When Henry Came Home (23 page)

             
His horses were not as fast as Black Star, pulling the wagon, but they made good time without any mishap and were soon back at the house. They left the horses and went inside, Mary letting the doctor go ahead of her into the bedroom. Henry was taken with shivering again, although the fire had done its job of heating, and coughed weakly, listless.

             
The doctor pulled up a chair and opened his bag, pulling out instruments now and then as Mary watched to examine eyes, ears, mouth, and pulse. When he had done and put the bag aside, he turned Henry's face to his. "Henry," he said, pulling up his eyelid. "Henry, wake up."

             
He was sluggish, but at last opened his eyes.

             
"Do you ache?" asked the doctor.

             
"Mm—yes," said Henry.

             
"How about chest pain?"

             
"Can't—breathe—" he murmured. Mary wanted to climb back into bed and hold him tight, but didn't think it proper with the doctor.

             
"All right, go to sleep." He turned and Mary followed him from the room. "Probably pneumonia," he told her. "If not, it's a bad case of the flu. But probably pneumonia."

             
"What can I do?"

             
"Just what you've been doing. Give him liquids—tea, milk, coffee, anything. Here—" he dug into his bag. "Give him a teaspoon of this three times a day. Beyond that—well, there's the Almighty. I'd better go—Mrs. Beckmen's near here, she'll be wantin' me to stop by."

             
Mary caught him by the arm, and there was a flash of something in her eye. "Doc," she said, holding the bottle tightly, "tell me this ain't snake oil. I trust you, Doc-- but this better be honest medicine, cause if it ain't you tell me right now and I'll ride out to Hickory or somewhere beyond and find a doctor who's got somethin’."

             
Doc halted and turned to face Mary. "That ain't no snake oil, Mary dear," he said gently. "That there is a medicine any doctor would give you if he had it and I'm luckier than most to have the whereabouts to get it. Now you go give it to him, cause it's his best chance and if it don't work I'm sorry, awful sorry, Mary dear." He took her hand, and patted it. "I get quick sometimes cause I don't like seein' folks die no more'n anyone else, but it's my callin' and I got to."

             
"All right, Doc," she said, "all right." They went out onto the porch, and Mary untied Black Star.

             
Doc climbed into the wagon. "You know, it ain't safe, just a woman and a half-crippled man, out here all alone."

             
Mary looked up at him. "We got some help, Doc. A boy comes out three days ever' seven and works the yard. We lived in town two years and it's nice to be out here with a homestead now. Anyway, some things can't be helped, that's what my Pa says."

             
"My recommendation," said Doc, "is to git yourself a passel of kids." He winked, bringing a bittersweet smile to Mary’s face.

             
"'Bye, Doc," she said. "Thanks plenty." She hurried Black Star to the barn and ran back to the house through the snow without paying mind to her muddy shoes. She made a glass of warm tea for Henry, then added a teaspoon of the brownish liquid from the bottle and went to the bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in her lap, making him drink it. He seemed a little soothed, maybe from the liquid or her touch, and when he was done she kicked off her wet boots and joined him in bed.

             
"Henry?" she said. He moaned a little and coughed softly, turning his head to the sound of her voice. She hugged him tight around the chest, feeling him warm against her. "I'm scared, Henry," she said. "Don't you leave me now."

             
The blizzard came and raged all day and into the night and Mary had no trouble remembering to keep the fire lit. In the early morning it quieted and passed on, and at noon Sarah and Donovan rode over in a wagon. Mary came to the door in her robe and let them in. "Mary—" bubbled Sarah, "we're gonna be married, me and Donny!"

             
Mary smiled and hugged her sister.

             
Sarah stood back. "Something wrong?"

             
Mary turned to close the door behind them. "It's just—Henry's awful sick. Pneumonia, Doc says."

             
"Oh, Mary—come on into the kitchen, then. Ma got a real potent recipe for sick-bed tea, from old ma Garver, just the other week." She put her arm through Mary's and they went into the kitchen.

             
Donovan poked about the front room a few minutes and then went back to the bedroom. "Gonna be a married man," he said, "come springtime."

             
Henry coughed, harshly. "Congratulations," he said, and coughed again. He was feeling more coherent; a little, anyway.

             
"Sorry you're feelin' s' poorly, sir."

             
"I'll get through."

             
"I better leave you to your rest. Hope you get feelin' better right quick."

             
Henry rolled so his back was to the door and tried to sleep.

             
Sarah and Donovan stayed only a while longer, then left for town to spread the news. Mary came in with the tea and sat on the bed, holding it while Henry drank. "Sarah said he asked her up in the attic," she said, speaking softly almost to herself. "I used to sleep up there, with her. There's a little window with a seat that looks out to the road and the plain. The sight's beautiful, this time of year." She laid a hand on his. "It's all white outside, like heaven's come down to earth, soft and white and clean. I don't think heaven's so chill, but I reckon if it is nobody'd mind. I don't anyway, not even now." She watched his eyes, moving restlessly beneath closed lids. His face was naturally serious and as yet there were only a few lines turning into wrinkles because he didn't smile much. Even if it was so solemn, his face was pleasant, sort of a rectangle shape up and down, and she liked it. His eyes, when they were open, sometimes made her sad, but it was a good kind of sad, like the way you felt remembering a sunset just after it had gone down, still stirring inside of you. They were a kind of gentle grey-brown so dark they almost melted into the shadow of his brow, and once—just once—she had seen them flash a startling crimson when a drunken man had insulted her in town.

