When Henry Came Home (56 page)

             
She put her hands on her hips. "Of course I do. I'm not an
im
becile."

             
Henry smiled. "—You can't win," he finished.

             
Edward stood. "Well, I suppose I had better get out, then. I wouldn't want to be an 'imbecile.'"

             
"Daisy... Be—" he coughed softly, and she came to his side. "Be kind to your uncle. He loves you very much, and you'll make him—feel poorly if you're sharp."

             
She chewed her lip for a moment. "All right, Daddy," she said at last, quiet.

             
He patted her hand, and she leaned over for a kiss on the cheek. "Good girl."

             
"Do you need anything?"

             
"No, monkey. Just—stay with me a while."

             
"All right."

              "Daddy says I'm to take you riding."

             
"Does he? I should have known." Edward turned to her voice, and her small boots clomped across the porch to the steps. He hurried after her, but stopped. "Do you want to?" he asked.

             
She shrugged and made a noncommittal sound.

             
"Well, I'm not going unless you want to."

             
There was silence for a while, and then a soft, "Well—yes."

             
"Why?"

             
"Daddy doesn't like me to go out riding alone. I have to have Joey or Pa with me. But I want to go riding."

             
"Ah." He nodded. "So really, you don't like me at all—I just have to be there."

             
This one stumped her for a moment, and she thought. "You—aren't that bad," she said finally. "I just don't understand how you can be my uncle."

             
"You think someone's playing a trick, is that it?"

             
She shrugged again. "Maybe."

             
"Well, come back here and lead me to the barn and I'll tell you. Don't worry—I won't hurt you. I know you're armed." He waited, and after a few moments the small hand slipped into his. "Thank you," he said, smiling.

             
"You have to help me get the door open," she told him when they reached the barn. "I can do it myself, but it takes a while." And so they opened it together and went inside. "Wait here," she said, leaving his arm. "I'll saddle the horses."

             
"You can do quite a lot of things by yourself, can't you?"

             
"Of course."

             
"Do you know any other little girls your age?"

             
There was a grunt from Daisy and a snort from one of the horses she hefted a saddle onto its back. "No," she said. "Why?"

             
"Oh—nothing." He stood there, feeling a little awkward for doing so and then feeling silly for feeling awkward with a twelve-year-old child. Or perhaps she wasn't truly a child, not in that sense. He sighed and gave it up.

             
"Here's your horse," she said, leading a hazy black shape towards him. He put his hands out and felt its side, then bent closer to examine the saddle with his hands and eyes. "Her name is Ophelia. Can you get on yourself?"

             
"I hope so. It's been a long—
long
while." He grasped the saddle horn and groaned a little at the reach as he put his foot into the stirrup. The rest, however, was easy, and as natural as birth. He settled into the saddle, feeling strangely at home.

             
"Here are the reins. Keep her steady and I'll have Goodie saddled in a blink." True to her word, Daisy was quick with her work and soon rode out on a dappled grey. "Ophelia should be good—she likes to follow if you just let her go," she informed him.

             
And then Edward found himself out on the plain, a hazy shape in front of him and brilliant yellow racing by on all sides. He did not grin, nor smile, but his mask of concentration hid a sense of contentment that he had not felt in a long while—five years, in fact, if not longer.

             
After a while they halted, and Daisy led them beneath a sprawling oak where the horses bent to nibble at dry grass. He felt a canteen being pushed into his hands and took it, tipping his head back for a long, satisfying drink. He held it out, and it was gone again. "Thank you," he said.

             
"All right." She waited.

             
"Oh," he said. "I was going to tell you."

             
"Yes."

             
It was strange—with her, he did not feel as though he were talking to a child, nor even an adult. Rather, perhaps some sort of military commander or general, giving orders. And yet, the way she was with Henry... "You are very like your mother," he said.

             
"Most everyone says that," she agreed, sounding a little more civil. She pulled her horse up and they started off at a slow, sauntering pace.

             
"Well—I knew her fairly well. I suppose, in a literal sense—I am not really your uncle. But when I was a boy, both of my parents were killed and I went to live with your mother's family. She was like a sister to me—she called me her brother—and so, in a rather roundabout way, I am your uncle."

             
She looked at him, examining, curious. "How did your parents die?"

             
"In a railroad accident. I was with them."

             
"Was—was it difficult?"

             
He nodded, his eyes remembering. "Yes. I turned to drink. Almost—no, more than half my life gone."

             
She was silent for a long while. "I'm afraid," she said at last, quietly.

             
For a while, Edward said nothing, considering her words. She knew, then… He had felt before that she was somehow blind to her father’s condition, but of course she would know. At last, he shook his head. "You don't have to be. You aren't like me. You're like your mother. Strong. I chose to take the bottle. I know you won't."

