When Henry Came Home (42 page)

              "I can't do it, Martha."

             
"Ben..."

             
He got up from the sofa and went to the window, his back to his wife and the little child in her lap. Suddenly, he turned. "He's dying, Martha. I see it in his eyes."

             
"Ben," she said, more sharply now. "Lower your voice if you've got to talk like that."

             
He ran a hand through his bleached-snow hair. It was long; he needed to stop off at the barber's. "I know you see it," he told her, carefully keeping his voice hushed. "I can't—I just can't do it."

             
"What else is there? He's sick, Ben, he always has been, since the war." She paused, her brow furrowing with her distress. "Ben—I know he's like a son to you, but sometimes... it's the way of things—"

             
"No," he said, sharply. "Don't say those words, not in this house." Abruptly, he spun and went to the door, grabbing a coat from a hook on the wall. "I'm—going out. I'll be back."

             
Ma watched him as he stepped out into the dark, her eyes sad. After a moment, she turned back to the baby, who was whimpering slightly. "All right," she murmured. "Here's some milk. Good girl... good girl."

             
Outside, Pa breathed fiery breaths, coming out in feathery white puffs in front of him. He was almost never cold, and even now was a little warm. He put on the coat anyway, mostly out of habit from Ma's worried nagging, and glanced back and forth. Quickly, he jogged down the steps and stood in front of his house, not knowing which way to go. Finally, he headed west, out onto the flat lands, his strides long and powerful.

             
The problem was, Henry felt obliged. Living in their house, anyone's house, whatever was hinted at he'd do, out of obligation. Pa couldn't find fault with this; he knew he'd be the same, and asking a man to change that way was like asking the winter to move to July. But the way it was, Henry was dying—no mistake about that. Pa, passing a low tree, reached up, tore free a small limb and began to worry it, breaking off twigs and branches as he went.

             
Through no fault of her own but being a woman, Ma had all but taken the baby away, and the boy hadn't the power nor the strength to take Daisy for himself. Without the baby, Henry just didn't have a reason to hang on. Pa cursed softly to himself, and immediately offered a silent prayer begging forgiveness. "I just don't know," he said, hearing his voice loud in the night.

              Joey knocked softly on the door to Henry's room. When the reply came, a faint, "Come in," he entered, hesitant, and closed the door behind him. "Pa said—well—maybe you'd want some help," he said, stepping on one foot with the other. He was in his nightshirt, barefoot.

             
Henry looked at him a moment. "Yes--" he said finally. "Thank you." He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt half unbuttoned. Joey came a little closer and Henry put his arm around the boy to stand up. It took a few minutes, but Joey was quick and in the end Henry sat back down, sighing a little. "Thank you," he said again.

             
Joey was silent, unable to do anything but gape at the scars until Henry tugged the sheet over his legs.

             
The boy looked pained for a moment. "You're—sad, huh."

             
For a moment Henry paused, unmoving, then patted the bed beside him. Joey sat down, dangling his feet and looking down at them. "Yes," he said.

             
"Me too. But prob'ly not as much as you." Henry didn't say anything, and Joey glanced up. "Pa, he says Mary's in heaven, and we shouldn't be sad 'cause it's nice there."

             
"It is."

             
Joey sensed that he was probably saying things that Ma would whup him for, but he went on anyway. "How come you're so sad, then?" he asked, not rudely. He swung his feet again.

             
Henry swallowed. "I'm lonely," he whispered.

             
"Oh." Joey sat for a while, not saying anything, just watching his feet dangle and feeling his sandy hair fall down over his eyes. Finally, he stood up, slow, and went to the door. He went out, but turned as he was about to close it. "G'night," he said, softly.

              "What if there were a way, somehow, you and your girl could live—back at home, together?" The way Henry's eyes looked up at him, hungry, hopeless, made Pa want to cry though he hadn't shed a tear in ten years at least.

             
He looked away, out and Brian and Joey playing together—maybe fighting—in the yard. "I—I'd like that more than anything, sir," he whispered, then, quickly, "It ain't anything against livin' with--"

             
"I know, son, it's all right."

             
Henry dared not hope, but at last he could not help himself. "Sir—why did you ask...?"

             
Pa turned away, a hand in his hair, wishing he hadn't said anything. "I don't know," he said, stepping down off the porch. "I don't know, not yet." He went off towards the corral, not looking back because he didn't want to see the boy's eyes.

              Over the next week, Pa brooded. The boys avoided him and did their work quickly when it was given; they were sharp enough to know when to leave him alone. Henry fell ill with a fever for a spell of three days, and Ma tended him in bed, giving Daisy to Joey to look after. When the fever passed, he was weak, and only came out of his room now and then.

             
On Sunday, Ma still worried after his health, and sent Pa and the boys to church on their own. The twins, however, came back alone on the back of a neighbor's buckboard.

             
"Pa said he'd be back in a few days," said Brian, when Ma asked after him. She frowned, but said nothing.

              Pa woke up, stiff-necked. Leaving the buckboard and the other horse safely back at the church, he had arrived in Hickory just as night was falling, and decided to sleep out in the open. The town, somewhat larger than his own, had still been awake, but things were beginning to close up. He hadn't brought money for a hotel room, and so he had tied his horse by the public water trough, unsaddled him, and loped off into the brush to sleep.

