When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  She gave a small gasp, her eyes wide, then grinned up at him and giggled, showing two teeth missing along the top white row. He saw the empty spaces, and for a moment his heart welled to the point of bursting. He forced back tears and patted his lap lightly, inviting.

  Again her teeth showed and she climbed up, almost weightless, settling with her back against his chest, hugging one of his arms to her small body as he held it up. "Good morning, Daisy-dear," he murmured.

  She grinned up at him, twisting her head back. "Morning, Daddy," she replied, a little bashful.

  "Did you sleep well?"

  She bit her lip and nodded. "I had a dream I was flying," she told him, spreading her arms. "I went all the way to Ma and Pa's and played with the chickens and Joey and Brian."

  He smiled faintly. "Did you?"

  "Do you have dreams, Daddy?"

  "Sometimes, but none as good as that."

  "Oh."

  "Shall we have breakfast on the porch?"

  She giggled. "Yes!" Quickly, she leapt down from his lap, her nightie flying up past her middle. She batted it down without thought and marched around to the back of his chair. The handles were too high for her, so she pushed against the back to make it move, looking around now and then to see she was going the right way.

  "Wait," said Henry, when they were down the hall, and she let up. He leaned forward a little and opened the door. "All right."

  Daisy heard footsteps behind her and turned to find Ms. Beaumont. "We're having breakfast on the porch," she announced, and went back to pushing. The maid followed them out, bringing the meal on a tray. She set it down on the rail and went back inside. "Here, Daddy," said Daisy, standing on tiptoe to reach the rail. She took his plate in one hand and hers in the other, wobbly, and he caught his just as it was going down. She grinned, elvish, and clutched her own plate with both hands as she scooted bottom-first onto the porch swing. Sitting back, feet dangling, she gazed up at the sky as she ate.

  After a while she glanced around and saw some of the chickens, mostly wild now, that wandered around their property because they were given food and occasionally a wrung neck. "Look, Daddy, let's bird watch," she said, pointing.

  Henry couldn't help but smile. "All right," he said. "Why don't you name them?"

  Daisy eyed him, knowingly. "Oh, they already have names," she told him, quite seriously.

  "Do they? Do you know them?" She nodded. "Tell me."

  Carefully, she put down her fork, set aside her plate, and stood up so she could see better over the rail. She pointed. "That one is Bernard, 'cause he's the only boy. That's Henrietta, the black and white spotted one. The one next to her, with the funny bald spot, is May." She proceeded on, to name every hen in the flock. "I think that's all," she said, frowning a little as she finished. "I hope I didn't forget one, 'cause she might feel left out."

  "I don't think you did, pumpkin."

  She turned to him, frankly. "I'm done eating. Can I sit on your lap?"

  "If you trade my plate for a glass of water."

  She grinned, and took his plate. "Okay." She put it back on the tray and picked up the glass that had been sitting next to it. "Look!" she said, holding it up to the light. "It got my finger circles on it!"

  He put out a hand and she gave him the glass, turning it to preserve the prints. He shifted it to his other hand, grasping it by the top lip, and put his thumb next to the smear of hers. "Everyone's is different," he told her, handing it back for a look. She studied it carefully and returned it when he coughed, dryly. He took a sip, smearing the prints, and accommodated her as she climbed up onto his knees.

  Her attention shifted quickly, and she pointed again, this time up to the sky. "Look up there."

  He followed her finger to a small pinpoint of brown. "A hawk." He took another sip of water.

  "That's awful high."

  "Do you remember—" he coughed again, softly, interrupting himself. "Do you remember when we went out in the grass, and I told you about the ocean?"

  "Yep!"

  "It's just like that up in the sky, only with wind and not water. God made the hawk with special wings so he can swim up there like a fish. A hawk, he rides the wind like a man on a horse." From behind, he put his hands under hers and she responded to his touch, lifting her arms up and out. He ran his fingers along the underside of her arms, tickling. She giggled, squirming, but determined not to let her arms fall. "He uses his wings to test and feel the air, to see which way it will hold him and where it will let him fall." With his last words, he let his own hands fall away from her skin, and she let her arms crash down against the sides of his chair, rattling it. "He has eyes, too, that can see as far as the horizon. Right now, even, he can probably see each one of your fingers."

