When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  He headed up the stairs. "I'll pass it along."

  Mary went over and sat next to Henry. "We'll get on in after a minute," she said, rubbing his back again. After a minute she turned and opened her bag, taking out the hors d'oeuvres, little pastry-like things. "Eat one of these," she said. "You ain't had anything since lunch yesterday."

  Henry looked a little ill at the sight of food, but took it and ate it anyway. He swallowed and pushed her hand gently back when she tried to offer him another. "You eat too," he said.

  She smiled sheepishly. "All right."

  The man from the counter made a few trips up and down the stairs in the next few minutes, nodding politely towards them at each pass. Finally, he came down from the stairs and took his post back behind the counter. "You folks can make yourselves at home now," he said. "Just go on into that hall back there. Last door on the right's my room, door at the very end is the washroom."

  Mary helped Henry up, and he put a hand on her arm, wheezing dryly. She picked up their bags. "Much obliged," said Henry as they passed the desk.

  "Sure you ain't a lunger, now?"

  "Sure," confirmed Henry, trying to suppress a cough.

  The room was dry and comfortable; neat to the point of spartanism, though the wallpaper was gilded and flowery. The bed had been stripped, so Mary quickly spread out the tick from the clean sheets that had been left folded on top and let Henry lay down. She went to the end of the bed and pulled off his boots. "There," said Mary. "How's that?"

  "Much better."

  Her stomach complained loudly, and Mary giggled. "I'm famished, and I guess you are too. You be all right if I run out real quick and fetch a meal? Those tidbits were like a drop in the bucket."

  "Yes." He paused, catching her hand. "Mary—be careful. Carry your handbag close, but let it go if anyone tries to take it. Maybe—ask the clerk here at the desk where the closest place is."

  She cocked her head and smiled. "Folks can't be as bad as all that," she said.

  "Mary—please—"

  She nodded her head, sobering. "All right, Hen, all right." She patted his hand and turned to go.

  Henry was dozing lightly when she returned only a few minutes later, but roused quickly at the smell. "There's a place right next door," she said. "The woman tending tables took me in the back and got me what I needed." She set the basket down on the bed as Henry sat up, scooting over. "She lent me this basket too; I'll just return it tonight."

  They fell to eating quickly; both were half-starved. Mary caught Henry's eye as she stuffed a slice of bread in her mouth and grinned. He smiled back, and she chewed quickly. "The two of us are regular hogs," she giggled.

  "Better fat hogs than thin."

  She waved a hand at him, trying to be serious. "Oh, go on and finish, then. I'm full."

  "So am I." They piled the plates back into the basket.

  Mary put the basket aside and tugged at his arm. "All right, get up now and I'll make the bed." She helped him up, hearing his breath start to wheeze again. "You better go sit," she told him.

  Henry sat in the armchair on the other side of the room, coughing softly while Mary made up the bed with the white sheets that had been set out. She smiled as the white cotton billowed upward, but when it fell her eyes were sad.

  "Sarah'n me used to do this together, every Monday night," she said.

  Henry looked pained. "Come over here, Mary-girl," he beckoned. The chair was large, and Mary squeezed in next to him. He reached up with one hand and stroked her hair. "We'll find her," he said. "If not here, then somewhere else."

  She leaned into his touch. "No, Hen," she said softly, "you were right. If Sarah don't want to be found, she ain't gonna be. This place is too big—too noisy and confused." She pushed herself up. "I saw when I went out there. We'll wait a day or so for you to rest up, and then go on back."

  "It only seems big—" started Henry, his hand drifting after her as she moved away.

  Mary walked to the window. "I'm glad you can't see out here," she said, her hand touching the drapes gingerly. She turned her eyes down, then back at him. "There's a—brothel, I guess—across the street. I saw it when we came in. The girls—they laugh and act pretty when the men go by, but when no one's looking—I never seen faces so sad in my life. Miserable, Hen, trapped. We don't belong here. Maybe nobody does. It looks nice, all fancy and pretty, when you first see—but that's just on top. There ain't nothin' good underneath, Hen, nothin’." She paused, looking out the window. "You were right."

