"Joey, you're terrible. It's what married folks do."
He made a face. "I know. I ain't never gettin' hitched."
"We'll see." Mary kissed her husband again. "Now go on before I'm distracted into letting this stew boil over."
Henry followed Joey back into the parlor. He stood by the window, looking out. Red from the sun reflected in the faint drizzle so that the air looked like it was glowing.
"Teach me some more Spanish," said Joey.
"Como se llama," said Henry. "That's 'What is your name.'"
"How do I say, 'Brian's gun is stupid?'"
Henry smiled faintly. "I don't know that much."
"I guess I can ask that old Mexican his name."
"Say, 'buenos dias.'" He pulled the shade half shut and went over to the fire, his breath wheezing slightly in his chest. It was something that had stayed, on and off, after the pneumonia. He cleared his throat and picked up a poker, stirring the embers a little. "Come over and put a log on," he told Joey.
"Sure, Mr. Peterson." Joey jumped to the task.
Henry sat down on the sofa. "You know anything more about this letter from Sarah?"
"Nope. Like I said, it was real short. Just said she'd be on the west-bound train Thursday morning."
"Your Ma ever get anything from her, after she stopped writing Mary?"
"I think she stopped writing Ma before that. Last we heard of was her havin' little John, and that was a while ago." Joey sat on the floor, his legs tucked under, and leaned back on his hands. "Gosh, that smell's making me hungry."
"You'd better go see if it's done."
Joey grinned. "Sure." He jumped up and bounded into the kitchen, leaving sooty footprints from the fire on the rug.
Muted conversation carried in from the kitchen, and soon Henry heard the clatter of dinnerware and knew Joey had been assigned to set the table. He picked up a book lying close and began to read. He only got a half a page, however, before Joey clomped back in.
"Ready," he declared.
Henry put his hand out and let the boy help him up, then accompanied him in to the table. Joey sat down quickly, his eyes large and round. "Wait for grace," said Henry. They bowed their heads.
"Dear Lord," began Mary, "please bless this house. Thank you for bringing Joey here tonight, and thank you for the food we have been provided, and may it keep us all in good health. Thank you for the news of Sarah coming—please let her journey be safe, and I hope she's bringin' her young one cause I'm itchin' to see. Amen."
"Mary."
Mary sucked in a deep breath, as if coming up for air after diving deep. She rolled over and tried to open her eyes. "Mmm," she said.
"Mary," Henry whispered again, passing a hand gently over the side of her face. He sat up on one elbow. "I thought you'd want to be early at the station."
Her eyes fluttered and she half-smiled, groggily. "Station? ...Yes..." She sat up. "Yes!"
Henry grinned. "It's Thursday." He sat up fully now, over the edge of the bed, and pulled his nightshirt off over his head. He was reaching for his undershirt when Mary's arms wrapped around his chest from behind. Her head appeared on his shoulder.
"I don't know how you do it," she said.
"Do what?"
"Whatever it is inside your head that tells you when to get up."
"Doesn't always work."
"Neither does my cooking." She released him and rolled onto her back, stretching.
He slipped on the under-garment and began to button a white cotton shirt over top. "You'd better get dressed," he said with a half-smile. "Whatever it is inside my head tells me you have a quarter of an hour before Ian has the horses hitched up and ready."
Mary got out of bed, stepping widely to avoid tripping over her nightgown on the way. She went to the window and tugged aside the shade a little so she might peer out. "No fair," she said. "You heard him out there."
"That's what woke me up."
"Then it's Ian that has the clock, not you!"
"Probably."
She stomped over to him and pulled playfully at his hair. "Naughty," she said, bending to help him with his pants. He stood and she circled him, tucking in his shirt until she was satisfied. "There," she said at last. "Now it's my turn." She went to the boudoir and picked through her dresses with one hand while unlacing her nightgown with the other. Henry watched as she stripped and re-clothed herself. "I see you watching," she said as the rustling purple material went over her head.
"I can't name a man that wouldn't."
Mary pulled her garment down and rolled her eyes at him. "Neither can I, but I think that says a passel more about men than how beautiful a woman is."
Henry smiled. "Maybe."
