When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  Well—look, I had better admit that I almost never have nightmares, and it is seldom that I drink. It was just that now, with the train ride and seeing Henry and Mary... It was a blow to the senses. As I thought I might that evening when I woke, I ended up avoiding dinner, just having a little something sent up to my room. With coffee. Henry and Mary were my friends—I wasn't going to embarrass them by getting roaring drunk the first night home. Or any night I was in town, for that matter.

  In the morning, I felt like a human being again, and decided to go over for breakfast. I knocked on the little door and Henry, from inside at his desk, motioned me in. He started to get up as I closed the door behind me, but I waved him back. "Don't," I said, without room for negotiation. He sat back, setting his cane aside, and, absently, his hands stacked a few papers to the side of his desk, clearing a little area in the center.

  "Mary's just getting breakfast," he said. It was apparent that he was not going to mention my absence at dinner, although with a clear head I saw now that had I not been so close a friend, it might have been taken as an insult.

  I felt suddenly remiss about my somewhat... overemphasized actions of the day previous. Henry, I noticed, had given an indication for me to sit down, and I obeyed. "I apologize," I said, "if my behavior yesterday..." I trailed off for a moment, feeling sober and stupid, but (fortunately) he came in quickly to relieve my discomfort.

  "No—no," he insisted gently, and, what was more, quite sincerely. "It's all right." He took his cane from its place against the desk. "Let's go have something to eat." As if on cue, Mary came into the room; Henry must have heard her coming down the hall, although I had not. She gave him a hand up and me a good-morning smile. After, of course, she had kissed him.

  We went into the little kitchen, and Mary scurried to their room to drag back another chair for me, against all of my protestations that she let me do it. When I had been properly set down in my place next to Henry, she proceeded to bustle around the kitchen, getting together the rest of the meal and urging us to go ahead and eat without her, though we refused wordlessly.

  I watched her as she worked, quickly and efficiently, her hair hanging straight down to the small of her back. I don't think she realized that her hair was undone, or at least didn't connect in her mind that I was there seeing it, because I know she would have pinned it up quickly had the realization hit her. I glanced over at Henry, expecting him to start a polite conversation along the general interests of men, but he said nothing. In fact, he didn't even notice that I was looking at him; he was sitting there, watching Mary, quite content if not smiling. I cast my eyes upon him again, this time holding the gaze. He didn't seem to notice.

  At least he wasn't ignoring the sight before him, which would have been the greater travesty. Ignoring me was a simple lapse in etiquette, but failing to appreciate Mary was the blackest sin. I have to admit this irked me slightly. Somewhere in my mind, I wanted to be angry with him, to be able to say to myself, "If I had her, I would appreciate her more than any mortal man." Yet there I was, my mind on him, when clearly his was in the right place.

  "You love her, don't you?" I asked, softly conversational. I nodded upward in her direction.

  He glanced at me, taking a moment to register the words. "—Yes," he answered at last. His eyes drifted to her again, then pulled back to me. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm—not a very good host."

  Just then Mary came around, dropping herself into her chair. "What, Hen?" she asked.

  "Oh, just talking about you, darling," I interjected lavishly when Henry groped for words.

  She grinned, and I saw her reach for Henry's hand under the table. "Really?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "And what, exactly, did you say?"

  "Only that you are the most beautiful creature on earth, of course. That God commissioned fifty thousand angels to sculpt your features, and then came to put the finishing touches on himself." As I complimented the phrase with a flourish of the hand, Henry seemed suddenly to fold inward upon himself, and I felt sharply that I might have trespassed into some sacred, tremulous territory reserved only for "love-by-moonlight" and soft whispered words. I retreated.

  Mary laughed, as if the notion were ridiculous (it was not) and handed me a plate of ham slices. "You're flattering, Edward," she said emphatically, nodding once, as if to placate me. "Now, will you eat?"

  "Very well," I grumbled, repressing the urge to shoot back with another praise. I dug into my meal.

