"No," Henry answered, low. He stepped in as Edward went back to his work, observing the copper pipe that came up from the spout, ran along the wall, and extended over the center of the tub. "You—you're right," he said, quietly pale. "I want to apologize—"
"Don't—it's all right. I guarantee if I were in your place I'd have done more than exchange a few words."
"—And thank you. For everything." He faltered a little and put a hand against the wall.
Edward shrugged and glanced back over his shoulder. "I'd do this for you any day," he said, "but if you want the truth what I'm doing is really in return for what Mary gave me." He smiled, and it wavered and then was gone. "Can't really repay her—but I'll try."
Henry was silent, unable to refuse the claim, and after a moment accepted it with a quiet nod.
"There," said Edward at last, grunting as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood back to admire his work and shook his head. "Shoot," he said to himself. "Twenty years my eyes are gone and I'm still not used to it." He laughed and bent over, giving the faucet knob a twist. There was a short sputter, and then water rained down from overhead. "Whoa!" he protested, yanking the knob back the other way. The water stopped, abruptly, except for a few rhythmic drips. He put a foot out, sliding it over the water that had splashed on the floor.
Behind him, Henry chuckled softly and stifled the cough that followed it. "What is it?" he asked, when he had himself again.
Edward bit his lip. "Well--" he said, "you'll have to put up a sheet or something-- to keep it from coming out like that. But in the east, they're calling them showers. Mostly everyone hates them, but I thought, for you--" he shrugged. "Well—you can put a mat in the bottom of the tub, then just stand—or take a chair or whatever." He felt his face go a little warm. "So?"
Henry considered. "Yes," he said at last, his voice slow. He gave a half-smile. "I like it."
Edward grinned, relieved, and slid himself under Henry's arm. "Come out on the porch," he urged. "It's warm enough we can have supper there. –Where's Daisy? I've got a surprise for her, too."
"Ms. Beaumont has her in the kitchen."
"Mm. Good." He helped Henry out to the porch and was about to ease him into the swing when he felt him pull back.
"No," he said, and Edward stopped. "—There."
Edward eyed the chair and then Henry, uncertain. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." His voice was plain.
"All right." He let go of Henry and held the wheels steady while he got in. "Good?"
Henry coughed softly and sat back. "Yes."
"All right, I'll get Daisy."
Edward went into the house, leaving Henry alone with the endless plain that stretched out on every side, far as the eye could see. He took a breath and let it out in a kind of weary sigh. Although he remained still, he felt the chair where he touched it, examined it with his body. The woven cane creaked at his weight, however little. He put the bottom of his cane on the footrest and leaned it against the seat at his side.
Edward emerged, holding Daisy under the armpits, out from his body a ways. Seeing her father, she gave a screech of joy and cycled her legs violently in the air. "She kicks something awful," commented Edward, wry. He handed her over quickly. Almost immediately she quieted, settling on her father's lap. Her small pink fingers grasped at the chair, curious at something new.
"Is Joey still here?" Edward asked.
Henry put out a finger, and then quickly slipped his hand around Daisy before she tumbled from his lap. "That way, I think."
Edward turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Joey!" he called. "Joey!" He let his hands fall to his sides.
"He's stepped out of the barn," Henry said softly.
Edward beckoned largely with one arm. "Come have dinner!"
The boy grinned and jogged over, just as Ms. Beaumont came out with two plates. Edward met her, taking them. "Thank you," she said, nodding politely. "I'll get the rest."
Edward shoved one into Joey's hands. "Eat, boy, you should be hungry as a hog."
"Yes, sir," he laughed, dropping down on the steps.
He held the other out to Henry. "Put her down on the porch," he said. "Joey will keep her from going over the edge."
"No—it's all right." Henry, almost protective, put an arm around Daisy. Wincing, he shifted to one side so that she slipped down on the seat beside him. Between the armrests there was ample room, and they fit easily side-by-side. He accepted the plate from Edward. "Thank you. Now—what is your surprise?"
