"I—I guess that's my own business," said Henry, paling. His hands curled into fists, and then slowly unknotted themselves.
Doc paused a moment, not turning around. "Reckon so," he said finally. "I 'pologize. Too many times I stick my nose where it ain't wanted."
"'S all right."
"Well, I reckon you'll forgive me then if I stick this cursed thing down your throat." Doc's smile was penitent, and Henry opened his mouth obligingly, making the proper noises when prompted. "Well, there—whoops!" Doc lost his hold on the tongue depressor, and it fell lightly into Henry's lap. The movement startled Henry, but then he fumbled for the little stick and handed it back. "Thank you, son, thank you..." muttered Doc, who turned his careful eyes away and placed the item back in his bag. "Go on and get buttoned up, and I'll go claim my glass of water from your little lady." He hiked his specs up with a thumb and forefinger, grinned, and left the room.
Mary heard him come out into the hall and met him with the glass. He took it and stepped past her, going into the kitchen. "What is it?" she asked, her brow creasing slightly as she followed.
"Your man—he been tired at all, lately?"
She pulled back slightly, caught. "Well—last night, I guess, he got real sleepy all've a sudden. Kind of—confused." She bit her lip. "Why, Doc?"
He reached up and put a hand, soft and pink, on her arm. "I don't wanna scare ya, darlin', but I think mebbe he had a kind of stroke, probably last night like you said." He shook his head before she could be concerned. "Don't worry yourself, cause it don't look like nothin' much; it was real small, and lots of folks have'm and don't notice. Jus'—watch out a little. I didn't say nothin' to him, cause I think the worry'd be more than it's worth—but I think he'll be fine." He patted her arm and let go.
"Thank you, Doc," she said, softly, watching him go.
Mary crawled up onto the bed, feeling a little like ten years old and Christmas morning in her long-sleeved nightgown. Though the days were warm, it was cooler in the evenings now, and it wouldn't be long before they'd start up the fireplace at night. She curled up next to her husband, her head on his shoulder.
He looked down at her. "I killed a man," he said, his voice hollow.
"Wasn't your blame."
"Wasn't the first." His breath caught, slightly.
She slid her arms around his body. "I know," she whispered, and he was silent.
He gave a short, rasping cough, then settled back. "Don't know why... seems like--" his voice was quiet. "Like one's always gotta die for another to live."
"Don't—" her voice broke. "Don't say that, Hen, don't." Her arm drew away from him, to cradle her belly.
His eyes fell on her, examining for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, and put an arm around her. For a minute he was quiet, stroking her hair and feeling torn. "I think—" he said, "I think maybe I was scared to love you, knowin' what I had inside. Scares me—sometimes-- 'cause I'm not scared—like maybe I might hurt you, and not care."
She looked up at him. "You'll never hurt me," she told him, confident. "Not meaning to, anyway."
"How do you know?"
"You don't think you'll ever want to hurt me, do you?"
"No—but I've seen—men change."
She smiled. "No. You'll never change."
"I—I don't know if that's good or bad," he said, teasing a little.
"Both, I guess." She shifted, sitting up on her knees to face him. "Hen—" she said, hesitant, "Doc didn't tell, but I think I oughta--" He watched her, waiting, and her hands grasped his, worrying it. "He said—last night, maybe—you had a kind of stroke."
Henry looked down at his hands, saw them tremble for a moment and then stop. That's what it had been, then.
"He said it wasn't a bad one, just small, but you oughta go easy."
"Sure," he said, "I guess." He was suddenly a little afraid.
Sometime in the night, he woke, gasping and coughing, because Mary was shaking his shoulder gently, her other hand pressed against his brow, sweaty and cold. For a moment he remained in the nightmare world, the shots in his mind loud as reality. "Run," he urged, pleaded, clutching her arm. "Please—run!"
"Shhh," she soothed softly, kissing his forehead.
He realized, suddenly, where he was, in a rush of time like a waterfall. At first, his urge was to turn from her, dark and ashamed, but he pushed it away and clung to her, tightly, his breaths quick and panicked.