  He struggled for a moment to stand, and she crossed the room quickly to help him. "Don't do that, Hen," she begged.

  He held her tight. "It ain't all bad," he said. "There's good here, too. It's just people get lost quicker, it seems, and can't get back."

  "Like Sarah, maybe." Her voice was hopeful.

  "Yes, maybe. We'll look for her. We'll try."

  She buried her face. "No, Hen. I understand now—it's her that's got to come back." She looked up at him and smiled tearfully. "Thank you for taking me," she said, "even when—when you knew."

  "I don't know for sure," he half-protested.

  She sniffed and tried to hold the smile. "No," she said, "but you sure guess good." She pulled away gently and went to tuck in the edges of the sheets. "Here, Hen, have a rest." She slipped the jacket from his shoulders. "I'll get you some water." There was a large porcelain pitcher on a dresser in the room, and she poured him a glass from it.

  He took it from her hands and caught her dress. "I guess this place is fancy enough to have a boy who carries water," he told her. "Go on and have a warm bath."

  She smiled and kissed him. "I think I will." She searched through one of the bags for a moment, picking out clean clothes, and went out into the hall, giving a small wave as she went. Henry nodded.

  She was back within minutes, poking her head in the door. "Hen," she called softly, grinning, "this tub's big enough for two."

  When they arrived home the second evening following, there was an envelope waiting at the post office for each of them. Henry took Mary's shawl as she unwrapped herself in the hall, hanging it up on the clothes tree. She, in turn, took his jacket and put it up. "We'll leave unpacking for later," she said, shivering now that her arms were bare. "Let's go in and stir up a fire."

  Soon they were seated together before a warm blaze. "Open yours," said Henry. He watched silently as she ripped the seal and unfolded the paper within.

  "It's from Sarah," she said, whispering. Her hand shook a little as she read. "Dear Mary; I am leaving now, and I am giving this to the postman with instructions not to have it delivered until I am gone for several days. I am sorry my arrival caused such upset. I understand now that my children and I are not welcome at home any longer. I think I saw that since you didn't show at my wedding. But I guess you can't be blamed. You must tend to your crippl—" Mary cut herself off with a ragged intake of breath. She sobbed softly and let the letter fall from her fingers. She felt like someone had reached in and cut a piece off of her heart.

  Henry plucked the letter from her lap and read it silently, quickly. When he finished, he let his hand down slowly to rest on his knee. "She doesn't mean anything by it," he told her gently, pulling her close. "She's pained, and trying to hurt others. There ain't no reason to it."

  "I know," said Mary. "I know. It still hurts."

  He kissed the top of her head. "I know."

  "Read yours."

  Henry opened the letter. It had a formal, stamped heading. He held it up to the light, but did not read aloud.

  "What does it say?" asked Mary.

  He took a careful breath. "Donovan wasn't in an accident,” he said slowly. “He killed himself, that's why there ain't no money. He left school and went to work for the railroad before that. The men who worked with him said he was havin' money troubles."

  "…Oh," said Mary, drawing it out to a half-sob.

  "Maybe Sarah will find her way back, someday."

  "Yes," said Mar
y, numb.

  They sat for a time, silent.

  "And in the meanwhile," Mary said with finality, "we'll be happy."

  "It ain't bad to be sorry."

  She sniffed. "I know. But I'm done cryin’."

  Henry took the pair of letters in one hand, and, hesitating a moment, leaned forward and tossed them into the fire. "Nobody's got to know about Donovan," he said. "Ain't no need to spread shame."

  "No," said Mary, hugging him tight. She watched the papers wither away in the flames. "Hen--" she said at length, "when did you first know you loved me?"

  He looked down at her. "What?"

  "It's—well, a silly thing to ask right now, I reckon, but I been thinkin' about it since we met Mr. Hannibal, and he was talkin' about when we met. Go on, Hen, tell me."

  He smiled. "You first."

