When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  "All right," said Henry. He gestured to his desk, across the room. "There's some pen and papers over there, if you'll—" he said.

  "Yes—yessir," returned Burke. He bobbed his head once and went over with quick, nervous movements, although it was heavy on his mind to be careful. His own abode was no more than a one-room cabin, and every object within was blunt, unbreakable. Here, though, there were lamps and small glass figures and pens and paper—he had to be cautious, and the fear of damaging the property of another (especially a woman, and it certainly looked as though the woman of this house owned it) made him nervous. He found the paper, but—

  "To your left. And the envelopes are the third drawer down on the right."

  He was relieved when the objects were safely in Henry's hands, and stepped back, respectful. Sure, he had made fun of educated folks, in town with the boys, but Henry Peterson was different—he could think, not like some other men who just had money and a degree. And he wasn't pushy about it, either.

  "Please—sit down."

  "Maybe I better—"

  "No, please. Sit." Burke sat, perching on one corner of a stuffed velvet armchair. Henry inked the pen, and at the top of the first piece of paper wrote out, Dear R.B. He paused. "All right. Go ahead."

  Burke fidgeted. "Well—I reckon—ask him how the fam'ly is—"

  I hope you are well. How are May and her mother? Knowing you, business is going well. Burke went on dictating, hesitant, and Henry wrote, filling in where he had an idea of what the man was getting at. He knew that R.B. was a high-class news paper man in Boston now, and that Willam tried hard to live up to those standards as best he could. He didn't think he would mind him filling in, or correcting poor grammar. When they had finished, Henry folded the letter neatly and labeled the envelope with an address copied from a small, worn piece of paper Burke gave him. He set down the handwriting boldly, in a way that he thought a man like Burke would have written, could he write or even read. "There you are," he said, handing the letter over.

  Burke took it, standing suddenly as if he had been pricked. "Th-thank you, Mr. Peterson, I thank you," he said, returning in favor the payment due.

  Henry took the money and promptly handed half of it back. Burke probably had friends who would have done it for much less than the sum he was offering, and perhaps even for free. But Burke came to him out of a kind of loyalty, because two years previous Henry had helped him greatly without any fee, because he could not have paid. He was tempted to give all of the money back, but Burke was a proud man and would have been shamed by the action.

  As it was, he put up his hands. "N-no, sir, that's payment."

  "This is far away plenty to pay for paper and twice the time. I wouldn't cheat you, Mr. Burke." He looked him straight in the eye, and at last Burke took the money.

  "Well, I thank you, sir—thank you." Burke wrung his hand once and then again. As if on cue, Mary appeared in the doorway to escort him out. She smiled, stepping aside as he came through and following him down the hall.

  In the sitting room, Henry rested his head against the back of the leather armchair, sighing a little. He closed his eyes, feeling suddenly hot and weary, and listened to the friendly words exchanged between his wife and Burke in parting, although he was not listening to words, in particular. He just liked the sound of her voice and the occasional spark of laughter. Absently, he reached up to loosen his collar.

  A short time later, he heard the snort of a horse and a quick gallop as Burke departed. The front door swung shut with a bang and Mary entered the room. Her cheeks were flushed, joyful at having conversed and added a little pleasure to someone else's day. She bent and they shared a brief but passionate kiss, and he felt suddenly that her joy had come into his own body like a cool clear spring, and that his own face must be flushed.

  "Dinner," she announced, "will be ready in a little while." With that, she swept out of the room, her skirts rustling as she went, leaving him aching for more with an intensity that was almost painful.

  He sat for a while, still in the afterglow of her presence, and felt suddenly that he might do anything, anything at all—go gladly even to death, if only for her. He would do anything to please her, and because of this boldly took up his cane, thinking to rise so that she would not have to come fetch him to the table. He struggled for a moment against the pain of old injuries, gritting his teeth, but found his strength quickly sapped. At last he fell back, weak and exhausted and sweaty. The heat was suffocating.

