Inside the theatre was quite different—the fancy dresses and suits were all crowded together, compacted like a single thriving diamond, only dusky and impure. Many of the men were smoking cigars, and the air was acrid with the musky odor. Henry coughed a little but was all right with some water fetched from the bar next door. They sat down near the front, on the edge of the middle aisle. Quickly, Mary began to spot people they knew, and waved every few seconds. After a minute, she leaned over. "Which one is Rogers?" she whispered into his ear. She had been looking at the box seats.
Henry looked up and spotted them, nodding slightly in their direction. "There," he said. Rogers was sitting with a somewhat plump woman who exhibited several bands of jewels about her neck and wrists. If she was not dainty, she was striking in a way that made her presence immediately known and respected for the straightforward manner that it was.
"Goodness," said Mary. "I'd like to meet her."
Rogers saw them looking up and waved. "He'll probably find us, after," commented Henry, returning the gesture briefly.
Mary turned from her examination of the woman to the stage. "Oh, look," she said, "it's starting."
If the actors were not thespians in the truest sense, they made their respective points known, performing with such feeling that a skillful inflection and complete comprehension on the part of the audience was not necessary. Mary, of course, did cry, and in fact wept openly on Henry's shoulder, though laughing wetly at herself all the while.
When it was over, they remained seated while the rest of the attendees filed out slowly, Mary taking time to dry her eyes on Henry's handkerchief. "And that—" she hiccoughed, "isn't half so bad as Hamlet!"
Henry, himself dry-eyed, smiled a little and put an arm around her shoulder. "Are you cold?"
She hiccoughed again. "Oh, no—it's so warm in here..." her eyes drifted upwards to the approaching couple of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. Henry turned slightly and nodded a hello as they came down the row. Mary helped him up, and he took Rogers' hand.
"Mr. Rogers, this is my wife, Mary. Mary, Supervisor Rogers." As a group, they stepped out into the aisle.
"Pleased to meet you," nodded Mary, extending her hand.
"Please, just Mark. And—Mary, if I may, and Henry, this is my wife, Celia."
"What a lovely name," breathed Mary.
Mrs. Rogers swelled. "Thank you, dear." She turned to Henry. "My husband talks of you favorably," she pronounced, looking down at him through sparkling little eyes. She held out a lace-gloved hand, as if expecting it to be kissed, but Henry only held it awkwardly for a moment, as if unsure of what he was apparently expected to do. Momentarily, it was withdrawn, and he looked relieved. But it was only a second before the hand came out again, delicately, to tag his shoulder and withdraw. Proper concern flooded her oval face. "But my darling," she half-drawled. "Doesn't your little wife feed you well? You look positively phthisic."
"Well—" pounced Mary, straightening. She was cut off by Henry's firm hand in hers, squeezing slightly. "How rude," she amended, drawing back, softly enough so that Celia might pretend she hadn't heard.
"Mrs. Rogers," Henry said carefully, simply, "my—appearance doesn't have anything to do with my wife. She's a fine cook." He glanced at her, feeling his thinness against the clothes he wore like steel wool. "In fact, we'd be pleased if you'd come to dinner some night soon."
Mary relaxed and moved closer. "There's plenty, any night you happen by," she added, smiling. She wanted to kiss Henry, right there in front of Celia Rogers and everybody, but restrained herself for the moment. "Henry got me this cooking book, two weeks ago—you ain't seen such recipes in all your life. I'm afraid to try some of them, they're so odd."
Celia stepped aside a little, to discuss the matter confidentially with Mary. "I adore cooking," she said. "I hope we'll stop by on a night you decide to try one of those strange dishes."
Mary giggled. "I'm trying one out every other night, and I've got at least three weeks to go, so you've..."
Now that the women had gone to their business, Mark and Henry walked down the aisle aways. "Have you thought about it?" asked Rogers. "If not—well, I'll be here all tomorrow, it turns out."
