When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  "Sarah's gone and left," he told her, half breathlessly and half in irritation. "I figgered I better stop by here before I went home to tell Ma. She'll be awful upset."

  Mary curled her arm around Henry's and he pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead. "Oh, Sarah," she whispered.

  "Where'd she go off to?"

  "Not sure, Mr. Peterson. She got on the train goin' out this morning. Maybe Abilene or past that somewhere."

  "All right, Joey. You better get on home and tell your Ma."

  "Alright. Well—'bye."

  "Goodbye, Joey," said Mary. "Wait--"

  Joey turned. "Yeah?"

  "Go let Paley out into the pasture and saddle Red. He's yours, if you want to trade."

  Joey looked eagerly from his sister to Henry, waiting to see the consent in his eyes. It came. "Gosh," he said, "thanks!" He ran from the room.

  Mary turned to her husband. "Oh, Hen—poor Sarah. What's got into her? If I could only just talk to her a while, if she'd let me..."

  Henry looked into her eyes and saw the longing there. "Do you want to go?" he asked.

  She buried her face in his chest. "I know it's a lot to ask, Hen, but—if I could just get her to see—and only if you feel up to it, Hen, not otherwise."

  "We'll go, then."

  "Are you sure? Please, Hen, tell me if—"

  "I'm sure."

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Thank you, Hen, thank you."

  They packed quickly, mostly warm clothes, for Mary had heard that the weather in Abilene was colder in the fall. "I expect we'll only be gone a couple of days," she said.

  Henry was more cautious. "She might not want to be found. It's hard to find someone who don't want to be found."

  "Well, we'll look. That's all we can do."

  In town they met up with Joey, who had been doing some errands before going home, riding Red. He stopped the gelding next to Mary, sitting in the wagon. She told him where they were going.

  "Wish I could go," said Joey.

  "You gotta stay with Ma and Pa, you know that. But you could be a help and take the wagon on back to our place. We were gonna stable the horses here, but they'd be better at home."

  Joey sighed, disappointed he hadn't been asked along. "All right."

  There was a train going out in about an hour, so Joey helped them with their bags over to the station. Henry bought the tickets and they got a cabin to themselves, as long as anyone else didn't come along before the train left. Mary kissed her brother and took the bags from him, then mounted the little rail stairs. She put down one bag and pulled Henry up beside her.

  "Bye," said Joey, shading his eyes as he looked up.

  Mary waved and they disappeared into the train. It was a luxurious car, with red velveteen upholstery on all the cabin seats, set in teak frames. Mary giggled and tossed the bags and Henry’s cane into the net above them. "I never been on a train," she said. "I reckon you came home on one."

  "Not like this."

  "I hope if someone else comes in he's interesting."

  Henry wished no one else would come in.

  It turned out that no one did, and a little more than an hour later the train slid out of the station, huffing and rumbling. Mary clung to Henry's arm as she watched out the window, half scared but wanting to be. There was a knock on the door of their cabin. "Yes?" called Mary, eagerly.

  A man in a kind of red and blue uniform and little hat opened the door. "Tickets please, Ma'am."

  Mary reached into Henry's inner jacket pocket and pulled them out. "I guess that's what you want," she said, smiling.

  He nodded. "Thank you, Ma'am, and have a nice trip." He closed the little partition.

  Mary settled back again and looked out the window. After a minute, she pointed. "Look, Hen, that little spot over yonder. Is that Hickory?"

  "Looks like."

  "I never been farther than that, except once over to a mining camp a little beyond. That's my whole world, Hen. It's funny to see it all there, just a few little spots."

  "Is it—a good world?"

  "Oh, the best, Hen. My only hope in leavin' it now is that I can bring Sarah back. You said before there ain't nothin' better to be found."

  "That's only my opinion."

  "Well, sir, I happen to take a liking to your opinions." She crossed her arms. "How come when we discuss things, I always end up havin' to defend why I think the same as you? Don't that seem odd to you?"

  Henry grinned sheepishly. "Never you mind," he said.

