When Henry Came Home (45 page)

             
"Poor boy," he muttered softly.

              In the morning after breakfast, the rain had cleared except for a few looming clouds on the horizon, so Pa hitched up a wagon from the barn and headed back for town with Henry and Daisy by his side. The child bounced happily on Henry's lap with the motion of the buckboard, every now and then on a downward beat crying out eagerly, "Da!"

             
"I think that's gonna be 'Daddy' soon," laughed Pa.

             
Henry bent and spoke into his child's ear. "Da!" she said again, and Henry repeated his words, then turned his head aside suddenly to cough. "Pa!" she said, finally, and next to her Pa's laughter became nearer a roar.

             
He reached over and patted her head, covered with light, wispy hair. "Smart little gal," he told her. She grinned and gurgled and her bown eyes sparkled.

             
They were quieter as they neared the graveyard, and Pa turned the wagon so they circled around from the outside of town, following a faint set of ruts that stopped just at the bottom of the hill. Henry turned to him. "Would you—look after my girl for a minute?" he asked.

             
"Sure, son," grunted Pa, taking Daisy as she was handed over. "Take your time. Need some help?"

             
He moved to the side of the wagon. "No—no, I got it." Holding his breath, he slid over the side to the ground. For a moment he clung to the edge of the wagon boards so as not to slip in the caking mud, then let go and started slowly up the sloping hill. Pa watched him a minute to make certain he was all right, then turned to Daisy and began to bounce her on one knee.

             
When he reached the first gravestone, Henry put his hand out to lean against it a little, resting. He remembered well, of course, where Mary's family lay, and after a moment began to circle round to the place. Her stone was easy to pick out, new and brilliant white amongst the old and rotting stones. He came to it, feeling strangely hollow inside, a kind of dull sadness throbbing within. The marble, cool as he touched it, was topped with a small, fairy-like angel, her stony robes flowing about her legs as though she were caught in a heavy wind. He reached up, feeling a chill breeze in his face, and let his fingers trace the lines of the delicate pixie face. He looked over his shoulder at the giant tree that topped the hill, overshadowing it, and remembered and knew that she did not mind dying, no—but oh—he minded being alone.

             
He took his hand from the stone and reached inside to the warmth of his coat pocket, and, withdrawing the paper he had placed there the night before, read it silently to the open air. After, he held it a moment, looking up at the clouded sky, and then let it drop from his fingers to the ground below. Again, he held to the gravestone a moment, and used his cane to scrape a few rocks over the edge of the paper.

             
Pa looked up again as he started down, squinting in the scattered brightness of the sun through the clouds. "Da," said Daisy, quite serious, pointing.

             
"That's right, honey," rumbled Pa. "And your ma, too, I imagine."

              After Pa left Henry and Daisy off at their place and saddled his own horse, he headed back home; then, on a half-resisted thought, he swung back towards town. He rode his horse straight up through a quarter of the grave markers, then unseated himself and threw the reins around a cross-topped stone. "You pull that off and I've got a bullet for you," he muttered to the beast, who shifted nervously at his tone.

             
He stepped around the rest of the weather-bitten monuments to his father's and mother's and then his daughter's. The note was still there and he picked it up, brushing off a bit of the damp earth with thick and callused fingers as he began to read.
Dearest Mary-- Every moment I think of you, and it pains so much I'd almost rather cut out my heart, but I cannot help it and I cannot say I would not have done it the same--
Pa's eyes fell down the page, and he felt his face suddenly hot.
Daisy is almost walking, any day now, and better than me, I'm--

             
Pa threw the paper with all his great force, but it caught in the slight breeze and fluttered to rest at his feet. "Oughta be 'shamed a' yourself, Benjamin Kelton Jacobs," he muttered sharply, furious. "Goin' lookin' into--" his eyes blazed, and he nearly ripped his pocket open getting out a match. He picked up the letter, lit the match, and set it to burn, holding it by one corner until it all had gone to ash. Tossing the spent match aside, he crossed himself. "Forgive this damned sinner, Lord," he said, then kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the name etched in stone. "And forgive an old man, darlin'. He tries to do best by you, but sometimes his thinkin' just don't come out right."

When that same year found itself gripped in the dead of winter, the Peterson homestead received another unexpected visit. It was towards the late afternoon and Henry was laid out on the sofa, his legs stretched along the seat as he sat, feeding Daisy with a spoon as she stood by his side, clinging to his coat for balance. Hearing something, he stopped, holding the spoon just out of the child's reach. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, and waited a moment. "Ms. Beaumont," --this time more sharply.

             
She hurried in, from the hall. "Yes, sir."

             
"Please look out the window—there's someone coming." Daisy whimpered for the spoonful of mush, but went unnoticed for the moment.

             
The woman went to the window, her steps small and exact, and peered out. "There is, sir," she said. "Very close now—it's harder to hear for the snow."

             
"Who is it, please?" He looked down just as Daisy's small hand reached up, spilling the contents of the spoon over the front of his shirt.

             
Her eyes narrowed against the blinding whiteness outside. "I don't know the carriage, sir. Wait, it's stopping. There's a woman getting out, sir—red hair."

