Pa looked even more confused. "Guess what--?" Mary caught his eye, over Ma's shoulder, and winked. Suddenly his jaw hung a little loose, and he looked between her and Henry. "Is it—what I want t'say, anyway?"
"Go on, Pa, say it," urged Mary. "Go on."
"A—a baby comin'?" He ran a hand through his hair; over the years and more so recently, it had become a stark, pure white, contrasting darkly with his sun-browned skin. The action had become habitual, as if he were a little confused at the unnatural turn of age.
"Yes, Pa."
"Oh, darlin'—!"
"Scared as hell, ain't you, son?" Pa's words were more of a statement, a certainty. He grinned like a satisfied cat.
Henry shifted, and took a sip of lemonade. "Yes," he said. They were out on the back porch together, which was screened off with mosquito netting.
"Don't worry yourself—it was the same with me, the first time. Second time too. And especially the third and fourth. That there was a real surprise." Of a sudden, Pa snapped his fingers. "Say—I got in some new machinery. Don't use ferrier's equipment but twicet a year, but I been savin'. Care to see it?"
"All right."
There was a thin wooden door on springs to close in the porch, and Pa hurried to hold it open. He was eager as a boy, and Henry was reminded of Mary, though Pa's face was burnt and flat and rather ugly. They started across the yard to the barn. "Sure, son" said Pa, "you'll love bein' a father to your young'n, you watch. I see you're real careful, but things fit in, you'll see."
"Yes, sir."
Pa took a sudden few steps to get in front of Henry. He stopped in his tracks, under a large oak, and leveled a thick finger. "Damn it all, son, how long's it gonna be a'fore I c'n git you t' stop 'sirrin' me?"
Henry looked startled. "I—" he said, gathering himself, "I—reckon when you s-stop callin' me 'son.'"
Pa made to say something, then stopped and frowned, thoughtful. "Well," he said. "Well. --It don't seem right, callin' you anything else, an' I can't expect you t' go callin' me Pa—" he let his finger drop and ran a hand through his whitened hair, then through again. "Durn it all, now I've gone and skairt you—I do 'pologize, son." He turned, gesturing. "Come on," he said, walking slow as Henry caught up. He put an arm over the younger man's shoulders, lightly. "You go on and call me what you like."
"Th-thank you, sir."
At the barn, Pa used his great, brawny arms to heave one of the doors open, just enough to get through. They went inside, and a shaft of light from the opening sliced across the floor. That, with pinpoints leaking from cracks and spaces and knotholes in the lumber, was enough to dimly light the huge structure. Pa's barn, indeed, was large; the ceiling reached lofty heights known in the cities only to cathedrals, and the beams crossed over one another like a great spider web up above.
Henry paused in the middle of the packed-dirt floor, smiling faintly. Pa lumbered to a corner and began to pull away a large canvas cloth, revealing a piece of machinery underneath. After a moment he noticed he hadn't been followed and looked back. He paused, looking at the boy looking up. "Rememb'rin', son?" he asked.
Henry blinked and glanced at him. "Yes..." he said, turning his eyes upward again. "You taught us buildin', here."
Pa laughed, booming and deep and satisfying. The rafters seemed to shiver slightly, and grew still. "Wasn't nothin', son. Showed you'n John there a few tricks, and you went and got the whole thing built all yourselves. Bright pair 'a kids, you two were, real bright." Henry looked a little unsettled, so Pa beckoned with an arm. "Come on over here, lemme show you this." He turned back, pulled off the rest off the canvas covering, and stood back a little, proud. "Saved me all winter for this," he said. "See here where it comes down?" He pointed, and Henry bent forward slightly to see, running a finger along the slick, untarnished metal. "That there airs it. Gonna make some real fine iron, maybe try my hand at a little steel. Ain't got much experience, but I'll figger it."
"I'd like to see it—when it's up and goin'," admitted Henry.
"Sure, son, sure. Won't be a month or two 'til we fire her, but sure. Pound it out yourself if you want." His hand went through his hair and he shifted from one foot to the other, his body restless if his mind was not.