             
It had been a cold night, but it only took him a minute to stomp his feet and get the blood moving again. Walking more slowly than when he had come in, Pa found his way out of the brush and back to his horse, which, not surprisingly, was still there. Hickory was so far from anywhere that folks almost never stole anything that couldn't fit easily on a train. He had lugged his saddle back with him, so he set it up on the horse and strapped it on, but didn't mount. Instead, he left the horse where it stood and started down the main street.

             
There were a few folks out, mainly women at this time of morning, dumping bathwater and such. He nodded to a few, saying a polite hello as he went. He stopped at the jailhouse and went up the set of brick steps, some of which were beginning to crumble at the edges. The door was heavy, oak with huge black iron hinges. He knocked, and the wood sounded out solidly in reply. After a moment, he used the side of his fist to pound.

             
Finally, the door creaked open and a wizened old face peered out. "It's me," said Pa, and the door swung open.

             
"Well I'll be," said the little old man. The sheriff was actually Pa's age, only Pa looked a little younger than he was and the sheriff a little older. He stood aside to let his guest in. "Talk freely," he invited. "Ain't nobody in jail tonight. Or—is it morning now?"

             
Pa laughed. "Never thought this town'd get sleepy enough to where the sheriff slep' in," he said, sitting down.

             
The sheriff scratched the back of his neck. "Was that a personal insult or just directed at things in general?"

             
Pa laughed again. "Take it how you like."

             
"General then—I'm in no mood for a fight." He yawned. "What brings you here, Ben? --I'm not going to offer you breakfast. Not only are you too early to deserve it, I haven't got anything. Girl brings it over about nine." He went over behind his desk and squatted into his chair.

             
"Well—" Pa sobered. "I need a favor."

             
"As I recall—and I think you do too—I seem to owe you one."

             
"Yes. My girl, Mary—"

             
"The one who married the—"

             
"Henry Peterson, yes. Don't interrupt me, Harper, or I won't get through." He pinned his whole lower lip between his teeth, then let it go with a sigh. The sheriff settled back, serious now. "Coupla weeks ago, now, she had a baby girl, but—the childbirth, it kilt her."

             
"Ben—I'm mighty sorry."

             
"Don't interrupt. Henry, he and the baby've been livin' over at our house since, but it's killin' him, not bein' on his own with the girl. Martha can't help herself takin' care of the little thing--" he stopped, realizing he didn't have to explain everything. "Anyway, I was wond'rin' if you'd have a girl—I mean, maybe a girl lookin' to get out of whorin', or someone of a poor fam'ly, who'd work, helpin' him out and things. She'd have to live in, most all the time, and I don't 'spect Henry'd want anyone who talks overly much."

             
The sheriff steepled his fingers beneath his chin, thinking. "Ben," he said at last, "you stick around town today. I'll see what I can do."

             
Pa stood. "You have my thanks."

             
"Any time, Ben. This don't near pay off my debt. And I'm awful sorry 'bout your girl."

              Pa wandered around town for a time, not doing much of anything but looking over the town he'd grown up in, now more than three times the size it had been. He stopped in a few places, just poking his head in the door and back out again before anyone noticed or said anything. He did stay in one place, to have a little something for breakfast.

             
Near midday, he started back for the jail. Just then a man came hurrying up, a worn manila envelope tucked under one arm. "Pardon," he called, "you Ben Jacobs?"

             
"I am." Pa stopped, looking over the man. He seemed a little familiar.

             
"Name's Covey—uh, Milt." They clasped hands briefly. "Henry Peterson—he's livin' with you?"

             
"Has been, yes."

             
"Could—I maybe impose on you some?"

             
"Depends."

             
He dropped the envelope into one hand and held it out. "He's got a ten percent share in my holdings—this's the first profits."

             
With a slow hand, Pa reached up to take the money. "It's none a' my affair," he said, "but how much do first profits come to?"

             
Covey grinned. "Quite a bit," he breathed eagerly, as though he didn't believe it himself. "Quite a bit."

             
Pa took this in, and at last nodded in approval. "Well, I'll see it gets to him."

             
"Thank you. Saved me a trip. And—my regrets. About your—daughter, was it?"

             
"Yes. And thank you." Pa turned, slipping the envelope inside his jacket.

             
For a moment, Covey looked after him, his brow deepening, but then he gave a half-shrug and hurried off.

              The sheriff was not in the jailhouse, but when Pa went around the back the door was open, so he went inside and waited out the rest of the day, his feet propped up on Harper's desk. When the sheriff finally came in, near dusk, Pa sat up, started out of his thoughts.

             
"Mm," muttered the sheriff, hanging up his coat. "Thought maybe I'd find you in here. S'pose you've cleaned me out of my whiskey by now."

             
"You're wrong. I don't know how long it's been since I've had a drop. Prob'ly can't stomach it, now." He glanced up. "Don't care to try, neither."

             
Harper grunted again and turned to light a lamp in the corner. "Well, guess that's good or maybe bad for me. Dig around in that bottom drawer to your left—Lord help me if
I
can't get it down."

             
Pa swiveled in the creaky old chair and bent to get the bottle. He held it out, but kept a firm grip as his companion reached out to take it. "Well?" he asked.

             
Harper yanked the bottle and it came free. "Well, maybe I found a girl. I'll take you over tomorrow morning." He popped the cork and held the bottle to his lips, then paused, peering over it with raised eyebrows. "Don't fret," he said, "I ain't lookin' to get drunk. Folks don't look kindly on a sheriff gettin' drunk any more'n once a month, an' I already filled that."