They ate a quick breakfast of boiled eggs and toast and went out to the wagon, which the hired boy had hitched up already. The horses had been standing in the harnesses some time and were restless now, anxious to move. When Henry flicked the reigns they went off with a jolt, and the two passengers held fast to each other, laughing, to keep from spilling over.
The train station was busy that particular Thursday morning, though mostly with those concerned with the buying and selling of goods, or with shipments that had already been bought or sold. The train had attached to it only one passenger car, and of the few passengers, Sarah was the last to depart. A conductor came down the short little iron stairs before her, carrying her bag, and left it on the platform when she nodded to him. In her arms she held a small bundle, and at her feet toddled a little boy with crumbs on his face.
"Is that her?" breathed Mary, a ways away. She could only glimpse little bits of her sister through the commotion as she gazed up at the platform. Sarah looked out, around, as if half expecting someone but not really caring if anyone arrived. Her muted orange hair, straight as ironed linen, was held up tightly, though some strands had fallen loose from the little white cap that topped it all.
"Go on," prompted Henry, faced with a half dozen stairs. "I'll wait here." His hand pushed her gently on, and Mary sprang forward.
"Sarah!" she cried.
Henry watched through passing crowds as Mary enveloped her sister in a hug and then pulled back to peer into the little bundle she carried. The way cleared just in time for Henry to see the grin that took Mary's face. She said a few words he could not hear and bent to tickle and pick up the little boy at Sarah's feet. She slung him over one hip and took Sarah's bag in the opposite hand. In a moment, they were down the stairs. "Afternoon, Sarah," Henry greeted.
"Hullo," she returned, curt.
"I guess Donovan couldn't come—" said Mary. "Is he too busy with school?" They walked back towards town together.
"He's dead." Sarah continued to walk.
Mary dropped the bag and put a hand to her mouth, her throat clenching up. Her eyes watered. "Oh—" she said. Henry put a hand around her waist. "Oh, no, Sarah—" Mary reached for her sister, but Sarah was a step ahead, pulling away before they could touch. Mary stopped, and Sarah turned. "…How?"
"He was working on the railroad for a spell. There was an accident and he got killed. Railroad won't give me no money, and here I am left to raise these children he gave me." She was bitter.
"Sarah—"
Mary's sister turned and began walking again.
"Where are you going?" Mary retrieved the bag.
"To the hotel."
Mary pulled away from Henry and skipped ahead to catch up. "No," she cried. "You'll stay with us, you've got to!"
"I don't want to be no bother."
"You're never a bother! Please, Sarah--"
"If you'll do me the service of bringin' my things along, I'll just stay at the hotel." Sarah held her head high, proud, and didn't look at her sister.
Mary held in her breath for fear she would burst into tears, following Sarah silently. The little boy squirmed in her arms, but she held him tight. Sarah set a quick pace, not looking to the side or behind, and they came up to the hotel. Sarah signed in her name and a boy took he
r bag from Mary. Mary set the little boy down and he went toddling back to his mother, grabbing for her skirts. "Please," begged Mary again, "you wouldn't be no trouble at all, Sarah, you know that. And Ma and Pa, they'll wanna see you and it'll be easier if they know you're right over with us, rather than having to make the trip to town, they're so busy."
"Like always," said Sarah.
Mary's forehead became knotted, desperate. "What do you mean?" she asked, swallowing hard. "Ma and Pa always had time for us, busy season or not. I reckon if you think you gotta stay here they'll come out anyway even if it costs them fifty head."
"I reckon," said Sarah, indifferently.
Mary wiped her eyes. "Anyway," she said, "I think you have two of the most beautiful children I've ever seen, and I love them so much it hurts. And you too."
"Sometimes I regret namin' this little one John. He ain't nothin' like John was, and I ain't livin' in the past, either."
"Well—I reckon—it's a nice memorium, anyhow."
"Still no young ones of your own?" asked Sarah.
"—No."
"I guessed."
Mary was silent, gaping. "I—" she said. She held Sarah's eyes, searching and not finding. And then she turned, and ran. Henry was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, and Mary threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. "Hurry," she whispered. "Hurry and get me off somewhere. I gotta cry, Hen, get me off quick."
