"Ain't nobody gonna blame you for anything," the grocer told him quietly, interrupting. "It's just you're forgetful and the boy is a mite shy. Sometimes things just happen that way. In my thinkin’, he never shoulda been crippled in the first place, but I'm not gonna get into a mix with God's affairs. This is one of them things—ain't nobody at fault and maybe there's no reason for it we can see."
"I dunno," said the other man. "I never seen Frank here look so sorry. Mebbe this here's to change his disposition."
Frank looked irked and pinned his mouth shut.
"Here's Doc," said the grocer.
As he said it the stout man came through the door and went to his patient without even a glance towards the three men standing to the side.
Mary looked up. "He's coming around some," she said, backing out of Doc's way but still holding Henry's hand, reluctant to let go.
Doc bent over the chairs, examining the lump on Henry’s head and holding each eyelid open for a moment to look in. Henry moaned and put a hand to his brow, wincing and jerking it away again when he touched the bruised area. "Well," said Doc, "looks like you've got yourself quite a bump." He shrugged. "Few days and the swelling should go down."
"Thanks, Doc," said Mary as he moved towards the door.
"Where's the boy?" Mary's father burst through the shaded doors, making the wooden slats rattle against the glass. Sarah was on his heels.
"He'll be all right, Mr. Jacobs," assured Doc, and left.
"Well," said Pa. "Well." He looked relieved.
Henry pushed himself up to a sitting position and slid back down again, his head spinning. Mary leapt to his side. "Want me to get Doc back?" she asked, seeing the color drain from his face.
"N-no," he said. "Just a little—dizzy, is all." His head throbbed.
"Take some water," offered the grocer. "It'll clear your head."
"Thank you." He drank a little and sat up, slowly. The spinning was better; some, anyway.
Pa watched him closely and spoke when he put the glass aside. "You feel up to standin’, son?"
"Maybe." He swallowed and paled again, seeing the other men watching him. He took Pa's offered hand and raised up a little, but clung to the arm of the chair and at last sat back down. "No," he said, "no, I ain't got it in me yet." His head pounded.
"All right, son, all right," said Pa, and scooped Henry up.
"Sir—"
"Quiet, son. Come on, Mary darlin’." He went out the door, his girls following after him, Mary with the cane gripped tightly in her hands.
"I—I feel awful bad," said Frank again. "I hope he ain't mad at me—"
The grocer laughed. "The boy ain't mad, Frank, he's mortified. Plain mortified. Poor kid."
"Still—I feel awful bad."
Pa set Henry in the back of the wagon amid a few old sacks and ropes. Mary took off her scarf and put it under his head to keep it from jostling. The farrier had shoed the horses and hitched them back up already.
"You gonna be all right, darlin'?" asked Pa.
"Sure Pa," said Mary, hugging him quickly. She got in the wagon and Pa slapped one of the horses on the rump.
"Bye, darlin’!" Pa called.
Both Henry and Mary were silent on the ride home. Mary struggled to keep the horses slowed and kept her head forward, stiffly. Hot, angry tears spilled down her face. The wind picked up, blowing remains of snow from tree boughs above like a light blizzard. Mary brushed her tears and felt them come again, felt the wetness chill on her fingertips and ignored it. The countryside glistened with frost.
"Damn your pride, Henry Jacobs," she said, fervently. "Damn it to hell!"
It wasn't long until they arrived home. Mary hopped off of the wagon and went around to the back to help Henry down. He stood now, although a little uncertainly, and she let him put an arm around her to get up into the house.
"Go on to bed," she said inside, and disappeared into the kitchen. He followed her.
"Mary," he said softly. "Mary, I—" he looked, pained, at her back and her shoulders, as her small body heaved with angry tears. After a moment, he turned and went out into the hall and to the bedroom. He sat down on the bed and stared down at his feet, feeling his face flush white. He jerked when the cane slipped through his fingers and clattered to the hardwood floor, his heart racing. He stared at it for a moment, then lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.
