Pa threw the paper with all his great force, but it caught in the slight breeze and fluttered to rest at his feet. "Oughta be 'shamed a' yourself, Benjamin Kelton Jacobs," he muttered sharply, furious. "Goin' lookin' into--" his eyes blazed, and he nearly ripped his pocket open getting out a match. He picked up the letter, lit the match, and set it to burn, holding it by one corner until it all had gone to ash. Tossing the spent match aside, he crossed himself. "Forgive this damned sinner, Lord," he said, then kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the name etched in stone. "And forgive an old man, darlin'. He tries to do best by you, but sometimes his thinkin' just don't come out right."
When that same year found itself gripped in the dead of winter, the Peterson homestead received another unexpected visit. It was towards the late afternoon and Henry was laid out on the sofa, his legs stretched along the seat as he sat, feeding Daisy with a spoon as she stood by his side, clinging to his coat for balance. Hearing something, he stopped, holding the spoon just out of the child's reach. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, and waited a moment. "Ms. Beaumont," --this time more sharply.
She hurried in, from the hall. "Yes, sir."
"Please look out the window—there's someone coming." Daisy whimpered for the spoonful of mush, but went unnoticed for the moment.
The woman went to the window, her steps small and exact, and peered out. "There is, sir," she said. "Very close now—it's harder to hear for the snow."
"Who is it, please?" He looked down just as Daisy's small hand reached up, spilling the contents of the spoon over the front of his shirt.
Her eyes narrowed against the blinding whiteness outside. "I don't know the carriage, sir. Wait, it's stopping. There's a woman getting out, sir—red hair."
Ignoring Daisy's continuing grunts for more, he let the spoon fall into the bowl and set it roughly on the table, out of her reach. "Then help me up," he said, stifling a cough. "Quickly." Ms. Beaumont did so, handing him his cane. "And get me a wet rag from the kitchen." As she left he went to the window himself and saw her walking through the snow, holding skirts up and stepping high. He felt his breath catch again and leaned on the sill until the coughs passed, leaving him a little lightheaded. Ms. Beaumont was there when he looked up again, the requested cloth held out. "Thank you," he forced, barely a whisper, wiping at what was surely to become a stain. "I'm going to ask you to stay in your room until I call for you—please." He handed back the rag.
She bowed her head slightly before turning. "Yes sir."
Henry limped after her, towards the door. "Da-dee!" called Daisy, toddling after him. She got a few steps away from the sofa and wavered, then sat down in place, deciding a moment later to crawl back the other way after all.
The knock at the door came just as Henry reached it, and he paused a moment with his hand on the knob, breathing steadily. He opened it, and they looked at each other. Her eyes told nothing; they were all but blank. "Sarah," he said at last, stepping aside. "Come in."
She nodded, voicing a small "thank you," and stepped inside the door, stomping her feet a little to get the snow off. "May I sit down?" He took her coat as she removed it, hanging it up, then gestured to the front room and followed her in. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Daisy, who sat on the floor, entirely absorbed with one of the small wooden toys Henry had carefully whittled and polished. "Oh," Sarah breathed, pressing her gloved hands palms-together. "She's beautiful—just like Mary—exactly like her..." She turned. "Where is she? I want to—she's not here, is she? She would have been out by now."
"No—she's not here."
Sarah's face fell, and her voice was colder. "Oh. Well—may I hold her?" He nodded, and stood watching, silent as she picked up the baby, bouncing her a little. Sarah smiled, holding Daisy above so that she looked down into her aunt's face. "You're a darling one," she cooed.
"Da-dee," announced Daisy.
"Oh, a smart one! Can you say Mommy, too?" She looked over at Henry, setting the child down again. "What's her name?"
"Daisy."
Sarah sat down on the sofa, looking suddenly serious. Her eyes met Henry's and looked away again. "You must be wondering why I've come," she said. "After all this time."
He coughed dryly but said nothing. He stepped around to the other side of the sofa, by the fireplace. Daisy crawled towards him and pulled herself up by his pant leg, clinging tightly, and his hand went down to brush the top of her head.
