When Henry Came Home (14 page)

             
He looked away again, and Mary put a hand on his. "I'm—sorry, Mr. Goodwin."

             
The grocer slapped his knee. "Well, hell. At least tell me you'll stop on over at the store and talk things over with me now and then!"

             
At this, Henry smiled a little. "I think I can agree to that," he said.

             
The old grocer laughed and slapped his knee again. "Well, all right." He stood up, moaning softly, a little reluctant. "I hope these old bones can stand a term in office," he said, amiably. Mary made a move to get up with him, but he waved her down. "I'll let m'self out, don't worry. You two look purty as a picture sittin' there."

              The next morning, Henry woke just as Mary left the room. He remained lying down, looking out the window she had opened. It faced east, away from town, and the sun shot into the room like a blast of cool air. He could see already that the day was windy and cold, though unclouded, and the sun offered no warmth with its brightness at all. It was odd.

             
Mary came tramping back in a short time later, and he sat up to meet her. She was dressed all in yellows and browns, and was wearing an extra petticoat. "Good morning," she said, and stomped over to kiss him. Her face was icy cold, and her cheeks had flushed rosy. There was a crisp fall smell about her, wild and roaming.

             
"You've been out," he said.

             
She stomped again. "And my feet already cold." She smiled and held up the morning paper. "Mr. Bickerson put out a special edition. Want me to read it to you?"

             
He could see his name on the front page. He looked at it for a moment, then up at Mary. "No," he said. "Just help me up."

             
There are exactly three things I hate about train travel. One, the food. Two, the company-- if you happen to be traveling alone, that is, and I usually am. Three, the memories. Numbers one and two are why I always buy four tickets—a cabin to myself. Number three is why I end up spending all my time in the dining car anyway. I try to stay away from conversation, although occasionally a pretty girl will sit down for a while. Mostly, being around people makes me forget—and keeps me from pilfering my small stock of brandy back in the cabin. I never get drunk around others; I'm what you might call a gentleman. Generally.

             
In the end, though, I always end up back in my cabin. I'm always watching, noting subconsciously as the land slides away, past the window in a blur, calculating how long it will be until we have to stop. I'm always alone when the brakes go on. Can't stand the noise. It was like that before, only it went on and on...

             
In any case, I had a little brandy in me when I stepped down off the train, but not enough to matter if you're used to it. I wasn't a drunk, but—well, I wasn't a saint, either. I hadn't had as much as I usually did, though, to my credit. After all, I was going home, or at least as close to home as home will ever get, for me. And I was looking forward to it.

             
You see, (I might as well tell it) when I was fifteen, I boarded a train with my parents. We were going on a holiday, to New York. I escaped with a few scratches, nothing more. I was an only child with no other relatives, and I had just inherited what you would probably say was a tidy sum. Small consolation.

             
At that point I could have set out on my own; I was a strong-willed kid and I had set my heart on becoming an engineer. But there was a family in my hometown, the mother of which had been my own mother's best friend. She offered-- begged, in fact—a place in her home for me, as long as I liked. I stayed for a year, and—well, they are my family. Thank God.

             
When I stepped off the train, Henry Peterson was on the platform, waiting for me. I had been friends with his brother for a good time throughout my childhood, although both of them were somewhat younger than me. Henry smiled slightly, if you could call it that (he never had smiled much), and stepped forward. I noticed he was leaning on a cane, but wasn't terribly surprised. Half the reason I had come was because I had gotten word he was in the hospital. And of course everyone in the East had heard
of
him, since the first report during the war. The other reason for my visit was (of course) that the fighting was over, and I needed someone to celebrate with, or at least talk to. Yes—I was lonely.

             
Hefting my small bag, I approached, grinning. "Ah," I breathed, though almost choking on the dusty air, "it's good to be home again. Good to see you, Henry."

             
"Good afternoon, Edward," he greeted. He became more formal every time I saw him, it seemed. I almost mentioned it, but decided I had better not try to joke; he didn't look in the mood.

             
"Where's John?" I asked instead, looking around. Of course I couldn't resist, after all, and so I added: "I don't think I've ever seen you anywhere but on his heels."

             
Henry looked suddenly ill, and I noticed he was thinner than I remembered, pale. "John is gone, Edward," he said, in a voice so low it could scarcely be heard.

             
It shook me. You think you're cynical—you think you know the world, how everyone's got to die sooner or later. It happened before, and it will happen again. But no matter how many times it happens—you still don't expect it. Of course I should have. No wonder the papers hadn't said anything about him. If Henry had become a hero, then John would have been nearer a god; it wasn't a bad thing, just the truth. And I don't think Henry ever really minded being in John's shadow—the feeling I got was mostly he felt proud to have a brother like that. Anyone would be, I guess.  And when the sun is shining like it does in Oklahoma, a great big shadow is not a bad place to be. Then I remembered— "Sarah?" I asked.

             
We walked down the platform in the hot sun, ambling slowly. I don't think my head could have taken it any faster, anyway. "Took it bad," he said. "Goin' on with things, though."

             
"Yeah," I said, dumbly. "That's the way it is, I guess." Sure.

             
We walked to the edge of the platform in silence as I struggled to swallow my heart, throat dry. I felt the hard curve of the flask inside my jacket, but immediately forced my mind to forget. Henry stopped and turned, squinting in the sun. I was a little taller than he, and he had to look up to see my face. "Remember Mary?" he asked. There was a small breeze, warm, and it played with his uncovered hair. He never had liked hats.

