When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  He shook his head. "Yes—just—weak--" He coughed, wincing and pushing away to stand. "Thank you. Go on—it's all right."

  But Edward kept his place, forcing him to lean on his shoulder as he steered him back to the sofa to sit. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, "some water please." She nodded and went to fetch a glass. "Henry," he said, turning back, "do you need a doctor?"

  He shook his head again. "No—there's not much he can do." He smiled, faintly, thin, and it didn't show in his eyes. "It's not—unexpected. Go out with Joey—I just need to rest."

  "No," said Edward flatly, and so they sat in an awkward silence for a while. Ms. Beaumont returned, with water for each, and left again. "Well," Edward started again, at length, "I had brought a little present for you—but I guess it's not very useful out here—without running water, I mean."

  "We have water."

  "Do you? I didn't think I saw anything as tall as a water tower. I must have missed it."

  "No—there's no tower. I've—got a system of pipes, running from a kind of pond over west a little ways. That's why—I picked this spot. It's a little lower, kind of in a basin, so pressure builds."

  Edward was immediately interested. "But then—why isn't this area filled with water?"

  "I'm—not quite sure. The pond comes from a small geyser underneath, and I think the ground over there is so hard and rocky nothing gets through."

  He looked satisfied. "Well, have you got a bath, then?"

  "Yes—the last door down the hall."

  Edward sprang to his feet and hurried down. There was a sound of the door opening, and then of running water. In a few moments he came back and went to his bag, which he had left by the door. "These," he said, going to the couch. He held out both hands, with a set of copper fittings.

  Henry reached up and took one, turning it over in his hand. "What is it?"

  "You'll see. I'll go back to town tomorrow, get some parts, and put it in myself. I think you'll like it." He grinned.

  At dinner, Edward studied the hazy outline of Henry's face, searching for something he could not quite put a finger on. At last, he pointed at him with his fork. "You read," he ventured. "Much more."

  "—Yes," admitted Henry, a little puzzled. His mind went to long, sleepless nights, alone—and pulled back quickly. He forced himself to look at Edward.

  "It's how you talk," Edward said, pushing around the food on his plate. "More like—well, me. Or the professors who taught at the university."

  He gave a fleeting smile. "I—think it comes and goes," he said. He swallowed and glanced down at the table. "I—know I can't give her much—but I want Daisy to have an education, at least."

  Edward's smile was bittersweet. "I think that's enough," he told Henry. "You have an education, and you can do most anything from there."

  Something flashed in Henry's face, and then was gone. He let the tines of his fork tap against the edge of the plate. "I hope so," he said.

  In the morning Joey came by again with the buckboard, as Edward had asked him, and hollered a greeting. Edward came out of the house, feeling fresh after a bath, and climbed up next to the boy. "'Morning, Joey," he said, smiling. Absently, he patted the outer pockets of his coat, which bulged oddly with the fittings he had brought.

  "How do, Mr. Malley." He started the horses again.

  "Oh—please, just Edward. I've never been called Malley in my life."

  "Oh," said Joey, a little frustrated in his attempt to be polite.

  Edward had a thought, and turned to him. "How old do I look?" he asked.

  Joey squirmed uncomfortably. "Well—" he said.

  He laughed. "You won't hurt my feelings, less you're upwards of sixty, anyhow."

  "Well—maybe—forty-five?"

  Edward grunted thoughtfully. "I look more like fifty, then."

  "No—" protested the boy. "No, I was honest, sir."

  He patted Joey's shoulder, chuckling amiably. "All right, I believe you. Good thing, too—you guessed about right. I suppose that is a little old to expect not to be called 'mister.'" He squinted up at the sky for a moment and took his glasses off to wipe them clean, reducing his vision to nearly zero. "Are there clouds?" he asked.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Does it look like rain, then?"

  "Mm—well, might be, this afternoon or tomorrow. It's raining out on the horizon-- not much wind, but it's coming the right way."

  Edward took a deep breath and felt his chest rise and fall in accord with the land. "I love spring," he said. "Nothing better than the smell of wet earth, things growing."