"And—you must despise me, for hurting Mary—I know you must."
"I don't."
"But you're angry with me." She was insisting, blunt.
"A—a little, maybe. Then I was, but she wasn't."
"That's why I've come—to apologize. Make things right, I hope." She met his eyes again, imploring. "I won't ask it from you, but—" her voice drifted away as she watched his eyes close, then turn to the window. She was silent for a long while. "But—she's not—coming back. Is she…"
"No," whispered Henry, struggling to hold back another onslaught of coughs.
Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "When—?" she choked, and saw him glance down at the child. "Oh—" her voice broke.
"I'll—leave you," said Henry. He started for his room, hampered a little by Daisy clinging to his pants. "You'll stay the night."
She nodded her head, wordlessly.
"If—if it's any help—you had her forgiveness from the start."
Sarah sobbed quietly, and buried her face in her hands.
Henry turned down the hall. "Ms. Beaumont." He waited a moment and she stepped out of her room, ready and waiting. "Please go out and tell the man in the carriage he may return to town, or spend the night in the barn. If Ms. Jacobs has any luggage, bring it in."
She nodded curtly as he went into his room. "Yes sir."
Henry left Sarah to herself for nearly an hour, coming out again into the front room as he guessed supper was nearly ready. Sarah had gathered herself and was staring out the window, startled a little when she heard him. "I hope you are better," he said, polite. "If you like, there's supper."
She stood, wiping at her reddened eyes and sniffing a little. "Look at me," she said. "Cryin' like a baby at someone already more'n a year gone."
"But only today for you," reasoned Henry, leading the way to the kitchen. "And your sister."
"I suppose. What about you?" She sat at a setting and watched him sink gradually into a seat across the table, her face placid at his wince.
"Ms. Beaumont—Daisy is in my room. If you would--"
"Yes sir." She dried her hands on her apron and left the room.
"Well?" Sarah looked at him, eyes liquid.
He coughed. "I'll manage."
Ms. Beaumont returned, bearing the child. He held out his hands to receive her, balancing her on his good knee and leaning her back against his body. She squirmed a little, but when Ms. Beaumont brought their meals to the table she quieted, hungry. Henry took a spoon and filled it with mashed potatoes from his own plate, blowing it a little until it was only warm, then bent a little to give it to her.
"But still—you must miss her."
Henry looked up, sharply. "She was my life," he said, his voice plain and firm.
"And now...?"
He glanced down at Daisy, on his lap, who had grabbed the spoon and was trying to feed herself. "She is my life," he whispered.
"Hm." Sarah picked up her fork and began to eat. After a while, she looked up again, thoughtfully chill. "I've wanted to ask—when you were hurt," she said, "why didn't they just cut off your leg?"
Henry glanced out the door. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, and she swept in from the next room. "Take Daisy into the parlor and feed her, please." He waited until they were gone. It was an unusual request for him; he seldom, if ever, let Ms. Beaumont alone with his child.
"You don't have to tell me," Sarah informed him, unconcerned.
Henry's voice was quick, detached. "When they brought the wounded in, there were so many that the doctors had to treat those first w
ho had the best chance of survival. I was put aside, and by the time anyone realized I was alive I had gotten through infection." His fingers clawed gently at the seams on his pants. "...It was safer just to leave it on than it was to amputate and risk infection again."
She toyed with her food. "And John?"
"He didn't make it back to camp." Inside, he burned.
She glanced up, and his eyes held her. "Don't look at me that way," she said, suddenly curt. Nervous, she shook her head as if to toss her copper hair, only it was tied up. She waited, but he did not speak. "Why do you talk to me?" she asked, filling the silence. Her voice was sharp, accusing. "The way you say it—just flat out, easy like that—you don't talk to anyone else that way, not even to Mary you didn't. You answer me, but it seems always to me like you wanna say somethin' more, but don't dare." She paused, and something twisted in her face and her voice. "It's easy to talk to someone you hate—isn't it?"
"I don't hate you."
