When Henry Came Home

by Josephine Bhaer

  "Yes, sir?" A younger man looked down from the driver's seat.

  "Stay here. I'll be out in a while. Is that--" he pointed at a vague brown shape. "The house, over there?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Good." He started walking, slowly but with well-placed, certain strides, and was satisfied when he identified the front steps. "Beautiful," he said to himself in earnest, smiling grimly. "Home." He stepped up onto the porch.

  "Stop right there."

  He obeyed, searching for a body to go with the voice. At last, on the other end of the porch, he saw a blurred figure move to stand—it was small, and the tone was of a girl or a young boy.

  "Put your hands up."

  Hesitant, he did so, frowning. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm nearly blind. I can't see you."

  "You don't need to. I've got a gun on you, though."

  "All right."

  "What do you want?"

  "I didn't know if there would be anyone living here—I only wanted to see the house—you see, I knew some people that once lived here. I don't mean any harm."

  "You don't make any sense. We've always lived here."

  "Well, perhaps for as long as you can remember—" he paused, struck suddenly with a thought. "Dear Lord—are you Daisy?"

  The childish voice was indignant and obvious. "Who else would I be?"

  Edward let out a breath that was half a laugh, in disbelief. "It can't be—how old are you?"

  "Twelve years, nine months, and eighteen days."

  He laughed. "May I come closer—please? I want to see you."

  "Of course not. Stay where you are. And keep your hands up."

  Edward obeyed. "And your father," he persisted. "Is he—he still here?"

  "Where else would he be?" At this point, she had become entirely exasperated.

  "Of course, of course!" he laughed, giddy. "Daisy my darling, I'm your uncle—put the gun down and let me see your father."

  She tilted her head to one side. "Are you John?"

  He was puzzled. "No—don't you know—he's dead?"

  "Of course I do. And don't move! I don't believe you."

  Edward's hands went back into the air. "All right," he said, thinking. "Is Ms. Beaumont here?"

  "Yes."

  "She knows me."

  "All right." The small voice rose in pitch. "Ms. Beaumont! Ms. Beaumont!" After a moment, the woman came out. "Do you know this man?"

  The maid looked him up and down, calmly. "Yes, Miss," she said at last. "I believe he's a friend of your father's."

  "Hm," concluded Daisy. She let the gun fall, uncocking it, and slipped it into the holster at her side, so large on her little frame that it dropped nearly to her knees. She took notice of Edward again. "You can put your hands down," she said, clumping over to the door as Ms. Beaumont disappeared inside. "Come in."

  A little relieved but too glad to be upset, he felt his way along the wall to the door and followed her in. "Where is he?" he asked, trusting that someone was still in the hall.

  "In the bedroom." It was Daisy.

  "Oh," he said, feeling for the door into the parlor. "Well, I'll wait for him then."

  "Why do you have to wait? You are a strange man," she stated. "I don't understand you at all."

  He smiled, crookedly, feeling her small hand slip into his. "That can go both ways," he said, picking his way down the hall after her as she led. It was dim, and he couldn't see much of anything at all.

  "There you are. Go on in."

  Edward felt the door and stepped through into the little bedroom, in all respects the same as it had been eleven years previous. He went a little further and the bed came in to view. "Henry," he said, whispering because it seemed right. He waited.

  "—Edward," came the reply at last, thin and weak. After it followed a listless cough.

  Edward's heart leapt and he shuffled quickly to the side of the bed. The pale face in the sheets was easy to identify. He looked down and then, in one sudden motion, knelt so that his knee touched the floor. Close now, he grasped Henry's hand, pale and thin and fragile, clutching it as tightly as he dared so that their arms pressed together. He put his other hand on top. "Henry—" he began, his voice breaking. "Did you—ever imagine--!" He pressed the knot of fingers and palms to his forehead, taking in a rasping breath.

  "Why are you crying?"

  Edward looked up, blinking and seeing the indistinct form of the girl sliding up on the other side of the bed, next to her father. Her voice was plain, a little demanding. He smiled, laughing softly through his tears. "Did you ever have anything precious," he asked, "that you lost, and thought you would never see it again? And it made you so sad to think of that, and then, all of a sudden, you found it?"

