When Henry Came Home (50 page)

             
"It is not a matter of pride!" Henry's voice was surprisingly strong—fierce, even—and on the back of the armchair, his knuckles went white. A moment later he wrenched his hand away and limped to the mantle over the fireplace, distancing himself from Edward. "It is a matter of—of—" He struggled for a word, then let out a small, frustrated exclamation and let his body sink against the cool brick. Slowly, his hand went to his face, pressed against his eyes for a moment and then slid away, listless. When he spoke again, his voice was only a whisper. "When I came home," he said, "I told myself-- I would not—
not
bargain for life. In spite of it—I would not bottle myself up inside—refuse to—to—to live, just so I could have another day—or—week—or year."

             
Edward reached out, fumbling ahead of himself for the chair and then stepping around it. He stopped there in the center of the room, not quite sure where Henry was. He spoke to the voice. "You haven't done that, Henry, not one bit, and I admire you because I wouldn't have been so brave. But now—you
are
bargaining for time. You have to, because your little girl needs you here--"

             
"Don't tell me what my child needs." He ended the sharp rebuttal with a cough.

             
"No. I'm not. I—don't think I
have
to tell you." He let out a breath and sank into the chair behind him. "Just—keep it in the house, for now, all right? I'm not asking you to use it just yet, and I'm not asking you to tie yourself there and never get up again. But—just keep it in the house, for when you do need it. And you will, Henry, you know I'm right. You can't keep this up forever."

             
Henry's jaw clenched and his hand knotted into a fist. He forced himself to take a breath. "I know," he said at last, voice tight.

             
Edward got up and went to the door. Joey had left the pipe along side of the chair, and he picked it up and went back into the house, down the hall and into the bath.

              After perhaps two hours, Edward felt someone at his back. He straightened his spine, hand on one knee, and turned. Henry was dimly outlined in the doorway. "I'm almost done," said Edward. "I hope you don't mind I found my way out to the barn for some tools."

             
"No," Henry answered, low. He stepped in as Edward went back to his work, observing the copper pipe that came up from the spout, ran along the wall, and extended over the center of the tub. "You—you're right," he said, quietly pale. "I want to apologize—"

             
"Don't—it's all right. I guarantee if I were in your place I'd have done more than exchange a few words."

             
"—And thank you. For everything." He faltered a little and put a hand against the wall.

             
Edward shrugged and glanced back over his shoulder. "I'd do this for you any day," he said, "but if you want the truth what I'm doing is really in return for what Mary gave me." He smiled, and it wavered and then was gone. "Can't really repay her—but I'll try."

             
Henry was silent, unable to refuse the claim, and after a moment accepted it with a quiet nod.

             
"There," said Edward at last, grunting as he pushed himself to his feet. He stood back to admire his work and shook his head. "Shoot," he said to himself. "Twenty years my eyes are gone and I'm still not used to it." He laughed and bent over, giving the faucet knob a twist. There was a short sputter, and then water rained down from overhead. "Whoa!" he protested, yanking the knob back the other way. The water stopped, abruptly, except for a few rhythmic drips. He put a foot out, sliding it over the water that had splashed on the floor.

             
Behind him, Henry chuckled softly and stifled the cough that followed it. "What is it?" he asked, when he had himself again.

             
Edward bit his lip. "Well--" he said, "you'll have to put up a sheet or something-- to keep it from coming out like that. But in the east, they're calling them showers. Mostly everyone hates them, but I thought, for you--" he shrugged. "Well—you can put a mat in the bottom of the tub, then just stand—or take a chair or whatever." He felt his face go a little warm. "So?"

             
Henry considered. "Yes," he said at last, his voice slow. He gave a half-smile. "I like it."

             
Edward grinned, relieved, and slid himself under Henry's arm. "Come out on the porch," he urged. "It's warm enough we can have supper there. –Where's Daisy? I've got a surprise for her, too."

             
"Ms. Beaumont has her in the kitchen."

             
"Mm. Good." He helped Henry out to the porch and was about to ease him into the swing when he felt him pull back.

             
"No," he said, and Edward stopped. "—There."

             
Edward eyed the chair and then Henry, uncertain. "Are you sure?"

             
"Yes." His voice was plain.

             
"All right." He let go of Henry and held the wheels steady while he got in. "Good?"

             
Henry coughed softly and sat back. "Yes."

             
"All right, I'll get Daisy."

             
Edward went into the house, leaving Henry alone with the endless plain that stretched out on every side, far as the eye could see. He took a breath and let it out in a kind of weary sigh. Although he remained still, he felt the chair where he touched it, examined it with his body. The woven cane creaked at his weight, however little. He put the bottom of his cane on the footrest and leaned it against the seat at his side.

             
Edward emerged, holding Daisy under the armpits, out from his body a ways. Seeing her father, she gave a screech of joy and cycled her legs violently in the air. "She kicks something awful," commented Edward, wry. He handed her over quickly. Almost immediately she quieted, settling on her father's lap. Her small pink fingers grasped at the chair, curious at something new.

             
"Is Joey still here?" Edward asked.

