, holding the small stack gingerly, as if he were afraid he might involuntarily crumple the papers. "That's all right, Mr. Peterson," he said. "I've had some schoolin' and I read fair enough. I'm in town three days this week—if I got questions, I'll stop on by and ask." He shifted as he spoke, as if itching to be let out for a good run.

  "That's fine, and you're always welcome here. Anything else you need?"

  McGovern withdrew a stack of bills from inside his jacket. "N—well—Mr. Peterson, I feel kinda funny askin', but I heard you do other things, besides figures and things."

  "I can try."

  "Well—my Georgia, she's goin' back to see her momma, back east I mean. It's way back, though, and Georgia, she's got to spend a few nights over someplace, and then stay at a hotel cause her momma ain't got no room. We—we ain't been east, though, not for years, and I guess I'm kinda fearin' Georgia might get someplace bad, outa necessity like."

  "When is she going?" Henry knew Georgia, if only in passing. She was as nervous as her husband, though her restlessness truly was anxiety, not just the appearance of it, most likely gained from years of living with such a man. She flustered easy.

  "Middle of next month."

  "I can send out some letters, or maybe telegrams, and find her a place to stay. Get her a room in advance, and someone to meet her at the station if you like."

  McGovern breathed out and grinned, relieved. "That would sure put me at peace, if you could."

  "I can certainly try."

  He reached out and shook Henry's hand with a quick up-and-down. "You do that. Ain't nothin' lost if nothin' comes of it." He put down a few large bills. "That's what I owe you plus some towards a room." He tossed on his hat and stood, creasing the papers a little before he remembered and pinned them under one arm. "Thank you again," he said in parting. "I reckon I'll stop in, week after next." He opened the door and was gone.

  Mary was in the room the next moment, with lunch. She pulled up another chair to Henry's desk and reached out to put her hand in his for a moment before starting in. "I think we'll do fine here," she said. "Just fine."

  They talked of little things and when Henry next consulted his watch it was well after two. "I better get to workin' or this little place won't be ours for long," he said, somewhat reluctantly.

  Mary got up. "Grocer asked if I'd choose out some fabrics for him to order this afternoon—think I'll go on over if you're busy." She kissed him. "Want me to get anything out of your files?"

  "Just—that one, sitting there." She brought it to him and paused at his furtive glance. "There's—I've heard—a production at the theatre house tonight," he said.

  Mary grinned. "Romeo and Juliet."

  "Would you like to go?"

  "Oh, yes! And I promise not to cry."

  "I don't mind."

  She spun a circle in the middle of the floor, billowing out her dress lightly. "But I do! I'd feel like a baby." She stopped, and looked at him. "Well, I don't guess that's a bad thing, necessarily." She kissed him again. "I won't be gone an hour."

  It wasn't five minutes after she left that Henry realized he did need a paper from his file. He paused a moment, his pencil coming to a rest, and looked at it across the room, letting out a short breath that wasn't particularly in irritation. The next instant, he reached for his cane and gripped the side of the desk. He was halfway up when a rap at the door startled him. He sat back, feeling a lancing pain down his side. The upper half of the door was a glass panel, and he motioned for the caller to come in.

  The handsome man at the door opened it a few inches. "Am I intruding?"

  Henry shook his head. "No. Please, come in."

  Mark Rogers—that, as it happened, was indeed the identity of the guest—was a robust, rather handsome man, if aging a little. He entered and offered a hand.

  Henry took it for a moment and gestured to a chair opposing. "Please, sit down."

  "Thank you." He smiled easily and settled himself, twirling a silver-tipped cane of his own, obviously meant only for aesthetic purposes, before standing it in a gentlemanly pose between his open knees.

  Henry's hand rested upon his own leg. "Mr. Rogers—am I correct?"

  "Yes. I've been looking for you, I suppose you've heard." His voice was of a refined nature; sort of crisp and well-handled.

  "Yes."

  He sat back. "Well. I might as well get right to business. You know, of course, that the county board in Hickory runs most of the business for all six towns in the district." He waited a moment for a nod from his companion. "Well, here it is—every town in this county has grown so much in the past ten years, we're looking to start up chambers of commerce in every town, with a mayor, a sheriff, all that. It'll take some time, but we've decided to go ahead and start because it looks like it's going to happen whether we want it to or not, sooner or later. We view it as just another fact of American independence—turning every town over to its own governing, I mean. We are a people who rule ourselves." He grinned widely, showing a few crooked but well-placed teeth; they complimented him.

  "Yes," was Henry's comment, again. He flexed his hand. "But what does this have to do with me?"

  Rogers sat forward again. "Well—can't you guess?" He smiled.

  Henry shook his head. "I'm not very good with games."

