When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  "I a'ready ate," Daisy informed him.

  "Did you, now."

  She put a hand up flat to her eyes. "Yup. I'm full to here."

  In the morning, Henry was put back into the buckboard and they started home with the thanks and payment of the McIres. Mr. McIre had work to go about, so one of the men was sent along to drive the horses. When they arrived in the yard, the hired man—named Billings, Daisy had gotten out during the ride—came around the back and picked up Henry, a little embarrassed. "Where should I—sir--" he stuttered.

  "Just—the bedroom."

  "In here, Mr. Billings!" called Daisy, bounding ahead.

  Billings followed, and set him down on top of the quilt on the bed. Henry put out a hand, and they shook, briefly. "Thank you," he said.

  "M-my pleasure, sir." He paused. "You helped my daddy in a rough spot, bout nine years ago. It's an honor."

  Henry found himself unable to recall. "Did I...?" He blinked. "Well—send him my well wishes."

  "I will, sir. Thank you." He bowed out of the room.

  In his absence, Henry closed his eyes, sighing out a long breath. Daisy crawled up on the bed from the other side. "Daddy?" she asker, her face peering down over his. "Are you tired?"

  "Not on the inside, but on the outside, yes, pumpkin." He coughed, painfully.

  "Do you want me to read to you?"

  "That would be lovely, pumpkin. And have Ms. Beaumont bring us a little tea."

  She hopped back off the bed. "All right," she said, and went from the room to go pick a book off the shelf and to find the maid. In a moment she was back, climbing back on the bed to settle herself. "The Velveteen Rabbit," she announced.

  Henry woke, feeling the world around him very clearly; the bed, beneath him, was sheeted and fresh, and the lamp on the dresser in the corner showed its curves distinctly in the morning light. He blinked a little and sat up, then immediately lay down again. "God give me strength," he whispered, not quite believing it. He had been in bed four days, and was conscious that today was Daisy's birthday.

  Thinking of it, he closed his eyes and sighed. Eight years, now—it hardly seemed real. After a moment, he reached out and grasped the pillow on the other side of the bed, bringing it close to his face. He breathed in deeply—and her scent was still there, like flowers. Still. "And I still miss you," he said, quiet in the empty room. "Every day."

  Daisy came in then and drew aside the curtains. She turned and grinned, seeing him awake. "Morning, Daddy," she said, approaching the side of his bed.

  He smiled and reached up to touch the side of her jaw, as if to cradle her head in his hand. "Happy birthday, monkey," he said. "You'd better fetch Joey if you want to get to town before noon."

  She stared at him a moment, puzzled, then grinned widely. "You'll come, Daddy?"

  "Of course. Now go get him up." He pinched her side, tickling, and she writhed away, giggling.

  "Joey!" she sang out, running out of the room, "Joey, wake uh-up!" Even though, of course, Joey had slept in the barn. She ran out on the porch, barefoot, and down across the yard. "Joey!"

  He emerged from the barn, tall and awkward now, rubbing the side of his face with a long-fingered hand. "What?" he mumbled, bits of hay falling out of his mussed hair.

  She tugged on his arm, and then, judging him ready, swung on it, jerking him to the side. Automatically, Joey heaved her up onto his shoulders and she clung to his hair for a hold. "Daddy's taking me to town," she said, "and you gotta come!"

  "Oh," he said, uncertain, and yawned. "Well—happy birthday." He was still a little sleepy.

  She yanked playfully at his hair. "Thank you, Joey." She beat her bare feet against his chest. "All right, go!"

  Obediently, he loped over to the porch, lifting her back down before he went up the stairs so she wouldn't hit the overhang. Instead, she held his hand, pulling him behind her. In the hall they passed Ms. Beaumont.

  "Can we have some fruit for on the way?" Daisy asked, unwilling to wait for breakfast.

  "I'll wrap some up, Miss."

  "Thank you!" She knocked on the door to her father's room. "Daddy, are you ready?"

  "Yes, pumpkin, come in."

  She pushed open the door and ran in, landing next to him where he sat on the edge of the bed, dressed and cane in hand. "Oo, Daddy!" she squealed. "You look handsome."

  "Thank you—maybe you oughta do the same." He smiled gently.