  She considered a moment. "Yes," she said at last, frank. "My dolly."

  "Well—when I left your daddy last time, I didn't think I would—" he swallowed. "Ever see him again."

  "Oh."

  "Daisy..." his voice was whispered, barely audible.

  "What, Daddy?" Daisy leaned forward a little, her manner suddenly soft. She touched his arm lightly with the tips of her fingers.

  His breath wheezed in and then out again, once. "Go—do one of your—lessons. Let me talk with—Edward." He fumbled for her hand, and patted it gently.

  She sat up. "All right, Daddy," she said, and slid carefully off the edge of the bed. "I'll be in the parlor."

  Edward waited until he no longer heard her footsteps, and found that tears threatened again to overflow. He had not expected them, and forced them back this second time. "How—how are you, Henry?" he asked, intense. He put his face closer, so that he could see clearly.

  Henry frowned a little, in concentration. "I'm—confused—sometimes," he whispered. "I'm not—certain."

  Edward put a hand on Henry's brow, smoothing back hair that stuck with chill sweat to his forehead. "That's all right, old friend," he consoled. "You've a right to be a little muddled."

  "The other morning—I—" he stopped, closing his eyes a moment and taking a careful breath. "Woke up and I couldn't think of what it was—the light—the—" he was frustrated, the word lost to him.

  "The sun?"

  "Yes—sun," he said it slowly, testing it in is mouth. "Can't seem to—hold on to it. Doc says—stroke--"

  "Doc." Edward fondled the name lovingly. "When I was here last, do you know how long he told me you would live, at most?" He paused. "Six months, Henry. Six."

  "Oh... has it—been longer?"

  He laughed softly. "It's been eleven years, old friend, and here you are."

  Henry gave a wan smile—and then suddenly, his gaze resolved, his eyes finally coming alive and dashing over Edward's face. "Yes—" he said, "I remember—Daisy was only a baby—"

  "Yes, yes—that's it!" Edward laughed like a giddy schoolboy.

  "Edward," he whispered fiercely, his dark eyes sparkling. "It's good to see you." He struggled vainly a moment against the sheets. "Please--" he said.

  "Of course, of course." Edward got to his feet and bent, stacking pillows behind him on the bed, and carefully lifted him until he was sitting up a little, though not too far.

  Henry sank back into the pillows, his body limp. "Thank you," he murmured, and Edward waited a minute or two, pulling up a chair to sit on, while Henry closed his eyes and breathed shallow breaths. "Where have you been—all this time?" he asked at last, opening his eyes.

  "Everywhere. England, for a while, and France and Italy. I don't work, anymore."

  "You're grey." He smiled faintly to show that he was in fun.

  Edward reached up, touching his hair briefly. "So I am. I ought to be—next month is my sixtieth birthday."

  "Congratulations."

  He waved a hand in dismissal. "I'm an old man, and feeling it."

  Henry smiled again, larger, and his eyes showed it. "Edward," he said after a moment. "Did you ever—find her?"

  "Sarah?" He sighed and shrugged. "No. And I'm still looking, the fool I am."
<
br />   "Was there ever a—woman for you?"

  He chewed his lip. "You've become direct, my friend."

  He coughed, wincing in pain. "No—time—to be otherwise. Or--" he coughed again. "Breath."

  Edward shrugged and cast his eyes down for a moment, pressing his palms together. "There was a girl in Detroit, a widow, five years ago. I liked her—I think she loved me. That—that was all."

  Of course there was only one conclusion. "You were in love with her—Sarah."

  Edward sighed heavily, and rested his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. "Lord help me, always," he whispered. "But she loved John—and the only time I was fool enough to say it aloud was when I was drunk."

  "I'm sorry." And he was.

  "Even then I knew I shouldn't have. It was always foolish. --Pining away after my best friend's girl, envying him all the while, even when he was dead. Lord, I was a selfish bastard. Eats away at me inside, sometimes. Not—as bad as it used to."