Henry shook his head. "No, I thought it out. Talked to Mary. There's some things I gotta make clear." He stopped and looked at the supervisor. "I ain't gonna—promote myself. Folks know who I am and if they want me in they'll say with a vote. I won't stand up against another man, either, unless I think he's dead wrong, which isn't likely. And if I'm mayor, I'll be mayor, and not a hand for the county to work through. I'll do what I think is right, which is to set up a town council to take my place." He paused. "That's all."
Rogers grinned. "Mr. Peterson, you are exactly the man I'm looking for."
Henry was relieved to find his wife approaching from behind. Quickly, she shuffled up beside him and wound her hand around his. "We'd—better be going," he said.
Celia paused while her husband wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. "Well," she said, starting out ahead, "Maybe we'll come by one night."
"Please do," Mary called back, as the couple faded away. She took Henry's arm. "What a strange woman," she mused. "Mighty rude, but I ain't sure if she means to be or not. And I s'pose you can't really fault someone for somethin' they don't know they've done... can you?" She bit her lip. "But shouldn't someone say something, or would that just make her think you've been rude to her?"
Henry smiled. "I reckon not, but I wouldn't go worrying over it. Some people aren't meant to be figured out."
Mary flung her arms around his neck and kissed him then, letting herself go completely.
"What will you say in your first speech?" she asked after, flushed. She bent to pick up her shawl as he gathered himself.
"What—" Henry cut himself off, looking at her sharply.
Laughing, Mary hugged him again. "Did you think you wouldn't have to make a speech? They always have one, I think."
Henry paled suddenly, but she took his arm again and pulled him forward.
"Come on, you'll do fine. I know it."
They walked home together under the stars, all alone except for faint and off-kilter piano music from the saloon at the far end of the main street. It never closed, but at this hour of the night it might as well have been, for the whiskey sales never outweighed the salaries of those who provided the services thereof. Still, the musician at the piano played on, more out of loneliness, perhaps, than anything.
"I like that music," commented Mary. "I hope he never stops, him in particular. He plays sad songs, kind of, or at least he knows how to play every song in a sad way—like it knows it's going to come to an end and die as soon as the last note is hit, but knowing at the same time that if it went on forever it couldn't really be a song anyone would like. It's kind of a sweet sad, I guess. I can hear it when I'm going to sleep, and it always reminds me of the stars, how I'd look up and see them when I was little and spent nights outside in summer. I don't know why it reminds me of that."
Henry said nothing, but not in a rude way; it was more like a silence of agreement, and they walked on home without saying anything, feeling a faint but wonderful nip of cold, the last remnant of a bitter spring.
"Hen, wake up." His eyes flew open, startled irrationally by her gentle, calm words in the dark. Immediately her arms enveloped him, cradling his head. She was almost sitting up. "Don't be afraid," she whispered, and he felt her long hair brush across his face and then pull back again. She was quiet for a while, letting his breaths slow. "I wish you didn't have nightmares," she said at last, stroking the side of his arm and feeling the long scar there, knowing she was the only one who would ever see it.
He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes, squinting tightly for a moment, and then sighed. "Does—does it frighten you?"
Mary considered. "No," she said at last, shaking her head. He coughed a little. "Do you need some water?"
"No." He took her hand, and held it, his eyes closed. "I—I
'm sorry."
She could feel his hand shaking in hers, from terror. With her other hand, she brushed his forehead. "Do you want to talk about it, Hen?"
He tugged lightly on her arm and she slid down next to him, under the blankets, and he felt her arms around him and her hair upon his cheek. "I--" he held in his breath for a long while, then let it out. He wanted to say everything, just let it tumble out and have it all over with, have someone who knew what was broken on the inside and be able to understand, just... understand. But it wasn't that simple because it wouldn't come out-- just wouldn't— "I—sometimes, besides the rest—it's like they're trying to give me—something--" he whispered brokenly in her ear, afraid—ashamed—to say it any louder. "In my heart I got this feeling I know it ain't mine, or it shouldn't be—and I keep trying to tell them it must be John's, not mine, but—but they can't hear me or understand me—" he broke off, breathing raggedly.
"Hen—" her voice was soft, and for a minute she stroked his hair with gentle fingers. "You didn't take anything from John. This life is yours, Hen, and if John were here, he wouldn't hold one minute against you."