  Puzzled, she looked down and discovered herself still in her nightgown. "Oh!" she cried, and ran out of the room.

  Henry chuckled softly. "The day that girl runs out of energy is the day I become a lumberjack," he commented. "Good morning, Joey."

  Joey approached, dusting himself a little for the sake of manners. "Morning, sir. You want me to—"

  "Yes—thank you, son." He gestured slightly, and Joey bent so that he could put an arm around his neck as he picked him up. "Ms. Beaumont--" he said, in the hall. Joey stopped and she came out of the kitchen, a burlap sack in hand. "A blanket, or a pillow maybe, please."

  "Yes, sir, I'll be right out."

  When things were all settled and Joey was hitching up the horses, Daisy emerged in little black leather ladies' boots, laced halfway up her foreleg to the shin, and a pink dress with white lace. Before Joey could help, she stuck a stockinged knee up and hiked herself into the back of the buckboard. She stood, presenting herself to Henry. "How do I look, Daddy?" she asked, turning in a circle.

  He put out a hand and she came to his side. "Lovely—beautiful." He smiled faintly and brushed the dust off the front of her dress.

  When they arrived in town, Joey pulled up outside the tailor's shop and climbed into the back of the wagon. "Sir—?" he asked. Henry nodded slightly and Joey picked him up.

  "Just—over there, on the walk."

  Joey mounted the steps and paused at the top. "You sure?" he asked, doubtful.

  "Yes." He was grateful for the boy's concern. Joey set him on his feet, careful, and held onto him until he had his balance and his cane under him. With his free hand, he gripped one of the posts that held up the overhang. "Go on and do what you like—I expect we'll be done in about an hour."

  "All—all right, sir." Joey ducked his head. "'Bye." He walked off, stopping to take the horses after him for water.

  Henry looked down at his daughter. She smiled up at the attention. "Well," he said, finding that he was suddenly quite warm, "where—where shall we go?"

  Daisy pointed to the tailor shop. "In there!"

  "All right." Hesitant, he let go of the post and put his hand on her small shoulder. "Do you want to get a new dress?" She grinned, walking slowly for him, as if he were silly if he didn't know the answer to his own question.

  Inside, the tailor looked up, an elderly man in perhaps his seventies with a measuring tape draped around his neck. "Why—Mr.—Mr. Peterson!" he said, quite astonished. He regained himself quickly; "Would you like a chair?"

  Henry smiled, fleeting. "Please—if you don't mind."

  "Not at all." The old man came out from behind the counter and dragged forth the item promised.

  "Could—could you put it by the window? Yes—thank you." He sat down, relieved, though a little disheartened at finding himself already so weary.

  The tailor returned to his counter. "What brings you to town, ah, Mr. Peterson?" he asked, attempting to be conversational.

  Henry opened his mouth, but Daisy got there first. "My birthday," she said, importantly. She was already half-buried in bolts of patterned cotton.

  "Is it!" The tailor looked thoughtful. "Well," he said, considering, "I do have some new velvet in the back, if you'd like to see." At Daisy's half-bashful smile he disappeared into a room beyond, emerging a moment later with a shivering, flowing bolt of crimson. He held it out over the counter for her to examine, and she fondled it lovingly, pressing her nose into it. She looked over her shoulder at her father, knowing that it was too expensive to ask for.

  He nodded, barely, and th
e tailor smiled and put the bolt aside to figure on a piece of paper. Daisy ran to him and threw her arms around his neck, whispering thanks into his ear. He gave her a quick kiss and patted her behind before she went to have the tailor take her measurements.

  "I'll have it ready in six days," he said.

  Henry, unsteady, pushed himself to his feet from the windowsill, and Daisy slipped under his hand. "Would it be all right—" he asked, "if my maid came for it?"

  The old man nodded vigorously. "Certainly."

  "Thank you—good day."

  Daisy waved over her shoulder. "'Bye!"

  They walked slowly down the boardwalk together, gazing into the windows of shops. In the middle-morning, folks were not yet out in legion, but neither were they scarce, and when they were in groups they halved to go around Henry. There was a kind of unspoken, unknown caution, he felt, whispered only in ladies' dresses and the swishing long coats of men and boys as they hurried by:

  Who is that, Mommy? That man, right there, with the cane. Don't you know him?