  "John would have—understood." Suddenly his body convulsed, forcing out a gripping cough. His hands gripped the sheet at his chest, twisting savagely. He pulled one hand away, reaching for the glass of water on the stand beside the bed, but Edward, squinting, got there first and held the glass to his lips.

  "There," murmured Edward, tipping it up a little. "Not too much." He put an arm behind Henry's back and pushed him up so that he was sitting straight, and could breathe clearly. After a minute Henry nodded and Edward let him back down, setting the glass aside. "Don't talk," he cautioned softly, pulling the sheet back up over him.

  But after a few rasping breaths, Henry smiled wanly. "I won't—last—six months—this time," he said, in short gasps.

  "Shh. I always underestimate you, my friend, and I think everyone else has, too. Don't shortchange yourself."

  Just then the door opened and Daisy tromped in. "You have to let Daddy rest," she insisted immediately. "Leave."

  Edward laughed. "She's rather officious, isn't she?"

  Henry agreed with a soft smile, but went unnoticed as she declared, "And what if I am?"

  "Do you know what 'officious' means?" He was still grinning.

  Henry's fingers found his arm. "I wouldn't—try to argue—" he whispered.

  She put her hands on her hips. "Of course I do. I'm not an imbecile."

  Henry smiled. "—You can't win," he finished.

  Edward stood. "Well, I suppose I had better get out, then. I wouldn't want to be an 'imbecile.'"

  "Daisy... Be—" he coughed softly, and she came to his side. "Be kind to your uncle. He loves you very much, and you'll make him—feel poorly if you're sharp."

  She chewed her lip for a moment. "All right, Daddy," she said at last, quiet.

  He patted her hand, and she leaned over for a kiss on the cheek. "Good girl."

  "Do you need anything?"

  "No, monkey. Just—stay with me a while."

  "All right."

  "Daddy says I'm to take you riding."

  "Does he? I should have known." Edward turned to her voice, and her small boots clomped across the porch to the steps. He hurried after her, but stopped. "Do you want to?" he asked.

  She shrugged and made a noncommittal sound.

  "Well, I'm not going unless you want to."

  There was silence for a while, and then a soft, "Well—yes."

  "Why?"

  "Daddy doesn't like me to go out riding alone. I have to have Joey or Pa with me. But I want to go riding."

  "Ah." He nodded. "So really, you don't like me at all—I just have to be there."

  This one stumped her for a moment, and she thought. "You—aren't that bad," she said finally. "I just don't understand how you can be my uncle."

  "You think someone's playing a trick, is that it?"

  She shrugged again. "Maybe."

  "Well, come back here and lead me to the barn and I'll tell you. Don't worry—I won't hurt you. I know you're armed." He waited, and after a few moments the small hand slipped into his. "Thank you," he said, smiling.

  "You have to help me get the door open," she told him when they reached the barn. "I can do it myself, but it takes a while." And so they opened it together and went inside. "Wait here," she said, leaving his arm. "I'll saddle the horses."

  "You can do quite a lot of things by yourself, can't you?"

  "Of course."

  "Do you know any other little girls your age?"

  There was a grunt from Daisy and a snort from one of the horses she hefted a saddle onto its back. "No," she said. "Why?"

  "Oh—nothing." He stood there, feeling a little awkward for doing so and then feeling silly for feeling awkward with a twelve-year-old child. Or perhaps she wasn't truly a child, not in that sense. He sighed and gave it up.

  "Here's your horse," she said, leading a hazy black shape towards him. He put his hands out and felt its side, then bent closer to examine the saddle with his hands and eyes. "Her name is Ophelia. Can you get on yourself?"

  "I hope so. It's been a long—long while." He grasped the saddle horn and groaned a little at the reach as he put his foot into the stirrup. The rest, however, was easy, and as natural as birth. He settled into the saddle, feeling strangely at home.

  "Here are the reins. Keep her steady and I'll have Goodie saddled in a blink." True to her word, Daisy was quick with her work and soon rode out on a dappled grey. "Ophelia should be good—she likes to follow if you just let her go," she informed him.

