When Henry Came Home (29 page)

             
"At Ma and Pa's. I was visiting and left him there."

             
"I guess they were real excited to see him, huh?"

             
"Ma was cryin’, like always. I ain't gonna stay long.” She stopped at the entryway to the parlor as Mary moved to Henry, standing at the back of the sofa. "I just come to apologize for the remark I made on you not havin' children. I guess it was not proper."

             
Henry moved suddenly to rise, but Mary put a hand on his shoulder and pressed her fingers tightly into the bone. He could feel her trembling. He was trembling himself, with fury. Mary hadn't told him of Sarah's words, but having children was Mary's business and his. No one else's.

             
"It ain't nothin' between us," said Mary, softly.

             
"Well. I better go." Sarah turned.

             
"Won't you stay awhile, and talk? We could have some tea."

             
"No, I better go."

             
Mary listened to the door close, feeling Henry's quaking body beneath her hand. "Maybe it's all she's got now, Hen, to hold above us," she said quietly, hurt in her voice. "Maybe she thinks we don't hold her as good as us anymore, and so she lays that pride on top of us, just so she feels she ain't nothin." Mary felt as his body stilled, and after a moment he put his hand on top of hers.

             
"I just can't—abide her hurtin' you," he said.

             
"I know, Hen, but it's how I know she's feelin' inside and me not bein’ able to help that's makin’ me sad. It don't matter what she says to me, I'd hurt for her anyway—so try and not be irked."

             
"All right."

             
"Oh, goodness—the eggs!" The smell came from the kitchen now, burnt and acrid. "I don't know if I should try again or wait for lunch." She patted his shoulder and went into the kitchen.

             
Henry turned for a moment to look after her, settling back into the padded sofa. After another moment's consideration, he took his cane and pushed himself up, biting back the cry that clawed in his throat. He went across the room to his desk and sat down, smelling the wood polish and tanned leather. From one drawer he took a yellowed piece of paper and, from another, a pen and a bottle of ink. He set to writing.

             
Mary came back a little later with a plate—the third try at eggs, and a successful one. She set it on the desk next to Henry. "What are you doin'?" she asked.

             
"Writing a letter to the railroad."

             
"The railroad?" Mary knelt beside his chair and put a hand on the arm.

             
He set the paper aside and picked up the plate, holding it over his lap with one hand as he ate. "To inquire about a financial compensation for Donovan's death. Something ought to come to his widow."

             
Mary smiled warmly. "Oh, Hen, you are sweet." Her hands lighted gently on his bad leg, massaging carefully.

             
He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath.

             
"I was thinking," she said after a while, looking up at him, "maybe we oughta give Red to Joey and let Paley graze out here on our place. We got space out here aplenty, and no use for a third horse. Red deserves more use than we give him."

             
Henry didn't open his eyes. "All right," he said.

             
"Anyway, I feel kinda badly for Joey. Seems he got the raw end of the deal with Brian havin' a gun. It could be just Joey's horse."

             
"I'd guess your Pa has the last say in that, but I'm betting he'll be agreeable." It was Henry's turn to smile.

             
Mary stood and took his plate, which looked as if it were as empty as it was going to get. She paused, waiting a moment.

             
"I'll... just sit here a while," he offered, his voice smooth and relaxed.

             
"Felt that good, did it?" Mary laughed. She set the plate back down and moved to the back of the chair. "I'll show you better." Her fingers and thumbs prodded his shoulders purposefully, finding the tensed muscles and pushing and rubbing the knots out of existence. Henry let his head fall back, relaxed. "Maybe," suggested Mary, "we should go on into the bedroom for this—before you slide right out of that chair."

             
Henry opened one eye, looking up at her. "Just as a precaution, of course."

             
"Yes, of course." Mary grinned. "A precaution."

              About noon they lay together on the bed, breathing soft, quick. Mary rolled close to Henry, felt him quiver at her touch. "Hen," she whispered, "Hen..." She let herself drift off, and for a while said nothing. There was silence and breathing. Henry put his arms around her, and she curled into his embrace, listening to his soft breaths wheeze past her ear. She didn't think she could sleep without that small sound, now. She huddled in closer.

             
Henry ran his fingers through her smooth brown hair. "What hurts?" he asked, whispering into her ear.

             
Her forehead wrinkled, and she shook her head a little against his chest. "Oh, Hen—I just wonder—why we ain't got kids, and not just because what Sarah said. We ain't never talked about it—Hen, I—I hope it ain't a terrible upset for you. I'm sorry."

             
He closed his eyes, pained. "It ain't your fault Mary, don't think that. If anything, it's that I—ain't got it in me to—to give them to you. I don't know if—"

             
Mary looked up, put her fingers to his lips, stilling them. "Shhh. It ain't nobody's fault. When the Good Lord sees fit, I guess he'll give us a child, and in his own time."

