When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  Pa’s chest boomed with laughter. "Well, son—" he thumped Henry gently on the back. "Looks to me like you tamed the wild beast. I reckon she's yours now till the end of time."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Son—tell me truth now—you got any idea what I'm sayin?"

  "Only a little, sir."

  Pa laughed again. "Never you mind, son. No matter. But that young wife a'yours gave her ma and me trouble like you wouldn't believe when she was young."

  "Yes, sir."

  Donovan came back into the office. Pa broke away from Henry and stood by the rolltop. "One minute, son, and we'll have you all ready to go."

  Henry went outside and walked down the planking a ways to the general store. Mary was just coming out. She smiled and hooked her arm through his. "Sarah'll stay in for a while. Grocer's wife is helping her with wedding gown fabrics. That coat warm enough for you?"

  "It'll do for now. They're almost loaded up." He nodded as Ma Baker, the seamstress, walked past.

  "Hullo," said Mary. She turned back to Henry and was about to say something, but he stopped, a hand on her arm. He looked away, over the street and the wagons on it. Some ranchers, outside the saloon, waved.

  He looked at her. "Promise me we'll still come into town sometimes," he said.

  "All right," said Mary. His eyes had that sad look all of a sudden, making her ache inside. "We have to, anyway, for supplies."

  They continued walking, arm in arm, to the wagon.

  When Henry's things were settled in one corner of the parlor, he sat down to tend to business. Time disappeared, and soon Mary arrived with a plate filled with supper. He smiled sheepishly and apologized for forgetting the hour.

  "You didn't smell it?" she teased.

  For a brief moment, Henry had half an idea of what Mary's pa had been talking about earlier. He coughed and took a sip of the milk she set down on the desk, realizing he felt a little faint. "Donovan says there's gonna be a party over at the Millsap barn, Tuesday night."

  She sat down on the couch, holding her own plate in her lap. "Kind of an engagement celebration, Sarah says."

  Henry coughed again.

  "I said it was probably to soon—to go out, I mean. A barn's drafty, more at night."

  He sobered. "You go."

  "Me?"

  "You only got one sister." He smiled. "Go."

  "But—"

  He held up a hand. "It's your turn not to be silly. There ain't no law against it. Go."

  She tried to frown, but it turned into a smile anyway, and made him smile too. Mary didn't care much for parties. She thought they were rather silly, but for once decided to give in to Henry—just to make him smile, and not so worried.

  Donovan and Sarah came by to pick up Mary on Tuesday night. "Will you do something for me?" asked Henry, when the girls were in the bedroom.

  "I reckon," said Donovan. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels and then his toes.

  Henry reached up and touched his arm. "You—dance with her. Mary."

  Donovan paused. "What—my sister-in-law? Second purdiest girl in town after her big sister? Sure." He took his hand out of his pocket, thumped Henry's shoulder, and put it back again. "You all set? Need anything else?"

  Henry pulled at the blanket over his knees, gingerly. "I'm set," he said.

  The girls came out of the room, laughing and giggling, and Mary kissed him, closing her eyes. Sarah looked a little embarrassed and turned her eyes to a lamp. The three went out the door together, and Henry listened as the wagon clattered and clanked its way down the lane until the sound was gone.

  He sat, still.

  "Wishin' ain't gonna make it so," he said aloud.

  He coughed and opened a book, fighting bitterness.

  He heard the wagon again a few hours later, and he looked up and out the window as it came into sight, a shadow in the dark outside. It halted outside the barn, and in a few minutes Mary came tramping in, looking flushed. He put out a hand to receive her on the arm of the chair.

  "Ma let me take the wagon; she said they'd get a ride with Sarah'n Donovan," she offered as explanation for being the only rider.

  "You have fun?"

  She shrugged. "Some. Billy let me play on his drums. Donovan asked me to dance. I said no, first off, but he kept askin’. You know anyone mighta had had a hand in that?" She grinned.

  Henry turned his eyes down. "Did you?"

  "What, dance? Only after about the sixth time he came askin’." She ruffled his hair and pulled him to his feet, wrapping her arms around him as he faltered for a hold. "Thank you for the dance, Hen," she said quietly. She handed him his cane. "Now come on to bed and I'll show you some real fun."

