When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  Joey knocked softly on the door to Henry's room. When the reply came, a faint, "Come in," he entered, hesitant, and closed the door behind him. "Pa said—well—maybe you'd want some help," he said, stepping on one foot with the other. He was in his nightshirt, barefoot.

  Henry looked at him a moment. "Yes--" he said finally. "Thank you." He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt half unbuttoned. Joey came a little closer and Henry put his arm around the boy to stand up. It took a few minutes, but Joey was quick and in the end Henry sat back down, sighing a little. "Thank you," he said again.

  Joey was silent, unable to do anything but gape at the scars until Henry tugged the sheet over his legs.

  The boy looked pained for a moment. "You're—sad, huh."

  For a moment Henry paused, unmoving, then patted the bed beside him. Joey sat down, dangling his feet and looking down at them. "Yes," he said.

  "Me too. But prob'ly not as much as you." Henry didn't say anything, and Joey glanced up. "Pa, he says Mary's in heaven, and we shouldn't be sad 'cause it's nice there."

  "It is."

  Joey sensed that he was probably saying things that Ma would whup him for, but he went on anyway. "How come you're so sad, then?" he asked, not rudely. He swung his feet again.

  Henry swallowed. "I'm lonely," he whispered.

  "Oh." Joey sat for a while, not saying anything, just watching his feet dangle and feeling his sandy hair fall down over his eyes. Finally, he stood up, slow, and went to the door. He went out, but turned as he was about to close it. "G'night," he said, softly.

  "What if there were a way, somehow, you and your girl could live—back at home, together?" The way Henry's eyes looked up at him, hungry, hopeless, made Pa want to cry though he hadn't shed a tear in ten years at least.

  He looked away, out and Brian and Joey playing together—maybe fighting—in the yard. "I—I'd like that more than anything, sir," he whispered, then, quickly, "It ain't anything against livin' with--"

  "I know, son, it's all right."

  Henry dared not hope, but at last he could not help himself. "Sir—why did you ask...?"

  Pa turned away, a hand in his hair, wishing he hadn't said anything. "I don't know," he said, stepping down off the porch. "I don't know, not yet." He went off towards the corral, not looking back because he didn't want to see the boy's eyes.

  Over the next week, Pa brooded. The boys avoided him and did their work quickly when it was given; they were sharp enough to know when to leave him alone. Henry fell ill with a fever for a spell of three days, and Ma tended him in bed, giving Daisy to Joey to look after. When the fever passed, he was weak, and only came out of his room now and then.

  On Sunday, Ma still worried after his health, and sent Pa and the boys to church on their own. The twins, however, came back alone on the back of a neighbor's buckboard.

  "Pa said he'd be back in a few days," said Brian, when Ma asked after him. She frowned, but said nothing.

  Pa woke up, stiff-necked. Leaving the buckboard and the other horse safely back at the church, he had arrived in Hickory just as night was falling, and decided to sleep out in the open. The town, somewhat larger than his own, had still been awake, but things were beginning to close up. He hadn't brought money for a hotel room, and so he had tied his horse by the public water trough, unsaddled him, and loped off into the brush to sleep.

  It had been a cold night, but it only took him a minute to stomp his feet and get the blood moving again. Walking more slowly than when he had come in, Pa found his way out of the brush and back to his horse, which, not surprisingly, was still there. Hickory was so far from anywhere that folks almost never stole anything that couldn't fit easily on a train. He had lugged his saddle back with him, so he set it up on the horse and strapped it on, but didn't mount. Instead, he left the horse where it stood and started down the main street.

  There were a few folks out, mainly women at this time of morning, dumping bathwater and such. He nodded to a few, saying a polite hello as he went. He stopped at the jailhouse and went up the set of brick steps, some of which were beginning to crumble at the edges. The door was heavy, oak with huge black iron hinges. He knocked, and the wood sounded out solidly in reply. After a moment, he used the side of his fist to pound.

  Finally, the door creaked open and a wizened old face peered out. "It's me," said Pa, and the door swung open.