"Shhh," she said again, wrapping her arms around him tightly, tightly.
How strong she is, he thought. How strong...
Chapter Eleven
As Mary's time drew nearer, Henry began to make preparations. He talked with the father of the boy, Ian, who helped in the yard, so that he could stay until the baby came. They offered him a place in the house, but he was a shy boy, perhaps a little slow, and preferred to sleep in the barn. Doc was contacted, and he agreed to stay in town as much as he could, and if he could not, to make certain that a midwife was available in his stead.
Mary, it seemed, was finally slowed by her condition, and walked about the house with one hand on her back and the other beneath her bulging stomach. When Henry looked at her, concerned, she gave a tired but glowing smile. "Feel like maybe if I don't hold it up, it'll drop right outta there," she said, and laughed when he showed worry because it was only a joke. He got up twice more in the morning before she woke, to prepare breakfast. He would have done it more often, probably, but she was quick and would stand for no nonsense.
One morning, however, he insisted that she remain beneath the covers.
"But Hen--" she protested.
He pointed a finger at her, sharply. "Stay," he told her, barely hinting at a smile. "I mean it."
She flopped back into the pillows. "You're trying to spoil me," she pouted, watching him rise stiffly. "And I won't stand for it."
He slipped on his robe, a new one. "All right. I promise—after today, I won't ever even think of lifting a finger again."
She raised her eyebrows. "Not a finger?"
He stopped in the doorway, looking back. "Well—maybe just one. Now and then."
"All right. In that case, you may go." She slid back down under the sheets, satisfied. There were noises from the kitchen, dulled a little as they passed through the walls, but she could imagine the causes of them and tracked his progress in her mind as he worked. After a while, she heard him coughing and something clanked, as if dropped. "Hen?" she called, sitting up.
It was a moment before he answered, and he came to the door of the kitchen so she could hear down the hall. "Stay," he said. It was only a few minutes more before he returned, with griddlecakes. "I'm getting faster," he said.
She snatched the plate from his hand, pretending to examine the four small items with care. She pointed. "This one's burnt on the bottom."
He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Yes—that was when I knocked the jar of flour off the counter."
Her brow went up. "The flour--!"
"Don't worry—the lid was shut tight and it didn't break. It's just—on the floor."
"Hm. Well." She tasted. "Very good! Where did you learn?"
"Growing up with nine other kids makes lots of work," he explained. He paused, listening, then slid over a little to pull himself up, letting out a small gasp of pain.
"Hen—" she said, then, seeing him go to the door, "Wait! What's that noise? Who's coming?"
He pointed to her again. "Stay. And eat."
She listened impatiently, eating a little, and heard a carriage or a buckboard come closer and stop. There were a few loud exclamations, but they silenced quickly. After that, the front door opened, thumping against the wall, and heavy footsteps sounded into the front room. Mary waited as long as she could, then set her plate aside, nearly tossing it onto the little table next to her side of the bed. "Hen!" she called, "I'm coming out!" She threw aside the sheets, but paused before getting up, hearing his cane in the hall. He appeared in the doorway.
"No you
aren't," he said, just barely smiling. "You'll have to get past me, first."
"That's not fair!" she protested, grinning.
He smiled. "Ten more minutes. That's all. Actually—" He looked back, at someone Mary couldn't see. "Thank you—yes—thank you—" the front door swung shut, and a moment later there was a whinny and whoever had come was gone. "All right—come out." He waited as she got up and joined him in the door and lead her down the hall and into the front room.
"Oh—oh—Hen—" she stuttered, "Oh, it's beautiful." Against the far wall, there rested a darkly polished upright, the ivory keys gleaming dully in the morning light. She drifted towards it slowly, running her fingers over the silent keys, her other hand caressing her stomach. Carefully, she touched several of the black keys with her index finger, stroking them in adoration.
"You—you can teach the baby," he said, softly.