  Joey smiled. "Are you—a poet, sir?" he asked, flushing a little.

  Edward laughed, heartily. "No, boy, but I used to be a drunk. Things look a lot prettier since I stopped."

  "Oh," he mumbled, uneasily.

  "If you care to know," he said at last, grinning, "I'm an engineer. Buildings and things." He took a picture from his inside pocket and held it out for Joey to see, a difficult thing in the bouncing cart. He tucked it back away. "Haven't the slightest clue why I do it. Making cities, you know—they're easy to get around, but I hate them. And in a few years they'll be everywhere and I'll be responsible for it, partly." He sighed to himself. "Oh well. They say progress and all that, but I don't believe a word." He glanced over. "What about you, boy?"

  "Me?" Joey fumbled for words. "I—I'm not sure. I got schoolin', but only for a couple years more. Brian—my brother—he's already workin' with Pa all the time. I got this job, here with Henr—Mr. Peterson, and I like that."

  "But he won't be around forever."

  Joey looked at him, sharply, then away.

  "Sorry, boy, I know you admire him, and if you'll believe me after that, I love that man more than I would a brother. But it's the truth, you see that and so does he. You're around him some—how long's he been like that, so weak he can hardly stand?"

  Joey swallowed and unclenched his jaw, fighting a strange anger that flared inside. "M-maybe—three months."

  "And he's not getting better, is he?"

  Joey swiped fiercely at one eye. "No," he bit out, snapping the reins to go faster.

  Edward was suddenly soft, realizing the depth of his attachment. "I'm sorry, boy—I am. And I'm havin' you take me in to town today so maybe I can help him, trust me." He waited, judging. "But—to what I was saying first—what do you plan to do?"

  Joey shook his head. "I don't know."

  "Ever thought about college?"

  He nodded, blinking. "The money's too much, though," he said.

  "What if you did have the money, though? What would you do?"

  "I—s'pose I'd work on trains. Build them, I mean."

  "Well—and engineer, then," Edward substituted, light. "So—you would go, then, if you had the money?"

  Joey wondered if the man were altogether there. "Of course, sir," he said, obviously.

  "What if I were to give you the money?" He held up his hand at Joey's gaping mouth. "No, listen. I'm very well off—rich, I suppose you would say. Engineering pays well. I haven't got any children, no family, and to tell the truth, boy, Henry is my one and only friend in this world. There's nothing I want to do with my money. What do you say?"

  "Well—sir—I don't know if I quite believe you." He paused. "And—besides that—I couldn't go 'til—well, I don't know when. Henry needs my help."

  "All right, boy, I understand. And I am in earnest. I will provide you with the money for a university if and when you want it."

  Joey pulled up at a hitching post along the main street in town. "Well—uh—thank you, sir. I—I'm not for certain what to say."

  Edward shook his head and climbed down. "Not a thing, for the moment." He looked around at nothing. "Could you direct me to—well, wait. I'll see the doctor first. Where's his office?"

  "Uh—that way, sir." Joey pointed.

  "Well, that doesn't help. To my right or my left?"

  "Your right, sir, on this side of the street. The walk is just behind you." />
  Edward thumped the side of the buckboard. "Thank you, boy. That'll do fine. How about you meeting me here at—" he took out his pocket watch and squinted at the face. "How does four sound?"

  "Fine, sir."

  "All right." He turned, tossing a hand up in a quick wave. "Four, then."

  It took him a little over fifteen minutes to locate the doctor's office, but, considering the distance and the place, Edward was satisfied with himself. He knocked on the door and was answered with a gruff "Come in!" which he obeyed, shutting the door behind himself. It was a little warmer in the office than outside, and he had a notion to take his coat off before he remembered the things in his pockets.

  The office was a small, cluttered place, as far as he could tell, and, judging from the light coming through a doorway, there was probably a larger room for examinations and operations in the back.

  Doc, bent over paperwork at his desk, grunted. "Sit down," he said.

  Edward gave a wry half-smile. "Could you tell me where the chair is? I'm a little better than blind, but that's about all, and I don't want to knock over anything."