              Joey came riding in the afternoon after next and stomped into the house before Mary had time to come out and greet him. He found them in the parlor, Mary pinning up a pair of Henry's pants to be hemmed while he stood in them. Mary stood when Joey came in, letting Henry lean on her to get down from the stool he was standing on. "What is it?" she asked.

             
"Sarah's gone and left," he told her, half breathlessly and half in irritation. "I figgered I better stop by here before I went home to tell Ma. She'll be awful upset."

             
Mary curled her arm around Henry's and he pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead. "Oh, Sarah," she whispered.

             
"Where'd she go off to?"

             
"Not sure, Mr. Peterson. She got on the train goin' out this morning. Maybe Abilene or past that somewhere."

             
"All right, Joey. You better get on home and tell your Ma."

             
"Alright. Well—'bye."

             
"Goodbye, Joey," said Mary. "Wait--"

             
Joey turned. "Yeah?"

             
"Go let Paley out into the pasture and saddle Red. He's yours, if you want to trade."

             
Joey looked eagerly from his sister to Henry, waiting to see the consent in his eyes. It came. "Gosh," he said, "thanks!" He ran from the room.

             
Mary turned to her husband. "Oh, Hen—poor Sarah. What's got into her? If I could only just talk to her a while, if she'd let me..."

             
Henry looked into her eyes and saw the longing there. "Do you want to go?" he asked.

             
She buried her face in his chest. "I know it's a lot to ask, Hen, but—if I could just get her to see—and only if you feel up to it, Hen, not otherwise."

             
"We'll go, then."

             
"Are you sure? Please, Hen, tell me if—"

             
"I'm sure."

             
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him. "Thank you, Hen, thank you."

             
They packed quickly, mostly warm clothes, for Mary had heard that the weather in Abilene was colder in the fall. "I expect we'll only be gone a couple of days," she said.

             
Henry was more cautious. "She might not want to be found. It's hard to find someone who don't want to be found."

             
"Well, we'll look. That's all we can do."

             
In town they met up with Joey, who had been doing some errands before going home, riding Red. He stopped the gelding next to Mary, sitting in the wagon. She told him where they were going.

             
"Wish I could go," said Joey.

             
"You gotta stay with Ma and Pa, you know that. But you could be a help and take the wagon on back to our place. We were gonna stable the horses here, but they'd be better at home."

             
Joey sighed, disappointed he hadn't been asked along. "All right."

             
There was a train going out in about an hour, so Joey helped them with their bags over to the station. Henry bought the tickets and they got a cabin to themselves, as long as anyone else didn't come along before the train left. Mary kissed her brother and took the bags from him, then mounted the little rail stairs. She put down one bag and pulled Henry up beside her.

             
"Bye," said Joey, shading his eyes as he looked up.

             
Mary waved and they disappeared into the train. It was a luxurious car, with red velveteen upholstery on all the cabin seats, set in teak frames. Mary giggled and tossed the bags and Henry’s cane into the net above them. "I never been on a train," she said. "I reckon you came home on one."

             
"Not like this."

             
"I hope if someone else comes in he's interesting."

             
Henry wished no one else would come in.

             
It turned out that no one did, and a little more than an hour later the train slid out of the station, huffing and rumbling. Mary clung to Henry's arm as she watched out the window, half scared but wanting to be. There was a knock on the door of their cabin. "Yes?" called Mary, eagerly.

             
A man in a kind of red and blue uniform and little hat opened the door. "Tickets please, Ma'am."

             
Mary reached into Henry's inner jacket pocket and pulled them out. "I guess that's what you want," she said, smiling.

             
He nodded. "Thank you, Ma'am, and have a nice trip." He closed the little partition.

             
Mary settled back again and looked out the window. After a minute, she pointed. "Look, Hen, that little spot over yonder. Is that Hickory?"

             
"Looks like."

             
"I never been farther than that, except once over to a mining camp a little beyond. That's my whole world, Hen. It's funny to see it all there, just a few little spots."

             
"Is it—a good world?"

             
"Oh, the best, Hen. My only hope in leavin' it now is that I can bring Sarah back. You said before there ain't nothin' better to be found."

             
"That's only my opinion."

             
"Well, sir, I happen to take a liking to your opinions." She crossed her arms. "How come when we discuss things, I always end up havin' to defend why I think the same as you? Don't that seem odd to you?"

             
Henry grinned sheepishly. "Never you mind," he said.

             
She let him hug her and they scooted closer to the window, looking out. The sun was low on the horizon now, though not touching, and the edge of the world looked as if it had been lit on fire.

             
"I got a poem for that," he said, "somewhere in a book at home. Wish I'd brought it."

             
Mary traced the veins on the back of his hand, then the lines on his palm. "What'd it say?"

             
"Oh—things about the world dyin' every night, sometimes all violent like that red out there, and sometimes peaceful-like, and then bein' birthed new again, every morning."

             
"I like that," she said.

             
"You can read the whole thing when we get home."

             
She was silent for a moment. "No," she said at last, after considering. "It won't fit then. I like it when you say it, besides. What else did it say?"