  It was at times like these that he doubted himself, doubted that he had done right to marry her when he knew that she could have any man she desired. True, she had desired him, and still did—yes, true, thank God—but had he not asked her, not fallen in love, not obeyed the impulse that was life itself—she would have found another. She couldn't help but love; it was her nature, and he loved her for it.

  He shifted in the chair, wincing a little, and returned to his work. On a blank piece of paper, he copied the address from memory that he had written on Burke's letter; it was very probable that the next time the man came, he would either have forgotten or lost the tiny scrap of paper.

  Mary was a little longer in coming back, but when she did she brought the strange and overwhelming scent of flowers. She struck him that way, often, and for the briefest flash he was taken to a place back east, a scant but peaceful moment in war time. He closed his eyes and kissed her hand before she helped him up. "You make me want to write poetry," he said.

  "Go on then," she teased, half serious. He leaned on her more heavily than usual, tired, and she clung tightly to his arm. They walked to the kitchen, feeling each other's skin warm and sticky where they touched.

  He shook his head. "My poems're terrible. It'd be an insult to your name."

  "You oughta let me judge the truth of that."

  "I can't," he said, avoiding her eyes. "You're biased."

  "Biased!" she breathed, indignant. "Well, I—! All right, then, what if I told you that those shoes are the awfullest things I've ever seen?"

  "I would say—well, I would say—you picked them out, my darling."

  She stopped in her tracks, and looked at him. "Did I?" she asked. She glanced down, dubious. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes." He met her gaze squarely and she giggled, and the giggle turned into a laugh. Henry grinned.

  "You did that on purpose," she accused.

  "Me—!" He sat down at the table.

  "Yes, you." She grinned and changed the subject, turning away to get the plates. "Poor Willam," she said. "He's always so frightened, like a nervous little mouse." She wiped her brow. "Wish this weather'd cool," she appended. It was hot in the kitchen, from the stove, very hot. Sweltering.

  "Frightened of you," he returned.

  Mary laughed. "Me?"

  He nodded, quite serious. "I been there a time or two."

  "No!" she protested. "There's no reason! Have I ever been awful?"

  "Never." He took the plate she handed him. "Well, besides just now."

  She eyed him. "Then feared of what?"

  He considered. "Well—hurting you, somehow—I guess. Like a boy's afraid of picking up an insect for fear he might crush it."

  "Oh, don't be silly. I won't get hurt." She paused, then grinned and sat. "But I'll think on it."

  At night when they retired to the bedroom, Henry eased himself onto the bed, leaning back into the pillows and beginning to unbutton his shirt. It seemed hot and small around his neck, but really it was not, and after a moment he pushed up on one arm to slip it all the way off. Mary made a soft little noise and crossed the room to take it from him, her hair undone and falling long all about her. It was past her waist, now. She folded the shirt and put it aside to be washed, then came back and sat at the foot of the bed and began to undo Henry's shoes.

  "Mm," he said, smiling a little and letting his head fall back. "Thank you."

  She slipped them off. "Ugly old things," she commented, and saw his smile widen for a brief moment
. She helped him with his pants and pulled a light sheet up over his body. Surprisingly, it was cool against his skin. A moment later she was beside him on the bed, up on one elbow, and began to fan him slowly with the crepe paper fan he had gotten her two years ago at the general store. "When I went into town, the other day, with Ian..." she said, slow and quiet, "Jim Bean, he let me down in his cellar to look around. Mm—it was so cool down there, Hen, I woulda sworn it was fall, all earthy and dark. I was thinkin', maybe this year or next... thinkin' maybe we could have some men out, dig us a cellar down below. We could store things—maybe just cool water, even, and then sometimes on real hot days you could go down there an' rest awhile."

  Henry let his eyelids drift open and then shut again, Mary's soft words creeping through his mind more as syllables, without meaning, and after a moment concentrated to make sense of them. He saw, at last, and wondered dimly if that was what he would become: would they store him away in a cellar, to keep like preserves? Would he be some dim, pale relic to be visited in times of need; a sort of oracle? He feared this, suddenly, without reason or maybe with, feared that if he could have a cellar he would never come out, lose the world altogether as if it never existed. He was frightened that he might grow hungry for time, and preserve himself, an icy mummy away from living, merely for the price of a few more days that would not be life at all.