  Shh, darling, it's rude to point. Be careful—come on, this store here.

  But Mommy, who is he? I thought you knew everyone. Is he sick? Mommy, he looks like he's...

  Shush! I don't know, dear. He seems familiar, somehow... I don't know. This town's getting big so fast. It doesn't matter—just a man. Go ask your father, if you must know. Oh—hullo, dear, there you are.

  What does the boy want to know? Oh, is that it? Don't you know who that is, son? Well—you wouldn't, I guess. I only took you out there a coupla times, when you were little. Sad thing. Built half this town, that man—sad thing.

  Out where, Pa? I don't remember! He looks like he's--

  Quiet, son. Later. He's coming by—leave him be, now, and don't ask questions. He doesn't need no reminders. If he asks you for help, you do what he says. ...I oughta take the boy out there sometime, I think, next time I gotta go.

  Oh—is that him? Thought maybe it was. I wonder what he's doing here, poor man. And that little girl—what did you say? Why'd you want to go and do that? He'd only stare.

  The boy oughta meet a man like that, that's all.

  Well, you just wait ‘til he's older. Then we'll see.

  Might be gone by then. Might be--

  "Daddy! Oo, look, right there, in the window!"

  Henry did not hear it, but he felt it, and worried—but Daisy was unconcerned, light, and if she noticed, did not seem to care. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, to himself, but worried all the same, quietly and from within.

  "Daddy?" she pulled a little at his sleeve, and he looked down. She pointed to the window again, and helped him over, slow.

  Before their time had come to an end, they had bought a reading lamp, a tin wind-up kangaroo, and a stuffed elephant, green. They wound up at the grocer's, where it was cool and dim inside. Jim Wilkins, mayor and owner, was lounging by the fireplace, minus a fire, and got up when they came in. "'Mornin', son," he greeted, amiable. He got up and took his arm from Daisy, half leading him. "Here—go on and siddown," he said. "How goes it, darlin'?"

  "Dandy, Mr. Goodwin," she replied, grinning.

  Henry sat, sighing a little and leaning his head back. Daisy, setting down their purchases, turned in a circle, looking for anything new that might have come into the store. "Daddy?" she asked, after determining that there was not. "Can I go out in back and play?"

  "Mr. Goodwin is the man to ask about that," he said.

  She looked at him, expectantly.

  "Go on, darlin'."

  She flashed a bright smile and was gone.

  Goodwin chuckled a little. "Wearin' you out, son?"

  Henry, eyes closed, smiled faintly. "I believe so," he said.

  The grocer sat up on the edge of an upended barrel and picked a six-inch long splinter off the bare post next to it. "Well, it's good seein' you. I mean to get out your way now and then, but—" he stopped, managing to look irritated. "Dang it all, son, this job you got me into is a pain in the arse. Elections comin' up again and ain't no candidate showed up—they're makin' me stay on. Three terms I been in—" he shook his head. "I'll go to my grave workin' all this bureaucratic nonsense."

  The back of the grocer's was large and open, like a barn with one end missing. Half of it was filled with a wooden platform crowded with all sorts of interesting odds and ends, mostly dusty and smelling a little like tar. For a few minutes Daisy galloped back and forth across the platform, liking the hollow sound of her boots on the wood, like music. Then she dragged around a few large items, even finding a piano in the back although she couldn't get to the keys, and amused herself quietly until she heard footsteps on the dirt below.

  She turned around and saw a boy there, probably a few years older than she, although not much taller. "Good morning," she said politely, climbing down from the crate she was sitting on. For a moment she stood on the edge of the platform, facing him, a little curious. Then she sat down and slid off to the ground below, walking forward slowly. She stopped about three feet away from him. "My name is Daisy," she said.

  "I'm Freddy. Freddy Cooper." He looked at her steadily, a little curious himself.

  "Where do you live?" she asked. "I live way out that way." She pointed in the general direction of her house.

  "Here in town. My Pa owns the new hotel. Your pa is the cripple, ain't he?"

  She tilted her head a little to the side. "No," she said, shaking it slightly. "That's my daddy. My Pa and Ma live that way." She pointed in the other direction.