  She let him hug her and they scooted closer to the window, looking out. The sun was low on the horizon now, though not touching, and the edge of the world looked as if it had been lit on fire.

  "I got a poem for that," he said, "somewhere in a book at home. Wish I'd brought it."

  Mary traced the veins on the back of his hand, then the lines on his palm. "What'd it say?"

  "Oh—things about the world dyin' every night, sometimes all violent like that red out there, and sometimes peaceful-like, and then bein' birthed new again, every morning."

  "I like that," she said.

  "You can read the whole thing when we get home."

  She was silent for a moment. "No," she said at last, after considering. "It won't fit then. I like it when you say it, besides. What else did it say?"

  "Well... That every time the sun goes across the sky, it's kind of like a man's life. Every time it comes up again, it's like a different kind of man, but they are all mostly the same because it comes out in a blaze of glory, like a young man, all fiery inside, and then mellows in the middle of the day, like a grown man who realizes he can't change the world. Then, the sunset is like an old man, who decides to fight anyway even though he can't win, because he would rather go out in a blaze of glory than die quietly or slowly. The difference in every day is not really the sun, because it always stays the same, but in the world—if there are clouds or not, or rain or snow. That is the same as men, because everyone is born into a different kind of life."

  "Do you think that's true? That all men are the same, and what changes them is where they are born or what happens to them?"

  "Partly. I think men are all different, very different. But I think things happen to people or they decide to do things that change them inside."

  "Like Sarah?"

  He paused. "Maybe."

  "Do you think badly of her, Hen?"

  "No," he said, "not at all."

  "I'm glad."

  There was a stop along the way, at a little town with a little train station. Mary was worried. "What if she got off here?"

  "I don't know," said Henry.

  She stood up. "I'll just run out and ask the ticket man if he's seen her," she said. "Do you mind?"

  "Go ahead."

  "I'll only be a minute." She blew a kiss and went out into the cramped little corridor. The man who had taken her ticket was coming from the other direction, and she had to stop and let him squeeze past.

  "Where ya goin, Ma'am?" he asked.

  "Just outside for a look around."

  "Well, hurry Ma'am—we'll only be stoppin' a minute for mail and some cargo. Ain't nothin' much here worth seein'."

  "All right, I'll be quick."

  There was one passenger boarding the train from the little town, and the only spot left was in Mary and Henry's cabin. The boarder was an elderly man, thin as a sapling and just about as knobby. "Hello, son," he said, seeing Henry. "Anyone else in this cabin?"

  "My wife will be along after a moment."

  "Well—I hope you don't mind the intrusion, son, but this looks to be the only space available on this here train."

  "No intrusion at all. There's plenty of room."

  The old man chuckled. "Glad to hear that. Wasn't 'specially lookin' forward to spending the night in the dining car, which is where they was gonna put me otherwise. Real nice furniture in there, but not much for sleepin’, I'm afraid. Not on these old bones, anyway." He tossed the one bag he
was carrying up into the net above and shuffled past Henry, inadvertently bumping his knee. Henry sucked in a small gasp. The man turned, sitting down across from Henry. "Oh," he said, "did I hurt you, son?"

  "I have a—kind of—bad knee."

  "My apologies, son, no harm meant."

  "It's fine, nothin' to be sorry about. My name's Henry Peterson."

  The old man put a hand out. "Isaac Hannibal. –It's odd, I know, but my mother was a traveling actress. To this day I'm not certain of her real name." He leaned back, letting out a moan of contentment. "So," he said, "how'd you throw out your knee? Some durn fool thing like ridin' a bronc, I suppose."

  "No, it's—" he looked up, distracted a moment as Mary slid open the door. He turned back. "—From the war," he finished. "Any luck?"

  "Nope. Real small place." She sat down, glancing at the new company and smiling.

  "This is Mary, my wife," said Henry. "Mary, Mr. Isaac Hannibal."

  They shook hands. "Real nice meetin' you, Ma'am. Please, just Isaac, both of you."

  Mary sat forward. "Where are you headed?"