  She crossed her arms. "Well, all right. I been thinkin' about that, too." She paused. "I reckon—well, it was that night, at the fair."

  "The night I—" he cut himself off. She nodded and he paled—thinking how close it had been.

  "It was right after you said I should go dance, and I told you no. You turned away, but I could half see this look on your face, Hen--" she stopped, smiling at him, half in pity as he looked away from her. "No, don't do it now, Hen, it breaks my heart, please—" She touched his face and he looked back, down at his hands. She reached out and twisted her fingers into his. "Well—I saw that look, Hen, and all at once I said to myself, 'Mary, that man loves you more than anything. He loves you so much, he'd do anything he ever could to make you happy, and no one that comes along is ever gonna love you half as much.' So—I guess I knew right then."

  He swallowed. "But—you loved me because I loved you? That don't make no sense."

  She laughed softly. "Sure it does, Hen. Makes the best sense in the world. Why do folks love God? Because He loves us more than anyone can, and it makes us wanna give back the same way." She smiled. "I reckon it helps a little if you kinda take a likin' to him first off, though." Mary scooted closer. "What about you, Hen? When did you fall in love?"

  He smiled faintly, looking into the fire. "Oh," he said softly, "…long before that."

  Chapter Nine

  Henry stood out in the front yard, just next to the steps leading up to the porch, watching. It was early morning, when the sun was not quite visible on the horizon but then again maybe it was. He liked to go out walking in the morning, and he had just returned, feeling warm blood pumping steadily through his veins. There was a small creek that ran down a split in the land only a little ways from the house, coupled on either side by a few low trees that had been trimmed up for easy passage, and usually it was there he went for his morning stroll because it was cool and the almost-dry trickle of water made his thoughts flow easy. Indeed, morning was the only time he could go out, in these months; it was the coolest part of the day, when the night had sucked all the heat out of the land and the rising sun had not yet the time to put it back. Later, the sun would chase him into the house, seal him there, hot and feverish if the heat came inside, and it always did. So he stood now, cane in hand, looking out over the flat horizon and feeling old at thirty because of it. Maybe he was old, inside. Wars made things go faster. While the firing and the killing was going on all around, time stole itself away, taking advantage of the lack of attention given to it to carry things along twice as fast, three times, four times as fast—and by the time it was over, a boy had been made into a man and then into an old man without even knowing it. It was only when he got back home, when the deceleration hit him full force, that he realized he'd been gone decades while only a few years had passed, maybe not even that.

  But here, out here—things were not measured by age, but rather by season. It was not how many seasons had passed, but what season was next to come, as it had come before and would always come again. The flat, bare land was constant, changing a little here and there, but always with the promise of changing back, next season, next time. Things went in full circle, evened out.

  He turned suddenly, smiling and squinting a little in the new light, although the dawn was still fresh. Mary, as he had sensed, was behind him up on the porch, her arms crossed in front of her to keep out the slight chill. "I love this land," he said suddenly.

  She took a step forward and leaned a shoulder against the post next to her, her large eyes distant. "Yes," she said softly, one hand folding out towards him absently. He took it and came up next to her on the porch, stepping behind her and slipping his arm around her waist. With her fingers she explored the top of his hand, feeling his breaths go in and out softly at her back. She leaned back a little, into him, and set her head into the crook of his neck. She worried for him, sometimes, in spite of herself, because he loved the land so. Many times, she had thoughts about moving to the east, going down that one long train track far in the distance, their only connection to any world beyond. The eastern states would be cold in the winter and cold even in the summer at times, too, but she knew that there were comforts and amenities enough to keep his health, ease him a little. In the east there was civilization; hot fireplaces and apartments insulated from the outside climate; hot steam baths, maids, butlers.

  But she knew he would not go, and even suggesting it hurt him a little. Although he could no longer live within and through this country that needed to be touched and felt and explored, he could yet see it, and remember, and that seemed to be almost enough. And then there was what she only half knew, and that subconsciously; he loved the land because she was in it, a part of it, and would not be whole in another place. She knew that she could leave, especially for him—but no, she did not want to. Still—there was that draw. If only. If only. It would have been best for him.

