When Henry Came Home (10 page)

             
He glanced at her. "I—I guess not."

             
"I hate box seats. They're all over on the side, and I can't see nothin' without leanin' over till I near fall out." She looked into his damp eyes and half-troubled brow. He swallowed. "What is it?"

             
He felt compelled to say, felt that if he did not he would be lying, or at least keeping some sort of secret from her. "If it's a matter of stairs, it's--" Mary laughed and he felt her warm, living breath upon his face. He felt that Napoleon would have conquered all of Europe, destroyed Russia, had she only been his Josephine. He pulled her close, suddenly, and kissed her.

             
It was only broken, after a long while, by another of her laughs, like small stones in water or maybe a cool breeze through a willow tree. "Careful," she warned, moving off his leg.

             
"No," he told her, finally. "I like you. You aren't careful. You go straight on ahead and apologize for mistakes later."

             
She returned the kiss, quickly, playfully. "And you, on the other hand?" she teased, grinning.

             
He shook his head. "I don't go at all. I stay until I have to move. I calculate everything, measure it all so nothing happens."

             
"And was this planned?" she squirmed on the warm white quilt, sewn by her grandmother long ago.

             
"No," he breathed quickly.

             
"I wouldn't mind if it was--"

             
"It wasn't."

             
"It's because you care about folks. You want what's best for them. You got—a sense of responsibility to them, like you don't want to do anything to ruin their happiness."

             
"You're the other way around. You do foolish things that come into your head, to make folks happier than they were."

             
"Ain't one way better than another. You gotta have both kinds."

             
"So long as they don't argue."

             
"You just gotta have a sense of respect." She sighed contentedly and held his hand for a long time, feeling his fingers between her own. "I like this," she said at last.

             
"What, layin' here doin' nothing?"

             
"Well—pickin' at eachother. You saying to me what I wouldn't see and me doing it to you. Let's say we'll always pick at each other."

             
He shifted. "Should we set a day?"

             
She reached over and pretended to slap his face. "You're teasing me. Am I being silly?"

             
"No." He smiled. "Not at all."

              Mary brushed her hair in front of the little mirror table, humming to herself. "It's a perfect night out for a show," she remarked, after a moment.

             
Henry came up behind her, in a white shirt and suspenders, his tie undone around his neck and hanging loose. He ran a hand down her chestnut waterfall. "I'll braid it for you," he said.

             
She smiled and put a hand up to touch his, briefly, before standing. She pulled out the little wooden chair and let him sit on it, then settled herself down cross-legged on the floor, spreading her dress out around her so it wouldn't fold under and get dirtied. The brush went through her hair a few more times, and then Henry's fingers, clean and smelling like soap. She leaned back against the chair between his knees, letting out a soft breath. "Feels good, having my hair pulled at." Out of the corner of her eye, she strained to see the little tabletop without moving her head. "Which perfume?" she asked, feeling for the bottles.

             
Henry leaned over a little, his hands still occupied, and smelled each of the three small bottles in turn. Then he leaned forward and sniffed her hair. "Mm. None."

             
"None!" Mary laughed. "It's fine for a man to say that, the way you go out for weeks on end without so much as rinsing off in a stream. Pa used to come home sometimes—" Mary made an exaggeration of a shudder. "Ma wouldn't let him in the house, even." She patted his leg. "But of course you're fairly clean, I reckon, so I'll take your advice. But just for tonight."

             
"If I could find a way to bottle your scent, I could sell it for a hundred dollars an ounce."

             
"You'd sell me!" she teased.

             
"I could, but I wouldn't."

             
"What would you do with all those bottles?"

             
He held a lock of hair out for her and she took it while he shuffled around the table for a bobby pin or two. "I'd keep them. For when we couldn't be together. Then I'd open one up and let it sit out and fill the room."

             
"Oh, Hen. I love you." She paused. "Will you wear your uniform tonight?"

             
Henry's hands slowed for a moment, and then continued to work. "I—" he said quietly.

             
She reached across with her left hand and patted his knee. "I know how you feel about it, Hen, but I hope you'll think about it, sometime. It ain't no shame I can see, and you look handsome in it."

             
He fumbled for the last bobby pin. "I—I'd rather not."

             
"All right." He finished with her hair and let his hands fall away. Mary bounced up and examined herself in the mirror. "Oh," she breathed, "it's beautiful! Hen—where did you learn that?"

             
"Your—your magazine."

             
"My—" Mary laughed. "But there's only that woman on the cover! Wait--" she hurried from the room and was back in a moment with the magazine and some little white flowers from the vase on the kitchen table. She handed the flowers to Henry. "Here, put these in!" Bending, she let him tuck them into the crevices of her winding braids. When he was done, she held up the magazine next to her face, displaying the picture of the cover woman's face next to her own. "How do I compare?"

             
"Ten times prettier."

             
She pulled him up. "Come on, we'll get you in your black suit. If we don't hurry, we'll be late!" Quickly, she helped him on with his clothes, and they were out the door. Henry latched it behind them, and they walked together down the moonlit boardwalk, their footsteps echoing. There were other couples out, dressed for the performance, all waltzing slowly down the main street, here and there. "Like snowflakes," whispered Mary, seeing them glitter in the faint light now and then. "Just kind of all drifting down and beautiful." Henry knew what she meant.