Mary stayed away until it was time for bed. No matter how she tried to calm herself, to tell herself that it was unreasonable and stupid, she could not get rid of the anger, the hurt inside. She was angry because she felt he at least owed her a little caution, for all that they had made with each other. Her heart was invested in him, and she was furied by his lack of consideration. What if it had not been only a little bump? What if he had ended up dead? She put her face into a pillow and screamed. She didn't want to stop being angry. It wasn't because she hated him—it was because that's how anger is—building and building inside a person until that's all they want to feed on.
But when it was time for bed, she still loved him (she always would) and so she stirred the fire once more and opened the door slowly, quietly. And (because she loved him) the sight of him, asleep on the bed, broke her heart. The fire flickered light dimly into the room from behind her, illuminating his still, pale face, his brow still half-creased with a kind of contemplative agony. One hand hung a little off the side of the bed, and the cane lying on the floor reflected firelight from its sheen. She could not be angry.
She wanted to touch his face, to wake him gently and kiss him, but instead she went to the end of the bed and tugged off one boot, then the other. After the second one he let out a deep sigh, turning slightly. Mary slipped out of her petticoat and climbed onto the bed from the opposite side. He coughed softly and sighed again.
Mary smiled and put a hand on his face. He turned his head towards her and moaned quietly. "Does your head hurt?" she whispered.
He opened his eyes, and looked suddenly pained. "Mary—I'm sorry," he said.
She unbuttoned his collar, and then his shirt, exposing the pallid, painfully thin body beneath. He closed his eyes, paling, feeling at once a kind of intense shame and wishing that the fire had gone out. It was like that—at any moment, it seemed, he might be struck suddenly with reality, with who—what—he had become. Mary let out a soft "oh," and her hands leapt to his body, caressing and tender. "I was wrong," she whispered. "You don't have any pride. But I've got you figgered, Henry Jacobs. What you want is not to be a bother to anyone, no matter what."
He tried to turn away, but she put her weight on her hands, pressing his chest, and held him there.
"You," she said, "think so little of yourself that you don't want nobody to be bothered, just for your sake." She let up on his chest. "Well," she said. "You bother me, Henry. In fact, you bother me so much I had to marry you because I couldn't get you out of my mind."
Slowly, she rubbed his chest until his breathing became smooth and even.
Mary would not go to Sarah's wedding.
"Go," Henry pleaded. "Please, Mary."
"No," she said, passing him on the way to the kitchen.
Henry reached for the windowsill and pulled himself up, then followed her into the kitchen. "Mary, you've got to." He coughed roughly and leaned against the doorframe.
"You go sit down like I said," she told him. "Sarah, I'm sure, will have a grand time without me."
He braced himself in the frame. "I'm—I'm only thinking..." he began, "if—it were John getting married, wild horses couldn't stop me from—"
She looked up from her cooking and smiled. "Wild horses maybe," she said. "But what if I was sick? Would you go?"
He was silent.
She laughed and shooed him away. "Go on, I'll be out in a minute."
"You're the maid of honor," he continued when she came in with the tea.
She gave him a playful slap across the face. "I sent Ian over with my note. She'll understand. A bride's maid is out
of place, anyway, as far as I'm concerned. We didn't have one, did we?"
"Sarah's having a dignified wedding, in the church--"
"And ours wasn't dignified?"
"We didn't care."
She laughed. "You're right. Drink your tea."
"Mary—"
"Hen, if Sarah's gonna be a married woman, she's gotta be able to do for herself, and if she can't get through a wedding without me by her side—well, she's beyond hope."
Henry looked frustrated. "It's not Sarah I'm worrying over."
Mary feigned naiveté. "Well, then, there's nothing to argue about then, is there?" She flounced out of the room.
Henry sipped at the hot tea, his eyes intense and inward.
Mary stepped out from behind the corner she had been hiding behind. "Oh, Hen," she said. "Come on, laugh! Or smile, at least. My sister's getting married, and I'm happy. I don't need to be there to be happy for her. I'm not sad, Hen—why should you be? Come on." She pulled a chair from the center of the room to the wall. "We'll have a picnic in the parlor."
