I worked throughout the afternoon, hardly noticing when evening arrived except that I had to get up to light the lamp beside my bed, which I then brought over to the table. I was startled—perhaps shocked would be the word—when there was a knock at my door. I ignored it at first, but it came again, along with a soft whisper of "Edward."
I opened the door and there she was—not Sarah, but the angel herself. Forgive the sarcasm... it comes forth only with spirits, although I admit that it is there in my mind many other times as well. We all have things we never say, do we not?
I looked at her for a moment, and my harshness melted. "May I come in?" she asked, quietly. She held up a basket. "Henry's resting, but I thought you might like something to eat."
I looked over her shoulder, and, seeing no one, cursed silently the fates. There are times when a man regrets any last shred of decency within his soul. Indeed—it seemed I still retained a tenuous thread or two.
In any case, I stood back and allowed her to enter, shoving the door when she was through so that when I let go it swung shut with the momentum. I turned, feeling a little dizzy, and saw that she was at the table, her back towards me. She glanced at me over one shoulder. "I see I'm a little late," she said, indicating the platter of food I had not touched.
"Lunch," I returned shortly, hearing my voice slur a little. Dear Lord—was I drunk? I glanced at the table and saw the open flask, sitting right there, next to the platter and my pen-stained papers. It dawned on me that of course she had seen it. I met her eyes and glared daringly, intending (apparently) to intimidate her into shying from the matter.
Instead, she simply gazed back, holding my eyes steadily. At last I let out an angry breath and turned away. Behind me, I heard her move to put her little basket on the table next to my lunch, and I pretended to look out the window.
"These are beautiful," she said quietly. "You should show them to Henry. He adores things like that."
I turned. Her back was still to me, but I could see her hand, brushing my drawings gently, spreading them out over the top of the desk. She glanced at me over her shoulder again, her eyes serious and large. "Yeah. Sure," I said, slowly—to keep from slurring. "It's just for work."
"Do you ever draw anymore? I mean..."
I knew what she meant. People. Places. Pretty things. I shrugged noncommittally and shook my head. That habit had dwindled to nothing ever since I had gone to the city. There's not much beauty in a city. And the parts an out-of-towner might appreciate are only superficial.
"I could get you some paper," she offered. I was about to protest, but she went on. "No—let me, Edward. Just in case. Please."
I sat down on the end of the bed and looked at her.
"Well," she said, after a moment of gazing down at me. "I'd better go."
I felt like a chastised child. "G'night," I said, only it came out oddly.
"Good night, Edward." The door was open a crack and she slipped out, and then it was closed.
I sat on the bed for a while, after that, and everything began to seem rather like one of those horrible, mean jokes kids play on you when you're a kid, and everyone's laughing and you start to laugh too, because you don't know what else to do and you know if you were one of the other kids, you'd be laughing—you would. But this time, when it's on you, and you laugh, it hurts. What else are you going to do?
So I stood up, feeling the world slightly giddy around me, and made a swipe for the flask on the desk—only it wasn't there. If that shred of decency hadn't remained, even with the alcohol, I would have cursed after that lovely woman-child—but I didn't. Instead, I sank into the chair and lay my head on the table, cradling it in folded arms. My drawings crumpled a little as I slid forward, but I didn't care.
Oh—did I mention? In the too-early morning, breakfast came. About nine, I mean. A youngish looking man brought it on a plate and took away yesterday's uneaten lunch.
It took me until half past the hour to raise myself from the bed—very slowly, I assure you—and walk over to the platter. There was a little folded card next to my meal, and I opened it.
Dear Edward--
I hope you will eat this food- if not for your own sake, well then, for mine. Or whomever else you may have in mind. When you've gotten things sorted out, Henry and I hope to see you here. You will always be welcome.