Henry closed his eyes for a moment, his hand clenching into a fist. Gently, he turned Mary and walked her to the smithery as she clung to him, her face hidden in his side. The man was gone for the day, but he always left the back door carelessly bound in case of emergency. Inside it was warm, from embers that never really died, and in one corner was room for the horse that the smith was out on even now. There was a pile of hay and Mary fell into it, covering her face and curling her legs to her body. She sobbed dryly. Henry went a few paces to the wall and, leaning against it, lowered himself to the ground. He edged his way over to Mary, and at his touch she turned and wept onto his shoulder, bitterly. Her hands grasped, claw-like, at his clothes.
"Wh-where did she g-go?" Mary moaned at length, through choked sobs.
Pained, Henry closed his eyes again and rubbed her back. "Things change a person, make them bitter sometimes," he began, gently.
"I know," sobbed Mary, "I know. Don't say none of that now, Hen, I just gotta cry. All the common sense in the world don't matter when you hurt inside."
Henry held her tighter.
Mary sniffed back tears as she prepared breakfast, but still a few fell into the sizzling eggs. "Sorry," she said through a wavering smile, feeling Henry behind her.
"Don't be sorry," he said. "I reckon your tears are magic, like faerie tears. Maybe drinkin' them heals what ails a body."
She let out a soft, choked laugh. "Does that make me a faerie?"
"Maybe half, or a quarter."
She smiled again, a little more surely. She turned the eggs out of the pan, and turned to hug Henry. "I just got this hurt inside me, Hen..."
He closed his eyes, smelling her hair mixed in with salty tears. "Then go ahead and cry," he told her. "Cry all you want." He paused. "I'll be here."
Mary burst into tears anew, mixed joy and sorrow. Her insides hurt, but it was the best feeling in the world to have someone to cry on who loved you so much, and that made her want to cry even more. Henry rubbed her back and scalp until she was done. "I th-think th-th eggs are c-cold," she sniffled.
Henry wanted to squeeze her until all of his strength was gone, but he let her go. "That's okay. I ain't hungry anyway." His breath wheezed.
"Me neither," admitted Mary. "Cryin' makes me feel kinda ill. You better have something, though. Go on into the parlor and I'll whip up some more."
Henry nodded slightly and left her. She felt so loved she wanted to cry again, but stopped herself. The frying pan was still warm, so she cracked two eggs and spilled them into the black bottom, watching them sizzle. She heard Henry coughing, in the other room, and got out a glass for water, feeling a little worried. "Hold on, Hen," she called, filling it. She went into the parlor, where he sat on the sofa, bent over. She held it for him a moment while he drank until he could take it himself. His breath was labored and painful. "You all right?"
He tried to speak, but forced another cough as it caught in his throat. He nodded. "Yes," he said at last.
"You just sit quiet, then. I'll get--"
Henry shook his head. "Sarah--"
There was a knock on the door, and Mary looked up to see out the window that a buckboard had pulled up. "You just sit here," she told him again, and went to the door. Sarah was standing on the porch, holding her little bundle of a child. "Come—come in," said Mary, her hands tidying loose strands of hair. She stepped back and closed the door behind her sister. "Where's little John?" she asked, leading towards the parlor.
"At Ma and Pa's. I was visiting and left him there."
"I guess they were real excited to see him, huh?"
"Ma was cryin’, like always. I ain't gonna stay long.” She stopped at the entryway to the parlor as Mary moved to Henry, standing at the back of the sofa. "I just come to apologize for the remark I made on you not havin' children. I guess it was not proper."
Henry moved suddenly to rise, but Mary put a hand on his shoulder and pressed her fingers tightly into the bone. He could feel her trembling. He was trembling himself, with fury. Mary hadn't told him of Sarah's words, but having children was Mary's business and his. No one else's.
"It ain't nothin' between us," said Mary, softly.
"Well. I better go." Sarah turned.
"Won't you stay awhile, and talk? We could have some tea."
"No, I better go."
