When Henry Came Home (4 page)

             
"I—I should tell you—" he began, at length. His voice was low, halting but definite. "It's not—just my leg. I was—in the hospital, for a long time. Took sick with lung infection, and—Mary, I—I'm going to feel poorly oftener than—than a man should be."

             
She squeezed his hand again and moved closer to him, so that their shoulders touched, bumping a little as they walked. "We'll get through it," she said quietly. "We'll make it through."

              "You never talk about him, Mary. How come?"

             
Mary turned, letting the brush slide down her hair of its own accord, loose in her hand. Sarah was in bed already, lying on her side and watching Mary as she worked. "I guess," said Mary slowly, "I guess I didn't think you'd want to hear me—mooning."

             
Sarah grinned. "I ought to be used to it by now—I can see it all, running there behind your eyes. Do you know how long you've been sitting there, staring at that mirror?"

             
Mary frowned thoughtfully. "I'm just brushing my hair," she protested at last, in defense.

             
"Yes, now you are. But you haven't for the last ten minutes." Sarah shifted, propping her head up under her elbow with one hand.

             
Mary looked distantly puzzled. "Haven't I?"

             
"Not a bit. Go on—after all those years I spent rattling on about—about John," (it was still hard to say his name), "you owe it to repay me."

             
Mary let the brush drop, grinning, and leapt into bed. She huddled down under the covers, curling her legs up into her nightgown. "All right," she said. "What shall I tell you?"

             
"Well—first, how come he never talks?"

             
Mary thought about this for a moment. "He's shy," she said at last. "I… think maybe he's afraid. Of hurting people, I mean."

             
Sarah looked dubious. "Hurting people? That's silly."

             
"No it's not," returned Mary, quickly. She paused. "It's from the war, I think, seeing all those boys killed. He doesn't like folks getting hurt, not in any way. I like that about him. He does talk, though, Sarah. When we're alone. Not at first, he didn't, but now I don't think he even notices." She smiled to herself.

             
Sarah was quiet for a minute. "Aren't you—afraid?" she asked finally, barely a whisper.

             
"Of what?" Mary sensed her tone. "Oh. Marrying a cripple, you mean?"

             
"Mary, you shouldn't—!"

             
"Well," she said, plainly, "there's no sense in tiptoeing around it, is there?" She turned onto her back, studying the ceiling as Sarah watched her profile. "I don't know. A little, I reckon. Mostly—well, I guess I don't much care." Her voice was thoughtful. "I think he knows that, but he doesn't quite believe it's true, not really."

             
"But you're marrying him!"

             
Mary looked at her sister and grinned. "Well, it's the only way I can think to make him believe me. And I love him and want to spend the rest of my life with him. That, too." She shifted again, and took her sister's hand. "I know everyone's worried," she said. "I ain't deaf dumb and blind. Folks think I'm crazy—no, they do, Sarah, I feel it. It’s not a thing people do, what we’re doing. But we'll manage, and if we can't, there's folks around plenty willing to help. Lord help me, Sarah, I love him."

             
"But… how do you know? You've never been in love." Sarah was worried.

             
Mary only laughed. "That's right—but I know it must be, cause I feel like it'll go forever. Once in love is all I need, Sarah, that's what I think."

              At night in his room, Henry undressed and hung his clothes in the closet. He closed the door and walked across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward to put the cane against the chair, but hesitated and then sat back again, holding it tightly. He sat for a long while, his knuckles white, until his hands slipped on the smooth wood.

             
"Kinda wish you were here," he whispered, to the empty mattress on the other side of the room.

             
When it was late, and the stifled giggles in the next room had faded to quiet snores, Henry stood up again and crossed the room. He opened the closet door, pausing for a moment before he removed the uniform. He carried it back to the chair by his bed, folding it gently across the back. He sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned forward, to prop the cane against the chair. For another moment he continued to start at the uniform. Then he slid into bed and, coughing lightly, blew out the candle.

              Henry was not a passionate man. In his childhood, he had not been one of those boys who wept one moment and ran wild with joy the next-- that had been John, if anyone. Henry had been quiet, mostly withdrawn, though not intending to be secretive, especially. And he had grown into a man of generally the same character. When he was happy, he did not advertise, but felt it small and glowing within. Sorrow, too, was inward, deep and aching. And because of this—well, perhaps, in this way, he was more passionate than any man.

             
But today, this day, he felt something more, a kind of mixed sorrow and joy, and he had to blink for a moment because his vision blurred. If he had been given the opportunity, he would have gone away, into a closed room (in his youth it would have been out onto the plain), to sit and examine it and ponder it. Today, though, there was no time, nor will in his heart, because he could not wish to be anywhere else.

             
She was—the most beautiful creature on earth. He saw her emerge in white from the carriage and all of his uncertainties were suddenly gone. His discomfort at wearing his uniform subsided, and the stares and whispers that had plagued him as he waited, before everyone and with only the priest at his back, no longer unnerved him.

             
She looked up through her hazy veil and smiled at him and he met her eyes and then looked down, conscious again that everyone was staring at him when they should have been looking at her, because they had not known that he was a captain. He felt small and somehow ashamed. But then, suddenly, there was a communal intake of breath, and he looked up and was relieved because every eye was upon her. She walked towards him, slowly, and their eyes met and all he could think was how very much he wished for her to have made the journey already and to be there next to him, close and secure. The distance between them which seemed like forever closed, little by little, and soon all he could think of was how much he loved her and how proud he was to be able to stand here with her and be her husband, and most of all how unworthy he really was.