She turned, suddenly, and flew back to him, her arms around his neck. He felt, pleasantly, her firm belly press against his side. "Thank you, Hen," she said. "It's beautiful." She came away a little, and he motioned.
"Play a little," he said.
She smiled and bit her lip. "Not yet," she whispered. "Not till the baby comes."
He looked down, and kissed her for a long while. "All right," he said.
Three nights later, she woke him, feeling a pang. "Hen—" she said, shaking his shoulder. "Hen—"
He turned to see her in the moonlight, just as she was torn with the first convulsions of labor. Her teeth clenched and her lips pulled back into a grimace, and in a moment it was gone. He moved quickly, pulling back the sheets. "I'll get Ian," he said, reaching—but felt her hand on his wrist.
"No," she said. "It's only started just now, and far apart. I've got a long while, and maybe even it'll pass, that's what Ma would say."
He pinned his upper lip between his teeth, but remained, sitting by her side and holding her hand. Another contraction came, and her fingernails bit into his palm. "Mary—" he said, feeling desperate to help her. He shifted a little and cradled her head in his lap, smoothing the hair away from her face. She sighed as her body relaxed again and closed her eyes. It was a little over five minutes later that the next one came, and he watched helplessly as her face contorted and her fingers clawed for a hold. Suddenly, he could sit idly by no longer, and he moved her head to rest on a pillow and reached for his cane, fumbling in the dark and catching it just as it began to fall to the floor, out of reach. He pulled himself up, went to the clothes tree in the corner, and slipped on his robe.
"Hen—" she said, faint, "’s not time..."
But he could see that the contractions were coming quicker now, and left the room. The hall was cool and dark, but he did not notice as he went through. He flung the front door open and stepped out onto the porch. "Ian!" he called, then cleared his throat because the sound did not carry. He could see a small light from the cracks between the planks in the barn wall. "Ian—!" The call was cut short by a cough and he grasped his chest, wheezing hoarsely.
Fortunately, the boy had heard, and called back a faint, "Coming!" A moment later the barn door grated open and a sleek black horse raced out into the night, a small form clinging tightly to its back.
He heard her calling from the bedroom: "Hen—Henry--!" and fear clutched at his heart, tightening in his chest. Gathering his robe again, he hurried back, stumbling a little. At her bedside, she grasped his hand and he started to sit and then stopped, afraid. He was weary already—if he should sit, and not be able to stand again when needed-- So he stood over her, holding her hand and aching to cradle her body. She had kicked aside the sheets by now, and sweat trickled from her brow. Again her nails dug into his hand, but he didn't feel the pain. Still, she smiled up at him, the expression grim and tight.
"What can I do?" he asked, swallowing. She shook her head—nothing. He turned his eyes upward and began silently to pray.
It seemed like hours before the doctor arrived, but the ride from town was not long and the little man made haste. The horses squealed in protest as he reigned them to a halt, and a moment later the bedroom door slammed open. He gave a quick smile, setting his bag on a chair and preparing as fast as his fingers could fly. His look, now, was one of both experience and hard knowledge. "Boil some water in the kitchen," he ordered, turning to the boy who had followed him in. He looked up quickly at Henry.
"Two women... from the church, coming to help. The wagon'll be here any minute."
"Hey—Doc--" panted Mary, under her breath.
He came up next to her and Henry moved away a little so that he could check her pulse and listen to her heart. "Good girl," he said, turning his back. "Looks fine."
Henry moved closer again, holding almost as tight to her arm as she to his. She looked up and smiled in a moment of relief, and the worry on his face dissolved a little, confined mostly now to his brow and eyes.
The women arrived then, and bustled into the room. Henry knew he had seen them before—at church, in town—and probably he knew them, or Mary did, or maybe even one of them was her mother, but no names came to his mind and he could not recall the faces, either. One approached him and put her arm around his waist, a gesture he noticed only vaguely. "Come dear," she said, using her other hand to pry Mary's fingers away from his arm. "'Tain't a man's place, and you'll only drive your mind half crazy." And then he sensed that his hand was empty, as it should not have been, and before he could object he found himself in the hall, and the door was closed.