             
Henry put out a finger, and then quickly slipped his hand around Daisy before she tumbled from his lap. "That way, I think."

             
Edward turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. "Joey!" he called. "Joey!" He let his hands fall to his sides.

             
"He's stepped out of the barn," Henry said softly.

             
Edward beckoned largely with one arm. "Come have dinner!"

             
The boy grinned and jogged over, just as Ms. Beaumont came out with two plates. Edward met her, taking them. "Thank you," she said, nodding politely. "I'll get the rest."

             
Edward shoved one into Joey's hands. "Eat, boy, you should be hungry as a hog."

             
"Yes, sir," he laughed, dropping down on the steps.

             
He held the other out to Henry. "Put her down on the porch," he said. "Joey will keep her from going over the edge."

             
"No—it's all right." Henry, almost protective, put an arm around Daisy. Wincing, he shifted to one side so that she slipped down on the seat beside him. Between the armrests there was ample room, and they fit easily side-by-side. He accepted the plate from Edward. "Thank you. Now—what is your surprise?"

             
Edward took a step back and bumped into Ms. Beaumont. "Oh—thank you, ma'am." He accepted his plate, and she went back in. He turned back to Henry. "Not yet," he said. "After we've finished." He sat himself in the center of the porch swing and kicked his feet up on the railing. "Henry," he said, between mouthfuls, "I envy you, living out here."

             
"Why don't you like it in the city, sir?" asked Joey.

             
Edward shook his head. "Too many people too close together." He waved his fork in Joey's direction. "Do you share a room with your brother?"

             
"Yes."

             
"And most of the time you hate it, don't you."

             
"Well—mostly, sir, I guess."

             
"But you can do it, because when you get angry with him, all you have to do is run off over a hill, and there you are, by yourself and no one else in the world. In the city—well, it's like having ten men sharing your room, and ten men sharing your office, and ten men tagging along with you wherever you go. Sure, you can find a park, maybe get off on your own, but you still hear people, all around you, other people trying to get away the same as you."

             
"Oh," said Joey, thoughtful. "But—sir—we—me and Brian, I mean, we tried, before, to have different rooms. It only lasted a week, and then we couldn't stand it any more."

             
"Well—" Edward turned his head sharply. "Henry, I can't see your face. Are you smiling?"

             
"Yes."

             
"It's very rude."

             
"I think—Joey has you, there."

             
He let his plate clatter down beside him. "Well, I'm finished," he declared, getting up. "You folks stay right where you are—I'll get my surprise, and then we'll see how you treat your guest."

             
Henry brushed his arm as he went past. "We're sorry—we are," he said, soothing.

             
"No, I don't think you are at all." Edward went into the house, letting the door slam behind him.

             
Henry closed his eyes, still smiling faintly. "Edward always used to play like that," he said, mostly to himself.

             
Joey leaned against the post behind him. "I like him," he said.

             
"Yes... so do I."

             
Edward returned, clumping loudly on the porch. He held out a small bundle and tossed it in Joey's direction. "There you are," he said. "Oh--" he reached into his pocket and withdrew a small book of matches, which he flipped the same way with his thumb. "You'll need those."

             
Joey held out his hands. "Firecrackers!" he exclaimed.

             
"I know it's the wrong time of year, but—well, the weather's good, and I'll bet Daisy's never seen any, has she?"

             
"No."

             
Edward came around behind the chair. "All right, then. Joey, take them out in the yard there, and light up a few. Careful of your fingers, though. Your Pa would never forgive me." He pushed a little, sliding Henry and Daisy to the edge of the porch. "No—" he amended, "not only would he never forgive me, he'd probably kill me, too."

             
Joey grinned and did as he was told, sorting out the packaged explosives and choosing one to take far from the others. He tore out a match and lit it, then scrambled quickly back to watch, squatting on his toes. It lit up red and spun wildly, shooting off harmless sparks and whistling.

             
Daisy, back on her father's lap again, was transfixed, and stared intently at the sparkling light.

             
Edward pulled a chair up next to Henry, flipping it backwards and straddling the seat. He peered at Daisy, now on his level, and laughed deeply, waving a hand in front of her eyes. "She's gone, Henry!" he cried. "Hypnotized!"

             
But by the third one, she was an old hand, and shrieked happily at the noise. Her arms waved up and down in unison, rocking her whole body. Henry put his arms around her middle to keep her in place, and winced now and then when her leg flew out and hit his.

             
"Joey!" called Edward, "there's a bigger one—a cone—save it for last!"

             
"All right," he shouted back, and lit up another one.

             
"Can you see them?" asked Henry, after a while.

             
"Of course!" Edward grinned. "I can see everything all the time—it's just so blurry I can't make sense of it. Firecrackers, they're pretty much blurry already, so it works out fine." He reached out and tickled Daisy. "I knew she'd like them."

             
Henry gave a half-smile. "She likes anything loud, seems like," he said.

             
"Pots and pans?"

             
"Very much."

             
He laughed. "She'll be a pianist. Or a singer."

             
"All right!" called Joey. "Here's the last one!"