Henry looked up from the front row to the stage above, where two men were setting up a podium they had found backstage. "Can't-- well, can't we have that down here?" he asked, uncertain.
Rogers looked him up and down, pulling thoughtfully at his lip. "Hm," he said. "I'd forgot."
"No—" returned Henry, quick, "it's not-- what I mean is—it's a town meeting..."
"Yes," declared Mary. "It's not 'you' or 'us' telling them what's happening. It oughta be down here so anyone who wants can get up and speak. Nobody oughta be higher."
Rogers hit him lightly on the shoulder. "Equal say for all, eh?"
"Just common sense."
"Bring it down here, boys!" called Rogers, twisting to look back and waving an arm. He grinned. "We do it how the mayor wants it."
"Please..."
Rogers laughed. He couldn't have found a man more ideal for the running if he had drawn up specifications on paper. "They're starting to come in-- you folks sit down here and I'll fix things up nice."
It was only minutes before the theatre was nearly full—it was a small building, and ranchers and traders and breeders had come from outlying areas all around. The town itself did not have a very significant population; mostly, it was a stop-in for those in rural areas, to get mail and food and other supplies. At length, Rogers moved to stand behind the podium. He hesitated a moment, clearing his throat, and then spoke up. "All right, folks, let's get started!" The muted roar quieted a little, but did not disappear. Rogers looked about himself for a moment and spotted a broken chair leg lying a few feet away. He rapped it firmly upon the podium, and the sharp tattoo echoed throughout the theatre. Conversations stopped, for the most part, and citizens settled into their seats. "All right," repeated Rogers, not so loud this time. "I reckon y'all know what we're here for, but I'll just say it anyway for anyone who's got confused. I'm Mark Rogers, County Supervisor over in Hickory. It's been decided that the county seat's going to farm out its responsibilities to the towns it holds, so eventually you folks should have a courthouse and a jail. Meanwhile, a mayor's being elected in every town. Now—while I'm up here—anyone else out there wanna join in the running?" He paused, grinning, and there were titters from the audience. "Well. Any questions?" He paused, waiting. "All right, then, I'll introduce our only candidate thus far, Mr. Henry Peterson."
There was applause, and Mary stood for a moment to help Henry up. "You'll do fine," she whispered, squeezing his hand briefly before sitting back down, tucking the back of her dress under neatly. Rogers stood aside and Henry took the space behind the wooden stand. He looked up and out, and suddenly every whisper and shuffle, so normal in a crowd no matter how well behaved, stopped cold. He swallowed. "Well," he said, "I—I guess you folks know who I am—I reckon there ain't much to be said beyond that, except if any of you might be havin’ a reluctance to run against me, don't, because I'll step down to any man who wants the job--"
"Durn it," came a voice from the back, "folks ain't gonna volunteer when they know they got the best man, son!" There was laughter and a few loud agreements.
Henry swallowed again, and paled. "Well—thank you," he half whispered. At the sound of his voice, the crowd quieted again, to hear. "Are—are there any questions?"
There was another pause, and then a man towards the middle stood. "Yeah," he said. "Name's Gerald Hawkins, and I got a piece of property out on the north end of Main Street, but I been hearin' today and yesterday you ain't gonna let me build my hotelero there."
Henry grasped the side of the podium. "Mr. Hawkins, I'm sorry—"
"Durn right he ain't!" interrupted another voice, thin and nearly wailing. "He ain't gonna let you put one brick on another, sir!" Mrs. Wilkins stood, maybe fifteen feet away, and faced Hawkins. Her face was set, her lower jaw jutting forward. She jabbed a finger at him. "Ain't nobody gonna stand for your dirty gambling crowds!"
"Mrs. Wilkins, please--" His knuckles whitened.
A few other members of the audience rose, and soon a heated argument developed, generally between those interested in keeping peace and quiet and those interested in personal liberty. "Please..." Henry protested, but his voice was lost in the noise. Suddenly, Rogers, who had taken Henry's seat next to Mary, leapt to his feet, snatched the broken chair leg from the podium, and banged vigorously, ceasing only when the crowd had quieted down.