He turned his face away. "I know," he whispered.
Mary's hand touched his cheek. "You know it in your head, it just hasn't got to your heart. Sometimes it works that way."
"It—just don't seem right—"
"Nobody said anything about right and wrong, or even fair. I guess maybe you just gotta keep remindin' yourself every day."
"Mary—I'm sorry, I'm—"
"Shh." She kissed him. "No. Don't be, don't ever be.”
He was silent for a moment, pained. "Mary—I ain't said it all--"
"Shh," she repeated, gently, combing his hair with her fingers. "That's good for tonight. That's good for tonight."
Mary drew the curtains aside in the morning with a flourish. Henry blinked and sat up on one elbow to see that she was already dressed. "I didn't hear you," he said.
She grinned. "I was quiet. And you were snoring."
"I—" he looked humbly apologetic.
She came over and mussed his hair, kissed him, then pulled aside the sheets. "No, you weren't. I was fooling. Breakfast is ready."
He could smell it, strong and fulfilling, and sat up to put on his shirt.
When he sat down at the kitchen table, Mary flapped the paper down in front of him, instead of breakfast. "Eat this," she commanded, smiling. She sat down across from him and watched his face. Slowly, his fingers flipped up the front page, and the color drained from his face. 'Local Son in Running for Mayor,' the headline declared.
"I—told Rogers. No promotions—"
Mary bent forward and snatched the paper from his loose fingers. "Rogers didn't write this, silly, Mr. Bickerson did. The paper man."
"But..."
She flashed an adoring smile, and it held. "Henry dear, people are going to know sooner or later, and it's news. Maybe the only news in this little town. So try and not be angry at poor Mr. Bickerson for earning his living."
He was about to say he wasn't angry, but she held the paper up with one hand so the light from the window fell on it, and began to read.
"As of the evening of May twenty-fifth, local resident Henry Peterson has admitted his candidacy—" she interrupted herself with a giggle. "'Admitted.' That's just right. Mr. Bickerson has you perfectly!" Again, she held up the paper, flourishing her other hand, flower-like. "Admitted his candidacy for the office of mayor, the first this town has ever seen. Mr. Mark Rogers, County Supervisor, relates that Mr. Peterson plans immediately following his election to organize a town council—that's a good idea, Hen—which will..." she trailed off, skimming down the rest of the article. As her eyes reached the last paragraph, she grinned. "And it is the opinion of this paper," she declared, punctuating herself with a stab at the newsprint, "that Henry Peterson is the ideal choice for mayor of this fine city." With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the paper aside. It hit the windowpane and fluttered down to the floor, but suddenly she was looking across at Henry, whose eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. She scooted on her chair around the table, until she was next to him. "Do you want to do this?" she asked.
He looked up at her. "I ain't gonna live up to anyone's expectations," he said. "I don't want anyone misled."
"No one is expectin' anything special, Hen. Folks know you and trust you, and they know you're just as human as anyone."
"I know—just makes me uneasy, I guess."
She hugged him. "And I love you for it."
He put his arms around her and spoke into her ear. "Sometimes I think I know every bit of you, straight through, and sometimes I can't figure out one word."
"Now?"
"Not one word."
"Oh—" She spun away and returned with his plate, which she plunked down before him, still steaming. "You just go on and eat," she commanded, grinning.
"Do what?" He feigned puzzlement.
She let out a half-growl and ran both hands through his hair from opposite directions, pulling up so it stood up in points. "You," she declared, "are terrible."
He smiled a little, in a kind of privately satisfied way, and, smoothing down his hair with one hand, began to eat.
"Maybe that's the fun of it," mused Mary a while later, when she joined him with her own meal. "Figuring each other out, I mean."
At noon they stepped down to the general store for a few supplies. Mary stopped along the way to pay a few pennies for three crimson roses a woman was selling from a small hand-basket. She skipped back to Henry and, breaking one off almost at the head, breathed of it once and stuck it into the little hole on his lapel. He paled a little but let it remain, contrasting darkly against his complexion.
