When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  Her hand moved to embrace his. It was cold, and he held to it tightly, trying to warm it. "I have to go," she said, and tears began to roll down her cheeks, silent. "You have to be strong now, Hen," she whispered.

  He began to weep. Suddenly, a lifetime of farewells and I-love-yous had to be said in moments, and he could not take it in. "Do you understand," he said, urgent, holding her tightly with the child between them, "do you—" his voice broke, but he went on. "Do you understand how much I love you?" He wanted her only to know this, to understand—to somehow understand by his words his overwhelming, all-consuming love for her, before she—

  "Yes," she whispered, and was gone.

  He held her for a moment more, feeling her body sink limply into his, just as it had so many times when she lay sleeping in his arms—then he laid her carefully down, wiping the wetness from her face that was his tears and hers, mingled.

  He sat on the bed with the child and his wife, who was cold now, very cold... and he sobbed.

  The doctor opened the door a little. "Is—there anything I can do?" he asked, quietly. "Someone I can get?"

  He held her body against his, sobbing, and did not look up.

  Chapter Twelve

  Other than Henry, hardest hit by Mary's death was Pa. He rode over in the late morning and Ma came out onto the porch to meet him with the baby in her arms. He looked at her face, and did not have to be told. Turning his horse with a violent jerk, he spurred out into the wild, into the brush country, and did not return for four days. He rode and then he ran, leading his horse behind him, and then he fell to the ground, bellowing his anguish like a great beast. He ate wild creatures he caught with his hands, half-cooked over a blazing, hellish fire that singed his hair at the tips. Out here, in the wild—this was a place to grieve. Death, out here, lost the sharp quality that lanced to the bone. It seemed almost right, a mere part of the turning of seasons, going round and round. In the wild, death was merely the exhalation of a vast, breathing thing.

  In the city, though, in civilization, death was horrifying. It killed a man inside, hollowed him out like a jack-o'-lantern without a candle. It loomed over all that men had built, the last and final irony, because for all of man's great progress, in the end there was still death, final and absolute, a travesty to the triumph of civilization. It was the one wild thing that remained, that could never be quelled, could never be pacified or tamed. In a house, with draperies and china and sofas it was not right; it was unnatural, and terribly, terribly strange.

  And so Pa left to bury his anguish in the place of truth, to deny no more that it was the place from whence he had come. And it eased the aching, grinding pain.

  When he returned, late in the afternoon of the fourth day, grizzled and dirty, he let out half and one more of the wild horses and sat on a fence post in the corral, watching then streak out over the plain, fast and lean. "There's gotta be somethin' wild left," he told a passing ranch hand, sharp. The hand glanced up, nervous, searching for a reply, but Pa was not looking at him.

  He sat and watched the land and the sun until it set and then heaved himself to the ground and lumbered wearily into the house. It was quiet as he went into the kitchen, dark and still. He filled a basin with water and stripped, to wash himself. When he had done he went into the bedroom he shared with Ma and lay down next to her, his strong breaths like locomotive steam, reassuring in the dark.

  Ma turned to him, and he held her while she cried as a woman will.

  In the morning Ma was strong again, and she talked as she rocked the baby, nursing it with a rag dipped in warm milk, and as Pa dressed. "We cleared out the sewin' room for him, and he's been there since. He don't come out—I been leavin' meals just inside the door. I ask't a time or two if he wanted somethin', he just said no. Thought I prob'ly oughta just keep the babe in here, nights." She looked at him for approval, and Pa grunted affirmatively. He left the room and Ma followed him into the kitchen, where she already had things warming for breakfast. She carried the child with her as she worked, natural as walking for her.

  Soon, the twins piled into the room, making it seem suddenly crowded and alive. Joey was a little hesitant to smile, as he had been for the past few days, but Brian could not abide melancholy and soon had him laughing. They were both glad to see Pa back.

  "You boys gonna help today?" he asked, holding up his arms as Ma set a plate before him.

  They shrugged in unison, both having an aversion to the work Pa liked giving them but unwilling to say no to his face all the same. They looked at one another, laughed, and then stopped suddenly. Pa looked up, pausing with his fork raised in one hand. "Sit down," he said, motioning to an empty seat.