  Experimentally, she squinted up at the bright, cloudless sky, trying to make out the details of the Hawk, and finally gave up. "Why?" she asked.

  "Why what?"

  "Why did God make hawks so they c'n go up in the wind?"

  Henry frowned a little, thoughtful. "Well," he said at last, "don't you think it'd be nice to fly up high like that? Wouldn't everything down here, all small, look very beautiful?"

  She considered this. "Yes," she said, smiling.

  "Well, I figure God wouldn't wanna keep something like that all to himself, he'd wanna share it."

  "Oh," she said, largely. Then, "How come God didn't give us wings, Daddy?"

  He smiled, brushing her wispy hair with his fingers. "He gives us other things, things a hawk doesn't have. Like hands to make things and a mind to think and a heart to love."

  "But why can't we have everything?"

  "I think—maybe because we couldn't take it all, not all at once. Or maybe we'd spoil it. Or maybe, also, we will see it, someday, in heaven."

  "Where Mommy is?"

  His eyes stung. "Yes." He pinched her chin, quickly, and she grinned. "How old are you, little one?" He knew, of course, but it was his favorite question to ask.

  "Seven," she declared, then wrinkled up her face as much as she could, mimicking deep thought. "And eleven months and twenty three days."

  "Too clever for me, monkey," he told her. They had been counting off since her last birthday.

  Daisy had a sudden fit of giggles. Then, promptly, she stopped, pinning her hand to her lips. "Wait a minute, Daddy," she said, scrambling down backwards from his lap. He watched her, smiling faintly as she flew over the dry ground to the barn and disappeared within. Moments later she emerged, walking slowly now, her hands cupped together.

  She reached him and her hands opened like little pink oyster shells, spilling a tiny grey pearl into the blanket over his knees. It was a barn swallow, with not even all of its feathers. It peeped softly and sought to bury its head in the dark crevices of the blanket folds.

  Henry smiled, stroking the swallow's bobbing head, and Daisy, standing next to him, giggled and poked her own hand in for a touch. "Did you find it in a nest?" he asked.

  She shook her head, emphatically, as though she would never do such a thing. "It was just on the ground in the barn, last night. Maybe it fell out."

  "You'll have to try and catch some bugs," he said. She grinned at the prospect, pressing part of her tongue through a missing tooth hole. "You can probably find some dead ones, and smash them up. Give him some water, too, and keep him somewhere dark and warm." She nodded, eager, and he scooped up the tiny creature with one hand and delivered it to her waiting fingers. In the distance, he glimpsed a billowing dust cloud, what could only be an approaching wagon. "Go on and find somewhere in the barn," he told her, and she nodded and walked slowly off, cautious while bearing the burden of her new responsibility.

  Well before she returned, the wagon in the distance approached, slowing so that only a little dust kicked up near the house. Henry coughed a little, and then it dissipated, leaving him a little breathless. The guests were Mr. and Mrs. McIre, who jointly raised sheep and a few pigs just out the other side of town, much to the const
ernation of a few local cowhands. They unloaded themselves from either side of the buckboard, calling out greetings as they mounted the porch. Mr. McIre reached out to shake Henry's hand thoroughly, displaying his broad and pleasing grin. They were boisterous, loving people, both of them, and both carrying extra weight; it didn't make them seem indulgent, but was enough that they gave the impression of being well prepared for leaner times.

  He coughed again, this time preparing himself to raise his voice in a vain attempt to meet their level. "What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice coming out raspy and coarse.

  "Well, we got this barn—" McIre began.

  "But," his wife cut off, loud, "we ain't askin' you to do nothin' if you ain't feelin' up for it." She patted his shoulder kindly and ruffled his hair like a mother hen.

  He nodded, and McIre continued. "Got this barn," he began again. "Needed more room for the horses and more for the feed, but it looks like it's too big fer itself. Got the frame up, but every time we roof it, the durn thing starts to fall in. Tried strutt'n it, but that don't seem to work." He shrugged. "Hate t' give up on a big affair like that, thought I'd see if you'd have a go first."