Edward took a step back and bumped into Ms. Beaumont. "Oh—thank you, ma'am." He accepted his plate, and she went back in. He turned back to Henry. "Not yet," he said. "After we've finished." He sat himself in the center of the porch swing and kicked his feet up on the railing. "Henry," he said, between mouthfuls, "I envy you, living out here."
"Why don't you like it in the city, sir?" asked Joey.
Edward shook his head. "Too many people too close together." He waved his fork in Joey's direction. "Do you share a room with your brother?"
"Yes."
"And most of the time you hate it, don't you."
"Well—mostly, sir, I guess."
"But you can do it, because when you get angry with him, all you have to do is run off over a hill, and there you are, by yourself and no one else in the world. In the city—well, it's like having ten men sharing your room, and ten men sharing your office, and ten men tagging along with you wherever you go. Sure, you can find a park, maybe get off on your own, but you still hear people, all around you, other people trying to get away the same as you."
"Oh," said Joey, thoughtful. "But—sir—we—me and Brian, I mean, we tried, before, to have different rooms. It only lasted a week, and then we couldn't stand it any more."
"Well—" Edward turned his head sharply. "Henry, I can't see your face. Are you smiling?"
"Yes."
"It's very rude."
"I think—Joey has you, there."
He let his plate clatter down beside him. "Well, I'm finished," he declared, getting up. "You folks stay right where you are—I'll get my surprise, and then we'll see how you treat your guest."
Henry brushed his arm as he went past. "We're sorry—we are," he said, soothing.
"No, I don't think you are at all." Edward went into the house, letting the door slam behind him.
Henry closed his eyes, still smiling faintly. "Edward always used to play like that," he said, mostly to himself.
Joey leaned against the post behind him. "I like him," he said.
"Yes... so do I."
Edward returned, clumping loudly on the porch. He held out a small bundle and tossed it in Joey's direction. "There you are," he said. "Oh--" he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small book of matches, which he flipped the same way with his thumb. "You'll need those."
Joey held out his hands. "Firecrackers!" he exclaimed.
"I know it's the wrong time of year, but—well, the weather's good, and I'll bet Daisy's never seen any, has she?"
"No."
Edward came around behind the chair. "All right, then. Joey, take them out in the yard there, and light up a few. Careful of your fingers, though. Your Pa would never forgive me." He pushed a little, sliding Henry and Daisy to the edge of the porch. "No—" he amended, "not only would he never forgive me, he'd probably kill me, too."
Joey grinned and did as he was told, sorting out the packaged explosives and choosing one to take far from the others. He tore out a match and lit it, then scrambled quickly back to watch, squatting on his toes. It lit up red and spun wildly, shooting off harmless sparks and whistling.
Daisy, back on her father's lap again, was transfixed, and stared intently at the sparkling light.
Edward pulled a chair up next to Henry, flipping it backwards and straddling the seat. He peered at Daisy, now on his level, and laughed deeply, waving a hand in front of her eyes. "She's gone, Henry!" he cried. "Hypnotized!"
But by the third one, sh
e was an old hand, and shrieked happily at the noise. Her arms waved up and down in unison, rocking her whole body. Henry put his arms around her middle to keep her in place, and winced now and then when her leg flew out and hit his.
"Joey!" called Edward, "there's a bigger one—a cone—save it for last!"
"All right," he shouted back, and lit up another one.
"Can you see them?" asked Henry, after a while.
"Of course!" Edward grinned. "I can see everything all the time—it's just so blurry I can't make sense of it. Firecrackers, they're pretty much blurry already, so it works out fine." He reached out and tickled Daisy. "I knew she'd like them."
Henry gave a half-smile. "She likes anything loud, seems like," he said.
"Pots and pans?"
"Very much."
He laughed. "She'll be a pianist. Or a singer."
"All right!" called Joey. "Here's the last one!"
Edward sat forward. "Watch this one," he said. "They do a whole show in Boston every year now, with hundreds of these."
Joey stepped back, and a moment later something hissed up into the air and exploded, sending out an enormous chandelier of light against the navy sky, thousands of sparks drifting down to the ground, slow.