Henry paled. "We'll—we'll see," he said, quietly.
In the evening after dinner, Mary pulled Henry through a door into the sewing room and kissed him. "I got a place I wanna sleep, if it's all right. –Pa'll have to take you upstairs."
He glanced down. "All right."
"You sure?"
"Yes." From the parlor, they heard Ma start in on the piano.
She grinned, pulling him back the other way out through the door. "Come on, then." They went down the hall and into the front room, where Brian and Joey were standing by the piano as Ma danced her fingers over the keys. The twins looked up as they came in, their mouths snapping shut. Their expressions were identical, almost guilty. From the leather chair in the corner, Pa grinned and shut his eyes, leaning his head back and crossing his arms over a solid abdomen.
Ma turned to look at Mary and Henry and then twisted back to eye her boys. "I ain't gonna have you two bein' like that," she said. "Ain't no shame. Now go on, sing." Her voice was no-nonsense, and when she started up again her fingers were heavy on the keys. Tentatively, looking like a pair of wet cats, the boys began to sing. Neither one moved his head as Mary and Henry sat down on the sofa, but their eyes strained to follow, hurriedly averting when Henry glanced over at them.
At last, Ma finished the song and the boys bolted before she could protest. Brian tromped from the room, but Joey scrambled for a little space on the far side of the sofa, at Mary's feet. She reached over, smiling, and patted his head. "That was beautiful," she whispered. He flushed and hid his face.
"Come play with me a while," wheedled Ma, gesturing to her daughter. Mary hesitated a moment, then went over and sat on the piano bench beside her.
"Don't know as I remember much," she muttered to herself, but as her hands passed over the keys they reoriented themselves quickly. She sounded out a few chords and wiggled back and forth to get settled. "Guess you never forget.” She shrugged and joined Ma in a series of lively songs.
Henry watched the two women, and when Pa opened one eye he peered at Henry. Joey, finding the attention drawn away from himself at last, climbed up on the sofa where his sister had been, next to his brother-in-law. After a few minutes, Ma declared herself finished, leaving Mary to play. Ma sat down in a rocker by the window and began to knit. Joey, cautious, scooted a little closer to Henry, and after a moment the man's hand rested on his head and then around his shoulder, almost absently. He was still watching his wife. Joey smiled sheepishly and scooted still closer.
When Mary had finished her fourth piece she turned suddenly, swiveling so that she sat backwards on the bench, feet dangling. She put one hand on the bench on either side of her. "Recite, Hen," she half-begged.
He looked back at her blankly, swallowing, a little startled to have been put on the spot so suddenly. He realized then that his arm was around the boy—Joey—and moved to withdraw it. He stopped, though, seeing the boy's eyes looking up at him, smiling. He glanced back at Mary. "All right," he said. She grinned, and he grasped his cane, using the boy's shoulder to stand. His eyes went around the room, then turned inward, considering.
"I've heard you do Henry the Fifth, on occasion," noted Pa, from the corner. He shifted, a hint of a smile on his face, and his eyes remained closed.
Henry blinked. "All—all right." He looked down at Joey, knowing that the boy would not have heard the story. "Long ago," he said, "Henry the Fifth was king of England."
"Were you named after him?"
"Was I—no—no, I don't think so."
"There was a King John, too."
"Yes, there—there was." He was somewhat disconcerted by the boy's remarks, and especially by his round face, gazing up and looking somehow self-satisfied. He blinked again and went on. "At—that time, Eng
land had a long history of disagreements with France, and tensions were high. King Henry knew that England was weak, his people were not united, and he could not afford to get into a war. But the king of France sent a messenger with a present to King Henry that insulted him so that he was forced to make a choice: ignore it, and relinquish the dignity of his country, or go and fight, although he knew that he would most likely lose."
"What was the gift?" interrupted Joey.
"Tennis balls."
"Tennis balls?" he looked puzzled.
"The king of France meant to say that fighting England would be nothing more than a game to him, because it was nothing."
Joey's eyebrows went up. "Ooh," he intoned.