             
Ignoring Daisy's continuing grunts for more, he let the spoon fall into the bowl and set it roughly on the table, out of her reach. "Then help me up," he said, stifling a cough. "Quickly." Ms. Beaumont did so, handing him his cane. "And get me a wet rag from the kitchen." As she left he went to the window himself and saw her walking through the snow, holding skirts up and stepping high. He felt his breath catch again and leaned on the sill until the coughs passed, leaving him a little lightheaded. Ms. Beaumont was there when he looked up again, the requested cloth held out. "Thank you," he forced, barely a whisper, wiping at what was surely to become a stain. "I'm going to ask you to stay in your room until I call for you—please." He handed back the rag.

             
She bowed her head slightly before turning. "Yes sir."

             
Henry limped after her, towards the door. "Da-dee!" called Daisy, toddling after him. She got a few steps away from the sofa and wavered, then sat down in place, deciding a moment later to crawl back the other way after all.

             
The knock at the door came just as Henry reached it, and he paused a moment with his hand on the knob, breathing steadily. He opened it, and they looked at each other. Her eyes told nothing; they were all but blank. "Sarah," he said at last, stepping aside. "Come in."

             
She nodded, voicing a small "thank you," and stepped inside the door, stomping her feet a little to get the snow off. "May I sit down?" He took her coat as she removed it, hanging it up, then gestured to the front room and followed her in. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of Daisy, who sat on the floor, entirely absorbed with one of the small wooden toys Henry had carefully whittled and polished. "Oh," Sarah breathed, pressing her gloved hands palms-together. "She's beautiful—just like Mary—exactly like her..." She turned. "Where is she? I want to—she's not here, is she? She would have been out by now."

             
"No—she's not here."

             
Sarah's face fell, and her voice was colder. "Oh. Well—may I hold her?" He nodded, and stood watching, silent as she picked up the baby, bouncing her a little. Sarah smiled, holding Daisy above so that she looked down into her aunt's face. "You're a darling one," she cooed.

             
"Da-dee," announced Daisy.

             
"Oh, a smart one! Can you say Mommy, too?" She looked over at Henry, setting the child down again. "What's her name?"

             
"Daisy."

             
Sarah sat down on the sofa, looking suddenly serious. Her eyes met Henry's and looked away again. "You must be wondering why I've come," she said. "After all this time."

             
He coughed dryly but said nothing. He stepped around to the other side of the sofa, by the fireplace. Daisy crawled towards him and pulled herself up by his pant leg, clinging tightly, and his hand went down to brush the top of her head.

             
"And—you must despise me, for hurting Mary—I know you must."

             
"I don't."

             
"But you're angry with me." She was insisting, blunt.

             
"A—a little, maybe. Then I was, but she wasn't."

             
"That's why I've come—to apologize. Make things right, I hope." She met his eyes again, imploring. "I won't ask it from you, but—" her voice drifted away as she watched his eyes close, then turn to the window. She was silent for a long while. "But—she's not—coming back. Is she…"

             
"No," whispered Henry, struggling to hold back another onslaught of coughs.

             
Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "When—?" she choked, and saw him glance down at the child. "Oh—" her voice broke.

             
"I'll—leave you," said Henry. He started for his room, hampered a little by Daisy clinging to his pants. "You'll stay the night."

             
She nodded her head, wordlessly.

             
"If—if it's any help—you had her forgiveness from the start."

             
Sarah sobbed quietly, and buried her face in her hands.

             
Henry turned down the hall. "Ms. Beaumont." He waited a moment and she stepped out of her room, ready and waiting. "Please go out and tell the man in the carriage he may return to town, or spend the night in the barn. If Ms. Jacobs has any luggage, bring it in."

             
She nodded curtly as he went into his room. "Yes sir."

              Henry left Sarah to herself for nearly an hour, coming out again into the front room as he guessed supper was nearly ready. Sarah had gathered herself and was staring out the window, startled a little when she heard him. "I hope you are better," he said, polite. "If you like, there's supper."

             
She stood, wiping at her reddened eyes and sniffing a little. "Look at me," she said. "Cryin' like a baby at someone already more'n a year gone."

             
"But only today for you," reasoned Henry, leading the way to the kitchen. "And your sister."

             
"I suppose. What about you?" She sat at a setting and watched him sink gradually into a seat across the table, her face placid at his wince.

             
"Ms. Beaumont—Daisy is in my room. If you would--"

             
"Yes sir." She dried her hands on her apron and left the room.

             
"Well?" Sarah looked at him, eyes liquid.

             
He coughed. "I'll manage."

             
Ms. Beaumont returned, bearing the child. He held out his hands to receive her, balancing her on his good knee and leaning her back against his body. She squirmed a little, but when Ms. Beaumont brought their meals to the table she quieted, hungry. Henry took a spoon and filled it with mashed potatoes from his own plate, blowing it a little until it was only warm, then bent a little to give it to her.

             
"But still—you must miss her."

             
Henry looked up, sharply. "She was my life," he said, his voice plain and firm.

             
"And now...?"

             
He glanced down at Daisy, on his lap, who had grabbed the spoon and was trying to feed herself. "
She
is my life," he whispered.

             
"Hm." Sarah picked up her fork and began to eat. After a while, she looked up again, thoughtfully chill. "I've wanted to ask—when you were hurt," she said, "why didn't they just cut off your leg?"

             
Henry glanced out the door. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, and she swept in from the next room. "Take Daisy into the parlor and feed her, please." He waited until they were gone. It was an unusual request for him; he seldom, if ever, let Ms. Beaumont alone with his child.