  Mary danced on the porch in the moonlight, hopping up and down first on one foot and then the other, keeping warm. It was well after midnight—probably more around three or four, but the shivering, tingling joy inside of her had kept her awake, fidgeting while Henry slept soundly beside her. She knew he was still weak from the pneumonia—she could feel it in him—and so she left him in bed, feeling only a little guilty that she had worn him out so much. She smiled to herself. He hadn't minded.

  The moon was bright, like a lantern, and big although high on the horizon. She blew frosty white air into her cupped hands, feeling warm inside but also feeling the nip of the winter air on her skin. "I got you figgered, moon," she whispered loudly, grinning and wanting to yell. "I got you all figgered, and you stars, too. I got this whole world all written out in my head like a newspaper. 'I bring light to the dark,' I see that headline for you, moon." She giggled. "Stars. Hm. 'Just an extra garnish,' that's for you. 'Just cause God likes big fireflies way up in heaven.'" She looked out at the frost covering everything, sparkling in the moonlight. The prairie looked like one big pond of ice. "And that," she said, "that—well, that's just 'cause."

  "What other things dance in that lovely head, Mary?"

  She spun, hands flying up to cover her mouth. Then she grinned and they fell. He came out onto the porch, breath tight in his chest, and she hugged him as close as she could because she couldn't help it, until he coughed. "I--" she said, "I—well, I just feel like I got everything figured out tonight. Everything's all straight and clear so I can see right through to eternity. I can't even say it all in words—I wanna say it all at once, everything, but I just can't set it to words. More like music, maybe, just bursting inside, just all comin' out so fast I can't do nothin’. I feel so right I feel like I just gotta yell, or scream, or sing, or—or somethin’! You ever feel like that, like God just opened all the cobwebby books inside your head, all the knowing He put in there right from the start but everyone gets all confused and mixed up?"

  Henry looked at her, then the moon. "Sometimes," he said. "Ever' once in a while. It's more like I just wanna sit and listen, and sometimes feel like I could cry cause it's so big and wonderful and I can't ever get my mind around it. Then—after, it's like everything clouds up, and maybe I only dreamt it--"

  She clutched his arm. "Oh," she said, "don't talk about that now. Just let it be."

  He was quiet. "All right."

  A sudden whim caught her and she leapt down the stairs and out into the ice, her arms spread, twirling with her face up like a reflection of the moon and letting the cold steal the air from her lungs. When she could spin no more, she stopped and began to sing breathlessly, loud in the dark. At first it came out of her soft and lovely, but her bursting joy could not contain itself, and the notes would not be controlled. She tried to laugh and sing and cry all at the same time, but at last ended by letting out one long, exultant cry of "oh!"

  Henry stood on the edge of the porch, looking out. He watched but only partly saw as Mary stood still, arms raised. He waited, with eyes open, and then he watched the world as it unfurled, gracefully, at his feet.

  After a while she sighed, contented, let her hands drop, and mounted the stairs.

  "It's... gone." He turned with her to go inside.

/>   She stopped, and smiled up at him. "It'll come again," she said, with certainty.

  He looked at her. "How—how do you know?"

  She laughed. "Don't be silly."

  "I—I know," he said, "but you're so—sure. You don't know when, or why, or how—"

  She was silent, still smiling, as they went back to the bedroom. She helped him off with his robe and slippers, and they got into bed. The light of the moon still illuminated the room, shining through the drapes. There was silence for a long while, until he thought she was asleep. He brushed her face with his hand, lightly.

  "Mm," she said. "Life is never when or why or how. Life is. People, they sometimes try to make it that way, to fit around the way they want it—but it just is. That's all."

  "I don't understand," he said.

  She laughed softly and cradled his head between her hands. "Neither do I. Maybe I could have told you, ten minutes ago."

  He smiled. "I think I knew, too—ten minutes ago." He kissed her.

  Mary pulled back the curtain with one hand and peeped outside. The air was still and the sun glistened on the frost. She turned and set Henry's plate on the table and sat down. "Let's go on into town today," she said. "I got a hankerin' for Ma Baker's cocoa, and I hear Frank Pall's got some trouble with that hotel he's puttin' up." She winked at him. "Maybe you could help him out some."

