When Henry Came Home (24 page)

             
Henry passed the time in bed playing cards with Joey and reading. He hated staying in bed because it kept him from his work and most of all Mary. Most of the time she was in and out of the room, except nights, when they lay close with skin touching. Her delicate flower smell—even in the middle of winter—made him shiver and want to hold her tightly and whisper soft words in her ear. But the sickness made his body weak and his mind blurry. Most of all, he hated not being able to think clearly. Peaceful, silent moments were interrupted by his coughs, when he could no longer contain them, and she had to get him water.

             
On Thursday he got out of bed and went to sit in the chair by the fire. He took his cane in one hand and put the other arm around Mary. His knees felt weak, as if he might collapse. His one knee was always uncertain, yes—but the other—it frightened him. He played cards again with Joey until Mary went into the kitchen to start dinner.

             
"Help me up, Joey," he said. "I gotta walk around." Joey helped him up and he walked around the room until he felt dizzy and sick.

             
"Mary, she's sure glad you're okay," said Joey. "Me too." He paused. "You're gonna be okay, ain't you?"

             
"Looks like."

             
"Ma says you got brains. She says Donovan ain't got brains to speak of, but he'll do."

             
This made Henry smile. "He's got brains," he said. "Just maybe not the right kind, sometimes." He coughed.

             
"You think I got brains?"

             
"Sure. You go to school?"

             
"Most times. I'm gonna be a railroad man. Not just pounding spikes—I'm gonna be the man that follows the train wherever it gets built, and pounds the silver spike in every town, in those celebrations. Pa took me to one over in Redwood City, last year."

             
Henry put a hand out behind Joey's shoulder, and Joey moved closer and sat down next to him. "That man ain't got no more brains than a spike-driver, Joey,” he said quietly. “Just a Pa with a lot of money."

             
"That ain't fair," said Joey.

             
"Fair don't have anything to do with life. Some folks are born with money, others have to work for it. Some folks make it all right and are happy anyway without it. Money don't make happiness." He leaned forward and coughed again.

             
"How much money you got?"

             
Henry cleared his throat. "Oh, enough to get by."

             
"You happy?"

             
"Very."

             
"Oh."

             
"You think on it. Just remember the man with brains is the one who built the trains. He gets to see'm run around and knows he's made them so other people can go places and see things."

             
"Oh," said Joey again. He wasn't sure he understood what Henry was talking about. "Mary says you'd like it if I called you by your given name. That okay?"

             
"Just fine." He paused. "Help me up again. I aim not to spend one more day in that bed than I have to."

             
"I bet the pond's froze over by now. Pa, he says he's gonna teach me skating." Joey laughed. "I can't picture Pa skating."

              "I been thinkin’, Hen."

             
Henry put an arm around Mary's shoulders. She came up to about his chin. They were standing together, looking out the window at the white landscape. The snow had stopped altogether now, but the cold kept everything frozen solid.

             
"I been thinkin’," she said again. She turned to him and put a hand on his chest. "Hear me out. You—scared me bad, Hen, real bad, and I don't scare easy. I was thinkin’, maybe, we could move your work here—at home. Maybe just for the winter, even. We wouldn't have to pay rent for that office space, and you wouldn't have to be goin' out into the weather every day or so."

             
"You think folks would come out here?" Secretly, Henry was taken with the suggestion. He'd spend every living hour with Mary if he could, but he wanted to be sure before he let out his happiness.

             
"Sure they'll come!" she laughed, spreading her arms wide. "You're the only one two hundred miles anywhere around that does figures, and other things besides. A little ride out of town once a month won't hurt none of those ranchers. And anyway, I say word of mouth is better than location any day. You saw them all come before, when Ma first started talking around."

             
He smiled. "All right then."

             
Mary laughed again and put her arms around him.

             
Henry thought of all the papers in his office, lying fallow. "Anyway," he said, "I've got to get back to things."

             
"All those ranchers know from Pa you been sick. None'll fault you for bein' behind some." Still, she knew he didn't like it. "Joey's coming back tomorrow or next day to look in. We'll get him and Brian and Pa to help move things over soon's we can."

              Henry stood in the middle of his small rented office. It was three weeks now since he had been in, and everything was coated with yellowy dust. There were only really a couple of things in the room: an old leather chair, a rolltop desk, and two oak file cabinets.

             
"Here," said Mary, setting a small wooden crate on the open rolltop. "You better pack whatever's out here in the open so it don't get knocked out going in the wagon."

             
Henry sat down at his desk and Pa and Donovan came in for one of the file cabinets. It had turned out that Donovan was handy, and Brian and Joey wanted to play off somewhere in town. Sarah popped her head into the door after they had gone out. "Hullo, Henry," she said. "Mary, the men can manage. Come on over to the general store! You still ain't seen the china."

             
Mary slipped her hand in his and squeezed it briefly as she moved to the door. He watched her go and then returned to his packing. Pa and Donovan came in again for the other cabinet and when they came in again he was done. Donovan took the box out and Pa held out a hand. Henry took it and stood up. He had an affection for Mary's father; Mary was a lot like him.