  After breakfast, they took me out to review the town's progress since I had been gone. There were a few new buildings, but not many, and the ones that had always been there were in fair condition. My eye, now attuned to the engineer's calling, spotted every fault. Nevertheless, they were looked after with love, if not always skill.

  A few people recognized me, one with an exclamation of realization that continued throughout our brief conversation, but mostly I was a stranger. It felt odd to be an outsider in my own town, but I had been in the same condition in so many other places that it did not trouble me overly much. In a fleeting rush of confidence, I had even left my small flask back at the hotel room, and I found that it no longer crossed my mind. Quite as often.

  As we strolled along, Mary introduced me to the women while Henry naturally took on the men. As a result, I found myself becoming re-acquainted with a rather disproportionate number of females. It seemed as if there was not a woman in town that Mary did not know, and the older ones seemed to dote on her especially. She had a cheerful word for everyone, and they were glad to stop and chat and perhaps pick and gawk at me. Well—I didn't mind.

  Henry, on the other hand, appeared to be in much the same position as myself, although slightly better off. The fact was, he simply didn't have a talent for frivolous conversation. The men, as they passed, clearly respected him, and he they; each offered a small nod or a tip of the hat or a friendly, quick good-morning, but nothing more. The few men who did stop for a while did so on their own initiative, and seemed to be generally talkative in nature; that is, able to carry on primarily one-sided conversations. They were all older than I.

  Of course, I did have to remember that Henry had been gone as well, for several years, and had only been back two at the most. I reckoned it closer to one. People turned odd, when you went away.

  At one point, we stopped outside a small shop while Mary went in to buy a few personal items. While we loitered by the door, Henry nodded very briefly to a man across the street who would have been about John's age, had he still been living. "That's Tom Jones," he said. "Maybe you remember him."

  "Oh," I said, searching my mind and finally coming up with a fairly coherent memory to match the name of the face I could not see. Well—it was blurry, enough at least to give me an impression of blond hair and a ruddy, youthful complexion. You see, I am incredibly nearsighted. Past about three yards or so, I might as well be blind, although I've gotten fairly used to it. It's why they didn't let me in the army, when the war started, and I've always been a little ashamed... so I don't mention it much. Anyhow-- "Yeah, sure." I waited for a moment, half expecting an offer to re-introduce me. None came, although the memory I had pulled forth seemed to suggest that they had been far from strangers as youths. As I said, things change when you go away. "What does he do?" I asked, casually.

  "I'm—not sure." He was silent, and I was silent. "Ranch hand, maybe," he offered at last, quietly.

  "Hm," I said, neutral, and Mary came out and we moved on. We continued this way until the sun was above us, and nearly unbearable. For me, anyway. It seemed I had been too long in the East; there was a thin, pale sweat on Henry's brow, and Mary only got as far as a slight flush, but I was forced to wipe away the first of a few watery beads threatening to run down to my chin.

  At last, Mary seemed to notice my discomfort, and, making a friendly but stabbing remark about frail Easterners, steered her husband back towards their apartment while I trailed behind. We crossed the street at the right time, and as we reached t
he other side a wagon passed behind us, stirring up a little dust. Henry's chest heaved, and after a moment of struggle he let out a dry cough. Mary murmured something by his ear and he nodded, covering his mouth with the back of a hand as he forced out another cough. She put her arm through his, quickening her steps, and helped him as he stumbled up the steps to the boardwalk in front of their apartment.

  I jogged a few steps to catch up, and held open the door.

  "Edward," she said, "Get some water from the kitchen, will you—?" We were inside, and Henry bent forward, leaning on Mary's arm and shoulder as he coughed, fighting unsuccessfully against the reflex.

  "I don't--" I said, cutting myself off. I didn't know where the glasses were.

  "Never mind," she said, shifting, and suddenly I was supporting Henry. "Help him to the sofa," she ordered, and disappeared.

  I did so, slowly, fearing I might somehow injure him. But he seemed the better for sitting down, and closed his eyes tightly as he sat forward, attempting to calm the spasms of his own power. He had only succeeded a little when Mary came out and pressed a glass into his hands as she sat down beside him. He drank, and was finally able to take a short, halting breath. I stood before them, feeling helpless and idiotic. Mary glanced up at me, and I added intruding to the list.

