When Henry Came Home (11 page)

             
Mary flung her arms around his neck and kissed him then, letting herself go completely.

             
"What will you say in your first speech?" she asked after, flushed. She bent to pick up her shawl as he gathered himself.

             
"What—" Henry cut himself off, looking at her sharply.

             
Laughing, Mary hugged him again. "Did you think you wouldn't have to make a speech? They always have one, I think."

             
Henry paled suddenly, but she took his arm again and pulled him forward.

             
"Come on, you'll do fine. I know it."

             
They walked home together under the stars, all alone except for faint and off-kilter piano music from the saloon at the far end of the main street. It never closed, but at this hour of the night it might as well have been, for the whiskey sales never outweighed the salaries of those who provided the services thereof. Still, the musician at the piano played on, more out of loneliness, perhaps, than anything.

             
"I like that music," commented Mary. "I hope he never stops, him in particular. He plays sad songs, kind of, or at least he knows how to play every song in a sad way—like it knows it's going to come to an end and die as soon as the last note is hit, but knowing at the same time that if it went on forever it couldn't really be a song anyone would like. It's kind of a sweet sad, I guess. I can hear it when I'm going to sleep, and it always reminds me of the stars, how I'd look up and see them when I was little and spent nights outside in summer. I don't know why it reminds me of that."

             
Henry said nothing, but not in a rude way; it was more like a silence of agreement, and they walked on home without saying anything, feeling a faint but wonderful nip of cold, the last remnant of a bitter spring.

              "Hen, wake up." His eyes flew open, startled irrationally by her gentle, calm words in the dark. Immediately her arms enveloped him, cradling his head. She was almost sitting up. "Don't be afraid," she whispered, and he felt her long hair brush across his face and then pull back again. She was quiet for a while, letting his breaths slow. "I wish you didn't have nightmares," she said at last, stroking the side of his arm and feeling the long scar there, knowing she was the only one who would ever see it.

             
He put a hand to his forehead and rubbed his eyes, squinting tightly for a moment, and then sighed. "Does—does it frighten you?"

             
Mary considered. "No," she said at last, shaking her head. He coughed a little. "Do you need some water?"

             
"No." He took her hand, and held it, his eyes closed. "I—I'm sorry."

             
She could feel his hand shaking in hers, from terror. With her other hand, she brushed his forehead. "Do you want to talk about it, Hen?"

             
He tugged lightly on her arm and she slid down next to him, under the blankets, and he felt her arms around him and her hair upon his cheek. "I--" he held in his breath for a long while, then let it out. He wanted to say everything, just let it tumble out and have it all over with, have someone who knew what was broken on the inside and be able to understand, just... understand. But it wasn't that simple because it wouldn't come out-- just wouldn't— "I—sometimes, besides the rest—it's like they're trying to give me—something--" he whispered brokenly in her ear, afraid—ashamed—to say it any louder. "In my heart I got this feeling I know it ain't mine, or it shouldn't be—and I keep trying to tell them it must be John's, not mine, but—but they can't hear me or understand me—" he broke off, breathing raggedly.

"Hen—" her voice was soft, and for a minute she stroked his hair with gentle fingers. "You didn't take anything from John. This life is yours, Hen, and if John were here, he wouldn't hold one minute against you."

              He turned his face away. "I know," he whispered.

             
Mary's hand touched his cheek. "You know it in your head, it just hasn't got to your heart. Sometimes it works that way."

             
"It—just don't seem right—"

             
"Nobody said anything about right and wrong, or even fair. I guess maybe you just gotta keep remindin' yourself every day."

             
"Mary—I'm sorry, I'm—"

             
"Shh." She kissed him. "No. Don't be, don't ever be.”

             
He was silent for a moment, pained. "Mary—I ain't said it all--"

             
"Shh," she repeated, gently, combing his hair with her fingers. "That's good for tonight. That's good for tonight."

              Mary drew the curtains aside in the morning with a flourish. Henry blinked and sat up on one elbow to see that she was already dressed. "I didn't hear you," he said.

             
She grinned. "I was quiet. And you were snoring."

             
"I—" he looked humbly apologetic.

             
She came over and mussed his hair, kissed him, then pulled aside the sheets. "No, you weren't. I was fooling. Breakfast is ready."

             
He could smell it, strong and fulfilling, and sat up to put on his shirt.

             
When he sat down at the kitchen table, Mary flapped the paper down in front of him, instead of breakfast. "Eat this," she commanded, smiling. She sat down across from him and watched his face. Slowly, his fingers flipped up the front page, and the color drained from his face. 'Local Son in Running for Mayor,' the headline declared.

             
"I—told Rogers. No promotions—"

             
Mary bent forward and snatched the paper from his loose fingers. "Rogers didn't write this, silly, Mr. Bickerson did. The paper man."

             
"But..."

             
She flashed an adoring smile, and it held. "Henry dear, people are going to know sooner or later, and it's news. Maybe the only news in this little town. So try and not be angry at poor Mr. Bickerson for earning his living."

             
He was about to say he wasn't angry, but she held the paper up with one hand so the light from the window fell on it, and began to read.

