When Henry Came Home (2 page)

             
"I dunno, Ma. I've always been growin', always been gettin' Sarah's hand-me-downs. I just thought it be like that forever, I guess. I don't feel grown up, on the inside."

             
Ma spanked Mary lightly on the behind. "That's what you get from playin' with those choir boys on Sunday. Half your age, they are! And boys, too!"

             
"Aw, Ma, the other girls are all ninnies!"

             
"Your sister, too?"

             
"Ma! You know I didn't mean--"

             
Ma hugged Mary tenderly. "I know what you meant, Mary dear. But you might find more in them than you expect if you have a little patience. Now, to bed with you."

             
"G'night, Ma." She started up the stairs, but stopped halfway to the landing, turning. "Ma? Make up a picnic basket for me tomorrow?"

              Mary arrived early at the sycamore tree, weighed down with the basket about as much as if it were a feather. Nothing could keep her on the ground, not with a string of days so bright and fragrant as they were. Setting the basket down, she ran along the fence line until she found a weakened post and kicked it down, grinning and looking to make sure Henry was not in sight. The sun wasn't quite at its climax in the sky, and so, spotting a butterfly, she chased it off into the field.

             
Some time later, she heard a hawk cry, and looked up to see that the sun was just above her head. Turning back to the road, she saw that Henry had come around the bend, and was almost at the sycamore. "Henry!" she waved happily, and ran to him.

             
He smiled, a little shy, and handed her a bouquet of wildflowers. "These are for you," he said.

             
Mary breathed their scent deeply, burying her nose in the velvety bunch. "Mmm, they're lovely, Henry," she said. "Thank you." Quickly, she hooked her free arm through the handle of the picnic basket and ran ahead to the post she had felled. "This way," she beckoned, kicking aside one of the old boards so that he could get through easily. "Over that hill. Do you remember?"

             
"I do not think I could forget."

             
For a moment, he looked at the picnic basket on her arm, and Mary thought that in his mist-grey eyes he wished that he could carry it for her, and that sadness came to the front of his gaze, shining like pools of silver. She smiled to make him feel better, and ran a little ahead. "Come on," she said. "This will be fun."

             
"All right," he said.

             
It took him longer over the field than down the road, because the ground was uneven and he had to watch his step. By the time he reached the little grove of maples, Mary already had the blanket spread out over the ground. She helped him cheerfully to sit down, his bad leg stretched out along one side of the blanket, and then flopped down next to him and began to remove food from the basket, her dress pooled around her like a silky yellow lake. They ate slowly, listening to the birds above them and talking of little things, and at length, he braided a few of the wildflowers into Mary's hair.

             
Then the birds began to sing with a second wind, after the lull of noon, and Mary jumped to her feet. There was a swing hanging from a high branch of the maple they were sitting under, and she sat on it, pumping her legs until she was as high as she could go. Henry leaned back on his elbows and watched her soar into the sky with a smile.

             
At last, she let the swing slow, and jumped off as it passed the ground. "It's your turn now, Henry," she told him brightly.

             
"I don't know if-"

             
"Oh, come on, don't be silly." She took him by the elbow and pulled him to his feet, pushing the polished wood cane into his hand. Reluctantly, he went to the swing and sat down, laying the cane on the ground. Mary pushed from behind, a little at first, and then higher and higher. "How's that?" she called when he was almost as high as she had been.

             
"Wonderful," he grinned down at her.

             
When they had tired of that, Mary pulled the blanket out from under the tree, and they lay upon it, watching cottony clouds roll by. Sleepy, Mary dosed, and Henry watched her soft breaths go in and out for a long while.

             
At length, when the sun touched the western horizon, he woke her, and they headed back. He offered to walk her home, but she would have none of it, saying that he needed to go look after Simon and she could take care of herself just fine, thank you. "I'm not silly about the dark like other girls," she added.

             
"You sure?"

             
"Of course. G'night, Henry."

             
"G'night." He turned, then stopped. "Mary?" She looked at him. "I had a mighty fine time today," he said, "with you."

             
Mary smiled. "So did I."

             
"Again—sometime?"

             
"Yes, again."

             
"G'night."

              Mary didn't see him again until Sunday at church. Her family was late, and she fidgeted throughout the service because she could see through rose-colored glass the fine day outside, and it was hot and cramped inside the little chapel. Henry was sitting in the front row, holding little Simon, who fussed continuously.

             
"Does your Ma know what's ailing him?" asked Mary, after the sermon was over and the congregation had turned to gossip. She sat next to him, because he couldn't get up with the baby in his arms.

             
"Not sure. Last week Ma had the doctor look at him and he said it was just the colic, but we think he might have caught the flu, now. Nothin' to do but wait, I guess."

             
"Give him here," she said, and cradled the baby lovingly while Henry got to his feet. "Come on outside; I can't wait no more in this hot building." They wound their way through the church, and managed to be stopped only three times by someone who wanted to welcome Henry back. He nodded politely and shook hands with the greeters, but his smile did not look as if he meant it to Mary's eyes. "Oh dear," she muttered when they had gotten outside. "I left my hat. I'll get it myself; meet me down at the creek. Can you get there?"

             
He smiled. "I'll manage," he said.