             
"But—it will be hard." Her voice was small. Childlike.

             
"Yes. Life is always hard, I think." He sat forward and stroked Ophelia's ebon mane. "You have a family, too, and they love you." He reached inside of his coat and took out a card. "Here. Keep this. I am not anywhere long, but if ever you are near Boston, there is a man at this address—my book keeper—and he will connect us."

             
"Thank you. I'll remember."

             
"How long—has your father been in bed?"

             
"Since eight."

             
He frowned. "This morning?"

             
"No, silly, since I was eight years old. That's four years, nine months, and eighteen days, if you want to be particular."

             
"My God..."

             
"Well." She shrugged. "Here we are."

             
"What?"

             
"We're back."

             
"Back?"

             
She laughed. "I didn't take you far. You can't see anything at all, can you?"

             
He half-smiled. "Well, fairly close to that." He waved a hand in front of his face. "I think I'm losing about an inch a year."

             
She smiled. "How many inches have you left?"

             
"Oh..." he moved his hand in and out. "Seven, I think." He turned to look at her outline. "So I suppose I've got seven years left, is that it?" She giggled, and his smile left for a sigh. "I—I would like to see you," he said, a kind of longing in his voice.

             
Daisy considered. "—All right," she said at last, hesitant. "Dismount."

             
He heard her boots hit the soft earth and did likewise, finding the reins taken from his hands a moment later as she tied up the horses. Then she was back, her hand on his arm, and led him to the fence of the small corral out back of the barn. She let him go and hopped up on the top railing. "There," she said, swinging her feet in the empty air. "Come closer."

             
He obeyed, putting out a hand to touch her shoulder. He pulled her down a little until her face was very close, her nose only inches from his. For a moment his eyes went over her face, studying every detail, and then he met her eyes, large and brown and soft. "Oh," he said softly, and then again, "Oh... you—are—so
like
her..."

             
She smiled, kindly, and suddenly he was a young man again, lonely and afraid. He pulled back and turned away.

             
"What's the matter?" she asked, a little troubled. She hopped off of the railing and landed next to him on the ground.

             
He shook his head. "Nothing—you're—perfect. ...Beautiful. Just like her."

             
She put her hand into his, and looked up at him, not an adult nor a general, but a girl who would one day be a woman. "I'm glad," she said, a kind of determination in her voice, "even if it makes you cry, because Daddy loved her very much, so she must have been wonderful, and I want to be like her."

             
"Everyone loved her, darling. And you don't have to try to be like her—you are like her—so like."

             
She smiled and rested her head against his torso and he put a hand on her hair. "I'm glad."

             
He hesitated, and then put his arm around her shoulder. "Let's go in," he said, and she turned to walk with him. "Your gun—is it loaded?" he was conversational now, amiable.

             
"Of course."

             
He smiled a little. "Yes, of course. Who taught you to shoot?"

             
"Pa. He says it ain't—isn't right for a lady, especially my age, but some things can't be helped."

             
"Well, it's my experience that your grandfather is mostly right."

             
She nodded, brown hair blowing a little in the breeze. "Yes, he always is." Her small fingers pressed into his arm. "Watch out—stairs."

             
"Thank you. Do I have your permission to go in and talk with your father a little more?"

             
Daisy considered, holding the door for him. "Well—all right. As long as he's not sleeping."

             
He was not; rather, his head was propped up so that he might read from an old leather-bound volume on his lap. He looked up, blinking a little as Edward came in, and let the book fall so that it was open over his chest. "Did you—enjoy your—your ride? To—your left."

             
Edward, finding the chair, nodded in thanks and sat down. "Yes, very much," he returned. "I owe you thanks. Your daughter is beautiful."

             
"You saw—she looks—"

             
"Just like Mary, yes."

             
He sighed softly and closed his eyes, knowing it would not matter to Edward and because they were tired. "I am—so fortunate—" he whispered. "All these years—I've had a choice—to stay, or go. The struggle was wanting both—I think—I've learned—either one is enough—more than—" he coughed, and tasted blood in his mouth. "And the best thing—I—don't have to choose—anymore."

             
Edward shook his head, leaning back. "You are a far better man than I, old friend."

             
"Nonsense." He opened his eyes. "Daisy said there's a man—with a carriage—"

             
His smile was wry. "The 'man' is what they call my assistant. I may not work, but I'm an investor, and they don't want to lose me."

             
"But—you don't want—him along?"

             
"He's an all right fellow, but I'd rather be alone."

             
"Then why--?"

             
Edward shrugged and laughed a little. "Seems I—well, I lost myself in Rome for three weeks. Sent the corporation into a panic. Actually it was quite an experience, though I wouldn't want to try it out here."

             
This produced a chuckle from Henry that settled quickly into a series of soft coughs. "I think I would've liked—to tour Europe—with you," he said.