             
"As of the evening of May twenty-fifth, local resident Henry Peterson has admitted his candidacy—" she interrupted herself with a giggle. "'Admitted.' That's just right. Mr. Bickerson has you perfectly!" Again, she held up the paper, flourishing her other hand, flower-like. "Admitted his candidacy for the office of mayor, the first this town has ever seen. Mr. Mark Rogers, County Supervisor, relates that Mr. Peterson plans immediately following his election to organize a town council—that's a good idea, Hen—which will..." she trailed off, skimming down the rest of the article. As her eyes reached the last paragraph, she grinned. "And it is the opinion of this paper," she declared, punctuating herself with a stab at the newsprint, "that Henry Peterson is the ideal choice for mayor of this fine city." With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the paper aside. It hit the windowpane and fluttered down to the floor, but suddenly she was looking across at Henry, whose eyes were fixed upon the tablecloth. She scooted on her chair around the table, until she was next to him. "Do you want to do this?" she asked.

             
He looked up at her. "I ain't gonna live up to anyone's expectations," he said. "I don't want anyone misled."

             
"No one is expectin' anything special, Hen. Folks know you and trust you, and they know you're just as human as anyone."

             
"I know—just makes me uneasy, I guess."

             
She hugged him. "And I love you for it."

             
He put his arms around her and spoke into her ear. "Sometimes I think I know every bit of you, straight through, and sometimes I can't figure out one word."

             
"Now?"

             
"Not one word."

             
"Oh—" She spun away and returned with his plate, which she plunked down before him, still steaming. "You just go on and eat," she commanded, grinning.

             
"Do what?" He feigned puzzlement.

             
She let out a half-growl and ran both hands through his hair from opposite directions, pulling up so it stood up in points. "You," she declared, "are terrible."

             
He smiled a little, in a kind of privately satisfied way, and, smoothing down his hair with one hand, began to eat.

             
"Maybe that's the fun of it," mused Mary a while later, when she joined him with her own meal. "Figuring each other out, I mean."

              At noon they stepped down to the general store for a few supplies. Mary stopped along the way to pay a few pennies for three crimson roses a woman was selling from a small hand-basket. She skipped back to Henry and, breaking one off almost at the head, breathed of it once and stuck it into the little hole on his lapel. He paled a little but let it remain, contrasting darkly against his complexion.

             
Mrs. Wilkins, who boarded out several of her rooms for income, stopped them. "I just caught the paper, dear," she said, smiling sweetly. "I knowed right away you was the right one, and you got my vote."

             
Henry was slightly embarrassed. "Well—thank you."

             
"You'll be mighty hurried, I know, with all you gotta do, but I hope you ain't gonna forget the little folks in this town." She worried her hands over one another, holding them in close to her body and bending over slightly to ease her arthritis in the way she always had, as if protecting something small and fragile within her bosom.

             
"I don't guess anyone's little, ma'am—" he started.

             
She released a hand and shook a finger at him, up and down. "Well, boy, I got faith in you, and I already told Mrs. Fitzgarden there ain't no way you was gonna let that Gerald Hawkins build his gambling house right next to my place." She scooted off in the direction she had been going. "I got faith in you, boy!" she called back, the sound shivering and cracking with brittle age.

             
Henry turned to look after her, leaning over a little more on his cane, and breathed carefully for a moment. When she disappeared around a corner, he was still looking, staring out into nothing. He started when Mary touched his shoulder, and she slid her arm through his to steady him.

             
"Come on," she said quietly, tugging at his sleeve. "It'll be all right." He turned and went with her into the general store.

             
Mr. Goodwin, the grocer, greeted them, all grandfatherly smiles, and made Henry brighten some. Mary went to get her things while her husband waited at the counter. The grocer fiddled with a few sums, then put the paper aside. "Congratulations," he said, and put his hand out. Henry took it and smiled weakly. "Thought a sort of change like this might be comin' soon. I been here so long it's all like molasses, and then one day you look back and it's slid right down like merc'ry." He grinned and leaned up against the counter, crossing his age-spotted arms, skin loose and thin on them like newborn pups'. "I'd got half a mind to run m'self, 'til I heard you was in."

             
Henry looked at him. "I wish you would," he said, serious.

             
The grocer laughed. The sound was dry and pleasing, like old newspapers kept in some back storeroom for years on end, all cool and preserved until you picked them up and they near crumbled in your hands. "Don't tempt me, son. No—I gotta let the young folks get a hand in things. I'm one for serving time while you're good, then just kinda slippin' out the back like maybe you was never there. I ain't gonna hang onto what I ain't got—which is all that spark and energy it takes."

             
Henry was quiet. "Sometimes a job takes experience. Knowing."

             
"And you ain't got that, son? I see your eyes, and I think, there's mine, right in front of me, reflected right back and more."

             
Henry looked away.

             
The grocer picked up his pad again and scratched on it a little with his pencil. "Well—anyhow, good luck to you, son. You're a fine man and I'll be proud to call you mayor."

             
"Thank you, Mr. Goodwin," Henry whispered. Mary came up behind him with a few canned items.

             
"Well, here's the little lady herself. 'Afternoon, darlin’."

             
Mary flushed, pleased. "'Afternoon," she returned.