When Henry Came Home (22 page)

             
"If he asks, I'll say," Henry said, hoping to compromise. "But those were more dangerous times. War was brewing. Now maybe you won't have to use a gun, not ever."

             
Brian wanted to ask Henry about the war real bad, but Ma had warned him with a threat of no dinner, which was almost as bad as a whipping from Pa. He'd probably get that, too, if he asked and Ma told Pa, and Ma always told. "Wisht I was born during war time," he huffed instead. He hoped maybe Henry would say something on his own account, but Henry was silent and looked away. Brian waited hopefully for a minute or two, then decided his time would be better served by going out to the barn and maybe convincing Pa to let him work to earn a rifle.

             
"Brian ain't talked of nothin' else for a week," sighed Joey when his brother was gone. "See why I'm so bored? Pa ain't never givin' in, I know that, an' it just makes him testy with everyone when Brian begs so much."

             
"Here," said Henry. "I'll show you suits and colors."

             
Sarah and Donovan arrived at just after five. Mary came into the parlor to join them, sweaty and rosy-cheeked from staying so long with the oven. Joey picked up his cards and left, feeling slightly irritated by the interruption of the older folks. Sarah was no fun, in his opinion-- she was all girl, through and through. She had to have her hair done all up every day, even if no one was coming, and lately she even powdered her face, although lightly enough so Ma couldn't tell. Now that they had indoor water, he had to wait outside the bathroom forever in the morning, and sometimes had to run out to the old outhouse when he couldn't wait one second more. Donovan was all right, he guessed, but any fellow who liked Sarah as much as he seemed to couldn't really be all right in the head.

             
When Joey was gone, Mary took up the empty space next to Henry and let her hand find his again. In spite of the fire, his palm was cool, and so she put it against her cheek to take away some of the heat infused by the stove.

             
Sarah was bubbling with excitement. "Mary," she said, "you should’ve seen! Just after you left the grocer got a whole shipment of china for the store." She broke away from Donovan. "Come over to the desk," she urged. "I'll try to draw out some of the patterns." Mary smiled, perhaps half in amusement, but got up and followed.

             
Bereft of his companion, Donovan shrugged and sat down in a stuffed chair across from the couch. He grinned. "Can't see much in dinnerware, myself," he admitted.

             
Henry paused. "Beauty is a woman's element," he said.

             
Donovan chuckled in agreement. "How long have you been married?" he asked.

             
"Four years this spring."

             
"Ah. You wed after the war, then." This seemed to be a surprise to him, somehow.

             
"Yes."

             
Donovan was silent, awkwardly. He seemed to have run out of questions for conversation.

             
"Do you go to a university?" Henry offered.

             
The other man brightened a bit, and sat forward. "Yes—in New England. Right now I'm off for the winter, and Sarah's Ma and Pa invited me here, since I keep in touch some and my folks died in the epidemic out east three years ago. Do you—work, sir?"

             
"I calculate papers for ranchers in the county, keep accounts—those things."

             
"Tell me—" he looked intent. "Is there much profit to be made here in ranching?"

             
"A fair amount. Most around here just want enough to raise a family. Folks live simple."

             
"I see."

              After dinner, it began to snow lightly; mostly it was just a small dusting, but it signaled the start of what might turn out to be a blizzard. "We'd better get on home," said Mary. "'Fore we get snowed in."

             
"Shoot," declared Brian, just to be contrary, "I bet it won't set in till tomorrow night, at least." Mary laughed and kicked his shin lightly beneath the table. "Ow!" protested Brian. "Pa—"

             
Pa only shrugged, his chest and shoulders shaking with slow, silent laughter. "Sorry, son—she's a married woman now, and I ain't got the authority to punish her no more." Pa got up and went to fetch the horses from the barn.

             
Mary hugged Sarah and the others bid them good-bye. Pa was waiting outside when they got to the door, and helped them up into the wagon. Henry and Mary waved one last time, and as they started off into the drifting snow, Brian's high voice came to them on the wind, calling out to his father. "Pa!" he said, "Pa, Mr. Peterson got a rifle when he was eight!"

             
"Nine," murmured Henry.

             
"I'm glad I saw Sarah," said Mary, curling around his arm and throwing a blanket over both of their laps. "I see now I don't have cause to worry-- she'll be all right, I know. I hope it wasn't awful for you," she said, smiling up at him. "Especially with Donovan 'sirring' you all night."

             
Henry glanced away from the road and saw she was teasing. "He's at least three years my senior," he commented.

             
Mary popped up and kissed his cheek. "Five, I think," she corrected. "Oo! You're cold." She wrapped his scarf around his mouth and nose. He slapped the reins a bit, still tense, and she poked him in the side. "It's only because you're mature," she added with a grin. "He was twelve when he pushed me into the mud puddle, which means he didn't start growing up until after then—which at the most could make him about—hm… fifteen, on the inside."

             
Henry grinned beneath the scarf and hugged Mary tight against his body.

             
"I'll tell you something," she said into his ear. "Sarah's taken with him. She thinks he'll ask her to marry. Soon, maybe."

             
"Hm," said Henry. "Yes-- tomorrow."

             
"Tomorrow!" Mary exclaimed. She sat back and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. "He told you?"

             
Henry shrugged. "He sent a telegram this morning to New England while Sarah was looking at the china. He's making certain he can still go back to school after three months' leave, if he takes it."