"So—Henry went with his army to France. Three of his own best men betrayed him, and in the end, he was left with only a small band of soldiers. The men who remained were loyal, but disheartened because they knew that the next battle, the most important of all, would probably be their last. He gathered his men together, along with one of the men who had not betrayed him, a man named Westmoreland. Like the soldiers, Westmoreland did not want to die, and he wished that they only had more men. Henry heard him saying this, and answered—" he cleared his throat softly and straightened, preparing himself to speak louder than his usual husky whisper.
In the corner of the room, Pa opened one eye and caught Ma's glance. "Water, Martha," he mouthed. She nodded slightly, put aside her knitting, and slipped away to the kitchen.
"If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss. But if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor. God's will I pray thee, wish not one man more—" he continued, his voice surprisingly strong, but, most importantly, expressive, eloquent. Joey watched him in awe, jaw slack. Mary smiled, watching as Henry Peterson faded away and Henry the Fifth appeared. It was always magic, to her, a hidden talent she had discovered when they were first courting, and treasured dearly. "—and Crispin Crispian shall never go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers—for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his composition. And gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." He stopped, suddenly, looking around as if he had come out of a trance. His chest heaved, dryly, and he found that a glass of water was being pressed into his hand. Taking it, he gulped down half, gave a small cough, and let himself fall back to the sofa.
Pa opened his eyes, sat up, and clapped a few times, heartily. "Excellent, son, excellent. Very well done." He pointed. "In fact, I've never heard better."
Henry cleared his throat. "It's—been a while," he said, and coughed again.
Mary knelt next to him, taking the empty glass. She squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Hen," she half-whispered. "More water?"
"No, I'm all right."
"So what happened?" asked Joey, wide-eyed.
"Yeah! Did they all get kilt?" Brian had been standing in the doorway, and with the last few lines had crept back into the room.
Henry shook his head, meaning to explain, but coughed again. Mary stood up and went to Brian, gathering him in and motioning to Joey to join them. "How about I tell you all for a bedtime story? You should have been asleep an hour ago."
Brian scowled as she directed them towards the stairs. "You're a girl!" he protested. "You don't know how to tell it."
Mary swatted him on the behind. "We'll see about that. Now go on." Joey looked back before they started up the staircase and waved hesitantly. Henry smiled faintly, but did not return the gesture.
Ma heaved herself to her feet, yawning and excusing herself to clean up the kitchen. Henry sat quietly, sipping a little more water. Pa watched him, thoughtful, pondering. After a while, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and spoke. His great bass was hushed now, because to talk below a boom he had to whisper, a low, rumbling-thunder sound. "Man like me wonders sometimes," he said slowly, "—why things don't turn out so nice for all his girls." He was referring to Sarah.
Henry became uneasy, not certain whether it was a lamentation or a compliment. He decided, uncertainly, that it was a little of both. Pa seemed to be looking for answers to unanswerable questions, perhaps from him, or anywhere. "Things—ain't always fair," he said, quietly.
"No," said Pa, "no. But you think—take the boys. When they was asleep, when they was little—you couldn't tell one from the other. Then they wake up, and they're as differ'n't as night and day. Oh, they're both good boys—but look at'm. You see."
"Yes."
"Makes a man think."
Henry did not know what to say, and Pa's gaze had turned inward, so he remained silent. After a time, there were giggling and thumping noises on the floorboards from upstairs, and Pa rose to his feet, glancing up. He went to the window, his enormous frame nearly hiding every inch of glass from Henry's view, and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned back, however, when footsteps sounded down the stairs. "Darlin'," he said, with a slow smile. "I'm amazed you got those hellions to sleep s'fast."
Mary shrugged. "Well, they're in bed—sleep, I don't know about." She reached the sofa and pulled Henry up. "Pa?"
He raised his eyebrows at her, expectantly, and then remembered. "Ah," he said, and crossed the room in two strides. "Hold on, son." Henry found himself suddenly cradled in the big man's arms. There was a brief shock of pain, but he was used to it and it went away before they reached the top of the stairs. Pa did not stop there, however, and Mary scooted ahead of him as they went down the hall, stopping at the end and tugging down a small set of folding stairs from the ceiling. Ducking a little and grunting slightly, Pa went up and set him down.