  Ma turned, puzzled by his words, and saw Henry standing in the doorway. He gazed into the room, skin sallow and eyes nearly vacant but mostly just weary. The robe he wore hung limp around his calves. Pa motioned again and he stepped forward, hesitant but obedient nonetheless. He sat, losing his grip for a moment and nearly falling, but Pa's hand flew out and stopped just short of gripping Henry's shoulder as the younger man regained himself. Pa and the twins sat quietly, watching him, but Henry didn't notice. He watched Ma as she went back to her work in the kitchen.

  "Is that—" he said, his words soft, "is that—" His hand came up, as if to reach for something, then rested tentatively on the edge of the table.

  Pa followed his gaze. "Well in the name of—" he said, softly, then, louder, "Ma, come here and let the man hold his child!"

  Ma turned again, glancing down at the little bundle she held in the crook of one arm. She looked uncertain, but at a second glance from Pa came over, wiping her free hand on her apron. "All right, dear," she said, holding the baby out. "Careful, now." He reached out and then drew his hands back again, a blank apprehension on his face. What if he dropped her?

  "Go on, son," said Pa.

  At last, he took the child, bringing her close to rest securely against his body. He looked down at her and then closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, rattling breath. He looked again, and didn't want to take his eyes away.

  "Here, give her this. Henry dear—Henry—" He looked up, finally, a little startled, and saw the rag she was holding out to him, wound in the center to a point. "It's sopped in milk. Let her suck on it." He took it, his eyes turning back down immediately, and touched the end to her lips, just barely. Her small, delicate mouth quivered open and took it in immediately, and it went in and out quite violently as she sucked on it. For a moment, his eyes lighted a little. Next to him, Ma had not returned to her work, but was waiting a little nervously. "We've—well, we've been calling her Mary," she ventured.

  At this, he looked up. "Her name is Daisy," he said, and it came out sharper than he had intended. He swallowed. "I—"

  Ma drew back slightly, tears blossoming in her eyes and quickly fading again as she understood he had meant no harm. "All right," she said. She went back to the stove, and in a few minutes returned to put a meal on the table in front of Henry. "Here, dear," she said, "I'll take her while you eat." In her swiftly bustling manner, she bent over and scooped the baby from his arms.

  For a moment he did not move, feeling the empty space in his arms where Daisy was not, and then his hands went slowly to the table. His eyes cast vaguely about the room, and then down at the setting before him. He picked up a fork, loosely, and then a knife. Behind him, Ma hummed softly to the child. He looked at Pa again, watching him eat, as if studying the action for the first time. After a moment Pa looked up and Henry glanced quickly away. He put the fork into his food and eventually took a small bite.

  The boys, already finished, were restless. "Ma," said Brian at last, "can we go please?"

  "All right," she acquiesced, and they leapt to their feet, chairs sliding back. They ran out the kitchen door, down the stairs to the back yard. "Put on your coats!" she called, although her words had no effect; the weather had turned a little cool, and promised rain. The baby, she saw, had fallen asleep, and so she laid it in a l
ittle cradle she had brought out into the corner, warm by the stove. She cleaned up a little more and left to do work elsewhere, checking first to see that the child was still asleep.

  Pa finished his meal and got up. Henry put down his utensils and looked up at the large, powerful man. "Th—thank you—" he said, "for your care—"

  Pa sat back down and leveled a finger at him. His voice was powerful. "No thanks needed, son. Day you said 'I do' you joined this family, and family takes care."

  "May—maybe—" his voice was near a whisper. "Maybe I oughta see my own folks--"

  Pa shook his head, firmly. "Your Ma's got enough trouble, with your Pa and his heart goin' bad, not to mention a passel a' little ones runnin' underfoot. We got plenny a' room here, and there ain't no cause to go lookin' elsewhere. Wasn't too long ago we had six in the house, and it'll hold six again, I s'pose. So don't you go thankin'."

  "N-no, sir."

  "All right." Pa rose again, his massive form nearly shadowing Henry, and saw that the boy had only picked at his food, and didn't look to go back for more. "All right," he said again, taking a step closer and laying a hand on the boy's arm. A moment later, he hoisted him to his feet like a rag doll, propping him up with the cane. "Come here, son," he said, motioning. Henry followed him to the little crib, where the baby lay sleeping, still and small and soft. "You got a beautiful little girl," he said, pointing. "That's what matters now—the best for her."

