When Henry Came Home (13 page)

             
Mary laughed softly and came over to ruffle his hair. "I think that's what most folks would like, until something goes wrong they can't fix themselves, and they got too much pride to go askin' for help. They like havin' somethin' that's got a duty to them, somethin' they think is supposed to do what they need, except really all it is's just the people they didn't want to ask in the first place."

             
"You're right." He caught her arm and pulled her down for a kiss.

             
"Oh-- there's the water," she said, and hurried to lift the kettle off the fire. "It's late enough--" she said over her shoulder. "Should we just go on to bed and have it there?"

             
"All right."

             
She helped him up and they went into the bedroom, where she tugged off his shoes and pants and made him get under the sheets to warm himself while she went to fetch the tea. When she came back she was only carrying one cup-and-saucer pair, but in the other hand she bore a small stack of paper and a pencil. Handing Henry the cup and saucer, she set the paper down on the little stand next to his side of the bed, on top of the book that rested there.

             
Henry smiled faintly. "What's that for?" he asked. She sat down on the bed with her back to him and he set down the steaming tea to unlace her bodice.

             
"Oh-- just if maybe you want to write it out, what you said earlier." She paused, and flashed a smile over her shoulder. "Just if you want to."

             
"Oh," he said, loosening the last string on her dress.

             
Mary stood and undressed quickly, bounding into bed after she hung her dress to snuggle down under the sheets. A moment later she scooted up next to him. "Give me a sip," she said, and held her head still while he put the cup to her lips. They sipped tea together for a while. "I never did read you Morris," she commented.

             
"No."

             
Mary rolled over to the edge on her side and grabbed the little book he had given her. She rolled back again and gently cracked the spine. "Fair Ellayne she walked by Welland river," she read, soft, "across the lily lee: O, gentle Sir Robert, ye are not kind, to stay so long at sea."

             
Henry put up a hand to touch her hair, and she glanced at him a moment. "Not a sad one," he said. "They're always so sad."

             
"Oh, but it ends happily!" she protested. "You just gotta wait awhile."

             
"All right." He put the tea aside again and she leaned back against his chest and read until they both fell asleep to faint piano music, floating in the distance.

             
Sometime in the night, or perhaps very near the birth of the morning hours, Mary woke, feeling Henry stir around her. She listened, and saw behind lidded eyes the warm glow of the oil lamp as it was lit. Moments later, she heard the quiet scratching of pen on paper. She moaned slightly, turning over away from the light, and smiled to herself as she went back to sleep.

              In the morning they lay in bed together while the sun rose, quiet.

             
"Why don't you just stay here today?" suggested Mary.

             
"Here?"

             
She put a hand on his chest and kissed him lightly. "I know you could be mayor if you wanted to, or president even-- but I'd rather you stay here and rest awhile when you need it."

             
"I don't feel tired," he said.

             
"There's other kinds of tired. Ain't you ever just tired out of seein' other folks faces?"

             
"It ain't good, to..."

             
"You don't have to hide out forever, silly! There's time for fighting and for resting, too."

             
He pulled her close and hugged her tightly. "I love you, Mary," he told her fiercely. "Have I ever hurt you? Tell me, I'll make it better."

             
"Probably," she laughed. "—I don't remember."

             
"Stay with me here."

             
"Me? No, I have to take your paper to Mr. Bickerson. Then I have to make some breakfast."

             
He caught her hand as she sat up. "Then?"

             
"All right. Then." She grinned and tugged her arm free. "Just let me dress!"

             
There were three visitors that day, after Mary came back from the paper. She was in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast when the first arrived, a firm knock on the door. She went to answer it, drying her hands on her apron, and let in Mr. Rogers, along with a healthy gust of autumn wind. He bowed slightly, removing his hat, and hitched up the silver-topped cane to make a pass at tapping his forehead, where the hat would have been. "Good morning," he said. "I hope I'm not intruding?"

             
"Oh-- no, I don't think so." Mary smiled.

             
"I wonder if I could see your husband?"

             
Mary paced back a little and gestured to a chair, but he shook his head slightly and remained standing. "Well, Mr. Rogers, I'd rather you talk with me, if you don't mind."

             
Rogers looked grim. "He's not ill, I hope—or angry with me--?"

             
"Oh, no—just—well, please, if you would—"

             
"Well, all right Ma'am, I reckon I understand. Of course I'm awful sorry about last night, but it don't have to be the end. Word out is folks ain't worried a bit--"

             
Mary leaned against the edge of Henry's desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers," she apologized, "but I don't think Henry's—well, interested in being Mayor. I'm sorry you had to go through the trouble of it all, but... no."

             
"You're certain, Ma'am?" Rogers furrowed his brow.

             
"Certain, Mr. Rogers. I hope you ain't put out--"

             
"Not at all, Ma'am." He flipped his hat on and tapped it once. He flashed a brilliant smile once and turned for the door. "Gotta go find me a new candidate," he said.