He paced a small oval outside of the door until he heard her scream. His breath caught at the noise, and he threw open the door. One of the women—the other, this time—pushed past him on her way to the kitchen. Down the hall a little, she stopped and turned, quickly. "She'll be all right," the woman scolded, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Henry stood just outside the threshold, undecided. Just as the woman was coming back with a bowl of steaming water, a scream to shatter windows broke from the room, and the woman glimpsed his terrified face. She laughed, heartily. "'S only natural," she told him, pausing between him and the door. She laughed again. "Men got no stomach for such things. Wars," she said lightly, tossing the words over her shoulder as she vanished into the dimly lit bedroom. "Heh. Wars! Men, always tryin' t' outdo, with their death and weapons. They won't. Can't!" The door slammed in his face.
He stood there gripping his cane, stunned by her words. He sensed, somehow, some great wisdom there, just beyond his reach. She had sounded so certain, so secure in the knowledge that life would continue. She knew, of course, because she had felt it in her belly.
There came an anguished shriek and he moaned, resting his forehead against the wall.
It continued for hours, on into the early morning and through the sunrise. He turned and leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes. All he could hear were her screams, and he ached to console her. The women bustled in and out around him, but he no longer knew why they were there, until one of them repeatedly stuck her finger into his shoulder. He looked up.
"Dear, you've gone's white as a sheet."
He heard her voice only dully, and after a moment she was gone. He sighed.
But then she returned, dragging a chair. She set it against the wall and took his arm, prodding him into it. He sat, at last, with the cane across his knees, and realized suddenly how very tired he was, although it didn't matter. His leg throbbed. The woman pressed a glass of water into his hands and left. He looked at the glass in his hand, but didn't drink. He noticed that he had blood on his hand in a vaguely curious manner, and realized a moment later that it had been Mary's nails biting into him. Strange... he didn't feel any pain.
He sat for another hour more, and then there was a cry. It was faint, and came from tiny lungs and a tiny body. He sat up, suddenly, and the cry came again, more loudly. It shook him to the bone. The glass slid from his hand, shattering as it hit the floor and splashing the bottom of his robe with water. He ignored it, and called hoarsely
for someone to help him up. The boy, Ian, had gone away somewhere.
He had to see his child. He didn't care, not anymore, that they didn't want him in the room. It was his bedroom, his house. His child.
He stood, ignoring the pain although he sensed immediately that he had cried out, and felt a cold perspiration on his brow. Entering the room, he crossed the floor and sat down on the bed, sheets covered now in blood. She lay there, pale and sweaty, and the child lay in her arms. He faltered, feeling a lump in his throat, and reached out to touch the face of the tiny, wrinkled, red child. His hand trembled, because it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He looked up at her, in wonder, and she smiled weakly. There was a glow about her face, and he saw there, suddenly, a likeness to the image of the Virgin Mary, and divine motherhood.
"A girl," she whispered.
He could not find words, his heart full, mind bereft.
"What shall we name her?" In her arms the infant sighed softly.
"Daisy," he said, suddenly, not knowing quite why. She nodded slightly, and his world was complete.
"There's—too much blood," said Doc, at the end of the bed.
Henry looked up, and at once the rest of the world was there, oddly because he had not noticed it before. The women were in the doorway, and then they were gone. "I—don't understand," he said, confused.
"I'm sorry," whispered Doc, his eyes turning down. Then he, too, was gone.
Henry looked after the doctor, unable to take it in. It was too much. He looked at his wife and the child.
"I'm sorry," she said, and her voice was like a gentle, soft breeze.
"No," he told her.
"Please, Hen," she said. Her hand reached out and rested on his arm, her face imploring.
He looked at the baby, now rosy pink and sleeping, and then back at her. With trembling, weak arms, she held out the small bundle and he took it, gingerly. "Oh—God—" he pleaded.
When Henry Came Home Page 25