             
"Oh—oh—" sputtered Mary, trying to be angry with him for putting her through such a wait. A last, she laughed into the wind, loud and clear, and hugged him. "I'm so happy for them," she said quietly, after a time.

             
When they reached the house Henry got down to unhitch the horses, but Mary stopped him, seeing he was stiff with cold. "Let's go on into the house," she urged. "I'll come out after the horses when we've got a fire blazing."

             
Henry agreed without much protest; "I'm chilled to the bone," he admitted.

             
She brought him up the stairs and in to the hall and stripped off his coat. "I'll get some blankets," she said, and disappeared.

             
The hall was almost dark now, and lonely with her gone. There was a mirror in a frame and he looked into it a long while before going into the parlor. He felt cold and tired, and looked away.

             
When she came back she made him sit in a chair by the fire, piling warm blankets from the bed onto his body. The fire itself still smoldered from when they had left, and it was the work of minutes to stir it and put on a log. This action warmed her, and when it burst into flame she stood and went to care for the horses without pause. They were sweaty from the ride, and she didn't want to leave them too long in the snow for fear they would catch cold.

             
She led them into the barn, making a path herself through the powdery white on the ground. It was only about an inch thick yet, and only the bottom of her dress got a little wet. Inside, she unhitched them and tied them up without bits; even if they knawed through the ropes, the barn doors would be closed and they were not likely to get out. The barn was fairly warm yet, mostly from the other horses, and so she wiped them down with a towel but did not cover their backs with blankets. This chore done, she went back to the house, making certain the doors were latched as she left.

             
Inside, the fire was blazing, and she hurried to it with cold fingers to warm herself. "Maybe I should have blanketed those horses," she said. "It's mighty cold out."

             
"They'll do fine," assured Henry. "If they can't do with just skin, one more blanket won't help any." He pulled his own blankets a little tighter about himself.

             
"You gettin' warm?" she asked, a little worried.

             
"Some."

             
"Here," she said, kneeling. She slipped off his boots, carefully, so the fire might warm his stockinged feet. She stood. "I'll make us some cocoa."

             
He coughed dryly. "All right."

             
She brought a pan of water from the kitchen and set it just in the fire to heat, then went to get cups and cocoa powder. The water turned into a boil quickly and she poured him a cup, sifting in some of the brownish powder. He cupped his hands around the ceramic mug and she sat at his feet until the fire was so hot she thought she might catch on as well. She stood again and took his finished cup and the water pan into the kitchen and put them in the sink. When she came out, she was certain he was not well.

             
"I can't seem to get warmed," he told her, shivering.

             
She felt his forehead. "Let's get you to bed," she said.

             
Their bedroom was not far from the fire, and was warm enough that Mary undressed without a shiver after she had gotten Henry into bed. She left the door open so that the heat would continue to come in, and crawled into bed next to him, although the blankets suffocated something awful. She wrapped herself around his body, burning with fever now, and prayed that he would stop shivering. "I—can't seem to get warmed," he said again.

             
She brushed his hair back with her fingers and kissed his forehead. "Don't be afraid," she said.

             
In the middle of the night, he tossed and turned, pushing away the blankets until he was only under a sheet. He seemed relieved for a moment, and Mary—he had wakened her—was glad, except that he began to shiver again, and so she covered him once more.

             
In the morning she dressed, then woke him. "You lay here," she told him firmly. "I'm going to town for the doctor. Don't you get up. All right?"

             
"I'm hot,” he murmured, pushing at the blankets weakly. “Awful hot…”

             
The fire had gone out in the night, and now the room was beginning to chill. Mary bit her lip, but left him under the blankets. "You just lay there till I get back," she told him again. Before she left, she rekindled the fire and left two great logs to burn on it.

             
She rode to town on her most trusted horse, Black Star. She used the saddle Pa had given her when they had moved into the house. It was a man's saddle and she didn't ride on the side, but as Pa always said, some things just couldn’t be helped. The wind was biting and there was near a foot of snow now, but Black Star was strong and fiery, and his body was like a furnace beneath her as they rode over the white plain.

             
Mary counted herself fortunate to find the doctor in his office; he was often out on call, and she had not thought what to do if he had been gone. Now she realized that she was one of those people taking the doctor away, but it crossed her mind for only a moment and she didn't feel badly for it because he really was needed, and that was what doctors were for.

             
"Why, Mary!" he said when she stood outside his door. "Little Mary who's gone and got married! Where did the child go? Come in, Mary dear." He was a short man, a little overweight, and dressed neatly. His silvery-black hair was fast disappearing, and looked now like a halo around his shiny head.

             
"No, Doc," she said, not taking a single step inside the door. "I ain't got time. Henry's bad off with fever. Maybe it's just the flu but he ain't been feelin' well of late and I ain't gonna take the chance."

             
"Oh, my dear—you're right of course. Woman's intuition serves best. Come around back to the wagon and we'll get off. Horses are still hitched, too. Just let me fetch my bag." He turned a sign on his door that said "Doctor Away" and closed it. Mary went around back as he had instructed and tied Black Star to the wagon, giving him a long lead in case he stumbled a little in the snow, although she doubted he would. Then she climbed into the wagon and only had to wait a moment before the doctor emerged with his small black bag and climbed up, grunting a little and tossing the bag to the back.