  "No," he said, "let's not have a cellar." And he said no more.

  "All right," she answered amiably, and that was the end of it. The night was full now, and beginning to cool a little. She got up to open the window and to undress and he watched her outline against the sky behind. A moment later there was a rustling as she slipped under the single sheet to join him, and he felt her arms on his body, sticking instead of sliding because of the heat. He turned, and their lips met.

  "Too hot?" she asked, whispering, eyes closed, lips moving against his skin.

  "—No."

  "Too tired?"

  He breathed in, sharp. "No."

  They made sweet, gentle love in the night.

  It was something he knew tired him greatly, when the moment was over and gone, but it was something that he would not—could not—deny her, or himself. And there was the matter of a child...

  In a while they had quieted to soft, quick breaths, and soon he fell into a deep, almost death-like slumber, his arms loosely around her. She curled into this soft, secure cocoon, happy and content. She felt safe with him, not because he could protect her, but because he loved her. She knew that she was strong enough to protect herself, and even him. Never had she been called ladylike, and she did not understand why he saw her in that way. But she knew that, though she had always been secure in her bodily welfare, never until him had she known such strength, such constant and enduring passion, in love. And she loved him deeply.

  It was two weeks before the weather cooled, but when the change finally came it was a relief to all who had cattle or horses to water. It did not rain, but a shallow wind blew over the plain, slowing the evaporation of coveted supplies of water. They had a few horses and fewer cattle, mainly what strays wandered through, but Mary was more relieved for Henry's sake than the animals'. He sat now on the porch until noon, and she knew that the breeze of summer dying would do him good.

  Humming softly to herself, she brought lunch out and sat beside him. He had been reading, but closed and put the book aside in favor of a meal. He tasted. "It's good," he told her, and she smiled but did not say anything.

  They ate in silence, Henry knowing that she was waiting for something but did not want to say until he was through. When he had cleared half the plate he set it aside; he was not especially hungry, anyway. She scooted closer, grinning, and he put an arm around her waist.

  "Mr. Henry Peterson," she said, "you better marry me, 'cause I'm gonna have your baby."

  "You—" He laughed, then coughed and choked. Mary patted him gently on the back until he had recovered himself, then waited for him to speak. For a while, he said nothing, stunned. Then he smiled and reached out, hesitantly. Grinning, she pulled back her arms and placed his hand over her stomach.

  "Won't be long and you can feel it there," she told him. "Not long at all now."

  Henry looked from her stomach to her shining eyes and back again, his lips parted a little in awe. A baby—it—was something he had not dared to hope for, though the thought had plagued him nightly. Now that it had happened, he could not comprehend the wonder of it. After so long— "It will be a girl," he said, and felt sudden fear strike deep within his heart. "I—" he looked away. "I'm afraid."

  She touched his face. "Of what?"

  "That—that it will be a boy." He looked back, fleetingly, into her eyes, and knew that she saw what he felt. He did not know what he would do, if it were a son; how could he teach a boy to hunt, or fish, or ride? He remembered, as a boy, wrestling on the ground with his father. He feared an awkwardness between them, looming like a chasm; he had known this before, when returning from war to greet the slew of younger brothers that had awaited him. All of them, now, were strange to him. He did not think he could bear this from his own child.

  But maybe it was not only that. Most of all, he wanted it to be a girl, lovely and graceful like her mother. He would have wished for a hundred children, if only he could have been assured that they would all be like their mother, in miniature.

  "It will be all right," she whispered in his ear. She moved closer still and laid her head against his chest, massaging the taut muscles in his neck with one hand.

  "Yes," he said, uncertainty in his voice.

  Mary was not angry, or fearful that he would not want her child if it were a boy. She knew that he would love it dearly, more than his own life, no matter what it was. And she knew that he was frightened only because he did not know if he would be able to show this love. She was certain he would. She hugged him, and they sat together for a long while.