Your sister,
Mary
I stopped on those last words. My sister? Did she truly--
Well. I will be honest. I cried. Perhaps it was half the pain of the pounding in my head, but when I finally stopped, my breakfast needed no salting. I ate it all, though I felt a little ill towards the end. When that action was finished, mostly so I could tell Mary that I had done it and see her relieved smile, I felt immediately like running to her and crying in her lap.
But Henry had that sole privilege now, not I, nor any other man. A girl, a good, wholesome girl, in a small town, is regarded somehow as a psychiatrist is, or has lately become in larger cities. When male friends are lacking, or simply cannot be told, a good girl will let you, for an hour or so, lay your head upon her lap on some front porch swing or soft parlor couch. She will pet your head, and tell you it will be all right, and it will never go any further, because she is a good girl and the boy of course knows this. And if he loses his head in this moment of pain and anguish, the good girl will always remain good. She does because she has had the sense in the first place to meet on the porch or in the parlor, and not out in a far field or a barn.
But when the good girl, at last, marries—when that happens, this sort of public domain is purchased with a vow of life. Her husband alone is privy to her comforts, and he is the luckiest man alive to have married a good girl.
And I was ragged, unshaven. How long had it been? Had I come in from the train like this? I wondered why I had not noticed earlier. I leaned out of my door and whispered (a yell would have set my ears to ringing) down the hall for a boy to bring some water for my bath.
It was tepid; no matter, the day was already warm. I tipped a little, and it was nearly eleven before I was finished preparing. I kept my mind firmly on my work—that is, washing in every place imaginable and then shaving my wild, thick beard. Well… it was not wild yet, but had I let it go for another week, it would have been. My hair grows very quickly and is rather coarse. I wear it a little long, to about my ears, because there is simply nothing else to be done with it. I knew that if I thought of other things, I would forget myself and wind up emerging dirtier than I had been when I entered the washroom.
At last, however, I finished, and went out onto the boardwalk feeling as if I had been rubbed raw, which was quite possible. I didn't mind that rawness; I was in a sort of self-depreciating mood, and I probably wouldn't have made much fuss over a bullet wound. That's only talk, though. I've never been shot, and I have no idea what I would do under such circumstances. For that one reason, I am a little glad I was not allowed in the army—perhaps I am afraid that I would turn out to be a coward. Perhaps because of that fear, I do think myself a coward. But never mind.
I was just stepping off the boardwalk to cross the street when I halted and turned. Quickly, I jogged back into the hotel and went to my room. Inside, I grabbed my drawings of the night before, intending to fold them and stick them into the inside pocket of my jacket. I did this, but first I paused, looking through them. To tell the truth, I did not remember them very well, but they were good and I knew it. Why is it that when one is ill, or dead on his feet with weariness—or a little drunk—he becomes artistically brilliant? Perhaps it is only in that state when our minds are free of "buts" and "what ifs," and loosed to wander. I must admit, a few of my sketches were completely irrational—meaning there was no way the building would have held itself up even were God's own hand steadying it—but a few of them were good. I tossed the improbable ones in the wastebasket by the door and put the other two or three into my pocket.
The little apartment, when I arrived, was currently serving as an
office. I almost turned and went away, seeing the other man inside, but from his desk Henry gestured for me to enter. I did so.
"Good morning, Edward," he said, in soft, civil tones. Not a hint of resentment, embarrassment; nothing. "Mary's in the kitchen if you want—I'll be just a minute."
"Thanks," I said, feeling my face flush, although I knew perfectly well it was not red. I had never, to my knowledge, colored. I felt the blood, always, come hot to my face, but nothing ever became visible to the observer. I have had incidence to regret this, and also to be thankful for it. At the present moment... I did not know, nor do I now. Things such as these have to be measured carefully through time; only when the event has long and safely passed do we dare examine it levelly. In any case, I went into the kitchen. Mary was not there, and so I sat at the table, looking about the room.
My first impression had been right; it was a small place, very much so, but it was a home. I could spot little things—a towel lying on the counter beside the stove, a rolling pin standing on its end beside the cutting board—that had been carried over from her mother's home, passed down as naturally as a particular nose or a distinctive pair of eyes or ears.