  Henry tapped his fork lightly on the edge of the plate and studied the food. "Maybe," he said.

  Mary laughed and stood to get the coffee, pressing the side of his head against her abdomen for a moment as she went past. "That man's got a nose for trouble, I admit, but maybe it's just he's bitter from bad fortune. You be right to him."

  He took the coffee. It was sharp and bitter, making his senses come alive with a start. He put the mug down. "When have I done a man wrong?" He looked vaguely worried.

  She sat down again with her own plate. "What I mean is don't go makin' any of them comments where nobody but you knows what it means. Folks get right suspicious of things they can't understand. Think maybe you're funnin' them."

  Henry shifted, discomfited now. "I only did that once," he said. "And apologized, too."

  "I know," she said, scooting her chair closer. She grinned. "But I can see it in your eyes, when you think it inside."

  He looked away and bit his lip.

  She took his hand. "It's all right," she said softly, a smile in her voice. "I was just teasing. Everyone's got thoughts about what they'd like to say to other folks. Some—maybe most—say'm aloud. Polite folks keep hushed till the person they're thinkin' on is gone. Me—I just say it to you cause you'd know anyway. You just keep it all inside, don't say it at all." She laughed again. "But I see. I got a right to, don't I?"

  "I reckon," he said pensively. "I reckon if you didn't know I'd go crazy with it all swimming around inside my head."

  "I guess most folks do—that's why it comes out."

  "But—that don't make it right. Even thinkin' things like that, to hurt people-- sometimes folks can tell, like you, and then it still ain't right."

  "We all got our faults, I guess. Reasonable people know that and it comes out all right." She moved closer, and slid her hands around his arm. "Henry, I think it's real nice, you tryin' to be good to folks all the time—keepin' your word and worryin' on how they feel."

  "But—?"

  "But nothin’. It's nice. Just—don't go too hard on yourself when you can't please, cause you done a better job than anyone I know already. Makes me proud, callin' you my husband." She waited only a moment because she was certain there would be no answer. "Anyway," she finished finally, "you better get to that food before it chills or we won't make town till after lunch."

  He gave a hint of a smile and finished his breakfast.

  Mary fetched a coat for him and coaxed him into yet another after that, the one she had borrowed from her Pa. It fit Pa just right, but was big on Henry even over the other heavy layer.

  "I feel like a block of lead," he told her in good humor.

  "Well, you don't look it," she countered. She wanted to say that really he looked more normal-sized, and not so thin as usual, but kept it to herself and helped him into the wagon.

  Town was bustling; it was Saturday, and everyone from outlying properties had come to re-stock supplies and maybe sell some of their own. The saloon was overflowing with cattlemen and ranch hands. "This town's sure alive," said Mary. "It's grown since we were kids. I guess I don't notice much, it comes on so slow."

  "Bein’ gone’s what makes things change," Henry told her. "When you stay with a place you kind of grow with it, but when you leave and come back again, that's when things go different. Maybe the town grows up and leaves you behind, or maybe—the other way around."

  "I guess you felt like a stranger, comin' back from the war. Lots of things changed."

  "Reckon I did," he said quietly. "Still do, sometimes. Just kind of—set apart, like things here went one way and I went another. Can't go back, and meetin' up again's hard." He pulled up sharp in front of the farrier's. "This horse needs shoeing," he said. He slid from the wagon and reached up for Mary's hand as she scooted down.

  "All right. Want me to unhitch him?"

  "Farrier'll do it. Go on to Ma Baker's. After this I reckon I'll go lookin for Frank Pall."

  Mary kissed him and was off. Ma Baker was the seamstress, and Mary had spent cold mornings in town sipping her cocoa since she could remember. She stomped off her muddied boots on the sidewalk and went in. She grinned, seeing that Sarah already sat at the old woman's feet, smiling and listening to her go on about things as she embroidered a cuff.

  Ma Baker looked up when Mary entered and smiled sweetly, her pinpoint eyes crinkling like tissue paper. "Good mornin’, child," she said. "Fetch yourself a sip of cocoa and sit down here with your sister." Mary obeyed. "My—child, you look prettier every day. How old are you girls now?"

