When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  He went to the door of Henry's room and ran into Joey coming from the other direction, who grinned to see his father back. They made a few brief and silent hand motions, and Pa understood that Joey had just been coming to help him and Joey understood that Pa wanted to talk to him first, so he ought to come back later. The boy nodded and hurried off, padding quietly in bare feet.

  Pa knocked softly and went in. Henry looked up at him, a little surprised that it was not Joey. He sat as near the head of the bed as he could, leaning the right side of his body against the wall. As Pa came in, he straightened a little, but the other man motioned him back. "Jus' got back," he said, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest. "Wanted to talk to you, if you ain't too tired."

  "—No."

  Pa sat down on the bed next to him, in the middle. It sagged a little under his weight. "It's about what I ast you before, if you'd wanna live back home—" He waited a moment, and Henry looked at him. He wanted to put it right, so he understood. "I got a girl," he said. "Well—a woman. For a maid. She'll help out with the baby—whatever's needed, on your word."

  Henry continued to stare at him a moment longer, not fully comprehending. "But..." he said at last. He pushed himself up, to sit.

  Pa put it plainly. "She's a whore. But I made it clear, if anything—anything—that's it, nothing else." He paused, chewing on his lip. "I know it'll be hard, another woman in the house, and not even family. Real hard, son. But I hope you'll try, for your little girl's sake. If it don't turn out—well, we'll see, but..."

  Henry understood. "I'll try."

  Pa smiled a little and reached out to pat Henry's good knee before standing. He crossed the room, pausing as his hand enveloped the knob. He took a step back into the room. "You—know you're like a son to me," he said. "And I know in bad times sometimes a man's gotta be a man, but there's times—when all he can think to be is a boy-- 'nd if--" Pa stopped, with no real need to finish the feeling he did not know quite how to put into words because Henry collapsed, almost from the inside out, and Pa stepped forward to catch him, wrapping his tree-trunk arms around the slight form and gathering it to his chest. He sat down on the edge of the bed, holding the boy's head against his body as he sobbed, a small and anguished sound that shook him fearfully. "All right, son, all right," Pa rumbled, rocking slowly back and forth. "All right."

  Pa held him, rocking, a long while, until his sobs quieted and finally he fell asleep, exhausted. Pa stood carefully and laid the boy out on the bed. Tenderly, as he had so many times with his own young children, he removed shoes and pants and shirt, wondering then, with the story those scars told, how the boy had ever survived. He found an old blanket in the corner and pulled it up over him. Henry moaned softly in his sleep, letting out a small, forceless sob. Pa bent and put a hand on top of his head, then left the room, turning as he went out to make certain that the doorknob did not snap and wake him.

  He went to the stairs, where he met Joey coming down. He gave the boy a true smile, one that could come only out of a father's pride, and put an arm around his shoulders as he steered him back up. At the top, Joey tilted his head upward, grinning, and disappeared silently into his room.

  The next evening, Pa hitched the horses to the old buckboard and took Henry out to the house, letting Joey tag along to care for the baby in the back. It was a silent ride, as nothing much could be said, and they arrived as the sun was touching the horizon.

  Henry, in the overcoat and scarf Ma had insisted upon, slid down to the ground without a word and stepped up to the porch. Joey looked up at his father as he reached the steps, expectant. But Pa only laid a firm, comforting hand upon the boy's shoulder, rumbling quietly. "You watch, son,” he said. “There goes a man." And then the older man let go and turned a little, struggling mightily with himself to draw a solid breath.

  Henry faltered at the steps, but reached out and grasped one of the posts holding up the roof over the porch, pulling himself up the stairs. A moment later, he disappeared inside.

  Pa patted Joey's back. "All right," he said, and lumbered heavily down from the wagon. He followed Henry's steps into the house, the boy lagging slightly behind with the sleeping child.

  Inside, it was cool and dim, and Pa had to labor for another moment against his failing breath until his eyes adjusted and he saw Henry, standing firm in the center of the room, his back to the door. To one side, next to the piano, Ms. Beaumont stood uneasily, hands folded behind her back, waiting for instructions.

  Henry drew in a careful breath, and then let it out. He did not look at Ms. Beaumont. "Don't—touch it," he whispered quietly, carefully, as though if he did not restrain himself, he might suddenly fracture.