             
Most of all, she loved his lips. They were not large… rather thin, actually, but soft and expressive. When he spoke they formed the words almost before they came into the air, in a kind of drifting way. Sometimes he would speak quickly, and his mouth would cut the words from nothingness, crisp and clean as a sheet of bleached paper. Then sometimes, maybe in the middle of a sentence, they might slow or halt for a moment, just barely parted, as if considering carefully before continuing on. At night when they sat by the fire she could hardly keep her eyes from his face, and felt no need to.

             
The next morning, Joey arrived on Paley, a horse he and Brian shared that was really more like a pony. "Ma sent me over to help out," he said. "She's tired of Brian and me bickering."

             
"I bet," said Mary, smiling. Although she hadn't told Doc, the boy who usually came out to help was gone east for a few weeks with his Pa, and Joey would be a help. She gave him some cold biscuits left over from breakfast and a piece of cheese.

             
"It's Brian that's stirrin' things up," he said. "Pa's madder'n heck and Brian's got three whippings already these last couple weeks."

             
Mary tousled his sandy hair. "I'm glad Ma sent you, then," she said. "Wouldn't want no trouble with a gunman."

             
"Gunman!" snorted Joey. "I bet he couldn't hit a lame horse in a corral. Tied to a post!" he added a moment later. He sat chewing thoughtfully while Mary picked up around the kitchen. "You think I can ask Mr. Peterson to teach me some more of those salty-air games?" he asked. "Sarah and Donovan came before we finished, and I only remember bits of those other ones."

             
Mary whisked by him, then returned and hugged him tightly.

             
"Ow," said Joey, "I can't breathe."

             
Mary kissed him on the forehead and then let him go to watch him try and wipe it off. "You can try, Joey," she said with love, "but Henry's feelin' real bad right now, and I don't know as he can do much to show you." She came up from behind and hugged him again, loosely. "You know what, though? I'm sure he'd be lots happier if you just called him Henry."

             
"Really?"

             
Mary winked. "Just as long as Ma's not around," she cautioned. "Go on in and see him. After that, you can go out and clean the barn."

             
"Aw—" he protested.

             
She put up a finger. "Or, you could just go on home."

             
"Aw, all right," he conceded. He went into the bedroom and came back a few minutes later. He sat down on the stool in the kitchen again. "Gosh," he said. "He's really sick, sis. He keeps talking to himself, real low so I can't hear much. He says your name sometimes, I think, and John, too." He kicked his feet. "Gosh," he repeated. "I ain't never been that sick."

             
Mary stood up from bending over the stove and wiped at the corner of her eye with her apron. "I know, Joey," she said. "I know."

             
Joey stood. "I'll go clean the barn now," he said.

              Joey was silent at dinner, mulling over his thoughts. He lifted a fork to his mouth, and paused. "Won't he eat anything?" he asked suddenly.

             
"No, honey," Mary said quietly. "He's too feverish to know."

             
"What if he dies?" the question sort of slipped out.

             
Mary sat for a moment, her tears dripping into her food. Then she stood, letting out a small sob, and hurried from the room. She went into the hall and stood before the mirror with her face in her hands, and then turned back.

             
"I didn't mean no—" began Joey when she returned.

             
"Don't pay me no mind," she told him. "I'm being a silly ninny. I'm goin' in to bed for the night—you just leave the dishes set where they are. I'll get them come morning. Blankets are in the closet, you can sleep on the sofa. You mind, Joey, keepin' the fire hot all night?"

             
He shook his head.

             
"All right." She kissed the top of his head and he didn't shy away. "G'night, Joey."

             
"G'night."

             
Mary went to the bath to fetch the bottle Doc had given her and slipped into the bedroom. She sat Henry up a little and spooned a bit of the brown liquid into his mouth, making sure he swallowed it. She followed that with a glass of water and wiped his mouth, tracing his lips slowly with one gentle finger. They were cold, and she bent to kiss them.

             
She dressed in her nightgown and got into bed, sliding as close to his body as she could.

             
"Mary?"

             
Her heart skipped in her chest, and she felt quickly for his hand. "Here I am," she said. His voice was weak, and she moved closer to hear.

             
"I'm not scared."

             
She brought his hand to her lips, and kissed it fiercely. "Good, Hen, oh—good. You cold, Hen? You need more blankets?"

             
He shook his head a little. "No."

             
"Anything else? Food—water--?" She moved to get up, but he squeezed her hand, briefly.

             
"Just you." He sucked in a sudden breath and coughed.

             
She held his hand tightly until the spasms subsided and brushed the hair away from his brow. "You just lay quiet," she said. "Rest now." She lay close to him for a long while, listening in the dark as his breaths became more regular, and at last he was in a deep sleep. "Dear God," she whispered to the rafters, "thank You. I love this man—thank You."

              Joey stayed on for another week. Henry's cough worsened, but the doctor stopped by again and pronounced that the pneumonia was gone. He was told to stay in bed and to stay warm.

             
"I'd be lyin' if I told you he'll be out liftin' logs next Sundee," he told Mary. "But you knew that. Jest keep him warm, honey, and don't tire him overmuch. That goes for all the time, not just when he's sick. Bad lungs—chronic. Most eastern doctors'd have him in a hospital on sight, permanent. Me—I think he's better off with you."