             
"Good luck," said Mary to the back side of the door. For a moment she watched him through the black letters reading backwards on the glass, then went back into the bedroom and pounced on the bed. "That's it," she announced.

             
Henry was studying one of his drafting books. He looked up. "What?"

             
"Rogers stopped in. I told him you didn't want to."

             
"Oh."

             
"Are you upset?"

             
"No."

             
"Disappointed?"

             
"No."

             
"Angry?"

             
At last, Henry grinned. "Come here," he said, putting out an arm.

             
"Afraid?" She crawled up next to him. "Sad? Lonely?"

             
"Yes—Lonely, if you don't stay with me forever." He put his arm around her and wished for the stars to fall, all of them at once and in the day, so he could wish ten thousand times over for her to stay with him forever.

             
Just before noon, there was another knock on the door, and Mary jumped up. "I'll get it," she said, and flew from the room. It was old Mrs. Wilkins, her hands tying and untying knots around one another. She came in as soon as she saw Mary through the glass, entering the front office from in back. Her eyes were moist and red. Mary hurried to her and ushered her to a chair, taking her shawl. "What is it, Mrs. Wilkins?" she asked, worried.

             
The old woman shook her head, grey hair wisping about her eyes. "Oh, child-- I've been so awful, I feel like Satan hisself on judgment day." She paused, gathering herself. "Now I hear your boy—no, he's your husband, I'm so sorry, I just don't know myself today, please—"

             
"It's all right, Mrs. Wilkins, go on." Mary put a hand on her shoulder. "Would you like some tea?"

             
She sniffed and got out a handkerchief. "Oh, no, child, bless you. But now I hear he's in bed and if I've put him there I'll never forgive myself—"

             
Mary interrupted her with a laugh, and Mrs. Wilkins looked up, quite shocked at having her apology disrupted. Mary saw her surprise, and waved a hand. "I'm sorry—word travels so fast in this little town, and already it's gotten mixed up! Henry isn't ill, Mrs. Wilkins, he's just takin' a day's rest."

             
"Oh, I'm glad, but even so I've been horrible—"

             
"Don't trouble yourself, Mrs. Wilkins. We all get a little testy sometimes and no one holds spite over you for it."

             
"Bless you, child," breathed the old woman, tearing up again. "Are you sure?"

             
"Yes, very sure. Have you talked it over with Mr. Hawking yet?"

             
Mrs. Wilkins looked a little sour. "N-no, not yet."

             
"Well, maybe that's where you oughta be, insteada here, Ma'am." She helped the old woman up and gave her back her shawl, which she had never had time to hang up. "I appreciate you comin', though."

             
"Yes—well, I'll think about it. Thank you, dear."

             
"Goodbye, Mrs. Wilkins."

             
The third visitor did not come until late that evening, after the sun had left the wind to work its way swiftly over hills and rises until it met the small town, whistling eerily through the buildings, and occasionally carrying with it piano music, warped and beautiful in its own unearthly manner. The wind made the front door rattle in a satisfying way, and Mary had begged Henry not to get it fixed because it reminded her of when she used to travel miles and miles to her grandmother's and spend the night in the old shack of a guest room out back. Tonight, the rattle was there again, and because of it Mary almost did not hear Mr. Goodwin knocking. The sound was a little different, though, and so she got up to see, and was glad she had not yet put on her nightgown. She let him in and he shook off his coat, flecked with tiny water spots.

             
"Think it's starting to rain," he commented.

             
"Well, it's getting time." Mary took his coat and hung it up.

             
"I hope I ain't too late," he said.

             
Mary shrugged and smiled. "You're the third person today; I'm kinda in the mood." There was a cough from the back room and she turned. "I'll be just a minute. Go on and set down if you want." Before going back, she went into the kitchen and got a glass of water for Henry. When she went in he accepted it and drank half.

             
"Who is it?"

             
"Mr. Goodwin."

             
Henry paused, then reached over and picked his shirt off of the back of the bedside chair. "Let him back here," he said, slipping an arm into a sleeve.

             
Mary smiled and left and was back in a moment with the old grocer at her side. There was a good leather chair in one corner of the room, and she swept off the clothes covering it and scooted it over near the bed for Goodwin. She herself climbed back onto the bed.

             
Goodwin leaned over and clasped Henry's hand for a moment, then sat back in the chair, letting out a sigh of contentment like an old house moans in the night. He looked up and around the room for a moment, then back at his hosts. "Well, anyway," he said, "I just wanted to come over and let you know that—well, I think I'm gonna try my hand at bein' mayor."

             
Mary grinned and Henry offered his hand again. "Congratulations."

             
His eyes crinkled gaily. "Well, I'm not the best or first choice, but I'll do what I can."

             
"No one's best, Mr. Goodwin," Henry stated calmly.

             
Goodwin scratched the side of his neck. "Reckon you're right," he said. "But the fact is, I was kinda wond'rin' if you'd think of serving on a city council I'm planning to form." He smiled again, knowingly.

             
Henry laced his fingers together for a moment, looking down at them. "I really don't think--" he began.

             
"Aw, come now, son!"