  Ms. Beaumont, uncomprehending, glanced over at Pa. The older man nodded slightly to the piano, and then waved her gently away with one hand. Ms. Beaumont stepped aside and Henry closed his eyes, letting out another breath. "Thank you," he might have whispered.

  Joey shuffled forward a little with the baby, turning large, questioning eyes up to his father, who responded with a comforting arm that seemed to say, "wait."

  Henry felt that the pieces of his heart, which had already been broken, might suddenly crumble and blow away. He was numb. He did what seemed right, which was to look about the house, ensuring that every item was in its place. He stepped into the kitchen and observed but did not see the rolling pin upended on the corner of the counter, the plates arranged in the open cabinet from left to right, smallest to largest. The spices on the shelf, ordered according to color and season.

  He took another careful breath and went back to the hall. He opened the door at the end, and it was not the same. There was a new bed there and a few small items that did not belong. The room was no longer his. It was not a part of the house. He closed the door firmly and turned away.

  All was well in the bath; soap arranged, towels in place.

  He turned, and opened the bedroom door.

  "Pa—!"

  But Pa was there before Joey spoke, catching the young man when he faltered, his knees buckling beneath him as he sank against the great barrel chest, limp and pale. "Get a glass of water," Pa ordered, wrapping an arm about the boy's chest to hold him up.

  "No—" protested Henry as Ms. Beaumont went by, almost desperate. "No—no water—"

  "Son—"

  But he didn't want her to do it, to touch the glasses, ever, to put her fingerprints where Mary's were, to smear them out, ever, ever-- "No," he whispered, sobbing.

  But Pa held him firm. "Bear up, son, bear up," he rumbled quietly. "You've got to now, remember that."

  Ms. Beaumont appeared with a glass, and Pa forced him to take a sip or two. Henry began to cough, but Pa held him firm as he got it out, until finally he took the water of his own accord.

  "Good boy," affirmed Pa. He glanced out the window. "Now it's dark, and you've got to get settled for bed. Come on in your room."

  Henry went without protest, though his eyes were dull and unseeing, for he did not want to see, did not want to remember, for it could not be real.

  "Here, son," Pa was saying, "set down on the bed. Ms. Beaumont--"

  "No," said Henry, trying to rise.

  But Pa held him down. "It's got to come sometime, son, might as well be now. It's hard, but you've got to." He turned slightly, and rose, stepping away. "Ms. Beaumont."

  The woman stepped forward, knowing her duty, and did it cooly; and though Henry sobbed like a child, she relented not at all. When she stepped back, he lay upon the bed in his nightclothes, face down, silent.

  "Son—" Pa said, stepping forward. He hated it, as much as the boy, but he could see no other way, and that was all. With a gesture of his hand he shooed Ms. Beaumont out of the room, and lowered his voice to speak again. "Son." He put a hand gently upon the young man's back, and felt the ribs beneath his callused fingers.

  Henry drew in a ragged breath and turned his face away.

  Heavy in heart, Pa lowered himself to the edge of the bed, clasping his ha
nds tightly between spread knees. He did not speak for a long while. "It's too soon," he said to himself at last, shaking his head and cursing himself inwardly. "Shoulda realized—it's too—"

  "I'll bear it."

  "Son?" Pa looked at the boy's still form; he had spoken only just audibly.

  "I'll bear it," he whispered again. "Just—" his chest heaved. "Just let me--"

  Pa let his hand rest back on the thin, bony shoulder. "All right, son, all right." Quietly, he rose and left the room.

  When Pa had gone, Henry was still. Then, slowly, he clutched Mary's pillow to his body, and wept for all that was lost.

  In the morning, he dried his tears and called for Ms. Beaumont to bring the baby.

  Chapter Thirteen

  There was a booming knock, suddenly, on the door. Henry, bent over a paper at his desk in the corner, sat up straight and twisted to look, wiping a hand quickly over one eye to clear it. "Ms.—" he began, but the maid was already in the front hall, her hand on the door. It was her habit to sit in at the kitchen table, nights, reading, and she had been close. He nodded for her to open it.