             
Mary snuck into the building quickly and retrieved her bonnet. On the way out, she passed a group of women, including her own mother as well as Henry's, a large, boisterous, loving woman. Mary couldn't help but overhear her as she related: "...that boy of mine! He looks so sad now, all the time. It's because of John, I suppose, Dear Lord rest his soul. But when he come from seein' that lovely Mary of yours, Martha, he just glowed. He don't say nothin, him bein' a quiet boy, but his eyes got brighter for a while in a way I like to see in my children. And Martha, you be sure and thank your Ben for…" Mary waited until the conversation drifted to another matter, then stepped out and handed Simon to his mother. "Why, thank you dear," said Mrs. Peterson, looking fondly into her child's face. "These babes of mine just scatter to the wind it seems, and I like to catch them while I've got the chance, although I don't know what I'm goin' to do with this young howler—"

             
"You're welcome, Mrs. Peterson," replied Mary, and hurried down to the creek.

             
The younger boys were splashing in the small river already, skipping rocks and spattering mud on one another. "C'mon!" one of them called to Mary, but she only waved, laughing at his mud-stained face, and went to sit next to Henry, who was leaning against a tree on the bank.

             
"Where's young Simon?" asked Henry.

             
"Back with his Ma. She fusses over him almost as much as he fusses over everybody else, I think."

             
Henry laughed. "That's the truth," he said. They were silent for a while, enjoying each other's company. "Fair's next week," he commented, at last.

             
"Yes," she said.

             
"Would you go with me?"

             
"Yes," she said.

              Henry came by on Tuesday, to give Mr. Jacobs his calculations. "Well, son," said the big man heartily, "thank you plenty—and a day early, too! Here's your pay, and well earned."

             
"Thank you, sir."

             
"Robert Coleson, over the river, he's real interested in your services, too, if you're willing."

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"Grocer even said he's got space to rent out, where you can set up shop. There's a lot of ignorant folk around here, son, when it comes to readin' and writin', and your kind of services are needed. Shoot, maybe even you'll put that durned lawyer outa business."

             
A faint smile lighted Henry's face. "I wouldn't want to do that," he said.

             
Pa burst into a booming laugh. "Of course not, son. But competition, remember. It's what this country's founded on, you remember that."

             
"Yes sir. Thank you, sir, for everything."

             
"Don't you thank me. It's Martha there that's been doing all the gossiping. I wouldn't have this ranch if it weren't for her blasted chatter. It's why men put up with it all, y’see?"

             
Henry grinned. "Yes, sir." He nodded. "I should be going."

             
"Say, son, you look a little white. You all right?"

             
Henry shook his head. "I'll be fine, sir. Just a little tired, is all."

             
"You sure? Never mind; I'll get the buggy and take you home."

             
"I'll be fine, sir," he assured him again. "I can make it--"

             
"Nonsense, son. It's no bother. The horses are already hitched, anyway."

              The next morning, three of Mrs. Peterson's younger children came over to play with the twins, and informed the family that Henry had taken ill. Mary set out immediately for the Peterson ranch, taking some hot broth Ma had made and picking wildflowers as she went.

             
Mrs. Peterson met her at the door, carrying Simon and looking harried. "You go to him, honey," she said. "We think he caught the flu from Simon, and he's not so strong as he was. I've lost children before, but I'm not sure Pa can take losing another of his boys, and if Henry don't make it, I'm certain this little babe won't." She jiggled Simon a little, who was crying again. "You go to him. Sunshine like you is what he needs."

             
"Yes ma'am," said Mary, and hurried upstairs to Henry's bedroom, where he lay feverish on the bed. "Hello," she said, holding up the flowers. "I brought you some Spring." Henry was hot and shivering, but he managed a smile, and breathed in the sweet scent of the flowers when she held them out to him. She laid them on the little table by the bed and took the pot of hot broth out of the basket she had been carrying, placing it on her lap as she sat to spoon-feed him a little. "Listen, Henry," she said after a while, "you gotta get well by Friday, you hear?"

             
"Wh-why?" he whispered.

             
"Cause you gotta take me to the fair on Saturday, don't you? I ain't goin' if you don't take me. So you gotta get well."

             
"Ok-kay."

             
"Promise?"

             
"P-prom-mise."

              Mary stayed the night over at the Petersons and helped put the little ones to bed after dinner. "Thank you, dear," said Mrs. Peterson, as Mary helped pull another nightgown down over a little head. "More I think about it, more I realize how much I'd miss that boy. He's a real helping hand around here these past few days, and these little ones just worship him, even if he don't wrestle with the boys anymore."

             
"He'll be all right, Mrs. Peterson," said Mary. "You just wait. He'll be up and around by Saturday, I promise."

             
Mrs. Peterson stopped and looked up at Mary. "You know, honey, I think you just might know what you're talkin' about." They smiled at each other. "Now, you run upstairs and say good night to my boy, and I'll get to fixin' you a bed on the sofa."

             
"All right, ma'am," replied Mary, and headed up the stairs.

             
Henry was worse than he had been earlier, and sweat poured down his face. Mary soaked a washcloth in the basin by the bed and wiped his neck and chest, then folded it and put it on his forehead. "Come on, Henry," she said, and his eyes fluttered. "I'll be right here, all night. Just you wait one minute and I'll be back."