When Henry Came Home (21 page)

             
"All right," she agreed, tenderness in her voice. She smiled elvishly. "But don't you ever think I don't enjoy just—sitting with you. You know, it's not as awful as you like to think."

             
He smiled wryly, and the words almost didn't come out. "—When you have a choice about it."

             
Immediately he regretted it, for, suddenly, her smile wavered, and tears started to her eyes. "Oh—oh, Hen..." she cried, and threw herself around his neck again. "I'm sorry, I didn’t mean it, I'm so sorry."

             
He closed his eyes, stopped up his mouth for a moment, only until he felt her tears hot on his cheek, and whispered into her ear, letting her know in soft, pained tones how his heart ached to dance with her—really dance—to whirl her around the floor until her cheeks are rosy and pink and she was flushed with joy—

             
She sniffed and wiped her nose. "I know you do," she whispered. "I know you do." She sniffed again, but spoke more confidently. "I don't miss it, Hen, and that's no lie, I don't. I just—I like you, Hen, and doing whatever you want to do makes me happier than going dancing every night ever could, or anything else."

             
He breathed deeply. "I don't want to—take it away from you--"

             
She laughed through her tears. "If I trade an amethyst for a diamond, what am I losing? Oh, Hen—how can you be so silly?"

             
He let out a choking sort of laugh because of course they had gone through it all before but maybe they had to go through it now and then, just so they each would know it still stood, firm and strong. And even when they had gone through it and they did understand—well, the pain was still there, a kind of slow throbbing, deep, and it needed tending from time to time.

             
"Oh dear," she said, her arms still around him, "I've gone and got your shirt all wet again with my soapy hands." She laughed softly and wiped the rest of the wetness off on his back. "I guess I just can't keep myself away from you long enough to wash dishes even, Henry Peterson. I'm done anyway, or almost." They pulled away from each other, slowly, and he put his free hand around the small of her back, and she touched his fingers on the other side. "I feel you shiver," she told him, as if daring him to conceal it, which he did not. "Lucky for you I did the wash yesterday."

             
"And now you'll probably be doing it tomorrow."

             
"At this rate, yes," she laughed, darting out of his grasp. "Then you'll see I'm here 'till I die, for all the cleaning I'll put up with." She caught his arm and tugged him forward in her gentle way, never tipping his balance a bit. She grinned, lighting the room, and let her hair down with a sudden, graceful twist of one hand. "I'll change that shirt myself, Mr. Peterson, and maybe put on something nice myself."

              They left for town early that morning, hoping to get some errands done that needed doing and also to meet up with any of Mary's family who might be there, to alert in advance of their coming. It was cold out, and the sky seemed to speak of coming snow, prompting them to bundle up in their best winter coats. Outside, Henry coughed a little, but felt sure it was only the dry wind and told Mary so when she gave him a worried look.

             
The horses, stirred by the wind into a kind of wild half-frenzy, took them quickly to town. On the main street, there was no sign of the Peterson's wagon, and so they went into the general store to pick up supplies. Mary shed her coat immediately to bask in the blazing fire within the shop, leaving Henry to talk with the grocer at the counter while she went about her womanly business among the shelves. Mr. Goodwin, now also the mayor, was having some trouble with his horses, and it had been a general topic of discussion with the elderly men who sat about on barrels by the fireplace, playing cards for chestnuts.

             
Henry, carrying Mary's coat across one arm, joined them for a moment, standing a little to the side of the fire and warming his backside. The men presented the nature of the problem eagerly, minding not at all that they had already mulled it over perhaps seven times before already. Henry listened patiently and carefully, remaining perfectly still all the while, a thing he was accustomed to do when thinking. When they had finished and there was a break in the conversation—interrupted now and then by matters of chestnut poker—he quietly offered his own advice, having been much involved with horses as a boy.

             
This gave a new wind to the discussion, and, as Mary had about finished, he left them to talk over the grocer's problem themselves. The man himself met them from the other side of the counter and began to tally Mary's purchases. "That—" he said, in between figures, "seems to me-- hmm, twelve, seven... –a good piece of advice. I'll be obliged to try it as soon as I'm done here for today. Ah—fifteen and a quarter."

             
"I hope it does them well, sir," returned Henry, putting Mary's coat on the counter and passing over a few bills. "In any case, it won't do them harm."

             
"Hmm, I reckon not. Four and—hm—there."

             
Henry nodded as Mary slipped on her coat. "Thanks, Jim," she said in parting, hefting the bag on her hip.

             
"Sure 'nuff, ma'am," he smiled, tipping his hat.

             
Outside, Mary just missed being run over by her sister, who was surprisingly enough accompanied by a young man. He was rather vigorous in appearance, though probably older than he appeared; older than Henry, in any case. "Why, Sarah!" Mary exclaimed, smiling brightly. She slipped a hand through Henry's arm; he had gotten knocked slightly by the young man. He steadied, nodding to his sister-in-law briefly before straightening his collar. "What fortune," Mary continued. "We were only just looking for you. And…" she left the last word hang for a moment, until Sarah flushed slightly.

             
"I'm sorry. Mary—Henry—this is Donovan Lilly. Remember, Mary? Mama's cousin's boy, only he was just little when we saw him last."

             
Mary put down the groceries and lent a kind smile to the young man, who really was quite dashing, allowing him to take her hand. "Yes, I do remember you. You had freckles then, and pushed me into the mud."