  "Well, for heaven's sake, man, I and the men over on the county seat think you're a prime candidate for mayor in this little burg!" He stood, hitching up the cane, and poked it at the ceiling. "Like I said, it'll take some time, but the first thing we're doing is organizing elections for mayor. He'll act as a kind of overseer for the rest."

  Henry frowned a little. "…Me?"

  "Yes! You're well known—got clients throughout the county, and probably the state, soon enough. People respect you, and you've got education. That's enough credit for any man, and I can't think of anyone better fit for the job."

  He shook his head. "No."

  Rogers looked startled. "No? No to what?"

  "I don't want to be a mayor. I might consider it if there were some sort of council, where a group of people met to make the decisions, but—no. Not mayor."

  "
But that's exactly the point! As mayor, you could set up a town council. That's the idea—there's going to be things like that sooner or later, but what we need now is someone who knows how to set it up, to get it started."

  Henry shifted. "You know I'm..." he fingered his cane, worn smooth at the handle.

  Rogers paused. "What? Oh—man, there's a mayor over in Sifter County, name of Tucker, I believe. He's about eighty and he's been bed-sick for years now. Hasn't stopped anyone from voting for him again and again, even if maybe he isn't altogether there. The point is, man, if you think you are fit, then no one's to say you ain't. Aren't. Except with a fair vote."

  "I don't think--"

  "Don't say no right now—think it over. Meanwhile, why don't your lovely wife and you join my lovely wife and I at Romeo and Juliet tonight? We've rented a box, and there's more than enough room for four."

  Henry looked uneasy. "I'm sorry. Stairs... are a problem for—"

  Rogers waved a hand, ambling across the room to look out the window. "Nonsense. I've got a hired man who could lift a house if he took a mind to." He looked over his shoulder at Henry, and paused a moment. "Well, join us if you like. If not, I'll be in town again on Tuesday and we can talk then. Please, think it over."

  "I will, although I can't promise much."

  "Just promise me you'll think it over, that's all I ask. Think of your town's progress."

  "I will."

  Rogers nodded politely and slipped out the door.

  When Mary returned from the grocer's, she opened the little wooden door and closed it softly behind, although it rattled pleasantly in any case. Her husband was settled back in his chair, a look of deep-set thought across his brow and eyes. She came towards him and after a moment he blinked and looked at her. She smiled and felt his warm embrace. "What is it?" she asked.

  He looked up at her briefly. "Rogers. He came by."

  Mary shook her head and tugged at his arm. "This is no good for sitting," she said, giving a persuasive pout. She didn't like the single-person leather chair, at least not for talking, because she had to sit opposite him, or on the desk, like a customer. She tugged him again and they went into the little bedroom and sat side by side on the bed.

  "He said they wanted to start governments, in each town, at the local level. He—wants me to be mayor."

  "Oh," said Mary, half-smiling.

  "You—think it's silly." He paled slightly.

  She took his hand. "Oh, no, no!" She moved still closer, suddenly, and put her arms around his neck. "I think it's an honor—him wanting you to do it. I just don't know if you want to. Do you?"

  He looked at his hands. "I don't know."

  Mary let herself flop back so she was laid out face-up on the bed, crosswise, and laughed kindly.

  Henry pushed himself back a little and lay down next to her, staring at the ceiling. "Is it just my arrogance?" he asked, almost to no one in particular, or maybe just himself.

  Mary grinned. "You ain't got an arrogant bone in your body. All you're concerned about is if everyone will be better off with you or someone else. And if it's you, then you wonder again if maybe you aren't just being arrogant."

  "Everyone—makes themselves out better than they are, inside." He paused. "What do you think?"

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "I think... you would make an excellent mayor. The best, in fact. But I don't think you should do it unless you want to."

  "And there's always the possibility that someone else will run."

  "And if he's the better man?"

  "I'll drop my name from the ballot."

  "So you aren't arrogant."

  Henry was silent.

  "Got you!" Mary giggled and rolled over to kiss him, but he remained solemn.

  "There are things... I wouldn't do. Things maybe I'm supposed to do if I want to be mayor."

  "You can talk it over with Rogers, I guess."

  "Mary—if I decide—not to do this—you won't think less of me?"

  She sat up on one elbow and ran a hand through his hair. She closed her eyes, feeling the shape of his scalp. "No. No, Hen, not at all."

  "Rogers wants us to sit with him, tonight at the theatre. ...He's got a box with his wife."

  Mary scrunched up her nose, opening her eyes again. "Do we really have to?" Her voice hinted at a whine. "Or will we offend?"

  He glanced at her. "I—I guess not."

  "I hate box seats. They're all over on the side, and I can't see nothin' without leanin' over till I near fall out." She looked into his damp eyes and half-troubled brow. He swallowed. "What is it?"