"Here!" called Mary, and his cane was passed up.
Pa held onto his shoulder for a moment while he got balanced, and his grip was strong and firm. When he judged that Henry was all right, he let go and backed down a step, stopping on a second thought. He looked up, hesitant, then said, "I admire you, son," and ducked quickly back down.
Mary jogged up, grinning. "This used t'be our room, mine and Sarah's." She looked at him. "You all right?"
He shook his head slightly. "Sure."
She hiked her dress up and let it billow down again. "I forgot how hot it is up here." There was a small window at either end of the long, slope-walled room, and she hurried to open each one so a breeze could blow through, then lit a lamp that was next to the opening in the floor. "Not very cool out yet, either, but it'll be all right." She turned to the bed. "Oh dear," she said. "This isn't turning out to be as nice as I thought. I forgot—we have the bed." On the floor, shoved against the wall, there was only a single mattress with a tick pulled across. She looked around; most of the attic was empty, in the middle, but old dusty boxes and trunks lined the edges. "Hm," she considered. "That one, I think." She went to a deep burgundy-colored chest and pried up the lip. "Yep." Carefully, she pulled out the topmost sheet from the pile of linens, along with a billow of dust. Immediately she sneezed, and from behind her Henry coughed. "Oh dear," she said again.
She turned, and Henry saw the disappointment on her face and it made him smile. He put out an arm and she stepped closer, a sheet dragging behind her, trailing from one hand. "Poor Mary," he said, almost playfully. He stroked her hair. "Don't worry—we'll have a fine time. We don't need sheets, it's so warm, or maybe just one." He reached down and took the corner of the white material from her fingers. "And if it's dusty, that'll be reason to have a bath in the morning."
She gave a wavering smile, and her lip began to quiver. Henry dropped the sheet and put a finger on her lower lip, pinning it so that it was still. She smiled, certainly, and laughed and hugged him.
He smelled her hair. "I love you," he said, "and I love your baby."
"Our baby."
"Our baby," he agreed, slow, feeling the words in his mouth.
&nbs
p; They stripped quickly to underclothes, which in themselves were almost too much for the stuffy old attic, and stood over the mattress on the floor. "Well, I guess it'll do," she said, grinning, then let out a shrill scream.
Henry's hand locked around her arm. "What is it?"
She threw up her hands to cover her head. "A bat! They're living up here!" He smiled and laughed solidly, and Mary’s jaw dropped in horror. "How can you—!"
He shook his head. "They won't hurt you. They eat fruit."
She put her hands on her hips. "I don't see much fruit in here, do you?"
He shrugged. "Anyhow, they won't hurt." He put his arm out to hug her, but she pushed back, tripping on the edge of the mattress and falling back right into its center.
"You shouldn't have done that!" she cried, grinning and gritting her teeth.
"Me—?"
"Yes, you!" Suddenly, she used the springs to bounce herself back up to a sitting position, grabbed his arm, and pulled. With a heavy thump, he landed half on the mattress and half on top of her. She giggled and put an arm around him. "I hope I didn't hurt you," she said, lovingly.
He blinked. "—No," he said, finding that it was oddly true. "But--" he rolled quickly off of her body, his face grave.
But she put a hand to her stomach. "Don't worry," she said. "There's not much can hurt me, or this."
He looked half-relieved. "Still—" He yawned and shifted to his back, holding her hand.
She waited a minute and then turned to blow out the lamp. It was silent, except for crickets.
"Too hot?" she asked, grinning.
"—No."
"Too tired?" She touched his arm.
"Never."
As he often had in the past few years, Henry woke before Mary, sleepless. He could see the sky out the little window above the mattress, and it was an early-morning grey, bleak and colorless. He knew, however, that in a few minutes or maybe a half an hour, the sky would blossom pink and new. He watched the window for a while and saw a few sparrows flit by, their split tails showing clearly against the sky.
When Henry Came Home Page 22