  "Well I'll be," said the little old man. The sheriff was actually Pa's age, only Pa looked a little younger than he was and the sheriff a little older. He stood aside to let his guest in. "Talk freely," he invited. "Ain't nobody in jail tonight. Or—is it morning now?"

  Pa laughed. "Never thought this town'd get sleepy enough to where the sheriff slep' in," he said, sitting down.

  The sheriff scratched the back of his neck. "Was that a personal insult or just directed at things in general?"

  Pa laughed again. "Take it how you like."

  "General then—I'm in no mood for a fight." He yawned. "What brings you here, Ben? --I'm not going to offer you breakfast. Not only are you too early to deserve it, I haven't got anything. Girl brings it over about nine." He went over behind his desk and squatted into his chair.

  "Well—" Pa sobered. "I need a favor."

  "As I recall—and I think you do too—I seem to owe you one."

  "Yes. My girl, Mary—"

  "The one who married the—"

  "Henry Peterson, yes. Don't interrupt me, Harper, or I won't get through." He pinned his whole lower lip between his teeth, then let it go with a sigh. The sheriff settled back, serious now. "Coupla weeks ago, now, she had a baby girl, but—the childbirth, it kilt her."

  "Ben—I'm mighty sorry."

  "Don't interrupt. Henry, he and the baby've been livin' over at our house since, but it's killin' him, not bein' on his own with the girl. Martha can't help herself takin' care of the little thing--" he stopped, realizing he didn't have to explain everything. "Anyway, I was wond'rin' if you'd have a girl—I mean, maybe a girl lookin' to get out of whorin', or someone of a poor fam'ly, who'd work, helpin' him out and things. She'd have to live in, most all the time, and I don't 'spect Henry'd want anyone who talks overly much."

  The sheriff steepled his fingers beneath his chin, thinking. "Ben," he said at last, "you stick around town today. I'll see what I can do."

  Pa stood. "You have my thanks."

  "Any time, Ben. This don't near pay off my debt. And I'm awful sorry 'bout your girl."

  Pa wandered around town for a time, not doing much of anything but looking over the town he'd grown up in, now more than three times the size it had been. He stopped in a few places, just poking his head in the door and back out again before anyone noticed or said anything. He did stay in one place, to have a little something for breakfast.

  Near midday, he started back for the jail. Just then a man came hurrying up, a worn manila envelope tucked under one arm. "Pardon," he called, "you Ben Jacobs?"

  "I am." Pa stopped, looking over the man. He seemed a little familiar.

  "Name's Covey—uh, Milt." They clasped hands briefly. "Henry Peterson—he's livin' with you?"

  "Has been, yes."

  "Could—I maybe impose on you some?"

  "Depends."

  He dropped the envelope into one hand and held it out. "He's got a ten percent share in my holdings—this's the first profits."

  With a slow hand, Pa reached up to take the money. "It's none a' my affair," he said, "but how much do first profits come to?"

  Covey grinned. "Quite a bit," he breathed eagerly, as though he didn't believe it himself. "Quite a bit."

  Pa took this in, and at last nodded in approval. "Well, I'll see it gets to him."

  "Thank you. Saved me a trip. And—my regrets. About your—daughter, was it?"

  "Yes. And thank you." Pa turned, slipping the envelope inside his jacket.

  For a moment, Covey looked after him, his brow deepening, but then he gave a half-shrug and hurried off.

>   The sheriff was not in the jailhouse, but when Pa went around the back the door was open, so he went inside and waited out the rest of the day, his feet propped up on Harper's desk. When the sheriff finally came in, near dusk, Pa sat up, started out of his thoughts.

  "Mm," muttered the sheriff, hanging up his coat. "Thought maybe I'd find you in here. S'pose you've cleaned me out of my whiskey by now."

  "You're wrong. I don't know how long it's been since I've had a drop. Prob'ly can't stomach it, now." He glanced up. "Don't care to try, neither."

  Harper grunted again and turned to light a lamp in the corner. "Well, guess that's good or maybe bad for me. Dig around in that bottom drawer to your left—Lord help me if I can't get it down."