  He looked skeptical for a moment, and then, suddenly, laughed. "You can't have two pas," he said, and laughed again, meanly. "And your ma is dead."

  Without warning, her hand flew out, doubled up into a tight little fist, and struck him on the nose. He cried out in surprise and covered it with one hand, taking it away a moment later to see, in horror, a little trickle of blood. "I don't have two pas," she told him angrily. "I have a daddy and a pa. And Ma is not dead, she's at home, right now, with Brian!" She stomped her foot, then turned and climbed back onto the platform, dismissing him entirely. She was about to go back to playing, this time all by herself, when she saw Mr. Goodwin in the doorway. She marched over to him and put her fists on her hips, bending back a little to see his face. "Don't you dare tell my daddy!" she ordered.

  He shook his head, biting back the grin. "No, ma'am, I won't dare," he said, serious. "But Joey's come and they're all packed up, ready to go, so you better git back out there."

  "Oh!" she said.

  Out in the buckboard, Joey was a little dirtier than he had been before, but none the worse for wear. Daisy called out a good-bye to Mr. Goodwin and climbed up in the back with her father and the things they had bought. Joey glanced back to see that all was secure and flicked the reins.

  As they rode out of town, the graveyard came into view, and after a moment's hesitation Henry put a hand on Joey's back. The boy looked down at him, slowing the horses, and saw. He turned them a little and angled toward the base of the sloping hill. When the horses came to a halt he got up and helped Henry out of the wagon, then watched warily as he started up the hill with Daisy at his side.

  He stumbled once, a little, but Daisy put her hands out and steadied him. "Are you all right, Daddy?" she asked.

  "I think I'll be fine, monkey," he said. "Good thing I have a strong girl like you to help me."

  She grinned.

  At the top, he nodded to her mother's gravestone and she helped him over, letting him off her shoulder to lean against the small angel. He closed his eyes for a moment, paling, then stood of his own accord, looking down at the ground. He stood that way a long while, cane in hand, almost wishing he could get on his knees and kiss the earth that cradled her body, though her soul has long bent heavenward, because it was the only thing left of her on earth.

  Daisy, feeling solemn, shuffled a little closer to him, until he put his arm around her. She looked up at him with mournful eyes. "Did you love her, Daddy?" she asked,
knowing it was a silly question but asking it because it felt good to know.

  "Even as I love you, dear one," he whispered. "With all of my heart."

  "Then I love her too," she decided, with finality.

  His mouth wanted to tell her that she was Mary, but instead he sighed a little and said, "Let's go home." And they returned to the wagon.

  When they arrived back at the house, Henry scarcely realized it when Joey picked him up and carried him inside, back to his bed. But then he felt his head sink deep into the pillow, cool on his neck, and was aware of a sudden, overpowering exhaustion that he had been struggling against all day. He could barely move his fingers, it seemed, and finally he gave in, letting his eyelids slide shut, heavy.

  After a moment, he felt Daisy upon his arm, heard her speak. "I love you, Daddy," she said, kissing him on the cheek.

  He wanted to reach up and hold her face, kiss her back and tell her he loved her more, loved her more than anything, loved her enough to die for her, enough to—live for her. But he was cold and weary, and the strength would not come, nor even the will to make the effort. He lay there, feeling gravity press down like a ten-ton weight, still clear-minded, and was struck suddenly, strangely, with the fear of death. It wasn't something he had ever feared, even in the midst of battle, but now he was painfully aware that he could not go—could not leave her, not when she was so small, so fresh, so new to the world. Not now.

  I can't, he whispered, in his mind.

  And he knew, then, that he would not die, not there, not then. But he also knew, deep and aching within, that under his own power he would never, never, rise from the bed again, nor even harbor the smallest hope of ever doing so. He heard, behind closed eyelids, as Daisy drew the shade and left him to rest, and after a moment of dim silence he blinked, and felt a hot wetness upon his cheek.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Edward stepped out of the carriage with a small grunt and closed the little door behind himself. He tugged down his vest neatly and took a moment to squint at his pocket watch, holding it perhaps six inches from his face. "Bentley," he said brusquely, his eyes narrowing in the parched summer sun.