             
She reached his side at last, and their hands clasped, needfully, fingers locking instantly and tightly together. She felt his fingers, cold in hers, and felt as they were warmed by her own. There was a trembling between them, and she did not know in which of them it had begun.

             
"I love you," she mouthed silently, and he swallowed and they turned to the preacher as he began to speak. The sermon was lost to them, among the confusion and the intensity of their own emotions, but it was no matter because the sermon was mostly for others present, for crying mothers and deep-breathed fathers, and if they did not know the content already by heart, it was lost to them anyway.

             
The vows were said, stumbling but tenderly, and most of all with heartfelt and plainspoken honesty. Henry felt a movement at his side, and one of his younger brothers stepped forward, bearing the rings upon a velvet pillow. With a slow, careful hand, he reached out and took one, slipping it onto her finger. It was beautiful; a small diamond, yes, very small, but held gracefully by the petals of a golden rose. It fit securely on her finger, as though it had always been there. She placed the second ring then, a plain, shining band of gold, onto his finger. His eyes flickered between their hands and her face, and she smiled at him through happy tears. The ring was on the wrong hand, but that was no matter; he would switch it later when his other hand was free.

             
They said final "I do's" and he was filled with an immeasurable relief when the preacher declared them wed. She turned to face him, and with a trembling hand he reached up and pulled back her veil, finding her sun-browned face flushed and rosy. She smiled, and they fell into a warm, satisfying kiss. When they drifted apart, it was dream-like, so that the moment when their lips ceased to touch was uncertain. He put his arm around her waist, and paled slightly when he saw that everyone was clapping and cheering for them, and that the aisle was gone and they were surrounded on all sides. There were congratulations all around, then, and they were slowly herded towards the carriage, which already contained their small bag of luggage. When they reached it, she was lifted up, and he after her, and the crowd parted to let them through.

             
Their hands found one another again, and he felt her slender fingers slip his ring from his right hand to the left, and he smiled, tentatively. She laughed tenderly at his reservation and clung to his arm. Almost hesitant, he reached out with his other hand and touched her face.

              Their solitude did not last for long; the carriage stopped at Mary's house, where already folks were arriving for a picnic that would last well into the afternoon. They found themselves borne off into conversation and congratulations, and soon Henry was separated from his bride, although he could hear her voice in the other room with the women, and thus was assured of her happiness. He himself, feeling a little out of place, took a seat outside on the porch swing, and was soon joined by his father-in-law. He was a little stiff in the man's presence, as always, but it was only out of respect. Mary's father was very like his own in character and form, only considerably more vocal in his declarations, both of affection and otherwise.

             
The large man leaned back in the swing, groaning amiably as he stretched his legs, and surveyed the small group of older men who had joined them on the porch. "See us all here?" he said.             

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"Ben will do, son, Ben will do. —See these men, and me? All of us been married at least twenty years, most more. In fact—anyone here been married less'n twenty-five years?" The men glanced at one another, shrugging.

             
"Joe here's goin' on twenty-seven," offered one.

             
Ben laughed heartily at the good news, slapping his knee. "Y'see?" he said, turning to Henry, affection and humor in his eyes. "Either you've got yourself nothin' more t' worry about ever, or you're in for one hell of a life." He punctuated the air with a finger. "And I'd guess you're in the for the former, son, if I have anything to say about it."

             
"Amen," grinned one of the men.

             
"I reckon so, sir," replied Henry, smiling faintly. He looked down and rolled the cane absently on his lap.

             
Ben guffawed again and slapped Henry on the back, eliciting a dry, forced cough from the younger man. He turned and called into the house, towards a group of small girls playing just inside the door. "Get this man some water!" He turned back to the group. "Well—anyone here think t’bring the cigars?" There was a general shaking of heads, and Ben looked astounded, if not too much offended. "Well," he said at last, loud, "we've got to find some cigars. Man can't not have a cigar on his weddin' day, for hell's bells!"

             
"It's all right, sir," interrupted Henry. "I—I don't smoke."

             
"You do on your wedding day, son!"

             
One of the little girls emerged onto the porch and held a glass out to Henry, timid. He took it and smiled at her kindly. She giggled, turning pink, and scurried back into the house. Henry looked back up to Ben. "I can't, sir—it don't sit right with me. My lungs--"

             
"Well," the older man grumbled affably, "I s'pose you can be excused, bein' my son-in-law an' all."

             
Henry took a sip of water. "Thank you, sir."

             
Mary came out onto the porch then. Her train had been removed for the sake of convenience, but for it she was no less beautiful. "Why-- Mary darlin, you glow!" exclaimed her father. He extended an arm and she slid into his warm, fatherly embrace, turning suddenly a little shy. She shared a knowing glance with Henry, then bent and kissed her father on the forehead.

             
"Pa," she said, affectionate.

             
The leather-worn man stood, fending off her mild protests with a wave of his arm. "You sit down here with your man, and all of us old folks will leave you to yourselves. Come on men—we'll go somewhere we're wanted."