"Hold on, folks!" he bellowed. "Why don't we all just set down and let the man speak? We're civilized here, ain't we? Now set down!" Most of the citizens returned slowly to their seats, and a few more bangs of the makeshift gavel sufficed to put the remainder back in place. He let the stick fall to the podium, loudly. "All right," he closed, and sat back down.
Henry looked out at the crowd, unseeing, for a long time, his face pale. They sat silently, waiting—almost for reprimand, perhaps. He swallowed again, looking ill. "I—" he said, "I—" his words fell to a whisper, two aged pieces of parchment fluttering against one another. His eyes flashed blankly. "I'm sorry," he whispered finally. "—I can't—"
He turned from the podium and walked away, slowly and amidst perfect silence. After a the nearest hint of a hesitation, Mary hopped up and followed him, the soles of her shoes tapping out staccato notes that echoed in the rafters above.
She followed him out of the theatre and down the board sidewalk, staying just behind. He walked all the way to the little door with the glass window reading "Henry Peterson: Accounts, Bookkeeping, and Miscellaneous," and put his hand on the knob. He stopped there, and stood a long while with the late afternoon sun on his back, not moving. Then a shudder ran through his body, and Mary stepped close. She put a hand in the center of his back. "Hen... Let's go inside."
He took a deep breath and stepped back when she opened the door, and went in before her as she ushered him forward. She guided him into the bedroom, and he let her without protest. He sat down on the edge of the bed and laid his cane across his knees. “I—” he began, and then heaved.
Mary was there with the water basin, holding it as he emptied his stomach again and again. When he was done, sweaty and pale, she put the bowl aside and sat down next to him, placing her hand on his. He looked away.
"It's not—" he began, and let his breath out.
Mary rubbed his hand. "It's alright," she said softly, gently. "What's not?"
"When-- when you married me-- you didn't expect—"
Mary sat up straight. "Don't go puttin' words in my mouth," she said firmly. "I ain't the—the fool you think I am. Of course I expected."
"I don't think you're a fool—"
"I know that," she half-snapped. For a moment she kept herself tall, then relaxed and sank against him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I don't like to see you get this way, Hen, that's all."
"I—I'm sorry." Henry looked down and then away again. His voice was quiet when he spoke, and quick. "When I went to fight-- that was so maybe people wouldn't have to ever do it again, so it would all be settled right there-- I'm sick of fighting. I ain't blamin' folks for disagreein', and maybe that's how the world has to work and I just didn't see it, but I don't want to, Mary, I don't want to. I know folks will talk, and I'm sorry--" His shoulders sank. "I'm just—plain tired."
Mary let it sit, out, for a while. "Do you remember what you asked me before?"
"About what?"
"You asked me if I'd think less of you if you didn't do this."
"But that was before I said--"
"But nothing, Hen. I said no and I meant it. In fact, I think more of you for not doing it."
Henry looked down at his hands, feeling miserable and a terrible fool, and after a moment his shoulders and chest began to shake.
"Hen..." she whispered, putting a hand on his back. "Hen—are you crying?" She saw a drop of wetness appear on his hand, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "Oh... Hen..." she murmured softly, rocking him back and forth. "Don't be ashamed, Hen..." But her saying it out loud only made the silent sobs press out more deeply, quicker. She rubbe
d his back some more, and let him cry for a long, long time. "It ain't just this, is it?" she asked finally, when the quaking began to settle some.
"No," he choked.
"Tell me, Hen, go on."
He coughed. "It hurts," he breathed, brokenly, almost as if pained. "--Hurts—that you love me."
Mary was silent, holding him. "Do you want me to go away?" she asked, at last, her voice very small.
"No," he said, immediately, his hands on her arms. "No—Please—Please don’t leave,” he begged quietly. “If you left, Mary, I would die."
"All right. All right. –You wanna lay down and I'll make some tea, or you wanna come into the kitchen with me?"
"The—the kitchen." He tried to reach for the cane, which he'd dropped, but Mary stopped him.
"Forget that old thing," she said. "I got a shoulder here." She helped him up and let him put his arm over her.