Her eyes pulled away from him. "Don't look at me that way."
He licked his lips and swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was a whisper. "I'm only thinkin'—if—if Mary were here, she'd a' had somethin' to say or do to make it all right with you, and I—I don't know what it is."
She stood, tossing her fork down. "You ain't Mary," she said. "Not even half."
"No," he agreed, quiet, watching her go. When she had gone he sat very still for a long while, sifting carefully through the whirlwind of shifting emotions that was Sarah. He found himself strangely at a loss.
Later, when Ms. Beaumont had returned Daisy to Henry's care and they had eaten, he turned her back again while he got up, half rising and then sitting down again for a moment to cough. He accepted what his chest, painfully tight, had been telling him since he woke—illnesss was setting in. Finally, he stood and received the glass of water Ms. Beaumont held out to him, Daisy straddled on one hip.
"Bring the crib and a few blankets in to the parlor," he told her. "And put Ms. Jacobs' things by my bed after you've dressed it with clean sheets. Did the man with the carriage stay?"
"Yes, sir. I told him he could make a fire in the pit."
"Good, he'll be warm enough." He went into the parlor, Ms. Beaumont and Daisy following after. He indicated the sofa and she put the baby down, then went into his room to bring out the crib.
Sarah was hovering about the mantle, looking at the photograph of Mary and letting her fingers drift over a few other items as she examined them. Henry remained standing, watching her, and finally she turned to the piano, her smile forced. She sat down and folded back the solid wooden cover with a bang.
"Don't," said Henry, sharp.
She glanced over one shoulder, fingers poised, and saw his face. "I was only going to play a little Mozart," she returned. His face did not move, and she shrugged, getting up. "Oh well," she half-sighed, and let one diffident finger bounce off of middle C before closing the wood back over the keys.
Henry turned from her, stung, closing his eyes tightly against the tears that came. His hand clenched and then unfolded; clenched again. It—the memory—it seemed, was suddenly tainted, bittered forever. And all he had left were memories.
She turned, and realized the magnitude of what she had done. "Do—you hate me now?" she asked, morbidly curious.
"No," he choked. But it was there, in him—the seed of hatred. Deep within. He struggled against it like a drowning man.
Ms. Beaumont emerged finally, dragging out the crib.
Sarah turned. "What are you doing?"
Henry had mastered himself, and faced her again. The piano, just behind her, clawed into his sight. "You'll sleep in my room tonight," he said.
She looked from him to the crib and back again. "I won't put a cripple out of his bed," she told him, her voice steady and cool.
He matched her eyes. "You'll sleep in my room tonight," he said again, and it was final.
She held his gaze for a minute more, then turned on one heel, stepped sharply to the door of his room, and slammed it behind her.
Henry let out a heavy sigh of what was almost relief, and his shoulders sank.
Ms. Beaumont, bent over the crib, looked up as she stood. "Sir--" she said, "you've gone white--" She rarely ever spoke to him first.
His hand fell to grip the back of the sofa and he coughed shallowly. "Just—get me a blanket, Ms. Beaumont. I—won't be staying up tonight."
"Yes, sir."
In the morning, Sarah emerged from his room, dressed, her hair wound tightly up under a small ladies' cap. It was early, and Henry still lay on the sofa, though awake. He pushed himself up to look at her as she came in, and the heavy blanket that covered him fell down to his waist, though he wore a nightshirt as well.
She took a step forward. "I want to apologize," she said, soft. "For yesterday—all of it." She turned her eyes to the floor.
Henry coughed thinly. "It's all right," he said, finally, and swallowed. "You're hurt and only wantin' to hurt someone back because of it."
"You always forgive," she said, "why? I know I hurt you bad." Her glance went to the piano and then skipped away. She came further into the room, and unconsciously one of his hands reached down to pull the blanket up to his chest. He coughed again, and this time it took him so that his body shook. She looked at him strangely, her brow furrowed.