  "Oh, Abilene I suppose. That's where my ticket says, but if I fancy it I might just hop on the next train out of there, too."

  "Do you travel much, then?"

  He nodded upwards to his bag. "What's in that is what I own, and no more. I live simply."

  "How curious," said Mary, interested now. "How do you earn a living?"

  He shrugged. "That's already done. Used to be a banker. Now when I want money I have it wired to me from my account. I reckon it'll last me till I die." He paused. "What about you folks?"

  "We're headed for Abilene, too. We're looking for my sister, and we think she might be there."

  Hannibal was about to inquire more about this sister, but a look from Henry told him it might not be the best idea. "Where you from?" he asked instead.

  "A little tiny town, back aways. We have a little place just outside city limits." She shifted a little as Henry put his arm around her.

  "Little place, huh? Well, how'd you meet up?"

  Mary looked puzzled. "Meet?"

  "You know—first see each other. Who introduced you?"

  "Oh," said Mary. "I—guess I don't know."

  "We've always known each other," explained Henry. "We lived just down the road apiece since we were born."

  The man laughed. "And still not tired of each other's comp'ny?"

  Mary giggled and hugged close to her husband. "No sir," she said firmly. "Not a bit."

  "Never been married, myself. Never felt the need, I reckon."

  "You oughta consider it, sir," ventured Mary politely. "It's awful nice."

  Hannibal laughed again, slapping his knee. "I reckon so, darlin’," he said. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "I better get on into the dining car and have some grub before I fall asleep. Care to join an old feller?"

  Henry looked at Mary. "We better just stay here," she said. "But thank you anyway."

  He shrugged and got up.

  "Would you mind, though," added Mary, "bringing us back a bite or two?"

  "Not at all, folks, not at all."

  "He seems like a nice old gentleman," said Mary when Hannibal had gone.

  "Yes," said Henry, stifling a yawn.

  "Oh," said Mary, yawning back, "it's catching." She stood up, rocking a little with the motion of the train, and pulled two pillows down from the overhead netting.

  When Isaac Hannibal returned from his dinner with a little paper sack filled with hors d'oeuvres, he found Henry leaning against the window of the car, legs stretched out along the bench seat. Mary was curled up with him, her head resting on his chest. Henry's jacket was spread over both of them, and they were sound asleep. Disturbed slightly as the door of the cabin opened and shut, Henry shifted a little and coughed.

  Hannibal smiled to himself as he tucked the bag up above and settled down to sleep as well.

  Morning came in the form of a clouded sunrise and a screeching from the rear of the train. Henry, startled awake immediately, grasped the back of the bench with one hand and put the other over Mary to keep her from toppling off his lap.

  Hannibal chuckled; he was already up and had been expecting this. "Just the breaks, folks," he said. "We're here."

  Mary sat up on the edge of the seat, rubbing her eyes. Henry took in a rasping breath and coughed painfully. The screeching continued, and out the window a platform came into view. "You okay, Hen?" asked Mary. He nodded, but bent forward with a hand cupped over his mouth. Sometimes in the morning he was likely to start into coughs. Mary patted his back softly.

  "Anything I can do?" asked Hannibal politely.

  Mary looked up. "If you could, sir—a glass of water?"

  Hannibal made a motion as if to tip his hat, though he wasn't wearing one. "Back in a minute, Ma'am."

  By the time he returned, Henry had quieted, although he looked rather pale, and accepted the water with a nod of thanks.

  Hannibal glanced out the window, and looked anxious, seeing the crowds outside. "Well—you folks gonna be all right?"

  Mary smiled. "Yes, thank you."

  He shook Henry's hand. "Well, I better be on my way then—see what's to be seen." With that, he was gone.

  Mary stood and unloaded their things from the net above, handing down Henry’s cane. "Why look here," she said. "The tidbits we asked for." She handed down those as well. "They oughta do us for breakfast, you think?"

  "I reckon," said Henry, biting back another cough. He drank the rest of the water and set the glass aside, then slid on his jacket.

  Mary set their bags on the seat for a moment and helped Henry up, then bent to tuck the little paper sack into one of their bags. Her hair was loose from sleeping, tumbling down her back.