  "I know," said Henry, quick.

  Pa looked at him and wrapped a brawny arm around his shoulders. "That's right," he said. "I shoulda thought better'n that a' you. 'Pologize." His arm went away. "Well," he rumbled, "I best get to work... got plenny t' catch up on, I s'pose. You rest and get strong. Eat if you can, son." With that, he lumbered out the kitchen door, the same way the boys had gone.

  Henry glanced back at his meal and felt his stomach turn uneasily. He stayed by the crib, looking down at the child. "Daisy," he whispered, just to hear the name. He wanted to touch her, so badly—He bent a little, trying, but clutched at the side of the crib to regain balance. Instead he simply stood, looking down at her.

  "Oh—honey, you don't have to stand there!" Ma was in the doorway, a pile of folded sheets in her arms. She had been passing by, and saw him in there. "I got ears ut'll hear a mouse squeak five miles from here. I'll know if she wakes."

  She stood there, waiting, and so, slowly, he broke away and went to the door. She nodded, satisfied, and bustled away. He glanced back towards the kitchen, then turned and went slowly back to his room. The far wall was still cluttered with sewing things, but mostly the room had been cleared out and they had set up an old bed in one corner. There were a few things they had brought from his house, in three boxes by the bed, and so he sat down on the mattress and looked at them for a while. Then he put his cane aside and bent to sift through the first.

  A few hours later, Ma was hastening from one end of the house to the other, a feather duster in her hand, when she almost plowed over Henry. "Whoops!" she cried, stumbling back. He gripped the back of the couch next to him. "Sorry dear—are you looking for something?" she peered at him with sympathetic eyes.

  "N-no," he said, softly, gathering the front of his robe together with one hand.

  Her movements gentled a little, and she put a hand on his arm. "It'll be better, you'll see," she told him. "We'll have some things brought over soon's we can—" something lighted within her. "Yes, I'll send the boys over tomorrow, then it'll feel more like home. Anything in particular, dear, you want?"

  He considered for a moment. "Maybe—maybe our—the Bible, and some of my work, I guess."

  She patted his arm. "All right, we'll get that."

  He paused, biting his lower lip. "There's a little—a little book, on Mary's s-side of the bed--"

  Ma smiled, tearful. "Sure, honey, we'll get that too. Now—I best get back to dusting, or we'll all drown in it."

  Henry nodded slightly, and, after another moment, retreated to his room.

  That night, he didn't come to dinner, and when Pa followed his wife to bed he was troubled. "Martha, 's he all right?" he asked, shedding his tent-like clothing to reveal a tremendous set of muscles, earned through a lifetime of hard labor.

  She looked up from the mirror. "Henry, you mean. Poor dear. Joey took him his supper, an' he didn't eat but a tiny bit." From the corner, the baby whimpered, and Ma went to pick her up. "Little Daisy. Lovely name. Mary musta picked it out, from the way the boy insisted."

  "Yes," murmured Pa, uncertainty in his rolling voice. He looked over at his wife. "I feel odd, him in the house and the baby in our room."

  Ma turned the child so that she rested atop her ample bosom, front downwards and her tiny head peering back over her shoulder. "Well," she said, quietly, "it's all I could figger. The boy's weak as it is—he can't be gettin' up at all hours a' the night to feed, if he could anyway." She sighed mournfully. "You haven't heard him at night, Ben-- coughin' so hard—not like he does in the day. I wonder--"

  "Cryin'," supplied Pa. "I reckon it makes him cough."

  "Is that it, then. Anyhow, I don't guess the baby'd sleep at all in there."

  Pa sat down on the bed to remove his boots, still uneasy. "Just—don't seem right, that's all," he said, thoughtful.

  "Well, don't nothin' seem right without our girl," Ma half shot back. She teared up.

  Pa turned, put out a hand. "Now Martha," he rumbled, "I didn't mean it to hurt, you know that."

  Ma sniffed a little and sat down on the other side of the bed, laying the baby back to feed. "I know," she said.