             
Of course I remembered. Who had come into my room when I was weeping at night in that strange and unfamiliar house, with a cup of hot tea and a gentle smile? Who had cheerfully cleaned out the attic so she and her sister could move there, while I took their room as my own? I was wary now-- if that sweet little butterfly had gone heavenward as well, the flask would appear. I put a hand to my torso, feeling it there under my clothes, and took in a deep breath.

             
"We're married," said Henry.

             
I was so relieved I laughed aloud—anything for a laugh, just something good. When things are bad, you always look for an excuse, and this was as good an excuse as I could have hoped for. In a moment of joy, I stomped my foot and slapped him heartily on the back.

             
—And how easily joy turns sour! There are a few moments, things that happen in your life, that you carry with you until you die. They aren't necessarily horrible things, or terribly wonderful things either; most likely, it's something that shames you, something you wouldn't care to tell anyone else or even remember yourself. This was one of those moments. Henry tumbled forward at my friendly blow, his cane slipping out from under. I caught him as he went down—thank God—and pulled him up again by the arm. I felt that arm, thin and bony under my tight grasp. Henry had never been especially tall, but he had been hardy and muscular in a lean, tawny sort of way. And he still looked it, at first glance, but mostly because he was wearing the same clothes he always had, and they covered well. I wondered how long he had been in the hospital.

             
He looked at me from under mussed hair as I steadied him, and that was the moment—because I knew, there, from that look—his eyes were what I knew mine must have looked like as a kid every time some well-meaning adult asked where my folks were. That look—it meant that he wasn't just toting around a cane for some minor flesh wound and six months in bed—it was a look of resignation, of fresh pain that he was just beginning to understand would never, ever go away. I felt a sinking in my chest. What was he—twenty one? Less than that. And for the rest of his life a cripple. It was almost more than a person could stand.

             
He clung to my arm a moment, coughing convulsively, then straightened and let go, dusting himself lightly and avoiding my eyes.

             
"I'm sorry," I said, only it came out a hoarse whisper. I cleared my throat, too loudly, and was keenly aware of where his hand had gripped my arm.

             
"No," he said quickly, looking up now that he had regained his dignity, or some of it, anyway. "It's all right." He gestured somehow (I didn't catch a hand movement; I never did, but Henry was so reserved the subtlest of movements caught your eye) to the stairs, and I turned with him.

             
I didn't want to impose on another man's pride, especially when he had so little left to spare, but when Henry winced and edged painfully down the first step, I offered my arm. He took it, looking somewhat grim, and I helped him down. Halfway to the ground he glanced up, giving a brief, halfhearted smile, mostly looking as if he were trying to comfort
me
. "It—takes a little getting used to," he said, trying to be light.

             
"Yeah," I said, and we were at the bottom. I shrugged down my sleeve, which had bunched a little under my jacket.

             
"Well—" he said, "let's go see Mary." He smiled, genuinely this time, and for a moment I couldn't believe it. "She's waiting in town."

             
If that darling little girl had been standing with us at that moment, I would have kissed her right then and there, husband or no husband. I promised myself I'd remember that beautiful smile, to counteract the terrible moment only a minute or so previous, knowing as I did that I'd forget anyway. You always remember the bad things.

             
We walked on in and she came running across the street—fortunately, there weren't any buckboards around, although I think the horses would have stopped in their tracks to let her pass—and threw her arms around Henry. Henry—not me, which is what any beloved and seldom-seen visitor would have rightly expected. But I forgave her immediately and gladly, enjoying my view of the very passionate kiss they shared. I got the feeling they toned it down a little for public approval, though from the looks of bystanders it didn't appear that their actions were very much approved of anyhow. I don't think they cared.

             
For a moment, she whispered in his ear, then let go and turned to me, her soft eyes brimming with joy. "Edward," she said. "I'm so glad you've come." She embraced me and gave me a little peck on the cheek. Not exactly what I had been hoping for, but I consoled myself by telling my heart that she was only protecting public decency. It was better than admitting that she had grown into a woman and didn't have nearly the feeling for me as for my companion—well, her companion, actually. Of course—do not mistake me—I had never been madly in love with her, nor she me. She had always been far too young. I felt more like her (very much) older brother than anything—nevertheless a rather
lonely
older brother who wished his little sister would give him a good hug and a cup of tea.

             
"Mary," I said, smiling to cover my slight disappointment. I winked. "I hear you got hitched."

             
"Sure," she said, "and never been better." She wound her arm around Henry's, grinning. Henry looked at the ground when I glanced at him, a little embarrassed. I must explain this, because he was not ashamed of her or her actions. Rather, it seemed as though he were a little uncomfortable with the fact that I did not
also
have a wonderfully doting wife. He was a bit like a rich man who feels uneasy about his gold ring in the presence of paupers.

             
"How have you been, Edward?" she asked, turning and starting us towards what turned out to be their little apartment.

             
"All right," I admitted, not trying to gloss it over. "I'm working for a corporation in Boston now, but I'm being transferred to a new department and as a result of all the hustle I've got a month free."

             
"Oh, how wonderful!" She grinned, taking Henry’s arm as we stepped up from the street to the boardwalk. It was so natural a motion that, had a bystander seen them, they would not have noticed Henry's difficulty in mounting the steps at all—though I, having had such a revelation so recently imprinted upon my mind, felt keenly the pang of his dependency. But in the same moment I saw that they fit together perfectly, and as we approached the glass-paned door he slipped an arm secretly around her waist.