When Henry Came Home (35 page)

             
"Yes, there—there was." He was somewhat disconcerted by the boy's remarks, and especially by his round face, gazing up and looking somehow self-satisfied. He blinked again and went on. "At—that time, England had a long history of disagreements with France, and tensions were high. King Henry knew that England was weak, his people were not united, and he could not afford to get into a war. But the king of France sent a messenger with a present to King Henry that insulted him so that he was forced to make a choice: ignore it, and relinquish the dignity of his country, or go and fight, although he knew that he would most likely lose."

             
"What was the gift?" interrupted Joey.

             
"Tennis balls."

             
"Tennis balls?" he looked puzzled.

             
"The king of France meant to say that fighting England would be nothing more than a game to him, because it was nothing."

             
Joey's eyebrows went up. "Ooh," he intoned.

             
"So—Henry went with his army to France. Three of his own best men betrayed him, and in the end, he was left with only a small band of soldiers. The men who remained were loyal, but disheartened because they knew that the next battle, the most important of all, would probably be their last. He gathered his men together, along with one of the men who had not betrayed him, a man named Westmoreland. Like the soldiers, Westmoreland did not want to die, and he wished that they only had more men. Henry heard him saying this, and answered—" he cleared his throat softly and straightened, preparing himself to speak louder than his usual husky whisper.

             
In the corner of the room, Pa opened one eye and caught Ma's glance. "Water, Martha," he mouthed. She nodded slightly, put aside her knitting, and slipped away to the kitchen.

             
"If we are marked to die, we are enough to do our country loss. But if to live, the fewer men, the greater share of honor. God's will I pray thee, wish not one man more—" he continued, his voice surprisingly strong, but, most importantly, expressive, eloquent. Joey watched him in awe, jaw slack. Mary smiled, watching as Henry Peterson faded away and Henry the Fifth appeared. It was always magic, to her, a hidden talent she had discovered when they were first courting, and treasured dearly. "—and Crispin Crispian shall never go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers—for he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother, be he ne'er so vile, this day shall gentle his composition. And gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accursed they were not here, and hold their manhoods cheap, whiles any speaks that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day." He stopped, suddenly, looking around as if he had come out of a trance. His chest heaved, dryly, and he found that a glass of water was being pressed into his hand. Taking it, he gulped down half, gave a small cough, and let himself fall back to the sofa.

             
Pa opened his eyes, sat up, and clapped a few times, heartily. "Excellent, son, excellent. Very well done." He pointed. "In fact, I've never heard better."

             
Henry cleared his throat. "It's—been a while," he said, and coughed again.

             
Mary knelt next to him, taking the empty glass. She squeezed his hand. "Thank you, Hen," she half-whispered. "More water?"

             
"No, I'm all right."

             
"So what happened?" asked Joey, wide-eyed.

             
"Yeah! Did they all get kilt?" Brian had been standing in the doorway, and with the last few lines had crept back into the room.

             
Henry shook his head, meaning to explain, but coughed again. Mary stood up and went to Brian, gathering him in and motioning to Joey to join them. "How about I tell you all for a bedtime story? You should have been asleep an hour ago."

             
Brian scowled as she directed them towards the stairs. "You're a girl!" he protested. "You don't know how to tell it."

             
Mary swatted him on the behind. "We'll see about that. Now go on." Joey looked back before they started up the staircase and waved hesitantly. Henry smiled faintly, but did not return the gesture.

             
Ma heaved herself to her feet, yawning and excusing herself to clean up the kitchen. Henry sat quietly, sipping a little more water. Pa watched him, thoughtful, pondering. After a while, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, and spoke. His great bass was hushed now, because to talk below a boom he had to whisper, a low, rumbling-thunder sound. "Man like me wonders sometimes," he said slowly, "—why things don't turn out so nice for all his girls." He was referring to Sarah.

             
Henry became uneasy, not certain whether it was a lamentation or a compliment. He decided, uncertainly, that it was a little of both. Pa seemed to be looking for answers to unanswerable questions, perhaps from him, or anywhere. "Things—ain't always fair," he said, quietly.

             
"No," said Pa, "no. But you think—take the boys. When they was asleep, when they was little—you couldn't tell one from the other. Then they wake up, and they're as differ'n't as night and day. Oh, they're both good boys—but look at'm. You see."

             
"Yes."

             
"Makes a man think."

             
Henry did not know what to say, and Pa's gaze had turned inward, so he remained silent. After a time, there were giggling and thumping noises on the floorboards from upstairs, and Pa rose to his feet, glancing up. He went to the window, his enormous frame nearly hiding every inch of glass from Henry's view, and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned back, however, when footsteps sounded down the stairs. "Darlin'," he said, with a slow smile. "I'm amazed you got those hellions to sleep s'fast."

             
Mary shrugged. "Well, they're in bed—sleep, I don't know about." She reached the sofa and pulled Henry up. "Pa?"

             
He raised his eyebrows at her, expectantly, and then remembered. "Ah," he said, and crossed the room in two strides. "Hold on, son." Henry found himself suddenly cradled in the big man's arms. There was a brief shock of pain, but he was used to it and it went away before they reached the top of the stairs. Pa did not stop there, however, and Mary scooted ahead of him as they went down the hall, stopping at the end and tugging down a small set of folding stairs from the ceiling. Ducking a little and grunting slightly, Pa went up and set him down.