  "You look beautiful," said Henry, with feeling.

  She blushed and smiled. "Thank you."

  Their cabin door slid open. "You folks departing in Abilene?" It was the uniformed man who had taken their tickets.

  "Right now," said Mary, hefting the bags.

  He looked from Henry to the luggage. "You want me to help you with those, Ma'am?"

  She shrugged. "No thanks. I got 'm."

  The platform was, in reality, as busy as it had looked from the inside. It was cold out, but dry and dusty all the same. Mary could hardly hear herself speak for all the noise. Crowds swarmed, and she feared she and Henry might lose track of each other. "Put your hand on my arm!" she told him, straining to be heard above the ruckus. He did so and they began slowly to make their way across the platform. It was not as high as the one at home, but at the edge there were four steps.

  "Give the bags here," said a voice.

  Mary turned to see Hannibal. "Oh," she said, "thank you!" She handed him the bags and let Henry put his arm around her shoulder, steadying him as he went down.

  "Saw you from over there a ways," stated Hannibal. "Shoot, son, if I'da known you was—well, anyhow, I woulda stayed on to help. Ain't as if I got pressin' business, anyways." He hefted the bags, carrying his doubled up with one of theirs. "Where's yer hotel?"

  "I don't rightly know," said Mary. "We just thought we'd pick it out as we came." The dust was making Henry wheeze, and she rubbed his back.

  "Well then—I s'pose we kin find somethin' for ya along here." He started down the boardwalk.

  Mary was astounded at the sights, as they went. "Look there, Hen," she said. "A medicine man, with feathers and all!" The half-breed Indian was standing on a box, preaching his wares to a crowd of rowdy men. She twisted her head around to see everything. "I never seen so many guns in my life, Hen." The apprehension in her voice was tinged with anticipation.

  They lost Hannibal in the crowd, but found him again when things petered out at the edge of the main street. "Here's a nice little place," he said. "Mostly business folks here." He shoved the door in with his back and set the bags just inside. "Well," he said, his eyes darting eagerly back outside, "if you folks're set, I'll be o
n my way."

  "Thank you again, Mr. Hannibal. Were will you go?"

  He gestured out the window, indicating the excitement down the street. "I'm achin' for a little action at the moment, Ma'am. I reckon I'll find it down that way apiece."

  "Will you let us treat you to dinner, then?"

  "Oh, no, Ma'am—I'm afeared I can't be trusted to hold to no dates, leastways not now. I'm here or I'm gone, and I'm goin' now. Nice meetin' you folks, though."

  Mary smiled. "Well, at least stop by if you happen this way around supper."

  "I will, Ma'am, that I will." Again, he shook Henry's hand. "Hope you get feelin' better, son."

  "Thank you, sir," Henry said quietly to Hannibal's retreating backside.

  Mary hugged him as he struggled again not to cough. "Here," she said, seeing a bench in the small lobby. "Sit down here a minute and I'll get us a room." She went up to the front desk, where a balding man was reading a paper. "Good morning," said Mary. "Do you have an empty room on the first floor?"

  The man looked up, setting the paper aside. "Sure do, Ma'am. Sign right here." He turned around to get the key from a board behind him. "There ya go. Just up those stairs to your right."

  "No—" said Mary. "I meant this floor, here."

  The man frowned. "Sorry, Ma'am, there's just my room and dining facilities." He glanced behind Mary, and saw Henry sitting on the bench. He looked pale and his chest shook with a series of small, involuntary coughs. "Well--" he said slowly, "I reckon I could move upstairs a night or so. How long you folks plannin' to stay?"

  "Just a night, maybe two at most."

  The man chewed his lip a moment. "All right. Hold on—he a lunger?"

  Mary looked slightly startled. "Well—no, sir," she said. "Just a little worn from the train ride, is all."

  "Good. Gimme a minute or two and I'll be set for the night."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "No thanks needed. You kinda look like my kid sister, back home."

  "Well—my thanks to your sister, then." Mary grinned.