  Mary reached for Sarah's hand and felt it, warm and soft. They looked at each other and smiled, feeling like children and not minding a whit. "Twenty-one," offered Mary.

  "Twenty-four."

  "And Mary already wed? I forget you're the oldest. Used to be a father never let his other girls out afore the first was set and gone."

  "Aw, Ma," cajoled Sarah on behalf of her sister. "Mary was of age."

  Ma shook her head. "Times is changin’, I reckon," she said, rocking ominously in her chair.

  "Besides," added Mary, "Sarah would have married John, before." Sarah looked struck and snatched her hand away, wringing her handkerchief. Mary felt bad. "I apologize," she said. "That wasn't right to mention."

  Sarah's hand crept back. "John—he's always gonna have a special place inside," she said, soft tears in her eyes. "I loved him and there ain't no takin' that back. But I love Donny too, and he's here and now. There's room in my heart for both."

  "Don't nobody doubt that, honey, nobody," consoled Ma Baker, patting Sarah's head with a knarled hand.

  Mary sipped her cocoa. "Tell a story, Ma," she said, begging a little for the sake of tradition.

  "All right," said Ma. She was silent for a while, thinking. "I'll tell the story of my own wedding. Fifty-nine years ago now, I'd guess. What year is this?"

  Mary emerged from the stitchery almost on tiptoe, lightheaded with pleasure and warm inside with cocoa. She had heard Ma Baker tell the story maybe fifty times before, but she never minded. Sarah was at her heels, almost as feathery in her feet but weighed down a little with happy thoughts about her wedding gown, which was coming on nicely.

  "What now?" Mary sucked in a breath of sharp air through her nose, letting it burn delightfully, and felt her cheeks go rosy.

  "Psst," said Sarah, tapping her arm. "What's the commotion?" She pointed across the street. There was a small crowd gathered around the boardwalk, mostly men.

  Mary stood up on her toes and frowned, trying to see. One of the men across the way saw her and tapped another man's shoulder. They talked for a moment
and then gestured sharply, urging her to come over. Mary's hand flew to her mouth and she sucked in another breath. He throat stung painfully. She leapt down from the walk and ran across the street, ignoring mud puddles and dodging wagons.

  "What is it?" called Sarah, starting out after her sister more carefully.

  Mary broke through the crowd of men. "Oh!" she gasped.

  Frank Pall knelt next to Henry, on the stairs. "I'm—I'm awful sorry, Ma'am, awful—I jes' plum forgot, and he didn't say nothin'—Ma'am, if only he'd said somethin’, I'da helped him on down—"

  One of the other men shushed Frank for the moment, and Mary knelt down next to Henry, opposite Frank. She ran a soft hand over his forehead and found the lump on his right temple.

  "Musta slipped on the ice, I guess," offered someone.

  Mary put a hand behind his head, lifting it away from the hard wood. He was still breathing evenly. She turned a little. "Sarah," she said calmly, "get the doctor."

  "Already been done, Ma'am, we're all just waitin' on him now."

  "Anythin' we can do in the meanwhile?"

  Mary looked up at the expectant crowd and realized suddenly that they weren't just gawkers preying on a little excitement—they were looking to help out. "Thank you," she breathed. "Maybe we better get him inside." Frank Pall stood and another man moved forward. Mary stepped back, laying Henry's head down carefully, and the men lifted him and carried him up the stairs.

  "Here," said another man, offering Henry's cane. "I reckon this got dropped in the shuffle."

  "Thank you," said Mary again, ducking her head. "Thank you." She hurried up the stairs.

  They took him into the general store, and, seeing them, the grocer hurried to put two of the armchairs by the fire together so that they faced each other. Frank and the other man laid Henry down, half sitting, and stepped back to let Mary in.

  She touched his face with both hands, smoothing back his hair. He was pale. "Henry," she whispered, "wake up. Come on now—" she let a hand fall to his and squeezed it tightly. "Come on now, wake up."

  The men retreated further back, feeling perhaps that this was a private matter. "I feel awful bad," said Frank Pall. "I didn't mean no harm to the boy—I just plum forget he's crippled, you know—"