             
"Sure am grateful for this service of yours," he said, throwing an arm around his son-in-law. Outside, Donovan had stopped to talk to someone passing by.

             
"I get paid, sir," said Henry.

             
"And not enough as you should be!" Pa liked most folks, but he especially took to Henry. He saw that his solemn silence masked a quick mind and a tender heart. "My girl been good to you, son?"

             
"M-mighty good, sir."

             
"I mean—she ain't give you no trouble? Teasin? Fight'n?"

             
"No, sir." Henry glanced at Pa queerly.

             
Pa’s chest boomed with laughter. "Well, son—" he thumped Henry gently on the back. "Looks to me like you tamed the wild beast. I reckon she's yours now till the end of time."

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"Son—tell me truth now—you got any idea what I'm sayin?"

             
"Only a little, sir."

             
Pa laughed again. "Never you mind, son. No matter. But that young wife a'yours gave her ma and me trouble like you wouldn't believe when she was young."

             
"Yes, sir."

             
Donovan came back into the office. Pa broke away from Henry and stood by the rolltop. "One minute, son, and we'll have you all ready to go."

             
Henry went outside and walked down the planking a ways to the general store. Mary was just coming out. She smiled and hooked her arm through his. "Sarah'll stay in for a while. Grocer's wife is helping her with wedding gown fabrics. That coat warm enough for you?"

             
"It'll do for now. They're almost loaded up." He nodded as Ma Baker, the seamstress, walked past.

             
"Hullo," said Mary. She turned back to Henry and was about to say something, but he stopped, a hand on her arm. He looked away, over the street and the wagons on it. Some ranchers, outside the saloon, waved.

             
He looked at her. "Promise me we'll still come into town sometimes," he said.

             
"All right," said Mary. His eyes had that sad look all of a sudden, making her ache inside. "We have to, anyway, for supplies."

             
They continued walking, arm in arm, to the wagon.

              When Henry's things were settled in one corner of the parlor, he sat down to tend to business. Time disappeared, and soon Mary arrived with a plate filled with supper. He smiled sheepishly and apologized for forgetting the hour.

             
"You didn't smell it?" she teased.

             
For a brief moment, Henry had half an idea of what Mary's pa had been talking about earlier. He coughed and took a sip of the milk she set down on the desk, realizing he felt a little faint. "Donovan says there's gonna be a party over at the Millsap barn, Tuesday night."

             
She sat down on the couch, holding her own plate in her lap. "Kind of an engagement celebration, Sarah says."

             
Henry coughed again.

             
"I said it was probably to soon—to go out, I mean. A barn's drafty, more at night."

             
He sobered. "You go."

             
"Me?"

             
"You only got one sister." He smiled. "Go."

             
"But—"

             
He held up a hand. "It's your turn not to be silly. There ain't no law against it. Go."

             
She tried to frown, but it turned into a smile anyway, and made him smile too. Mary didn't care much for parties. She thought they were rather silly, but for once decided to give in to Henry—just to make him smile, and not so worried.

              Donovan and Sarah came by to pick up Mary on Tuesday night. "Will you do something for me?" asked Henry, when the girls were in the bedroom.

             
"I reckon," said Donovan. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels and then his toes.

             
Henry reached up and touched his arm. "You—dance with her. Mary."

             
Donovan paused. "What—my sister-in-law? Second purdiest girl in town after her big sister? Sure." He took his hand out of his pocket, thumped Henry's shoulder, and put it back again. "You all set? Need anything else?"

             
Henry pulled at the blanket over his knees, gingerly. "I'm set," he said.

             
The girls came out of the room, laughing and giggling, and Mary kissed him, closing her eyes. Sarah looked a little embarrassed and turned her eyes to a lamp. The three went out the door together, and Henry listened as the wagon clattered and clanked its way down the lane until the sound was gone.

             
He sat, still.

             
"Wishin' ain't gonna make it so," he said aloud.

             
He coughed and opened a book, fighting bitterness.

              He heard the wagon again a few hours later, and he looked up and out the window as it came into sight, a shadow in the dark outside. It halted outside the barn, and in a few minutes Mary came tramping in, looking flushed. He put out a hand to receive her on the arm of the chair.

             
"Ma let me take the wagon; she said they'd get a ride with Sarah'n Donovan," she offered as explanation for being the only rider.

             
"You have fun?"

             
She shrugged. "Some. Billy let me play on his drums. Donovan asked me to dance. I said no, first off, but he kept askin’. You know anyone mighta had had a hand in that?" She grinned.

             
Henry turned his eyes down. "Did you?"

             
"What, dance? Only after about the sixth time he came askin’." She ruffled his hair and pulled him to his feet, wrapping her arms around him as he faltered for a hold. "Thank you for the dance, Hen," she said quietly. She handed him his cane. "Now come on to bed and I'll show you some real fun."