  She reached up and touched the side of his face.

  "You smell like biscuits," he said.

  She smiled. "They're cooling."

  He laughed softly, clearing his throat at the same time. "But you're thinking of something." Well—he knew, of course. It was a kind of silent stalemate between them. Neither side, he knew, would ever win, and so they stayed where they were, because it was the place in which the argument had begun. And for him it was good, because in that way, he won. He did not mind, not much, having only to look. She was bright out on the plain, and brought to him in her eyes and voice and hands everything that he had once harvested from the wilderness himself. And so he was happy, and so was she, if concerned.

  "Mm," she murmured. "Nothing much."

  The sun was up now, and it was warm, very warm. A light sweat broke out on his brow, shining dully against his pale skin. Mary glanced up and prodded him gently with her elbow. After another moment they turned together and went inside, he holding the door. She helped him into his favorite chair and retrieved a few papers and a pencil from the desk for him.

  "I'll be in the kitchen," she said, petting his head affectionately and then turning.

  But he caught her hand lightly before she could go, and she stopped, looking back. He looked into her eyes, then down at her fingers, turning her arm so the palm faced up. He brushed her hand with the tips of his fingers, feeling the calluses and blisters that had formed there.

  "That tickles!" she protested, pulling back a little but then relenting when he tightened his grip slightly. His fingers brushed over her palm again, and she tilted her head, looking at him oddly. "What is it?"

  He looked up at her, sober, and she felt the flicker of pain in her heart as his eyes pierced straight through her. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

  At this, she frowned, puzzled. "For what—" and then she laughed, understanding, and knelt beside him. "You silly old man," she said, grinning. "For hands like these? Don't you understand? I like it!"

  "But..."

  "It makes me strong! See, here—try." She put up a hand to test against his, and in a moment had overpowered him. "You see?"

  "I'm—not very strong, anymore," he admitted quietly, withdrawing his hand.

  She stood, brushi
ng stray locks of hair away from her eyes. "Now you tend to your work, and I'll do mine."

  Just after the noon hour, after Mary had brought lunch and taken it away again and gone out to the barn to work a while, he heard a horse whinny in the distance, and the soft but heavy pattering of shoed hooves in the dust became distinct. At the sound, a sharp lance of apprehension struck in the pit of his stomach, and he let the papers he was holding drop into his lap. He glanced towards the window, but his chair was too far to see out for any distance and the drapes were half closed. It was always like this, it seemed, and he thought suddenly that it was not because he did not know what he would do when the visitor came, but that he did not know what he would do if ever it were not a visitor coming.

  After a few minutes, the horse was reined in out in front, and he heard the big barn door grate open as Mary came around the corner. Her voice called out in greeting, though the exact words were muffled, and another voice answered; it was only Willam Burke, a man who lived out in the brush country, alone. Henry looked down, and saw that he had half crumpled the papers in his lap.

  Mary brought Burke in the front hall. "Can I take your hat, sir?" she asked.

  Henry smiled faintly, knowing what Burke's response would be even as he said it. "No, ma'am, that's—well, thank you much, ma'am, then, thank you. I 'preciate it."

  "Henry's right in there, Mr. Burke, go on in."

  "Thank you, ma'am, kindly." He came through the doorway, ducking self-consciously although he was not a tall man. He came forward a little and stopped, his hands like boards at his sides, peering around nervously and affording Henry perhaps every third glance. Willam Burke was sweaty and unshaven and fairly dirty and knew it well. Henry sat calmly, waiting until Burke realized he was to speak first. "Uh-- Mr. Peterson—I come to ask if you'd help in writin' a letter—to my brother--" he shifted and his hands looked as if they might go somewhere for a moment, then snapped back to his sides. Burke was, in fact, dearly wishing for a hat to turn—or at least his hands were. Instead he allowed one hand to rub back the clumps of hair plastered to his forehead.