He laughed, softly.
"Ah," she said. "Why are you laughing now?"
"Your wild notions always tickle me."
"Wild? There's nothing wild about it. It's raining out so we'll have a picnic inside. When Sarah and Donovan come by in the afternoon we'll congratulate them and invite them to sit down with us to a summer day."
"A wedding present?"
"Yes!" She pulled aside the low coffee table. "Let me get a blanket." She came back a moment later and spread out the checkered sheet. "Come on, now, set down here." She held his arm as he got up and as he sat down to the ground. He winced a little and gave a short gasp. "You all right?" He nodded and she tossed him a pillow, then, on second thought, pushed the couch forward a little so he could lean against it. "I'll get the things to make sandwiches."
Sarah and Donovan arrived late that afternoon, spotted with rain. "At least it's warmer than that cold spell we were having," remarked Donovan.
"Smells nice, too," added Sarah.
Mary took her shawl and Donovan shucked his coat, hanging it on the clotheshorse along with the other garments. "Come on in," said Mary. "We've got our present all ready."
Sarah peeked through into the parlor. "Present? Oh, Mary," she giggled, walking in. "What is this?"
"A lovely summer day." Mary spread her arms, ushering them in.
"Sit down and have a sandwich," offered Henry.
"Oh," cried Sarah, grinning. She pulled Donovan to the checkered blanket. "How perfect!" She took a piece of bread and cheese. "Thank you, Henry."
"Mary thought of it."
"She must have. No one else comes up with such imaginations."
Mary sat down and leaned against Henry. "Oh, you're wrong," she said. "Everyone has ideas. Henry thinks of things all the time."
"Not such pretty things," he objected.
"Well, you're a man. Remember those plans you made, for the palace?"
"Your palace."
"Oh, it was beautiful. I've got it all in my mind, and that's better than if it were built right here on the prairie because of course it never comes out as good as you imagine it."
Thinking of the warm afternoon they had spent dreaming up gold-tinted paradises in front of guests made Henry's face go white. He coughed dryly. Mary was about to run and get the plans, but, seeing Henry swallow nervously, held off.
"Anyway," she said, "how was the wedding?" She rubbed Henry's back until he quieted, and urged him to take a sip of water.
"Just perfect, Mary, except you weren't there."
Donovan looked wry. "I think every woman in the building suddenly sprouted her own well."
"Oh, Donny," chastised Sarah, smiling. "Everyone cries at weddings." She put a hand to her mouth. "We got more news than that, too."
"Not a baby," giggled Mary.
Sarah laughed, though Donovan looked a little offended. "Not yet, anyway," he said.
"No. Donny's going to take me out east. Next week, maybe. He's got school off for a while, but we're going to travel—see everything! Then maybe look for a home by the university."
Mary's smile cut itself short. "So soon? Of course I'm happy for you..."
"We're going to explore the world,” Donovan elaborated, jumping in. “Or at least whatever's to see on this continent. Go to all the places a girl should see while she's young, and on her honeymoon besides. No offense intended."
Henry cleared his throat softly. "None taken," he half-whispered as Donovan continued on without pause.
"New York," he said. "Boston. Maybe down to Virginia or the Carolinas."
"I'm so excited," said Sarah. "I'll send you all letters."
There was a flash of lighting outside, and then rolling thunder. "We'd better get going," Donovan said. "Before the storm hits." He stood and pulled Sarah up. Mary got up to help Henry.
"My cane," he said briefly, gesturing.
Mary took his arm. "Get it, will you Sarah? Thank you."
The foursome went to the door and the newlyweds donned their rain apparel. Kisses and handshakes went around, and they were gone. Mary closed the door and went to the front window to peep out of the curtains. "I hope she'll be happy," said Mary, a kind of slight worry entering her voice. "I don't think I could ever be very happy so far from home. Look—just from her leaving, there's a little piece gone out of all our lives. If everyone left, all the pieces would be gone and no one would be anyone, just strangers. What's out there more important than life?"