Mrs. Wilkins, who boarded out several of her rooms for income, stopped them. "I just caught the paper, dear," she said, smiling sweetly. "I knowed right away you was the right one, and you got my vote."
Henry was slightly embarrassed. "Well—thank you."
"You'll be mighty hurried, I know, with all you gotta do, but I hope you ain't gonna forget the little folks in this town." She worried her hands over one another, holding them in close to her body and bending over slightly to ease her arthritis in the way she always had, as if protecting something small and fragile within her bosom.
"I don't guess anyone's little, ma'am—" he started.
She released a hand and shook a finger at him, up and down. "Well, boy, I got faith in you, and I already told Mrs. Fitzgarden there ain't no way you was gonna let that Gerald Hawkins build his gambling house right next to my place." She scooted off in the direction she had been going. "I got faith in you, boy!" she called back, the sound shivering and cracking with brittle age.
Henry turned to look after her, leaning over a little more on his cane, and breathed carefully for a moment. When she disappeared around a corner, he was still looking, staring out into nothing. He started when Mary touched his shoulder, and she slid her arm through his to steady him.
"Come on," she said quietly, tugging at his sleeve. "It'll be all right." He turned and went with her into the general store.
Mr. Goodwin, the grocer, greeted them, all grandfatherly smiles, and made Henry brighten some. Mary went to get her things while her husband waited at the counter. The grocer fiddled with a few sums, then put the paper aside. "Congratulations," he said, and put his hand out. Henry took it and smiled weakly. "Thought a sort of change like this might be comin' soon. I been here so long it's all like molasses, and then one day you look back and it's slid right down like merc'ry." He grinned and leaned up against the counter, crossing his age-spotted arms, skin loose and thin on them like newborn pups'. "I'd got half a mind to run m'self, 'til I heard you was in."
Henry looked at him. "I wish you would," he said, serious.
The grocer laughed. The sound was dry and pleasing, like old newspapers kept in some back storeroom for years on end, all cool and preserved until you picked them up and they near crumbled in your hands. "Don't tempt me, s
on. No—I gotta let the young folks get a hand in things. I'm one for serving time while you're good, then just kinda slippin' out the back like maybe you was never there. I ain't gonna hang onto what I ain't got—which is all that spark and energy it takes."
Henry was quiet. "Sometimes a job takes experience. Knowing."
"And you ain't got that, son? I see your eyes, and I think, there's mine, right in front of me, reflected right back and more."
Henry looked away.
The grocer picked up his pad again and scratched on it a little with his pencil. "Well—anyhow, good luck to you, son. You're a fine man and I'll be proud to call you mayor."
"Thank you, Mr. Goodwin," Henry whispered. Mary came up behind him with a few canned items.
"Well, here's the little lady herself. 'Afternoon, darlin’."
Mary flushed, pleased. "'Afternoon," she returned.
"Word is, they're puttin' together a town meetin," he said, counting up the purchases. "They'll be wantin' you to speak, I reckon." He flashed his gaze upward for a moment from his business.
Henry paled. "When?"
"Tomorrow, I think, mebbe day after. Two and three bits, darlin'."
Mary paid. "Things sure move fast," she said. "Henry only decided yesterday."
The grocer shrugged. "I reckon now it's been long enough, everything's just gonna go in one big rush. Shoot, mebbe judgment day'll show up next week."
Mary grinned and picked up her things. "Maybe it will, and maybe it won't," she said, as they turned to go.
They heard the old man's last words as the door was closing behind him. "Don't much matter to me!" he called. "Too old to care!"
Mary giggled. "He's been a hundred and ninety since I was born," she informed Henry.
As it happened, the town meeting was held two days later, in the theatre; it was the only place with enough seats. Mary and Henry arrived early, to meet up with Mark Rogers. They were all alone in the big place except for a few men helping to set up.
Rogers adjusted his collar and brushed a few specks of dust from one sleeve. "I'll just get everything started," he explained. "Tell folks what's going on, answer some questions, then introduce you."
When Henry Came Home Page 7