Mary listened to the door close, feeling Henry's quaking body beneath her hand. "Maybe it's all she's got now, Hen, to hold above us," she said quietly, hurt in her voice. "Maybe she thinks we don't hold her as good as us anymore, and so she lays that pride on top of us, just so she feels she ain't nothin." Mary felt as his body stilled, and after a moment he put his hand on top of hers.
"I just can't—abide her hurtin' you," he said.
"I know, Hen, but it's how I know she's feelin' inside and me not bein’ able to help that's makin’ me sad. It don't matter what she says to me, I'd hurt for her anyway—so try and not be irked."
"All right."
"Oh, goodness—the eggs!" The smell came from the kitchen now, burnt and acrid. "I don't know if I should try again or wait for lunch." She patted his shoulder and went into the kitchen.
Henry turned for a moment to look after her, settling back into the padded sofa. After another moment's consideration, he took his cane and pushed himself up, biting back the cry that clawed in his throat. He went across the room to his desk and sat down, smelling the wood polish and tanned leather. From one drawer he took a yellowed piece of paper and, from another, a pen and a bottle of ink. He set to writing.
Mary came back a little later with a plate—the third try at eggs, and a successful one. She set it on the desk next to Henry. "What are you doin'?" she asked.
"Writing a letter to the railroad."
"The railroad?" Mary knelt beside his chair and put a hand on the arm.
He set the paper aside and picked up the plate, holding it over his lap with one hand as he ate. "To inquire about a financial compensation for Donovan's death. Something ought to come to his widow."
Mary smiled warmly. "Oh, Hen, you are sweet." Her hands lighted gently on his bad leg, massaging carefully.
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.
"I was thinking," she said after a while, looking up at him, "maybe we oughta give Red to Joey and let Paley graze out here on our place. We got space out here aplenty, and no use for a third horse. Red deserves more use than we give him."
Henry didn't open his eyes. "All right," he said.
"Anyway, I feel kinda badly for Joey. Seems he got the raw end of the deal
with Brian havin' a gun. It could be just Joey's horse."
"I'd guess your Pa has the last say in that, but I'm betting he'll be agreeable." It was Henry's turn to smile.
Mary stood and took his plate, which looked as if it were as empty as it was going to get. She paused, waiting a moment.
"I'll... just sit here a while," he offered, his voice smooth and relaxed.
"Felt that good, did it?" Mary laughed. She set the plate back down and moved to the back of the chair. "I'll show you better." Her fingers and thumbs prodded his shoulders purposefully, finding the tensed muscles and pushing and rubbing the knots out of existence. Henry let his head fall back, relaxed. "Maybe," suggested Mary, "we should go on into the bedroom for this—before you slide right out of that chair."
Henry opened one eye, looking up at her. "Just as a precaution, of course."
"Yes, of course." Mary grinned. "A precaution."
About noon they lay together on the bed, breathing soft, quick. Mary rolled close to Henry, felt him quiver at her touch. "Hen," she whispered, "Hen..." She let herself drift off, and for a while said nothing. There was silence and breathing. Henry put his arms around her, and she curled into his embrace, listening to his soft breaths wheeze past her ear. She didn't think she could sleep without that small sound, now. She huddled in closer.
Henry ran his fingers through her smooth brown hair. "What hurts?" he asked, whispering into her ear.
Her forehead wrinkled, and she shook her head a little against his chest. "Oh, Hen—I just wonder—why we ain't got kids, and not just because what Sarah said. We ain't never talked about it—Hen, I—I hope it ain't a terrible upset for you. I'm sorry."
He closed his eyes, pained. "It ain't your fault Mary, don't think that. If anything, it's that I—ain't got it in me to—to give them to you. I don't know if—"
Mary looked up, put her fingers to his lips, stilling them. "Shhh. It ain't nobody's fault. When the Good Lord sees fit, I guess he'll give us a child, and in his own time."
Joey came riding in the afternoon after next and stomped into the house before Mary had time to come out and greet him. He found them in the parlor, Mary pinning up a pair of Henry's pants to be hemmed while he stood in them. Mary stood when Joey came in, letting Henry lean on her to get down from the stool he was standing on. "What is it?" she asked.
When Henry Came Home Page 18