He coughed again, and winced. "I feel like I'm makin' you my mother," he said, as they went into the kitchen. He didn't want it to be that way, a burden to her. It wasn't the way it was supposed to go.
"Your ma ever make you tea when you felt poorly?"
"…N-no-- John, I guess, but mostly it was all of us lookin' after the little ones with no time for bein' sick."
She patted the hand that gripped her shoulder. "Maybe you need a little mothering, then," she told him. "That ain't a bad thing, and I figure if a man and wife can't cry on each other they're pretty much lost in the world." She held his arm as he sat down at the kitchen table, then went to light the oven. "Hen," she said, bent over, "I don't expect everything perfect; I never did." She straightened and got out the kettle, clattering some with the pots. "I reckon you don't either, even though maybe we'd like to make it that way for each other. All we can do is just try our best, and get on with it when we fail—or think we've failed, anyway."
He watched her, silent for a while as she got things ready, and loved her just for being there in the same room. "All this about politics..." he said quietly, almost without noticing, "seems like it's just about folks runnin' each other's lives. Maybe it's fine for some, and I guess it's got to be that way to have law, but I don't like having any business with it. I—I know it ain't possible, but I'd like it a whole lot better if folks just ran their own lives, and helped out when it was needed."
Mary laughed softly and came over to ruffle his hair. "I think that's what most folks would like, until something goes wrong they can't fix themselves, and they got too much pride to go askin' for help. They like havin' somethin' that's got a duty to them, somethin' they think is supposed to do what they need, except really all it is's just the people they didn't want to ask in the first place."
"You're right." He caught her arm and pulled her down for a kiss.
"Oh-- there's the water," she said, and hurried to lift the kettle off the fire. "It's late enough--" she said over her shoulder. "Should we just go on to bed and have it there?"
"All right."
She helped him up and they went into the bedroom, where she tugged off his shoes and pants and made him get under the sheets to warm himself while she went to fetch the tea. When she came back she was only carrying one cup-and-saucer pair, but in the other hand she bore a small stack of paper and a pencil. Handing Henry the cup and saucer, she set the paper down on the little stand next to his side of the bed, on top of the book that rested there.
Henry smiled faintly. "What's that for?" he asked. She sat down on the bed with her back to him and he set down the steaming tea to unlace her bodice.
"Oh-- just if maybe you want to write it out, what you said earlier." She paused, and flashed a smile over her shoulder. "Just if you want to."
"Oh," he said, loosening the last string on her dress.
Mary stood and undressed quickly, bounding into bed after she hung her dress to snuggle down under the sheets. A moment later she scooted up next to him. "Give me a sip," she said, and held her head still while he put the cup to her lips. They sipped tea together for a while. "I never did read you Morris," she commented.
"No."
Mary rolled over to the edge on her side and grabbed the little book he had given her. She rolled back again and gently cracked the spine. "Fair Ellayne she walked by Welland river," she read, soft, "across the lily lee: O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kind, to stay so long at sea."
Henry put up a hand to touch her hair, and she glanced at him a moment. "Not a sad one," he said. "They're always so sad."
"Oh, but it ends happily!" she protested. "You just gotta wait awhile."
"All right." He put the tea aside again and she leaned back against his chest and read until they both fell asleep to faint piano music, floating in the distance.
Sometime in the night, or perhaps very near the birth of the morning hours, Mary woke, feeling Henry stir around her. She listened, and saw behind lidded eyes the warm glow of the oil lamp as it was lit. Moments later, she heard the quiet scratching of pen on paper. She moaned slightly, turning over away from the light, and smiled to herself as she went back to sleep.
In the morning they lay in bed together while the sun rose, quiet.
"Why don't you just stay here today?" suggested Mary.
"Here?"
She put a hand on his chest and kissed him lightly. "I know you could be mayor if you wanted to, or president even-- but I'd rather you stay here and rest awhile when you need it."
"I don't feel tired," he said.
"There's other kinds of tired. Ain't you ever just tired out of seein' other folks faces?"
"It ain't good, to..."