  Henry considered; he'd certainly have to see the barn, and he hadn't been out of the house in months. The thought made him uneasy, but the same feeling of unease frightened him a little, prompting him to accept. In any case, the McIres were good, generous people, and he hated to disappoint. "All right," he said at last, his voice only just above a whisper. "I'll look."

  McIre slapped his knee and grinned. "Lady Luck smiles again," he declared.

  Mrs. McIre was a little more concerned. "You sure, honey?" she asked. "It's a long way out to our place."

  Henry smiled thinly. "It's all right," he said. "I'd—like to go today." He received an affirming nod from McIre.

  "Can I come too, Daddy?" Daisy stood at the bottom of the porch steps. With a gesture from him, she stepped up to his side.

  "Of course," he said, and then paused for a moment, looking inward, weighing carefully the measure of his strength. At last, he looked up at McIre, a little defeated. "I'm sorry—" he said, indicating his own pitifully thin frame. "I can't..."

  "Don't bother about it, son," assured McIre immediately. He bent, carefully scooping Henry into his well-padded iron arms, and carried him to the buckboard. Mrs. McIre followed, bringing the pillows that had lined his chair, and tossed them into the back before McIre set him down. Daisy jumped into the wagon after him and set to handing him the pillows as he arranged them.

  The maid came out to the porch then, and Mrs. McIre explained, brief.

  "Will you be back tonight?" she asked.

  "Before nightfall."

  "All right." Ms. Beaumont turned and went inside, returning a moment with a small brown dress and a pair of little black shoes.

  "Give'm here," beckoned Mrs. McIre, grinning down at Daisy in the back. "We'll get them on as we go."

  The small party set off, traveling slowly this time to prevent any excessive jostling, although what there was about a buckboard that was not jostling was hard to say. The McIres knew what precious cargo they carried with them, and were careful; there weren't many in the area who could claim never to have had the help of Henry Peterson. They arrived at the McIre place at noon, wagon-weary and hungry.

  McIre pulled up under an oak tree and his wife climbed down, circling around to the back. She put her hands on her ample hips. "You folks wanna come inside for somethin' t' eat?"

  Henry looked up, finding the shade cool. "Thank you, ma'am, but if—if it's all right, I'd rather just sit here awhile 'til we go have a look at the barn. Maybe Daisy—"

  "No trouble at all," she interrupted. "I'll bring it right out here." With that, she turned and marched towards the house.

  Throughout the meal, Daisy chatted happily with an amused Mrs. McIre on every subject under the moon. Occasionally, Daisy interrupted their talk by turning to ask her father some question or other, which he would patiently answer as best he could. "Your little one is as hungry for knowin' as she is food!" declared the woman, turning to Henry once during the meal.

  "She—does like it," he said, watching her with alert, careful eyes.

  At last the meal came to an end, and Mrs. McIre left to clear the things away. McIre himself got up, stretching his arms, and lifted Henry, cradling him like a piece of china as they approached the barn. Inside it was cool and dim, although much light shone through the bare patches in the roof.

  "Please--" requested Henry, softly, and McIre set him down. He leaned on the large man and then took a few cautious steps forward to survey the area. McIre understood, and held fast about his shoulders to steady him.

  McIre gestured with a nod. "There's where we been havin' the most trouble. There and over there."

  Henry nodded, observing carefully. A moment later, his good leg buckled and he stumbled down. McIre caught him neatly before he hit the ground, grunting slightly. "Hold on, son," he muttered, and picked him up again.

  Daisy, who had followed them in, tugged at McIre's pant leg. "Daddy?" she called upward.

  "I'm all right, pumpkin," he said, calmly, if a little thin. "The ride over—just took a little more outta me than I thought, I guess."

  "Oh," she said simply. "All right."

  He pointed upward toward the gaping holes. "See those?" he asked her.

  "Yes, Daddy."

  "I'll show you when we get home how Mr. McIre can fix them."