  With a blast of thin, drizzly rain, Pa ducked inside, grabbing the door out of the woman’s hands and slamming it quickly. He was blanketed in a heavy leather poncho, dripping with rainwater. He pushed it up and over his head and held it out to the maid. "'Evening," he said. "I wonder if you'll take this in the kitchen to dry."

  "Yes sir," she said, gripping it with both hands and making small steps back down the hall to keep from wetting her dress.

  Pa started to clump into the front room to join his son-in-law when he noticed his boots were wet with syrupy mud and thought better of it. He smiled and was about to speak when Henry raised a hand, his index finger up. The younger man abandoned the gesture halfway to his lips, closing his hand into a loose fist, when he saw that Pa understood. Instead he cast his eyes to the center of the floor, where Daisy had fallen fast asleep on the rug near the fire. Pa smiled and tiptoed back to the hall, where he removed his boots and holster by the door. He padded back in a moment later and pulled a chair up to the desk.

  "How long's she been out?" he whispered, a low rumble.

  Henry spoke aloud, knowing his own voice was quiet enough not to wake the child. "Half an hour, maybe," he said. His hands, on the desk, carefully folded the paper he had been at and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Pa glanced curiously at this action but didn't comment.

  "Rain's comin' early this year," he said instead. "Caught me by surprise in town, and late, too. Thought maybe I'd come over this way and sleep here the night, if I could."

  "Of course."

  "Good, good." His eyes drifted, with Henry's, towards the sleeping child. After a moment, he turned back. "How're you doin', son?" he asked, honest.

  Henry looked at him, then back at Daisy, her chest rising and falling with the faint, peaceful breaths of a child. "It's a year, now," he said.

  "Today. Yes, I know." He paused. "An' I'd be lyin' if I didn't say that's half the reason I stopped off."

  "I'm—I'm always thankful for your concern."

  "Pleasure's mine, son, all of it, if that’s the word." He put his hands on his knees, leaning forward a little. "Shall I go an' lay your little one down?"

  "You'd be doin' me a service."

  Pa pushed up and went to the center of the floor, bending over and sliding his hands beneath her stomach. They were so large only one arm and a leg dangled over the side. Henry watched Pa turn and go into the bedroom, propping his head on one hand.

  After a bit, Pa returned with empty arms. "Went down without s'much as a peep," he said.

  "She sleeps sound."

  He sat down on the sofa, leaning back towards one armrest and lacing his fingers over his stomach. "All th' way through?"

  "'Til maybe six."

  "That's a blessing. Never had it with any a' ours till at least three years, it's gotta be." He ran a hand through his whitened hair, pulling it up a little. "It's why I got this," he said, chuckling a little.

  Henry smiled faintly.

  "Your folks stopped over ut'all?"

  The smile was gone, replaced with a sense of unease. "Once," he said, quiet. It had been awkward, painful, for all of them.

  "Mm," muttered Pa.

  They sat both silent for a while, eyes wandering slowly about the room. "Pa—" began Henry at last.

  Pa's chest swelled a little. Henry no longer addressed him directly, not much anymore, since mostly when they saw each other no one else was about and there wasn't a need, but in the past year he had occasionally called him 'Pa,' and it made the older man ache with contentment. "What is it, son?" he rumbled, his voice a little tight.

  "I wonder if while you're here—if you'd do me a favor, by—takin' me out to the graveyard—tomorrow."

  Pa frowned slightly, then realized— "Ain't you ever been out there, son?"

  "—No, sir."

  "Well—shoot, a' course. I reckon—we both missed the funeral, didn't we."

  "I—I don't much mind."

  "No," said Pa, thoughtful. "Neither do I." He looked at his host, straining his eyes a little to see from the couch. "Never did expect it to be this way, didja?" he asked, gently, and thought a moment later that maybe he shouldn't have.

  "No," whispered Henry. He looked away. "...Maybe I should have."

  "No," Pa said, quick. "Nobody expected it this way. People oughtn't." He closed his eyes and breathed out. "I 'pologize, son," he said. "I get tired, comf'terble, and my tongue gets loose."

  "It's all right." He leaned over and blew out the candle on the edge of the desk, leaving the room in the dusky light of two lamps on either end of the sofa. "There's blankets in the hall cabinet," he said.