"Ma'am—" he said, "I ain't dressed proper. If you'll get Ms.—"
Sarah looked down at Daisy, still sleeping, though stirring a little, fitful. "You must wonder where my little ones are," she said, ignoring him, "me so proud a' them before. A little hill, back east. With John, I like to think. Typhoid, it was, for the oldest. My littlest—he was always s'weak, an' after a time I just couldn't take him no more, knowin' it'd kill him. Left him off in an orphanage, run by nuns... they sent word, maybe a week later, he'd gone, too." She spoke almost to herself, looking down into the crib. "I ain't got no one, now."
"I'm sorry."
There was silence for a time, interrupted by another cough from Henry. He closed his eyes, faint, and sank back a little into the cushion.
Sarah looked up and took another step closer. "You're ill," she said, suddenly.
He shook his head a little, and put a hand to his mouth, coughing again. "It'll pass," he said at last, his voice rough.
She looked, her eyes wide, at his hand. "That's blood," she whispered.
"It's not—T.B. Happens—sometimes--" he winced and coughed again. After a moment, he felt it pass, and sat up. When he spoke, his voice was low and unforced. "Please—I'm not dressed right. Ms. Beaumont will--"
Her brow furrowed again, and she shook her head, stark concern on her face. "I'll help you dress, Henry. I'm here."
He looked up at her a long while and saw desperation. "You are not Mary," he said quietly, at last. "And I am not John."
Sarah's jaw hardened, the muscles beneath her skin tensing. The front door opened and then shut again, and Ms. Beaumont came down the hall, stopping in the doorway. Sarah stepped back, and her voice was a sharp hiss. "You would take this—" she pointed. "This—whore over me?"
In a sudden, passionate movement, Henry pushed himself up fully. "In my house," he said, "you will treat those I choose to employ with respect, or you will leave. Immediately."
Sarah stared at him a moment, disbelieving. "Very well," she said at last. "I'll leave you to your whore. Will you have her pack my things?"
"You will pack your own bag."
She went into the bedroom.
"My clothes, Ms. Beaumont."
She was gone, and returned a moment later, holding them out. "Sir--" she said quietly, "thank you."
"Don't," he told her, almost sharply. "I would have said the same for anyone."
As Sarah left, in the carriage over the snow, there was a small spot in the distance; a single rider. Henry, dressed, had lain back down on the couch, but Ms. Beaumont saw it from the window. "Sir," she said, "young Mr. Jacobs, I think."
"Joey."
Henry, of course, had been expecting the boy; Ian's family was preparing to go to California in the spring, and he had been needed at home. Joey, glad for his first "job," had taken his place. Vaguely, Henry found the change pleasant; unlike Ian, Joey often came inside to visit.
"Make some breakfast," Henry reminded Ms. Beaumont. He settled back to wait for the boy.
"Yes, sir," she said, hurrying off. With the events of the morning, she had forgotten it entirely, but did not apologize, having learned some time ago that Henry disliked it.
Joey came in without knocking, as he always did, and the door closed loudly behind him, waking Daisy. She began to cry, but he swooped in quickly, tossing her up into the air and catching her lightly.
Henry sat up a little. "'Morning," he said.
Joey grinned. His smile, like his father's, was broad and showed a set of large white teeth. He had grown some and looked a little awkward in the man's body, just beginning to fill out. "'Morning," he answered. "Who's that leaving, this early?"
"Your sister."
"My--" he cut himself off, unbelieving. "But—"
"Help me up," Henry said, and Joey set the smiling baby back in her crib to take his arm. He glanced around for Henry's cane but didn't see it, shrugged, and let him lean on his shoulders over to the desk, where he sat down.
"You all right?" he asked, forgetting his sister for a moment as he saw how pale his companion was.
"I'll be fine." He took out a sheet of thin yellow paper, dipped his pen in ink and began to write. "Take—this—to your father," he said, halting as he concentrated on writing, his hand moving swiftly across the page. He finished the short note, blotted and folded it, and gave it to Joey. "Tell him I thought he oughta know, but it's up to him whether to tell your Ma or not; I don't think he'll want to. Go on and read it yourself, but start off now."
When Henry Came Home Page 29