Henry came up beside her. "Nothing much," he said, and coughed. "Not as much as you'd think."
Chapter Eight
Joey came late in the afternoon on Paley, who was becoming slow and grey, though still dignified as he ever was. "You tell Pa to put that old gentleman out to pasture," said Mary, coming out into the yard.
Joey hopped down from the barebacked horse, carrying a bedroll strapped with two belts over his shoulder. "Pa'd just say he ain't got the money to git us a new horse. Ever since Brian got his gun, Pa thinks he can say no to anything we want."
Mary tapped him on the nose. "His right, too, I suppose." She shook her head. "Ten years old and already with a gun. I guess he'll have his own little revolution before the month is up."
Joey looked up at his sister as they stomped up the stairs. "Shoot, a month? It's been a week or eight days and all of Mr. Pe—Henry's kid brothers are stomping around in a line."
Mary looked surprised. "Pa lets him take it around to other folks' houses?"
"Nah, he just uses a broom or something. I bet he's only shot that rifle maybe five times, with Pa over his shoulder, and he can't even shoot. Just like I said."
"I'm glad his Pa is keeping a firm hand." This word was from Henry, inside.
"Hola," said Joey, grinning.
"Hola," he returned. "Como estas?"
Joey gawked. "You know Spanish?" He hurried to sit down next to his brother-in-law.
"Some."
"I just learnt 'hola' and 'adios.' That old Mexican that always sits outside the saloon taught me, but don't tell Ma I talked to him."
"I'll get you something to eat," said Mary. "Boys are always hungry. Henry, you want something?"
He shook his head.
"Well," called Joey after his sister, "Hurry up, cause I got news."
Mary turned around and came back. "If you're hungry you shouldn't've said that. Go on and tell me."
"Ma got a letter from Sarah--"
"Sarah! What'd she say? Where is she?"
"Hold your horses. It was a short letter, and I guess you can ask her yourself all those things because she's coming next week on the train."
Mary gave a squeal of delight. "Oh, Joey!" she kissed her brother affectionately on the head. "I don't think I can wait that long."
"Five days isn't much next to two years," said Joey. "Anyway Ma says can you please pick her up at the station because Pa and her have their hands full with all the new cattle that's come in, an
d birthing them besides."
"Oh, of course I will!"
Joey got up. "I better go get Paley before he runs clear home."
"Go on then. I'll just start dinner—I guess it's close enough to time." Henry brushed her skirt as she went by, and she stopped to help him up. "I just can't believe my ears," she said as they went into the kitchen. "I was just about reconciled that Sarah'd gone off and left us completely, for all her adventures." She bent over and dug around for a pot in the cupboard. "Fetch me a spoon, will you? One of the big wooden ones."
"You ought not to expect much from Sarah," Henry said quietly.
She took the spoon from his hand. "What do you mean?"
"Only that maybe it's not wise to assume she's had such a fine time of it."
"Do you think she was lying about all the places she'd been, in those letters?" Mary looked troubled as she filled the pot with water.
"No—but she hasn't written near seven months now. A good deal can change in that time."
The pot went on the stove, and Mary's hands dug themselves into a bowl of dough she had set earlier to rise. The warm, yeasty aroma filled the air. "I guess," she said, doubtfully. A small jar of cinnamon came out, and Mary smiled as she felt Henry come up behind her, brushing her skirt again. He looked over her shoulder.
"How do you know?" he asked.
She turned her face to his and kissed him quickly. "Know what?"
"You know—the right amounts."
She looked at the pinch of red powder in the center of her palm. She shrugged and held it up to his face. "Here, sniff." He obeyed. "Cinnamon's kind of dusty, so you need lots in the summer, cause there's so much dust already you can't hardly taste it. Winter's cool and crisp, so all you need is a pinch. Right now, in between, fall blows all the smells around, so you use some—not a whole lot, and not a little."
"How much is a little?"
She giggled. "Oh, you just stop it."
"Stop what?" asked Joey, coming in the door. "Oh," he said, seeing them together. "Are you two gonna get all romantic?"
When Henry Came Home Page 17