  He felt compelled to say, felt that if he did not he would be lying, or at least keeping some sort of secret from her. "If it's a matter of stairs, it's--" Mary laughed and he felt her warm, living breath upon his face. He felt that Napoleon would have conquered all of Europe, destroyed Russia, had she only been his Josephine. He pulled her close, suddenly, and kissed her.

  It was only broken, after a long while, by another of her laughs, like small stones in water or maybe a cool breeze through a willow tree. "Careful," she warned, moving off his leg.

  "No," he told her, finally. "I like you. You aren't careful. You go straight on ahead and apologize for mistakes later."

  She returned the kiss, quickly, playfully. "And you, on the other hand?" she teased, grinning.

  He shook his head. "I don't go at all. I stay until I have to move. I calculate everything, measure it all so nothing happens."

  "And was this planned?" she squirmed on the warm white quilt, sewn by her grandmother long ago.

  "No," he breathed quickly.

  "I wouldn't mind if it was--"

  "It wasn't."

  "It's because you care about folks. You want what's best for them. You got—a sense of responsibility to them, like you don't want to do anything to ruin their happiness."

  "You're the other way around. You do foolish things that come into your head, to make folks happier than they were."

  "Ain't one way better than another. You gotta have both kinds."

  "So long as they don't argue."

  "You just gotta have a sense of respect." She sighed contentedly and held his hand for a long time, feeling his fingers between her own. "I like this," she said at last.

  "What, layin' here doin' nothing?"

  "Well—pickin' at eachother. You saying to me what I wouldn't see and me doing it to you. Let's say we'll always pick at each other."

  He shifted. "Should we set a day?"

  She reached over and pretended to slap his face. "You're teasing me. Am I being silly?"

  "No." He smiled. "Not at all."

  Mary brushed her hair in front of the little mirror table, humming to herself. "It's a perfect night out for a show," she remarked, after a moment.

  Henry came up behind her, in a white shirt and suspenders, his tie undone around his neck and hanging loose. He ran a hand down her chestnut waterfall. "I'll braid it for you," he said.

  She smiled and put a hand up to touch his, briefly, before standing. She pulled out the little wooden chair and let him sit on it, then settled herself down cross-legged on the floor, spreading her dress out around her so it wouldn't fold under and get dirtied. The brush went through her hair a few more times, and then Henry's fingers, clean and smelling like soap. She leaned back against the chair between his knees, letting out a soft breath. "Feels good, having my hair pulled at." Out of the corner of her eye, she strained to see the little tabletop without moving her head. "Which perfume?" she asked, feeling for the bottles.

  Henry leaned over a little, his hands still occupied, and smelled each of the three small bottles in turn. Then he leaned forward and sniffed her hair. "Mm. None."

  "None!" Mary laughed. "It's fine for a man to say that, the way you go out for weeks on end without so much as rinsing off in a stream. Pa used to come home sometimes—" Mary made an exaggeration of a shudder. "Ma wouldn't let him in the house, even." She patted his leg. "But of course you'
re fairly clean, I reckon, so I'll take your advice. But just for tonight."

  "If I could find a way to bottle your scent, I could sell it for a hundred dollars an ounce."

  "You'd sell me!" she teased.

  "I could, but I wouldn't."

  "What would you do with all those bottles?"

  He held a lock of hair out for her and she took it while he shuffled around the table for a bobby pin or two. "I'd keep them. For when we couldn't be together. Then I'd open one up and let it sit out and fill the room."

  "Oh, Hen. I love you." She paused. "Will you wear your uniform tonight?"

  Henry's hands slowed for a moment, and then continued to work. "I—" he said quietly.

  She reached across with her left hand and patted his knee. "I know how you feel about it, Hen, but I hope you'll think about it, sometime. It ain't no shame I can see, and you look handsome in it."

  He fumbled for the last bobby pin. "I—I'd rather not."

  "All right." He finished with her hair and let his hands fall away. Mary bounced up and examined herself in the mirror. "Oh," she breathed, "it's beautiful! Hen—where did you learn that?"

  "Your—your magazine."

  "My—" Mary laughed. "But there's only that woman on the cover! Wait--" she hurried from the room and was back in a moment with the magazine and some little white flowers from the vase on the kitchen table. She handed the flowers to Henry. "Here, put these in!" Bending, she let him tuck them into the crevices of her winding braids. When he was done, she held up the magazine next to her face, displaying the picture of the cover woman's face next to her own. "How do I compare?"

  "Ten times prettier."

  She pulled him up. "Come on, we'll get you in your black suit. If we don't hurry, we'll be late!" Quickly, she helped him on with his clothes, and they were out the door. Henry latched it behind them, and they walked together down the moonlit boardwalk, their footsteps echoing. There were other couples out, dressed for the performance, all waltzing slowly down the main street, here and there. "Like snowflakes," whispered Mary, seeing them glitter in the faint light now and then. "Just kind of all drifting down and beautiful." Henry knew what she meant.