  Pa waved a hand. "It's warm enough in here to keep a snake happy. I'm a polar bear."

  "All right." Grasping the far edge of the weighty desk, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself up. "I—reckon I'll—go on to bed—" he said, hesitating through short, half-pained breaths. "Put the lamps out whenever you like."

  "Will do. 'Night, son."

  "Good night." He went to the door of his room, paused with his hand on the knob and turned slightly. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, lowly, and went in, closing the door behind himself. Pa lay still on the sofa, watching, and after a moment Ms. Beaumont appeared, her eyes turned downward, and disappeared through the doorway as well. A minute or two later she emerged, head still down, a small stack of folded clothing held in her open hands. She receded down the hall to her own room, and Pa settled back to blow out one of the lamps.

  "Poor boy," he muttered softly.

  In the morning after breakfast, the rain had cleared except for a few looming clouds on the horizon, so Pa hitched up a wagon from the barn and headed back for town with Henry and Daisy by his side. The child bounced happily on Henry's lap with the motion of the buckboard, every now and then on a downward beat crying out eagerly, "Da!"

  "I think that's gonna be 'Daddy' soon," laughed Pa.

  Henry bent and spoke into his child's ear. "Da!" she said again, and Henry repeated his words, then turned his head aside suddenly to cough. "Pa!" she said, finally, and next to her Pa's laughter became nearer a roar.

  He reached over and patted her head, covered with light, wispy hair. "Smart little gal," he told her. She grinned and gurgled and her bown eyes sparkled.

  They were quieter as they neared the graveyard, and Pa turned the wagon so they circled around from the outside of town, following a faint set of ruts that stopped just at the bottom of the hill. Henry turned to him. "Would you—look after my girl for a minute?" he asked.

  "Sure, son," grunted Pa, taking Daisy as she was handed over. "Take your time. Need some help?"

  He moved to the side of the wagon. "No—no, I got it." Holding his breath, he slid over the side to the ground. For a moment he clung to the edge of the wagon boards so as not to slip in the caking mud, then let go and started slowly up the sloping hill. Pa watched
him a minute to make certain he was all right, then turned to Daisy and began to bounce her on one knee.

  When he reached the first gravestone, Henry put his hand out to lean against it a little, resting. He remembered well, of course, where Mary's family lay, and after a moment began to circle round to the place. Her stone was easy to pick out, new and brilliant white amongst the old and rotting stones. He came to it, feeling strangely hollow inside, a kind of dull sadness throbbing within. The marble, cool as he touched it, was topped with a small, fairy-like angel, her stony robes flowing about her legs as though she were caught in a heavy wind. He reached up, feeling a chill breeze in his face, and let his fingers trace the lines of the delicate pixie face. He looked over his shoulder at the giant tree that topped the hill, overshadowing it, and remembered and knew that she did not mind dying, no—but oh—he minded being alone.

  He took his hand from the stone and reached inside to the warmth of his coat pocket, and, withdrawing the paper he had placed there the night before, read it silently to the open air. After, he held it a moment, looking up at the clouded sky, and then let it drop from his fingers to the ground below. Again, he held to the gravestone a moment, and used his cane to scrape a few rocks over the edge of the paper.

  Pa looked up again as he started down, squinting in the scattered brightness of the sun through the clouds. "Da," said Daisy, quite serious, pointing.

  "That's right, honey," rumbled Pa. "And your ma, too, I imagine."

  After Pa left Henry and Daisy off at their place and saddled his own horse, he headed back home; then, on a half-resisted thought, he swung back towards town. He rode his horse straight up through a quarter of the grave markers, then unseated himself and threw the reins around a cross-topped stone. "You pull that off and I've got a bullet for you," he muttered to the beast, who shifted nervously at his tone.

  He stepped around the rest of the weather-bitten monuments to his father's and mother's and then his daughter's. The note was still there and he picked it up, brushing off a bit of the damp earth with thick and callused fingers as he began to read. Dearest Mary-- Every moment I think of you, and it pains so much I'd almost rather cut out my heart, but I cannot help it and I cannot say I would not have done it the same-- Pa's eyes fell down the page, and he felt his face suddenly hot. Daisy is almost walking, any day now, and better than me, I'm--