Henry entered then, and I heard him a moment before he came around the corner. "Oh," he said, pleasantly, his free hand resting against the doorframe. "So Mary was not in here." He came into the room, towards the table. "I apologize for making you wait."
I shook my head. "It's fine," I said. You must understand—or I must, for my own sake, explain—that Henry seemed to have a code for dealing with people—modus operandum, I suppose you could say. Perhaps it was his stay in the army that did it, but as I look back, it seems he had always been that way; in fact, maybe all rather shy folk have something akin to it. It was probably not conscious on his part, and in fact I know it was not; nevertheless, it was a little odd if you were not used to it. With strangers, he was unfailingly polite, although he preferred not to speak at all. When it was necessary, however, he did so with a minimum number of words, although he was careful not to offend. Friends and family were only slightly different; occasionally, when you were alone with him and feeling talkative yourself, he would engage you gently, and even now and then slip past a faint jest, something you usually didn't notice until the time for laughter had passed. Never, though, would he speak of himself. If a direct question were asked, he would answer, though somewhat vaguely and most assuredly brief.
I am placed, I believe, somewhere in between those two categories. He does not call me by my family name, but I do not think I have had a truly intimate conversation with him more than once or twice. So perhaps I am in that second category, after all, and do not know it. In any case, I believe—this is my own opinion—that there must be a third and extraordinarily secret segment of his personality, one locked tightly within. It must be there, because I can see clearly that more is on his mind than he is willing to say aloud. If anyone is to see this hidden aspect, it can only be Mary, because she has somehow found the key. I am not an idiot; I can see that much. But my narrative:
"She must be in the bedroom," he concluded. He stepped forward, but put up a hand as I shifted to rise. "--No— It's all right, I can get it. Thank you." He put his palm on the surface of the little oak table and eased into the chair across from me. He looked at me calmly, waiting patiently for me to say something.
"Mary, she brought me dinner--" I began, cutting myself off. He nodded, acknowledging the fact and approving it. "Well, she said you'd like to see my drawings." I pulled the creased papers out of my inner pocket and attempted to straighten them somewhat. He leaned forward as I handed them across, then sat back to look at them carefully, one by one. For a while he looked thoughtful, and finally put one down on the table, setting the others to the side.
"What is this?" he asked.
I leaned forward to see the one he had indicated. "Oh," I said. "Plumbing."
He picked it up again and re-examined it. I felt oddly nervous. "Are—are there books, for things like these?" he asked. "With drawings?"
"Sure," I said. "It's what we learned out of in school. I'll write a name or two down, if you want." His grey eyes looked somehow eager, though not in an especially puppyish way. "Do you have a pencil?"
He shifted in the chair. "On my desk—"
"I'll get it," I offered, and was there and back in a matter of moments. I sat down in the chair next to him this time, careful not to jar his leg, and wrote on the back of my sketch paper. "There," I said. "Keep the paper."
"No," he said, "You'd better take it."
"It's nothing," I countered. "If it's any good, I'll remember it. I'll probably remember it even if it's bad."
"All right. Thank you, Edward."
"'Welcome." I paused again, and there again was the polite look from him, not staring at me, and not avoiding my eyes. It was, I think, that he would not be opposed to conversation, but that he did not have a topic himself; or if he did, preferred to keep it to himself. I sat back in my chair, not quite at ease but not tense, either. "You know," I said, "what I miss most—I would dearly like to straddle a horse again."
"Yes," he said, almost absently, and then looked up sharply, puzzled. "But you're—oh, the East." He paled visibly, as if he had let something go unintentionally, and his hand ran along the curve of the cane handle, resting against the table.
I felt immediately sorry for having elicited this response, though I had not meant to. I decided it would be best to ignore it. "Too many closed-in places," I said, shaking my head. "I remember you had a fine horse—what was her name?"
"Jenny."