  And then Edward found himself out on the plain, a hazy shape in front of him and brilliant yellow racing by on all sides. He did not grin, nor smile, but his mask of concentration hid a sense of contentment that he had not felt in a long while—five years, in fact, if not longer.

  After a while they halted, and Daisy led them beneath a sprawling oak where the horses bent to nibble at dry grass. He felt a canteen being pushed into his hands and took it, tipping his head back for a long, satisfying drink. He held it out, and it was gone again. "Thank you," he said.

  "All right." She waited.

  "Oh," he said. "I was going to tell you."

  "Yes."

  It was strange—with her, he did not feel as though he were talking to a child, nor even an adult. Rather, perhaps some sort of military commander or general, giving orders. And yet, the way she was with Henry... "You are very like your mother," he said.

  "Most everyone says that," she agreed, sounding a little more civil. She pulled her horse up and they started off at a slow, sauntering pace.

  "Well—I knew her fairly well. I suppose, in a literal sense—I am not really your uncle. But when I was a boy, both of my parents were killed and I went to live with your mother's family. She was like a sister to me—she called me her brother—and so, in a rather roundabout way, I am your uncle."

  She looked at him, examining, curious. "How did your parents die?"

  "In a railroad accident. I was with them."

  "Was—was it difficult?"

  He nodded, his eyes remembering. "Yes. I turned to drink. Almost—no, more than half my life gone."

  She was silent for a long while. "I'm afraid," she said at last, quietly.

  For a while, Edward said nothing, considering her words. She knew, then… He had felt before that she was somehow blind to her father’s condition, but of course she would know. At last, he shook his head. "You don't have to be. You aren't like me. You're like your mother. Strong. I chose to take the bottle. I know you won't."

  "But—it will be hard." Her voice was small. Childlike.

  "Yes. Life is always hard, I think." He sat forward and stroked Ophelia's ebon mane. "You have a family, too, and they love you." He reached inside of his coat and took out a card. "Here. Keep this. I am not anywhere long, but if ever you are near Boston, there is a man at this address—my book keeper—and he will connect us."

  "Thank you. I'll remember."

  "How long—has your father been in bed?"

  "Since eight."

  He frowne
d. "This morning?"

  "No, silly, since I was eight years old. That's four years, nine months, and eighteen days, if you want to be particular."

  "My God..."

  "Well." She shrugged. "Here we are."

  "What?"

  "We're back."

  "Back?"

  She laughed. "I didn't take you far. You can't see anything at all, can you?"

  He half-smiled. "Well, fairly close to that." He waved a hand in front of his face. "I think I'm losing about an inch a year."

  She smiled. "How many inches have you left?"

  "Oh..." he moved his hand in and out. "Seven, I think." He turned to look at her outline. "So I suppose I've got seven years left, is that it?" She giggled, and his smile left for a sigh. "I—I would like to see you," he said, a kind of longing in his voice.

  Daisy considered. "—All right," she said at last, hesitant. "Dismount."

  He heard her boots hit the soft earth and did likewise, finding the reins taken from his hands a moment later as she tied up the horses. Then she was back, her hand on his arm, and led him to the fence of the small corral out back of the barn. She let him go and hopped up on the top railing. "There," she said, swinging her feet in the empty air. "Come closer."

  He obeyed, putting out a hand to touch her shoulder. He pulled her down a little until her face was very close, her nose only inches from his. For a moment his eyes went over her face, studying every detail, and then he met her eyes, large and brown and soft. "Oh," he said softly, and then again, "Oh... you—are—so like her..."

  She smiled, kindly, and suddenly he was a young man again, lonely and afraid. He pulled back and turned away.

  "What's the matter?" she asked, a little troubled. She hopped off of the railing and landed next to him on the ground.

  He shook his head. "Nothing—you're—perfect. ...Beautiful. Just like her."

  She put her hand into his, and looked up at him, not an adult nor a general, but a girl who would one day be a woman. "I'm glad," she said, a kind of determination in her voice, "even if it makes you cry, because Daddy loved her very much, so she must have been wonderful, and I want to be like her."

  "Everyone loved her, darling. And you don't have to try to be like her—you are like her—so like."