  "Take a few steps forward—there."

  Edward looked down, and the chair came in to focus. He stepped around to the proper side and sat down. "Thank you."

  "But if you're lookin' for better glasses, man, I haven't got the getup." He looked up, finally. "Do I know you?"

  "Might be that you do. I lived over in Hickory, growing up. I was a friend of John Peterson."

  "Ah! The Malley boy!" he closed the ledger and sat back. "Stayed with the Jacobs' awhile, if I remember."

  "Yes."

  "Well then—what can I do for you?"

  "I'm staying over at Henry's now—"

  Doc got up, his motion quick and angry. "I've done ever'thing in my power to help those folks, man—don't go askin' for what I can't give!" He swiped the ledger off the desk, knocking over a few dark bottles, and stuffed it into a bookshelf off to the left.

  Edward twisted in the chair, following Doc's form. "I'm not going to," he said.

  Doc began to clean up, furiously, dropping bottles onto shelves and instruments into tin glasses. "I ain't God, and He knows I've done ever'thing short of sellin' my soul to help." He shot out a finger at a set of books, piled one on another. "See those?"

  "Can't say I--"

  "I've searched through every one—ever'thing from ice baths to howlin' at the moon Friday nights. Damn it, you don't ask a man like that to give up his pride for the sake of a few more breaths." He stopped, finally, puffing, and went back around to his seat behind the desk, but didn't sit down.

  "Would—anything, in there, help, if he did?"

  Doc's fist came down on the desk and everything on it jumped a quarter of an inch. "No!" he roared.

  "All right. I'm not—please—I'm not questioning you. Hear me out." He waited, and after a moment Doc sat, still breathing heavily. To give him a little more time to cool, he took off his glasses and polished them on a pant leg, mostly by feel. "I only came to ask how long it's been since you've seen him," he said at last

  Doc figured. "Nine—mm, ten weeks, maybe." He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow, red and hairless.

  "And was he as weak as—" Edward shifted and put out a hand, palm-up. His other hand slipped his glasses back on. "Yesterday he was walking from the parlor to the door and he just—collapsed. He doesn't say anything, of course, but I get the idea he can barely hold himself up anyway."

  Doc put a hand to his chin and looked the other way. "Not quite that bad, man, but near it."

  "Well then—I only wanted to make sure it wasn't—something else."

  Doc sighed. "I'm sorry I can't say otherwise. His lungs—he gets sick easy, and he don't get any stronger 'cause his leg keeps him put. 'F it were one or t'other..." he shrugged.

  "How long do you give him?"

  The old man frowned and clenched his jaw, temper rising again. "Am I God, now?" he demanded, passionate. "Everyone—always asking me that. 'How long've I got, Doc?' How do I know? I'll tell you—when he first came back, when I saw him—I give'm two years. No more. Then he married the girl. Well, I says to myself, make it three. I don't know how long it's been—" he waved a hand. "I don't count years, but I know it's a piece more'n that. Last year I gave him six months. Now, I'll tell you the same. I give him six months. Are you happy?"

  Edward stood. "Yes," he said, calm. "Thank you." He put out a hand, and after a moment Doc's stubby fingers gripped it. He backed up, turning towards the door and paused. "Where," he asked, "would I get a cane-back chair?"

  Doc shrugged. "General store, maybe."

  "Which way is that?"

  "'Cross the street and to your left when you go out."

  "Thank you."

  "Malley."

  "Yes?" he halted, the door open in his hand.

  "Give him my regards. Please."

  "I will."

  With a little thoughtful backtracking, Edward managed to find Joey in the appointed place a little after four. He carried with him a length of copper pipe, which he tossed in the back. "I've got something around back of the general store to load in, too," he said.

  Joey shrugged. "All right." He brought the horses around and directed them through an opening between two buildings. The floor of the shop came out from a kind of open, barn-like area behind the store, so that where it ended was about level with the cart. Joey brought the back up to meet it, slowly.