  "You—gonna be all right?" I asked.

  She nodded, and smiled a little, sweetly.

  I took a step back. "Well, I-- ah—gotta—"

  She nodded again, closing her eyes briefly. How do women understand?

  I closed the door behind me when I left, trying not to look back. Remember that feeling when you were a kid and you got mad or embarrassed or just something and all you wanted to do was just run on forever, to get away from it? I know that feeling well.

  I suppose—well, it was not Mary and Henry, completely. Not even half. I'd been feeling that way for a long time. In fact—I searched my mind for a time when I had not, and the memory was dim. I didn't actually run, of course, not in the literal sense, but on this occasion I marched rather swiftly back in the direction of my hotel. My aim for that flask of brandy sitting at the bottom of my little bag was delayed only for a moment, when I nearly ran over a woman--

  I stopped.

  "Sarah," I said. There are occasional benefits to being severely myopic, and this was not one of them. Had I recognized her as I came forward, which for me was impossible, I might have turned, gone a different route, to avoid her. But by the time I was close enough to see the fine details of her face with any clarity, it was too late, and my utterance came out bluntly.

  She looked at me, her face calm and unsmiling but not unpleasant. For a moment her eyes cast about my face, curious. "Edward," she replied, after a moment, her tone almost as flat as my own.

  "You remember me," I insisted, with more enthusiasm.

  She looked at me again. "Yes," she said, smiling faintly. "Do you remember me?"

  I grinned, forgetting everything. "Of course!" I exclaimed. I caught her hand and kissed it, feeling my dry lips stick and then pull away from the fabric of her glove. "Dear Sarah." I stood back, looking at her, and there was a pause in our conversation. Sarah wasn't half as pretty as her sister, but then that wasn't saying much. If Helen of Troy's face contained infinite beauty, what was half of that infinity? "I just got in, yesterday. I've been with Henry and Mary."

  "You know, then, of course."

  I stopped. "Yes—and I'm sorry, Sarah. I can't tell you how."

  "Thank you," she whispered. "I—meant the wedding, really."

  "Oh," I blurted, feeling the fool. "Well—yes, that." I realized then that I was still clinging loosely to her hand, and immediately dropped it. She pulled it back as I let go, and intertwined it with its mate at her waist. "I'm glad for them."

  "Yes, me too," she agreed, absently.

  "I'm just coming from there. Henry, he..." I glanced over my shoulder.

  "His coughing fit, yes. I saw. It… happens, sometimes."

  "Unfortunate."

  "Yes."

  There was silence again. "Well," said I, "I had better be getting back to the hotel—I feel as red as a beet." I smiled. "Too much time in the East," I joked lamely.

  She smiled back, a little. "Yes," she said.

  "Well—see you around, then?"

  "Yes. It's good to see you again, Edward."

  "Is it?" I turned to go, but stopped, sensing something. I looked back at her form, now a little hazy; she was still standing there, watching me, her white-gloved hands folded in front of her waist. I stepped forward again, biting my lip. "Would you like," I said, "to come up to my room for a bit?"

  She looked at me, startled and perhaps a little angry that I had asked her. But somehow I sensed that she was neither surprised nor angry, not truly. Of course I realized that in asking her to my room, alone, I had done something to infringe upon her honor, but there was no one else about to hear, and for some reason that I felt only intuitively, I sensed that between us it did not matter.

  "All right," she said at last, and hurried to step beside me as I went. Her face was drawn, and there was a quality about it—something I could not quite identify. As with most redheads, her skin was rather fair, and I detected a slight flush as we entered the lobby.

  At the door to my room, I felt suddenly compelled to stop, to ask again. "We can go somewhere else," I offered. "Maybe the steps out back of the grocer's, if you want."

  "No," she said, softly but certain, and stepped past me, so that I could only see her back. "It doesn't matter."