  "Let's go visit, tomorrow. Your folks, I mean." Henry frowned slightly, in thought.

  Mary looked up at his face. It was cool enough to be close together, and she was lying on the couch with her head in his lap while he read by lamplight. She fiddled with a piece of yarn between her fingers. The words, "Are you sure?" were on her lips, but she stopped them, knowing he would not have said anything at all if he were not. "All right," she said, smiling. "You want to stay over the night?"

  "All right."

  She sat up. "I'll pack!"

  In the morning, Mary hitched up the horses early, and they were off before sunrise. The Jacobs' place was back towards town and out the other way, and so they rode through, Mary waving as they went like she was in a parade. "Guess I shouldn't tell nobody here," she decided. "Wouldn't be fair to Ma."

  On the other side, out on the empty road, Henry glanced at her. "We oughta make a surprise," he said.

  Mary grinned elvishly. "Yes! How, Hen? What will we do?"

  He looked uneasy. "I—don't know," he said. "I never played one before."

  She laughed. "But you musta! Everyone has. Think. No-- wait, of course you have! Don't you remember? Our house, out in the ocean?"

  "Oh," he said, coloring. "Yes." He set his jaw, and pondered a little more. "We—" he began, hesitant at last, "—we could have Joey in. Have him ask you out to ride, and you'll say—"

  "And I'll say no, thank you, not for nine months!" She threw her arms around him. "Ma will be so happy."

  He smiled, a little uneasy.

  When they came up in front of the large white house, one of the twins—Brian—was out on the front porch. He had watched them from a distance, and scurried inside the house when the horses stopped.

  "That boy," muttered Mary, "is gonna grow up a bandit if Ma don't ride him good." She got down and held the horses while Henry slid off the buckboard. As he touched the ground, Ma came out onto the porch, Brian trailing in her shadow. He peered out from behind her bulk.

  "Children!" exclaimed Ma, happily, throwing up her hands. She called her y
oung ones by their names until they had grown and gone away, and then she called them ‘children’ because they would always be hers. She turned slightly and waved Brian out. "Go on now, and get the horses!" Behind her, he gave a sullen look and hurried out, grinning conspiratorially at Mary. She caught his ear as he went by, tugging playfully before letting go.

  "You be good," she warned him, smiling.

  He stumbled away from her. "In a pig's eye!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, grabbing the horses as they skittered sideways at the noise.

  Mary laughed and she went with Henry up to the porch. Ma, looking past them at her boy, shook her head in dismay. "Just don't know what I'm gonna do with that one," she sighed, again tossing up her hands. "He's taken to sayin' that cause he knows it ain't foul, but it sure is coarse and folks don't like it." She sighed and turned her attention to her guests. "Well, dears, come on in. Pa'll be in—" she stopped, looking suddenly into Mary's face for the first time. "Why—oh—why, darlin'!" She put a hand to her mouth, flushing. "It's a baby, ain't it!" She bustled forward and crushed Mary to her chest. "Why girl, I—I just don't know." She stood back at last, wiping her eyes and looking between them, proudly.

  "Aw, Ma!" said Mary. "It was gonna be a surprise! How'd you know?"

  Ma shook her head, sniffling and smiling, and herded them through the front door. "Your eyes, darlin', the eyes tell. Well—well, such a blessin'... come in, children... sit down."

  There were heavy, booming steps on the front porch, and the door flew open. Pa, an outline against the light outside, raised his hands. "Where's my girl?" he demanded. "Brian come skulkin' in with horses—ah!" He spotted her as his eyes adjusted and lifted her from the ground. "How are ya', darlin'?"

  Mary squealed, kicking her heels until he let her down. "Fine, Pa—" she started, giggling.

  "Now Ben, you just stop that!" Ma demanded, pushing herself between them. Pa, puzzled, took a step back, and she let out a hefty breath, swiping back loose strands of hair for nothing better to do; she always had to be busy with her hands. She smiled, as though weary but relieved and happy all in the same moment. "Ben, you just go on and guess."