             
Inside the theatre was quite different—the fancy dresses and suits were all crowded together, compacted like a single thriving diamond, only dusky and impure. Many of the men were smoking cigars, and the air was acrid with the musky odor. Henry coughed a little but was all right with some water fetched from the bar next door. They sat down near the front, on the edge of the middle aisle. Quickly, Mary began to spot people they knew, and waved every few seconds. After a minute, she leaned over. "Which one is Rogers?" she whispered into his ear. She had been looking at the box seats.

             
Henry looked up and spotted them, nodding slightly in their direction. "There," he said. Rogers was sitting with a somewhat plump woman who exhibited several bands of jewels about her neck and wrists. If she was not dainty, she was striking in a way that made her presence immediately known and respected for the straightforward manner that it was.

             
"Goodness," said Mary. "I'd like to meet her."

             
Rogers saw them looking up and waved. "He'll probably find us, after," commented Henry, returning the gesture briefly.

             
Mary turned from her examination of the woman to the stage. "Oh, look," she said, "it's starting."

             
If the actors were not thespians in the truest sense, they made their respective points known, performing with such feeling that a skillful inflection and complete comprehension on the part of the audience was not necessary. Mary, of course, did cry, and in fact wept openly on Henry's shoulder, though laughing wetly at herself all the while.

             
When it was over, they remained seated while the rest of the attendees filed out slowly, Mary taking time to dry her eyes on Henry's handkerchief. "And that—" she hiccoughed, "isn't half so bad as Hamlet!"

             
Henry, himself dry-eyed, smiled a little and put an arm around her shoulder. "Are you cold?"

             
She hiccoughed again. "Oh, no—it's so warm in here..." her eyes drifted upwards to the approaching couple of Mr. and Mrs. Rogers. Henry turned slightly and nodded a hello as they came down the row. Mary helped him up, and he took Rogers' hand.

             
"Mr. Rogers, this is my wife, Mary. Mary, Supervisor Rogers." As a group, they stepped out into the aisle.

             
"Pleased to meet you," nodded Mary, extending her hand.

             
"Please, just Mark. And—Mary, if I may, and Henry, this is my wife, Celia."

             
"What a lovely name," breathed Mary.

             
Mrs. Rogers swelled. "Thank you, dear." She turned to Henry. "My husband talks of you favorably," she pronounced, looking down at him through sparkling little eyes. She held out a lace-gloved hand, as if expecting it to be kissed, but Henry only held it awkwardly for a moment, as if unsure of what he was apparently expected to do. Momentarily, it was withdrawn, and he looked relieved. But it was only a second before the hand came out again, delicately, to tag his shoulder and withdraw. Proper concern flooded her oval face. "But my darling," she half-drawled. "Doesn't your little wife feed you well? You look positively phthisic."

             
"Well—" pounced Mary, straightening. She was cut off by Henry's firm hand in hers, squeezing slightly. "How rude," she amended, drawing back, softly enough so that Celia might pretend she hadn't heard.

             
"Mrs. Rogers," Henry said carefully, simply, "my—appearance doesn't have anything to do with my wife. She's a fine cook." He glanced at her, feeling his thinness against the clothes he wore like steel wool. "In fact, we'd be pleased if you'd come to dinner some night soon."

             
Mary relaxed and moved closer. "There's plenty, any night you happen by," she added, smiling. She wanted to kiss Henry, right there in front of Celia Rogers and everybody, but restrained herself for the moment. "Henry got me this cooking book, two weeks ago—you ain't seen such recipes in all your life. I'm afraid to try some of them, they're so odd."

             
Celia stepped aside a little, to discuss the matter confidentially with Mary. "I adore cooking," she said. "I hope we'll stop by on a night you decide to try one of those strange dishes."

             
Mary giggled. "I'm trying one out every other night, and I've got at least three weeks to go, so you've..."

             
Now that the women had gone to their business, Mark and Henry walked down the aisle aways. "Have you thought about it?" asked Rogers. "If not—well, I'll be here all tomorrow, it turns out."

             
Henry shook his head. "No, I thought it out. Talked to Mary. There's some things I gotta make clear." He stopped and looked at the supervisor. "I ain't gonna—promote myself. Folks know who I am and if they want me in they'll say with a vote. I won't stand up against another man, either, unless I think he's dead wrong, which isn't likely. And if I'm mayor, I'll be mayor, and not a hand for the county to work through. I'll do what I think is right, which is to set up a town council to take my place." He paused. "That's all."

             
Rogers grinned. "Mr. Peterson, you are exactly the man I'm looking for."

             
Henry was relieved to find his wife approaching from behind. Quickly, she shuffled up beside him and wound her hand around his. "We'd—better be going," he said.

             
Celia paused while her husband wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. "Well," she said, starting out ahead, "Maybe we'll come by one night."

             
"Please do," Mary called back, as the couple faded away. She took Henry's arm. "What a strange woman," she mused. "Mighty rude, but I ain't sure if she means to be or not. And I s'pose you can't really fault someone for somethin' they don't know they've done... can you?" She bit her lip. "But shouldn't someone say something, or would that just make her think you've been rude to her?"

             
Henry smiled. "I reckon not, but I wouldn't go worrying over it. Some people aren't meant to be figured out."