  I wondered, briefly, exactly what did not matter, but the thought passed and I closed the door, shutting us in. She sat down in the chair by the desk, and I sat opposite on the edge of the bed. "Well," I said, suddenly wondering what I had expected to talk to her about. On a sudden, fatalistic whim, I leaned over and reached for my bag, digging down to the very bottom of it for the gleaming flask of brandy. I think, now, that I did it mostly to see her reaction.

  Sarah, if she was surprised at all, did nothing to show it.

  "I hope you don't mind," I said. She shook her head slightly, and I tipped my head back. When a few tablespoons had burned down, I leaned back on my elbows, studying her. She didn't meet my eyes, but slipped off the small handbag she carried on her arm and placed it in her lap. "You know," I said, thoughtfully, "I-- don't feel—I don't know quite how to put it. Yes—I don't think I'm ashamed to drink, with you in the room."

  "And you would be—" she looked towards the window. "With them."

  "Yes," I said plainly, then realized the insinuation. "No-- well—"

  "No," she returned, almost coolly. "I understand."

  But she didn't. Couldn't! I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart instantly boiling over. It—all of it—was suddenly there, brought out in a moment. I clenched a fist. "You don't—agh!" I let out a breath and got to my feet, went to the window to look out at nothing. "You don't understand—what it's like to pity someone and yet—envy them, with—everything--" My hands clenched into tight, knotty fists.

  "I do," she said, her voice level. Her hands were in her lap, unmoving.

  I sat, suddenly, letting myself drop onto the edge of the bed. "Of course you do," my lips said, almost without my willing. The words simply fell out. "We're—alike." She flushed a little deeper, and suddenly I saw her beauty, sitting there in the noontime sun, hair gleaming like polished copper. "You're beautiful," I said.

  "Folks say so."

  "They're right." I didn't think she had moved, since she sat down. I felt, at once, that I had found someone, somehow, who understood everything inside of me, and it ached with relief to simply have that knowing. Dear Lord, how misery loves company! "Marry me," I said.

  I think she had expected everything that had come out of my mouth until that point. Her head, finally, moved, turning to gaze at me as though I had suddenly turned into a giraffe. Then she stood, and it was her turn to approach the window while I sat on the edge of the bed, aching with desire. "No, Edward
," she said.

  "I know I can't replace John, Sarah, not ever," I begged, remembering his strong, lithe form and the singular presence that I had so admired. I had long since given up trying to attain such dignity. "But I can make you happy, I'm sure of it. We—we understand each other. I know you see it."

  She turned and looked down at me. "I do," she said. "And for a moment, I did want to say yes. But it would be wrong. We are the same, but in all the wrong ways-- our sins-- and I know in time we'd hate each other for it."

  "Sarah—" I pleaded, knowing of course that she was right but not caring anyway, not caring at all.

  "I don't love you, Edward." Her voice was weary.

  And that, somehow, struck me to the bone. I could say nothing more, and after a moment she went to the door and slipped away and I knew, of course, that it would be forever. You only get one chance, with a girl like that, and I had tossed it away like a piece of rotten fruit, selfishly. I took another drink, despising myself.

  After a while I noticed the blurry outlines of a few pieces of paper along with a pen and an inkwell. I had an urge, something carried over from childhood, to write someone a letter, but then remembered—of course—that I had no one to write to. How does a man get to be thirty-five years old and not have a soul to miss him when he is gone? I stood up and went to the desk, tapped the small stack of papers and watched them slide out over the surface of the polished wood like a deck of new cards.

  I dragged a small chair over to the table and sat down on it, unscrewing the cap of the flask and setting it before me, to one side. I took up the pen and shifted a piece of paper around to suit my purposes, then began to sketch out a few preliminary designs for the plans I was hoping to present to my new department, occasionally pausing to tip my head back, the flask to my mouth. It helped, when I was particularly dispirited, to engross myself entirely in work. It was probably the reason I had been promoted so quickly and so often.

  By the time lunch arrived, I wasn't very hungry, but when a man came with a silver-plated tray I let him in to set it on the table. I tipped him and he left without comment.