  Pa swiveled in the creaky old chair and bent to get the bottle. He held it out, but kept a firm grip as his companion reached out to take it. "Well?" he asked.

  Harper yanked the bottle and it came free. "Well, maybe I found a girl. I'll take you over tomorrow morning." He popped the cork and held the bottle to his lips, then paused, peering over it with raised eyebrows. "Don't fret," he said, "I ain't lookin' to get drunk. Folks don't look kindly on a sheriff gettin' drunk any more'n once a month, an' I already filled that."

  Lacing his fingers behind his head, Pa leaned back again, kicking his feet up on the desk. "Just don't want you goin' to sleep on me, Harp. Tell me about 'er."

  He took a gulp, and sat down on the edge of a small cot in the corner, against one wall. Setting the bottle aside, he put a foot up on the opposite knee and began to work at getting his boot off. "Well—" he grunted, "if it's silence you're lookin' for, this girl fits the bill. She's a whore, though, an' even if you said it I ain't sure that's what you want, Ben."

  "We'll see."

  "She ain't friends with any a' the other girls, I gather, and while they don't specially like her they ain't had a reason to th'ow 'er out, though in my mind the word there is 'yet.' I ast her, and she says, "There ain't no way outa whorin', but if you got a genie or somethin' who'll grant my wish, sure I'll take it." A genie, she says. Pretty much that was all I could get outta her. Wouldn't say nothin' 'bout whur she come from, nor if she's usin' her given name."

  Pa grunted thoughtfully and hoisted himself to his feet. He crossed the room and laid a hand on the wrought iron handle of the door. "I'll be back come mornin'," he said. "You'n take me over then."

  The sheriff lifted his bottle in farewell.

  "Up there. Uhh..." Harper squinted his eyes, remembering. "Third door to the left. Damn you, Ben, it'll take a week at least to catch up on my sleep, you wakin' me so danged early." He turned and began to shuffle off.

  "That ain't me, it's your hangover," Pa shot back, dryly.

  "Anyhow—good luck."

  "Sure." He started up the set of back stairs, nailed insecurely to the outside of the back wall of the old building, apparently for more discreet entrances. They groaned considerably beneath his weight, and Pa frowned. He wasn't looking to wake every girl in the place. Finally, though, he got to the top without mishap and ducked through a door so small he had to turn his broad shoulders sideways to fit. The hall was just about as small, and dim, but he found the door and knocked softly.

  There were footsteps and then it opened. "Come in." A figure retreated swiftly. "I've got some coffee if you like."

  Pa stepped in, ducking through the doorway and glancing around, calmly observant. The room was neatly kept, but mostly because it was bare. He suspected that the drapes in the window had been there when she had moved in. "No—thank you," he rumbled, finally.

  She came back, a cup between her hands. "My name is Catharine Beaumont."

  "French?" He studied her face; it would have been passably beautiful, but her expression was empty, dead.

  "My parents. Or my father."

  "Ben Jacobs."

  "The sheriff said." She shifted and sat down because she knew that she wouldn't be able to stand still while this man was in the room. The men who usually came to her were easy to deal with—they had come before, and needed something from her. You could tell, even on the street, a man who had been to a whore, even if it was an old man and he had only been once, as a boy. They cringed, passing a house or a girl, hating their weakness. Jacobs was not a man who had been to a whore, ever. He only stood there, calm and confident.

  "He also said you wouldn't tell him anything."

  She looked up at him, then away. "He didn't need to know. You might be my way out—I'm willing to risk that."

  "Are you in trouble with the law?"

  "No. But I've learned it doesn't pay when others know too much about you." She licked her lips and took a sip of the coffee.

  "Did the sheriff tell you—"

  "A baby and a cripple. I'll live with them."

  "Do you know how to care for a baby?"

  "Raised my sister since she was born."

  "Where is she now?"

  She paused. "I don't know. Dead, maybe."

  Pa paced to the window, then back. "You understand—if you come, there will be no mistakes." He looked back at her, up and down. "You will wear proper clothing—plain, black and white." His arm opened to encompass the room. "This will be gone—all of it. Even on your own time, you will not associate with these girls. There will be no men. It will be lonely—your employer, Mr. Peterson, will not wish to talk with you. Nor will you be a mother to his child. You will do only what he asks you to, no more and no less."