  McIre hooted happily. "Lady Luck!" he declared for the second time.

  "No," Daisy told him patiently, "my Daddy."

  McIre laughed heartily. "Yes, darlin’," he agreed, turning. "Come on, we'll talk it over inside."

  Daisy lingered for a moment. "Daddy?" she said, upward. McIre stopped and turned back so Henry could see her. "C'n I stay outside and play?"

  "Sure, pumpkin. Just stay close to the house."

  She flashed a grin and ran off.

  "You got quite a child," commented McIre.

  "Yes," murmured Henry, watching her go, "I know."

  McIre lumbered around the back of the house and into the kitchen, where Mrs. McIre had pulled an upholstered chair with armrests up to the table. "Th-thank you," said Henry as McIre set him down, going faintly white. "Got a—a piece a' paper?" It was brought, along with a pencil, and Henry began diagramming lightly on the yellowed tablet, explaining where McIre's problem lay. Halfway through, Mrs. McIre pushed back from her chair, sighing mostly out of boredom.

  "This's business best left to men," she declared. "I ain't got the slightest idea what you two are goin' on about."

  McIre, on the other hand, saw immediately what Henry was getting at, and grew excited with the discussion, which carried on for some time. It was perhaps an hour later when Mrs. McIre happened through the room again, and stopped in her tracks.

  "For heaven's sake, Randolph," she scolded, "you've talked the man into exhaustion. Look at him!"

  McIre looked suddenly abashed. "I—'pologize," he said. "Guess I got carried off—"

  Henry shook his head, though it did feel a little light. "No worry," he said. "I enjoy—" his voice cut off with a cough, and he looked up at the concerned woman. "Can I bother for some water, ma'am?"

  She fluttered to the other side of the room immediately. "Of course, of course," she said, turning back a moment later and setting a glass down on the table with a clunk.

  He reached for it, but his hand, normally steady and sure, trembled suddenly and tipped the glass over. He withdrew his hand, rather startled, and stared at the fallen glass, half puzzled. "I—I'm sor—"

  "For heaven's sake," muttered Mrs. McIre again, cutting him short. She whipped off her apron and used it to wipe up the spill. "The poor man. Get him to bed, Randolph. I won't have you taking him out rattle-trapping off over the hills like that."

  Obediently, Mr. McIre picked him up and carried him to the bedroom, and Henry made no objection except for an attempt at thanks. He was weary,
and now that the McIres would certainly accept no more help, he wanted only to sleep. McIre set him on the bed and covered him with a light blanket. After closing the drapes, he tiptoed from the room, leaving Henry alone in the cool dimness. He found his eyes heavy and offered no resistance when they shut, although his mind remained awake and active. Beyond the door, he could hear faint voices, and identified the high, sweet tones of his daughter. A moment later, the door edged open and he heard the whisper of her clothes; a small noise, but one he knew well.

  She crept to his side with the noisy tiptoe of a child and mounted the bed with hardly a bump. He could not help but smile a little as she lay down next to him. Soon she was very still, her breaths even and measured so that he knew she was asleep, taking her afternoon nap. When he was certain she would not wake, he forced his eyes to open and looked at her. She was so small, he thought, and yet so sure, already so solid and strong in the world. He reached out a hand and ran his fingers lightly through her hair. She stirred then, and he withdrew to his own thoughts, and later into sleep as well.

  At dusk he woke and found himself alone. It wasn't long, however, before Mrs. McIre entered, bearing dinner. She set the tray down and helped him sit up by propping pillows at his back. "Don't worry, hon," she said. "You c'n spend over the night here. I had Randolph send one of the men back over your way, to tell that maid lady of yours." She finished with the pillows and set the tray on his lap.

  "Thank you, ma'am," he said softly, "for your kindness."

  She waved a hand. "Nonsense. From what Randolph tells, you done us a passel more'n this's worth." Without warning, Daisy bounded in. Mrs. McIre turned and caught her, tickling her until she squealed and wriggled free, hopping up onto the bed. The older woman grinned and backed towards the door. "That there is the purtiest little girl in the wide world," she told him, before vanishing.