             
"Here!" called Mary, and his cane was passed up.

             
Pa held onto his shoulder for a moment while he got balanced, and his grip was strong and firm. When he judged that Henry was all right, he let go and backed down a step, stopping on a second thought. He looked up, hesitant, then said, "I admire you, son," and ducked quickly back down.

             
Mary jogged up, grinning. "This used t'be our room, mine and Sarah's." She looked at him. "You all right?"

             
He shook his head slightly. "Sure."

             
She hiked her dress up and let it billow down again. "I forgot how hot it is up here." There was a small window at either end of the long, slope-walled room, and she hurried to open each one so a breeze could blow through, then lit a lamp that was next to the opening in the floor. "Not very cool out yet, either, but it'll be all right." She turned to the bed. "Oh dear," she said. "This isn't turning out to be as nice as I thought. I forgot—
we
have the bed." On the floor, shoved against the wall, there was only a single mattress with a tick pulled across. She looked around; most of the attic was empty, in the middle, but old dusty boxes and trunks lined the edges. "Hm," she considered. "That one, I think." She went to a deep burgundy-colored chest and pried up the lip. "Yep." Carefully, she pulled out the topmost sheet from the pile of linens, along with a billow of dust. Immediately she sneezed, and from behind her Henry coughed. "Oh dear," she said again.

             
She turned, and Henry saw the disappointment on her face and it made him smile. He put out an arm and she stepped closer, a sheet dragging behind her, trailing from one hand. "Poor Mary," he said, almost playfully. He stroked her hair. "Don't worry—we'll have a fine time. We don't need sheets, it's so warm, or maybe just one." He reached down and took the corner of the white material from her fingers. "And if it's dusty, that'll be reason to have a bath in the morning."

             
She gave a wavering smile, and her lip began to quiver. Henry dropped the sheet and put a finger on her lower lip, pinning it so that it was still. She smiled, certainly, and laughed and hugged him.

             
He smelled her hair. "I love you," he said, "and I love your baby."

             
"Our baby."

             
"Our baby," he agreed, slow, feeling the words in his mouth.

             
They stripped quickly to underclothes, which in themselves were almost too much for the stuffy old attic, and stood over the mattress on the floor. "Well, I guess it'll do," she said, grinning, then let out a shrill scream.

             
Henry's hand locked around her arm. "What is it?"

             
She threw up her hands to cover her head. "A bat! They're living up here!" He smiled and laughed solidly, and Mary’s jaw dropped in horror. "How can you—!"

             
He shook his head. "They won't hurt you. They eat fruit."

             
She put her hands on her hips. "I don't see much fruit in here, do you?"

             
He shrugged. "Anyhow, they won't hurt." He put his arm out to hug her, but she pushed back, tripping on the edge of the mattress and falling back right into its center.

             
"You shouldn't have done that!" she cried, grinning and gritting her teeth.

             
"Me—?"

             
"Yes, you!" Suddenly, she used the springs to bounce herself back up to a sitting position, grabbed his arm, and pulled. With a heavy thump, he landed half on the mattress and half on top of her. She giggled and put an arm around him. "I hope I didn't hurt you," she said, lovingly.

             
He blinked. "—No," he said, finding that it was oddly true. "But--" he rolled quickly off of her body, his face grave.

             
But she put a hand to her stomach. "Don't worry," she said. "There's not much can hurt me, or this."

             
He looked half-relieved. "Still—" He yawned and shifted to his back, holding her hand.

             
She waited a minute and then turned to blow out the lamp. It was silent, except for crickets.

             
"Too hot?" she asked, grinning.

             
"—No."

             
"Too tired?" She touched his arm.

             
"Never."

              As he often had in the past few years, Henry woke before Mary, sleepless. He could see the sky out the little window above the mattress, and it was an early-morning grey, bleak and colorless. He knew, however, that in a few minutes or maybe a half an hour, the sky would blossom pink and new. He watched the window for a while and saw a few sparrows flit by, their split tails showing clearly against the sky.

             
He let his eyes wander around the room, examining the ceiling and the beams that held up the roof, where the strain was. Above his head, just an arm's length away because of the slope, a beam ran the length of the room. He looked at it a while, seeing the grain sharpen and come into focus as the light from the window gradually brightened. He put out a hand and grasped it, firmly, and used it to slide up so that he was sitting without having jostled Mary. He considered a moment more and then pulled himself slowly to his feet. His cane, of course, was still lying where it had dropped some hours previous, in the middle of the attic floor, but the beam sufficed, and so he walked slowly along it to the far window, not wanting to try and step over the bed. He paused, then shifted into nothingness and caught the windowsill.

             
Below, in the back yard, the scene was quiet, still and grey. A few chickens were all that stirred, and he could hear faintly their occasional clucking from the old pigsty where pigs no longer lived. Beyond, the land sloped upward out into grazing fields, then down again and out of sight.

             
"Lovely, isn't it?"

             
Henry jerked, startled, and Mary caught his shoulder while he regained himself. "Sorry—" he blinked. "I didn't hear—"

             
She turned, and he moved over a little to allow her a view out the window. "Oughta see when it snows," she said. "Purtiest thing ever." After a moment she withdrew, and began to dress. "We better get downstairs. I smell Ma's eggs and toast."