  She stood, and when she spoke her voice shook a little, losing the strict control she had brought forth until then. "Mr. Jacobs—you don't understand. That—anything—would be better than this."

  He eyed her, straight on, for a tense moment. "All right," he said. "Do you have a horse?"

  "No."

  "You'll need one. Do you know how to ride?" She nodded. "Harness a saddle and hitch up a buckboard?"

  "Yes."

  "All right. You pack your things and I'll get you a horse. It will belong to Mr. Peterson, not you." He turned to go, but stopped, looking over his shoulder. "Leave your fancy dresses."

  "Yes, sir."

  Pa came back to the whorehouse just after noon, mounted on his horse and trailing another behind, a small, lean young mare—just right for a woman. His own horse had hooves so large he had scars on his feet from getting stepped on so much. But it was a good horse. He waited down below and after a moment the woman came out, dressed plainly as she had been instructed, with her hair pulled back and tied up. She came down, carrying only one small bag.

  "Is this all?" asked Pa. He dismounted and went to lash it to the saddle of the new horse. He had gotten the ladies' saddle used, but in good condition.

  "It's all I need."

  "Good." Pa didn't especially like the woman, which was not something he had wanted anyway, but he approved of her. When he stepped back, she came forward and mounted herself. Pa went back to his own horse, looking back to see that she had control of her animal; she rode well. He nodded and started off.

  Since there was no heavy buckboard to slow them down, they made quick time back and arrived at Henry's place before sundown. It was dim and empty inside, and when they went in Pa had to run his hand through his hair several times to get his nerves. He'd never come without having Mary run onto the porch to greet him, smiling brightly with all her white teeth. He couldn't help but half expect it even now, but she didn't come. He took a deep breath and led the woman around the house. "Here's the kitchen," he said, "and washroom here. You'll cook the meals." He went on back and peered into the bedroom. The bloodstained sheets still remained, and he closed his eyes and backed out. "I want those gone before he comes," he said. "Throw them away, burn them, anything. But don't touch her clothes, or anything else."

  "Yes, sir."

  The next door was the nursery, already gathering a little dust. There was a crib, and some of the family baby things, handed down. "This'll be your room, once you get these things moved into his room. The baby'll sleep with him, and I
imagine you'll have to get up a few times, nights, for a while anyhow." He turned and came back out to the front room, she following behind. He stopped at the door and surveyed the room. "All right," he said. "Anything else?"

  "No sir, I don't think so."

  "Hm. Barn's out back, I s'pose you can find it. Boy comes over two, three times a week to care for the animals. You need anything, you come to me. Once you get set up here, maybe a week or so, I'll come by and ride with you out to our place so you know where it is. Mr. Peterson'll be coming tomorrow; if not, then the next day. You'll arrange your pay with him, for whatever he thinks is fair." He nodded. "Afternoon, Ms. Beaumont."

  "Afternoon, Mr…" she let her voice trail off as he closed the door behind him and turned to begin her work.

  Before mounting again in the falling dusk, Pa examined his horse carefully and found it in good condition. He had let it wander free around the house and assumed that it had probably gotten the water it needed. He tightened the straps beneath its belly and mounted with a slight groan; three days out in the open was not the same at fifty-eight as twenty had been. Still, he bent low and spurred the animal until it lay out in a flat run across the first shallow dip in the land; it felt good and free.

  He arrived home just as the moon showed itself large on the horizon and didn't bother to stable the horse; the nights were not so cold yet that he had to, but, removing the saddle and setting it on the porch steps, he let the blanket remain. Inside his house, it was dark, but little noises reached his ears and he knew that everyone was not yet asleep. Now that he was inside, though, in Ma's territory, he was aware that his odor was not entirely pleasing, though certainly quite strong. Noticing a shirt hanging on a hook just inside the door, he exchanged it for his own and took a moment to remove his chaps before continuing down the hall.