"Jenny, that was it. What happened to her?"
"I—let her go. On the plain. She was wild, anyway."
I nodded, but did not pry into the whys of it. His hand slid around the handle again, and I felt what I had asked already was not quite wanted.
"There you are."
I looked up, puzzled, but there was Mary coming around the corner. She came up behind Henry and he turned his head to look up at her, smiling a little as her hands rested on his shoulders. I stood, automatically, and immediately felt awkward for doing so. I blinked because my eyes were cloudy with wetness, and she cocked her head a little to the side, puzzled. Perhaps I would have rather been alone with her, but it could not wait and I was not thinking of that anyway. "Do you really call yourself my sister?" I asked, and for the first time it came out clearly, without choking in my throat, without making me feel like I had betrayed my parents.
She patted Henry's upper chest softly, and his hand came up to brush hers as she stepped out from behind him and it slipped away. "Of course I do!" she said, looking a little puzzled. "I always have, you know that."
I shook my head, numbly. No, I hadn't. Or maybe I should have but was too damn block-headed to see. I blinked again.
Mary stepped forward again, and embraced me. "You didn't?" she laughed, softly, in sympathy. "I'm sorry—I should have said, Edward, I should have." Gently, she patted my back, then gave me a squeeze and released me. "Well, then," she said, "we should celebrate. It's not every day you find a sister. Will you stay for lunch?"
I looked at her, and then at Henry. She moved back a little, and her hand went back and he took it. "No," I said suddenly. "I mean—thank you, but—do you mind? I'd like to..."
"Go on. It's all right."
"Thank you," I whispered, nodding to each of them. I backed up a few steps, then turned and went, not hurrying this time. I walked down the boardwalk a ways, enjoying the hot sun, and crossed over to my hotel. I mentioned earlier that there were certain benefits to being nearsighted, and I was now enjoying one of them; for all I knew, Sarah could be standing twenty feet away, watching me. I, however, had neither the ability nor the desire to see her, unless chance again placed her directly in my path. It did not, and I arrived safely in the lobby, and stopped at the desk in front. "Could I get some lunch delivered upstairs?" I asked.
The man looked up from his newspaper. "Will do," he
said, starting to fold it.
I turned, and then stopped. "Would you have any more paper around?"
He grunted and stood, then fished around behind the counter. "Here," he said after a moment, handing me several pieces. "We got more if you want."
"This'll do. Thank you."
He grunted in acknowledgement and I went up the stairs to my room. I hadn't noticed before, but my window overlooked the street below, and so I pulled the table across the room to face out, adding the chair a minute later. I sat down, and watched people go by. Their shapes were fuzzy—everything was fuzzy—but my imagination and my memory filled in the rest. I licked the tip of the pencil and set my hand to drawing.
After a while—after my lunch had come and gone—I thought I saw the door to Henry and Mary's place open. I knew it was them when I saw that haze of yellow—Mary's lovely dress. Henry was next to her, in brown, and they walked slowly down the board sidewalk. I squinted, trying to make out faces, but it didn't matter; they were in my mind.
I feel compelled to impress again that I was not in love with Mary Peterson. My fancy, tainted with brandy, might have entertained the notion for a moment or two, but it was ridiculous. No—it was something about the two of them, together, that I loved. The only way I can think to put it—and this is a poor comparison—is to say it was like when an expert horseman rides a filly of the finest breeding. Alone, each of them is a fine specimen, but put rider on horse and there is a thing of beauty, stretching long and lean and powerful across the plain. It is simply a wonderful thing to see them, and you love the thing because it is so beautiful and perfect.
Perhaps I was in love with her, a little. But no more than any other man, and I wouldn't have dared to act upon it. No—she was my sister. I closed my eyes, and felt a smile on my face. It was more than good enough.
I sat in that chair, watching the blurry little town go by, until the sun set and a chill breeze blew through. I closed the window then, and went to bed.
When Henry Came Home Page 11