"You don't have to hide out forever, silly! There's time for fighting and for resting, too."
He pulled her close and hugged her tightly. "I love you, Mary," he told her fiercely. "Have I ever hurt you? Tell me, I'll make it better."
"Probably," she laughed. "—I don't remember."
"Stay with me here."
"Me? No, I have to take your paper to Mr. Bickerson. Then I have to make some breakfast."
He caught her hand as she sat up. "Then?"
"All right. Then." She grinned and tugged her arm free. "Just let me dress!"
There were three visitors that day, after Mary came back from the paper. She was in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast when the first arrived, a firm knock on the door. She went to answer it, drying her hands on her apron, and let in Mr. Rogers, along with a healthy gust of autumn wind. He bowed slightly, removing his hat, and hitched up the silver-topped cane to make a pass at tapping his forehead, where the hat would have been. "Good morning," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding?"
"Oh-- no, I don't think so." Mary smiled.
"I wonder if I could see your husband?"
Mary paced back a little and gestured to a chair, but he shook his head slightly and remained standing. "Well, Mr. Rogers, I'd rather you talk with me, if you don't mind."
Rogers looked grim. "He's not ill, I hope—or angry with me--?"
"Oh, no—just—well, please, if you would—"
"Well, all right Ma'am, I reckon I understand. Of course I'm awful sorry about last night, but it don't have to be the end. Word out is folks ain't worried a bit--"
Mary leaned against the edge of Henry's desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers," she apologized, "but I don't think Henry's—well, interested in being Mayor. I'm sorry you had to go through the trouble of it all, but... no."
"You're certain, Ma'am?" Rogers furrowed his brow.
"Certain, Mr. Rogers. I hope you ain't put out--"
"Not at all, Ma'am." He flipped his hat on and tapped it once. He flashed a brilliant smile once and turned for the door. "Gotta go find me a new candidate," he said.
"Good luck," said Mary to the back side of the door. For a moment she watched him through the black letters reading backwards on the glass, then went back into the bedroom and pounced on the bed. "That's it," she announced.
Henry was studying one of his drafting books. He looked up. "What?"
&
nbsp; "Rogers stopped in. I told him you didn't want to."
"Oh."
"Are you upset?"
"No."
"Disappointed?"
"No."
"Angry?"
At last, Henry grinned. "Come here," he said, putting out an arm.
"Afraid?" She crawled up next to him. "Sad? Lonely?"
"Yes—Lonely, if you don't stay with me forever." He put his arm around her and wished for the stars to fall, all of them at once and in the day, so he could wish ten thousand times over for her to stay with him forever.
Just before noon, there was another knock on the door, and Mary jumped up. "I'll get it," she said, and flew from the room. It was old Mrs. Wilkins, her hands tying and untying knots around one another. She came in as soon as she saw Mary through the glass, entering the front office from in back. Her eyes were moist and red. Mary hurried to her and ushered her to a chair, taking her shawl. "What is it, Mrs. Wilkins?" she asked, worried.
The old woman shook her head, grey hair wisping about her eyes. "Oh, child-- I've been so awful, I feel like Satan hisself on judgment day." She paused, gathering herself. "Now I hear your boy—no, he's your husband, I'm so sorry, I just don't know myself today, please—"
"It's all right, Mrs. Wilkins, go on." Mary put a hand on her shoulder. "Would you like some tea?"
She sniffed and got out a handkerchief. "Oh, no, child, bless you. But now I hear he's in bed and if I've put him there I'll never forgive myself—"
Mary interrupted her with a laugh, and Mrs. Wilkins looked up, quite shocked at having her apology disrupted. Mary saw her surprise, and waved a hand. "I'm sorry—word travels so fast in this little town, and already it's gotten mixed up! Henry isn't ill, Mrs. Wilkins, he's just takin' a day's rest."
"Oh, I'm glad, but even so I've been horrible—"
"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Wilkins. We all get a little testy sometimes and no one holds spite over you for it."
"Bless you, child," breathed the old woman, tearing up again. "Are you sure?"
When Henry Came Home Page 8