"That's beautiful," murmured Henry. "I wish--" he cut himself off, and was silent. Daisy reached one hand up, waving vaguely, trying to capture the sparkling rain.
"Mm," murmured Edward, and gazed even when nothing was left.
After a few minutes, Joey's boots sounded softly on the first step. "I'll sleep out in the barn tonight," he said, softly. He put out a hand. "Thanks, sir, for the show."
Edward didn't see his hand, but nodded. "Glad to do it, boy. Sleep well." He waited until the boy's footsteps faded, then got up, stretching and yawning. "Well—" he said, and stopped. He had learned, over the years, to sense certain airs, and when he bent over, he saw that Henry had fallen asleep. Daisy stared up at him innocently, and he took a risk and picked her up. She whimpered a little, but he shushed her and she fell silent. Carefully, he took her inside, leaving the door open. "Ms. Beaumont—?" She appeared. "Will you—take her, for a moment? Thank you." He went back out, careful of creaking boards, and stood over Henry. He was still asleep, his breaths wheezing softly, in and out. "All right," he murmured, and slid his arms beneath him, one under his thighs and one behind his back. He braced himself to lift, but found that Henry came away with almost no strain at all. "Well," he murmured. "—Well."
Turning sideways, he maneuvered through the doorway and down the hall. A lamp burned on the table beside Henry’s bed, and Ms. Beaumont was in the process of tucking Daisy into her crib, shoved up against the other side of the bed. Edward set Henry down and stood again, circling the bed as Ms. Beaumont came back. He looked down at Daisy and, after a moment, reached out to tap her button nose. "If you wake your Daddy tonight," he told her, "you're a very naughty little girl."
She looked up at him, quite seriously, and blinked.
Breakfast, in the morning, was nearer to noon, and when Henry at last appeared he smelled of soap and shaving cream. Edward caught it, and grinned. "So?"
"I haven't felt as clean since--" he coughed, weakly. "—Thank you." He touched the edge of the table, feeling his skin raw and sensitive against the rough wood.
"Better than a bath?"
"After—after I got used to breathing under water—yes."
Edward laughed, recognizing it as a small joke. "Good, good." He shook his head. "I can't stand them, myself. I figure if I want to be rained on, I'll go outside—" he cut himself off, leaning forward a little over his meal. "I sound like a city man, don't I."
"Well—"
He sighed. "Can't even take a little rain. I've been away too long. Almost twice as long there now, than I've ever lived out here."
"Is—that bad?"
Edward considered. "I don't know," he said at last. "I miss it here, I guess. This is where I came from. But it's too late, now, to come back. For good, I mean."
"But if you don't like it..." Henry looked down at his plate. He didn't like meddling in other folk's affairs, but Edward seemed to be making it into light conversation.
He shrugged. "I like to say I don't. But I come here and I see all that's lacking, all it could be—" he sighed again. "I don't like to look at it that way either. It's what everyone is thinking, now, in the city. Men always try to make the unknown into the known, I guess." He ate a little more. "So—I suppose I should ask after family. How are your folks?"
Henry shifted a little. "Fair, I guess. Pa—has trouble with his heart, but the other chil—my younger brothers are old enough to look after things now."
Edward chuckled. "I can see your Ma going stir-crazy with him dawdling about the house. –What about Mary's folks?"
"Fine. Brian looks as if he'll take over after his Pa with the ranch. Joey's not sure yet, I think, but he'll—find something."
"Hm." Edward sat back, chin in hand.
"Edward—I—"
Edward glanced up, raising his eyebrows briefly.
"I'm glad you came."
He smiled lightly. "Well, so am I."
"No—I mean—I've been... lonely."
His voice was low. "I know what you mean."
Henry swallowed and was very still. "I don't think I realized it—not until Sarah left—"
Edward stood, suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair. "Sarah was here?" he demanded.
Henry was silent a bare moment, taken aback. "Y-yes--"
"When?"
"Edward—please--"
"All right, all right." Edward sat back down, taking a breath. "I'm sorry—please, when was she here?"