  Henry came out again the next morning, looking a little more alert. He sat down, and Ma let him hold the baby until she had his food ready. "I—I ain't that hungry, ma'am," he said, drawing back a little.

  Ma wouldn't stand for that. "Nonsense," she told him, taking the baby. "You sit there and eat that good meal."

  Pa watched the boy turn, slowly, and eat. He was thoughtful. After they had done, he put and arm around Henry and took him aside. "Look son, remember I was gonna make some steel?" Henry nodded slightly. "Well, we done a little a few weeks ago—thought you might like to come out, see what we worked up. Give ya a reason to get dressed, maybe shave..."

  Henry's hand curled tightly around the front of his robe. "All right, sir," he whispered.

  "Good." Pa smiled. "Good." He gave the boy's back a gentle pat, regretting it when it made him cough softly, and watched him go back to his room. Turning, he went outside and waited on the porch, pacing slowly and listening to the groans of the boards beneath him.

  When Henry emerged from the house some time later, he had paled to a milky white and was limping badly. Pa cursed himself inwardly, because of course—he sighed and grasped the boy's arm as they went down the stairs. He'd send Joey in tonight, to help. He simply hadn’t realized how much Mary…

  They were silent across the yard, but Pa, pulling open the barn door, spoke. "Didn't turn out anythin' worth usin' for work, but mebbe next time, with what we know now." He followed Henry into the barn, leaving the door open behind them, and went to a workbench along one wall. Throwing aside an old cloth, he picked up a slightly warped but shining horse shoe, and chuckled. "Sure looks purty," he said, "but ain't good for much." Henry approached as he put it down again and ran a finger over it. After a moment, he picked it up, testing the weight.

  Pa pulled out something long and crudely faceted. "Made two of these," he said. "Boys had fun with'm, for about an hour mebbe—then their arms got tired." He let out a kind of rolling laugh, and swung it easily through the air; Henry saw that it was a small sword, although the edges were dull. "Good thing," Pa added. "I thought they were near ready to kill each other." He held it out between his palms for Henry's examination. He watched the boy, carefully, and after a moment sighed and set the sword aside. "Come on—we'll go in."

  "I can't do it, Martha."

  "Ben..."

  He got up from the sofa and went to the window, his back
to his wife and the little child in her lap. Suddenly, he turned. "He's dying, Martha. I see it in his eyes."

  "Ben," she said, more sharply now. "Lower your voice if you've got to talk like that."

  He ran a hand through his bleached-snow hair. It was long; he needed to stop off at the barber's. "I know you see it," he told her, carefully keeping his voice hushed. "I can't—I just can't do it."

  "What else is there? He's sick, Ben, he always has been, since the war." She paused, her brow furrowing with her distress. "Ben—I know he's like a son to you, but sometimes... it's the way of things—"

  "No," he said, sharply. "Don't say those words, not in this house." Abruptly, he spun and went to the door, grabbing a coat from a hook on the wall. "I'm—going out. I'll be back."

  Ma watched him as he stepped out into the dark, her eyes sad. After a moment, she turned back to the baby, who was whimpering slightly. "All right," she murmured. "Here's some milk. Good girl... good girl."

  Outside, Pa breathed fiery breaths, coming out in feathery white puffs in front of him. He was almost never cold, and even now was a little warm. He put on the coat anyway, mostly out of habit from Ma's worried nagging, and glanced back and forth. Quickly, he jogged down the steps and stood in front of his house, not knowing which way to go. Finally, he headed west, out onto the flat lands, his strides long and powerful.

  The problem was, Henry felt obliged. Living in their house, anyone's house, whatever was hinted at he'd do, out of obligation. Pa couldn't find fault with this; he knew he'd be the same, and asking a man to change that way was like asking the winter to move to July. But the way it was, Henry was dying—no mistake about that. Pa, passing a low tree, reached up, tore free a small limb and began to worry it, breaking off twigs and branches as he went.

  Through no fault of her own but being a woman, Ma had all but taken the baby away, and the boy hadn't the power nor the strength to take Daisy for himself. Without the baby, Henry just didn't have a reason to hang on. Pa cursed softly to himself, and immediately offered a silent prayer begging forgiveness. "I just don't know," he said, hearing his voice loud in the night.