             
He gave an apologetic grin. "I was simply awful then-- I am sorry." Mary's sympathetic smile told him it was in the past and she had never held it against him in the first place, and so as the women began to discuss dinner plans he turned to Henry and put out his hand. "You have a lovely wife, sir," he said.

             
Henry paled faintly. "Thank you," he said. He closed his eyes for a moment and coughed, turning his head. "And please—it—it's just Henry."

             
"Well all right, Henry."

             
Mary tugged at her husband's arm. "It's settled," she told him. "Donovan's already coming to dinner, and you know how Ma always cooks enough to feed all of England when folks come." She felt his hand. "We'll get started that way right now," she told Sarah and Donovan.

             
Sarah kissed her cheek. "I'll see you tonight then," she said, her face rosy.

             
Mary took up the bag of supplies again, and they bid final good-byes. “Well,” said Mary, and they went to find the wagon. She stored the goods in the back under a blanket while Henry got up on the seat. She came round the side and he pulled her up with one hand and they were off, the horses still bristling in the biting air.

             
Ma and Pa's house was not far from town, and the horses pulled up in record time. Pa came out of the barn when he heard the wagon and lifted his daughter down with a hearty laugh, spinning her around once before setting her on the ground. "Ma!" he boomed, "Young'ns!" He pulled Henry down just as Ma came out onto the porch, draping a shawl around her shoulders and throwing her hands up in dismay as she saw the added company. But she was not worried, and laughed even as she called to them, asking what she was supposed to put in their bellies.

             
Pa, in only a coarse cotton shirt and not a shiver, wrapped a great brawny arm around each of his guests and escorted them up the stairs and into the house. Inside, he motioned them to the parlor. "Go warm yourselves by the fire," he commanded. "I'll get the horses. And tell your Ma I'll be in the barn 'til supper. My blood's too thick for all this heat." With that, he strode easily from the room, and his strong, solid presence was gone.

             
There was a sofa by the fire and so they sat on it, close together at one end and holding hands until they both were warm. Henry sighed a little, mostly with contentment, and slipped an arm around Mary. She leaned into his embrace, and he brushed her hair gently with his fingers.

             
A high, barely repressed giggle came from behind, and her eyes snapped open. She sat up. "Brian," she said, warning, "you git out here." She grinned at Henry and winked. "You too, Joey."

             
After a momentary pause, two boys tumbled out of the hall, smiling sheepishly. Brian, sandy-haired and blue-eyed, plunked down on the couch next to his sister. Joey, a little smaller than his twin but with the same fair features, slid onto Mary's lap. "I ain't got no one t' play with no more," he pouted, "'cept Brian, an' he always hogs." Brian punched Joey in the arm. "Ow," said Joey, and Mary smacked Brian lightly on the back of the head.

             
"What about Henry's kid brothers?" Mary suggested. "They're right on down the lane."

             
Joey shrugged. "Yeah, I guess."

             
Brian socked him again. "Aw, he just wants someone to play with ever' second a the day. Says he's bored if ya leave him t' git a glass a water."

             
Joey fidgeted. "Well," said Mary, "what about all them card games I taught you?"

             
"The—the salty-air?"

             
"Solitaire, stupid," Brian interjected knowingly.

             
Joey fidgeted some more. "I forget how," he said.

             
Brian let out a sigh and marched out of the room, his attention wandering to more important things, like playing soldier.

             
"Well, I gotta go help Ma out in the kitchen, but I'm sure if you get some cards and ask real nice, Henry will show you." She cast a glance at her husband, and he smiled faintly.

             
"Okay," said Joey, and ran to get a deck. They weren't in the hall closet, so he went upstairs and looked through Brian's things and found some. When he came back down, Mary was gone and Henry was sitting by the fire, his back to the stairs. To tell the truth, Joey was a little scared of Henry, because of his seriousness. It made him feel like maybe he had done something bad (because sometimes he did without knowing) and maybe Henry was going to tell. But he didn't want to be a scaredy-cat, like Brian always said, so he went and stood in front of the couch. Henry looked at him a moment and then patted the cushion next to him. Joey sat down. "You know all them games?" he asked, his voice quiet.

             
"Sure," said Henry. He took the cards from Joey and leaned forward, putting them out on the tea table so Joey could see. "This one here's called tower of seven-- see how there's seven on the bottom turned up?" Joey nodded. "Now you've got to find pairs of cards that make thirteen, like nine and four, and see if you can get all the way to the top of the tower." He did a couple, turning two of the remaining cards over at a time, then handed Joey the stack so he could do it himself.

             
Brian marched back into the room, holding his head high and wearing one of his father's coats. It was only waist-length, but it fell below Brian's knees. He marched around the couch twice, showing off his fine military attire and mien. On the third pass, he seized Henry's cane and put it over his shoulder like a rifle, then knelt to aim. After that, he got tired of marching and came to sit up on the couch where Joey had been. Joey was sitting on the floor now, where he could reach the tea table easier because he was small.

             
"You got a gun?" Brian asked, snapping it out like an order.

             
"Yes," said Henry.

             
Brian sighted down the barrel of the cane. "Pa won't let me have a gun till I'm thirteen," he grumbled, handing the polished wood back to its original owner. Henry took it and leaned it against the end of the couch, where he had put it before. "He says I ain't got the responsibility," Brian added.

             
"I reckon your Pa knows what's best."

             
"When did your Pa let you have a gun?" challenged Brian.

             
"I guess I was about nine."

             
"I'm eight next month," declared Brian. "That means I got more'n five years t' wait! Will you tell Pa you got a gun when you turned nine? I gotta have one, Mr. Peterson."