"About—two months ago. Just for one night, and then she was gone."
Edward sat forward, hungrily. "How was she? How did she look?"
"L-lost. Edward, I—"
He stood up again and went to look out the small kitchen window, his back to Henry. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I—look, I haven't told you everything. My work—it only takes up half of my time. The rest—for—for years, I've spent trying to find her. Sarah."
Henry lacked for words. "I..." he said, then frowned, frustrated with his inability. "Why?" he said at last.
He turned back. "I've always kept in contact with her mother, now and then, and I heard—when she ran off. I knew—it was my fault."
"The only fault is Sarah's. She's been given chances—"
"I know, I know—but—" he let out an anguished sigh. "You don't know. No one does." He put a hand to his face, rubbing his brow and squinting downward. He began to pace, back and forth across the kitchen floor. "When I came last—Lord, I was drunk—! I met her. We went to my room—" his fist came down on the counter. "She was so fragile—right on the edge—I was already over, and I wanted her there, with me—I asked her to marry me, Henry, marry me. Of course she wasn't that foolish. But I ruined her—I did it. If I had only left alone—"
"She still made her choice..."
"I know, dammit, but if I hadn't been there, she would never have had the choice in the first place!"
"That's not true—she married Donovan—"
"And he died working for the railroad, I know that."
"No. He killed himself."
"But—"
"Mary and I—were the only ones that knew. We didn't want to bring more sorrow on her Ma. She doesn't know, either, that Sarah was here this winter. I did tell Pa."
Edward gave a nod, almost weary, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said at last, softly. "I can't stop now. You—understand."
Henry looked up at his searching green eyes, magnified behind small oval glasses. "I think so," he said.
"You—are welcome back. Any time."
Edward, bent over his bag, closed it and stood. "Thank you. I'll remember that."
"I hope you will." Henry grasped the post of the porch railing with one hand. "And thank you—again. You—you made me smile. It's been… a very long time
."
Edward grinned. "Well, I'm glad you remembered how." He embraced Henry in a bear hug. "Take care of yourself," he ordered, then stepped back, his throat suddenly dry. "I'm sorry to have to go."
"You—don't have to."
He shook his head, firmly. "No. I—goodbye, Henry." He patted his back softly one last time and stepped down off the porch. Suddenly, he turned, reaching into his coat pocket. "Wait—here, give this to the boy. Joey."
Henry accepted the envelope.
"It's his bank account, for when he wants to go off to a university."
"God be with you, Edward."
"I hope so." He flashed another white-toothed grin. "Someone's got to lead my way."
Chapter Fourteen
Henry found himself awake in the quiet, cool hours of the early morning, though he did not open his eyes. He felt the house around him stir, creaking a little here and there, and listened to it. At length he heard careful footsteps tip-toeing across the floor, and for a moment his heart, not entirely possessed of itself in the hour, leapt. His eyes flickered open and then snapped shut, and in his chair in the parlor he shifted, turning towards the wall and cursing himself for thinking, just for a single moment, that it was she—
He sighed, exhaling the anger because it was not right to hate the maid, just for that. He kept it inside, instead, and it turned to longing, a dull ache in his chest. For a long while he was still, cradling the sensation gently, so that it would not turn to agony.
At length, the sun began to rise, and with it he heard quicker, lighter steps upon the oak floor. He turned his head a little, opened his eyes, and watched her as she skipped about the room in her nightgown, his anger soothed. Thinking him still asleep, she first greeted every lamp and piece of furniture with the new day. He saw a wildness about her, something hardly contained, and it seemed almost as if she might suddenly burst, shattering the delicate things her mother had put about the room, so long ago… and yet not so very long at all.
But nothing was broken, and when she came to the most fragile ornament of all—him—she became tame, gentle. He closed his eyes and felt her pink fingertips touch his hands, exploring, turning them softly over and tracing the lines on his palms. He peeked out of one eye, then, seeing that she was not looking, and watched her as she moved, loving her. Suddenly, he caught her hands, cupping them inside his.
When Henry Came Home Page 32