  Edward turned around, his electric green eyes searching blankly. "Agh," he muttered, a little frustrated. He waved a hand in the general direction. "There should be a chair—"

  Joey swung his legs over the seat and into the back, climbing up onto the platform. "One with wheels?" he asked.

  "That's it." Edward grinned as he heard the boy scramble to push it in and reached down for the reins to hold the horses. "Thought I was gonna have to put one together myself," he said. "Lucky for me your mayor had what I wanted already. –Got any rope? Tie it down some, if you can."

  "Yes, sir." After a moment, Joey climbed back over and took the reins. "Anything else, sir?"

  "That'll do it, Joey."

  He started off. "Sir—" he said after a bit, "is that what you got—to help Mr. Peterson?"

  Edward sighed. "Well, I was hoping to do more, boy, but it looks like this is about it." He paused. "I hope you won't hold it against me—what I said, earlier."

  "No, sir—I guess I don't." He bit his lip, and figured he had some leeway to be rude. "Why, sir—I mean, how come--"

  "Why am I trying to help him?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Edward considered. "Well, I guess—hm. I guess I came back here to settle with what your sister did for me—return the favor, somehow. Only—she's not here, so I guess I took it on myself to do her the favor of looking out a little for her man."

  Joey glanced at him and then back at the horses out in front, smiling briefly. "That's prob'ly what she woulda asked for anyway, sir."

  Edward laughed softly. "Probably," he said. "Probably."

  When they arrived at the Peterson place, Edward clapped Joey on the back. "Can you lift that all right yourself?" he asked.

  "Sure—'s as light as a baby."

  "All right, do me a favor then and put it up on the porch."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Thank you, boy." He let himself drop from the cart and bounded lightly up the steps to the house. Inside, he let his legs stumble to a halt, seeing Henry's silhouette against the front window. He walked across the room and stopped just beside him, but Henry didn't turn. Edward imagined him seeing Joey unloading the chair from the wagon, and heard as he brought it up and set it on the porch.

  Henry turned away, putting a hand out on the back of an armchair to steady himself. "I'm sorry," he told Edward, who had turned after him, mouth open to protest. His breath wheezed a little. "I'm sorry," he said again, whispering. "—I won't."

  Edward frowned, determined, and spread his hands in front
of his body. "When it comes to this, pride doesn't--"

  "It is not a matter of pride!" Henry's voice was surprisingly strong—fierce, even—and on the back of the armchair, his knuckles went white. A moment later he wrenched his hand away and limped to the mantle over the fireplace, distancing himself from Edward. "It is a matter of—of—" He struggled for a word, then let out a small, frustrated exclamation and let his body sink against the cool brick. Slowly, his hand went to his face, pressed against his eyes for a moment and then slid away, listless. When he spoke again, his voice was only a whisper. "When I came home," he said, "I told myself-- I would not—not bargain for life. In spite of it—I would not bottle myself up inside—refuse to—to—to live, just so I could have another day—or—week—or year."

  Edward reached out, fumbling ahead of himself for the chair and then stepping around it. He stopped there in the center of the room, not quite sure where Henry was. He spoke to the voice. "You haven't done that, Henry, not one bit, and I admire you because I wouldn't have been so brave. But now—you are bargaining for time. You have to, because your little girl needs you here--"

  "Don't tell me what my child needs." He ended the sharp rebuttal with a cough.

  "No. I'm not. I—don't think I have to tell you." He let out a breath and sank into the chair behind him. "Just—keep it in the house, for now, all right? I'm not asking you to use it just yet, and I'm not asking you to tie yourself there and never get up again. But—just keep it in the house, for when you do need it. And you will, Henry, you know I'm right. You can't keep this up forever."

  Henry's jaw clenched and his hand knotted into a fist. He forced himself to take a breath. "I know," he said at last, voice tight.

  Edward got up and went to the door. Joey had left the pipe along side of the chair, and he picked it up and went back into the house, down the hall and into the bath.

  After perhaps two hours, Edward felt someone at his back. He straightened his spine, hand on one knee, and turned. Henry was dimly outlined in the doorway. "I'm almost done," said Edward. "I hope you don't mind I found my way out to the barn for some tools."