When Henry Came Home (6 page)

             
Henry bent a little, putting his hand on the sill, and peered out. "Our—our place," he said. He watched, feeling Mary's face close to his as people, mostly adults, came in and out of the little door to the office they had rented, carrying things.

             
"They're movin' us all in," she said. "A surprise."

             
Henry watched a man go in with a large leather chair. He couldn't quite see who it was. "That's not mine," he said.

             
Mary scrunched up her nose. "It ain't mine, either," she returned. "Do you figure-- Henry, they're givin' us stuff, too!"

             
Henry stood back upright. "We can't—" he said, "we can't—"

             
"What we can't do is give back stuff folks gave outa their hearts. It's only a few things, anyway. Mostly it's ours." Henry seemed unsettled, but Mary took his arm. "Come on back to the room. We gotta find somethin' to do all day."

             
The boy was in their room, standing on tiptoe by the dresser, trying to set the pitcher of water down. Mary went to him quickly and took the handle, setting it safely by the porcelain basin. "Long as we're stuck here, you got any games?" she asked. "Cards or somethin?"

             
The boy thought. "I know where there's a board, for checkers," he said.

             
"All right, that'll do fine." She watched as he scurried from the room, smiling. "How many little ones you wanna have?" she asked Henry, dropping onto the edge of the bed. It creaked beneath her.

             
He thought about this for a moment. "As many as come, I reckon," he said.

             
They played checkers for a long while, maybe an hour, but Mary grew restless. While Henry was contemplating a move, she got up and went across the hall again. In a moment, she was back. "Still there," she grumbled. "Fine thing, to be cooped up like this after a wedding day."

             
Henry looked up, his move finished, but didn't say anything, waiting.

             
She paced to the window, which looked out back of town, out into flat land with scraggly grass and a few low-lying shrubs. The day was dark, with rain clouds looming. Farther off, up on top of the nearest hill, was the only tree, rimmed by a little fence and small, dark stones sticking up in rows. "Wonder why graveyards always come by trees," she said. "There's so few out here."

             
Henry put his chin in his hand and looked at the checkerboard. "I expect it starts with some folks lookin' to bury someone they loved. Seems kinda lonely just to stick'm down in the ground out where nothin' is and maybe nobody'll ever come. It's more company, with a tree, and folks passin' by maybe stop there for shade, and see someone died and are respectful. I guess after that it's just a matter of putting dead folks all in the same place."

             
"Sounds nice, puttin' it like that. Like you wouldn't mind bein' dead there, if you had to." She peered up at the sky, and then again at the lone tree. "There's wind out, I can tell. Fast wind, not cold and not warm, but big and real, like it was alive and going every which way. It's a warning, kind of. Says, 'rain'll be here, soon, soon.' I gotta get out there, Hen." She took a deep breath, wishing she were outside breathing the air, fresh and moist like damp earth. "I always think on days like these how it must be gonna be like this at judgment day, clouds all low and powerful."

             
Henry stacked checkers on top of one another, destroying the game in play. They made soft ticking noises when the red and black paint hit. "Probably there's a door out back," he said.

             
Mary turned from the window. "You wanna go out?" she asked eagerly. "Just for a walk? Out that way nobody'd see us."

             
"Sure." He took his cane in hand and Mary came over to help him up off the bed. They went, Mary with hurrying little steps, out the door and down the hall, where the little boy was still waiting.

             
"All we're gonna do is go out back a while," she told him. "There a door to out back we can go out of?" The boy nodded and led them eagerly through the back kitchen, empty now, apparently relieved that they weren't demanding to get out the front. "Don't he remind you of someone?" asked Mary, whispering.

             
Henry looked puzzled for a moment. "No," he said at last. "Can't say he does. Who're you thinkin' of?"

             
Mary shook her head. "No one, I guess," she said, smiling a little. They were at the back steps now and she put a hand under Henry's arm. She almost said, "Careful," but didn't because it would have been silly. She turned when they were on the ground to thank the little boy, but he was gone and the door was shut. "Hope it ain't locked," she said, thinking aloud.

             
"I never seen a locked door in this town," said Henry. "But I guess last time I checked I was a kid." He looked up, out. "Where're we goin'?" he asked as a matter of course.

             
Mary pointed. "Up there," she said. Stepping farther away from the hotel, the wind began to play with the skirt of her dress, tugging it first one way and then another. She eyed the tree on the hill, watched as it swayed a little in the wind. "We're like sisters today," she said. "That too far?"

             
"The hill? No."

             
"Good. Maybe we shoulda brought somethin' to eat," she considered, thinking Henry would probably be tired when they got there. It was a ways off.

             
"We'll do."

             
Mary shrugged, agreeing mildly, and then smiled, elvish. "Maybe there'll be some wild berries," she said. "Comin' offa somebody's grave."

             
Henry glanced at her, quickly, and gave a short, low laugh. Mary, in turn, looked at him, surprised. "What?" he asked, at her stare.

             
She pointed at him and her smile came back. "You laughed," she said. "I don't think I've heard you laugh, since you’ve been back."

             
"I—laugh," he said, suddenly self-conscious in his quiet, unsettled sort of way.

             
"No—not out loud, like that. Do it again," she prompted.

             
"Why?"

             
"I think it's beautiful. Come on, just a little."

             
He looked embarrassed. "I can't—just laugh. You gotta have a reason to laugh."

             
Mary threw her head back and let a peal of pure joy flood out into the air. After a moment she settled, holding her ribcage, and looked back at him. "See, there's a reason. Just bein' happy's reason."

             
"I—" he looked elsewhere. "It's different with you."

             
She bit her lip, thinking. One edge of her mouth pulled up a little bit, a smile escaping anyway. "All right, I'll think up a joke. I know plenty." She looked ahead, and they continued to walk, almost halfway there, now. For a long while, she was silent. Henry looked at her, briefly. "I can't think of one, now that I want to," she complained. "Oh well." She shrugged and took his hand.

             
When they got up to the top of the hill, Henry leaned his back against the tree trunk and Mary sat across from him, on a tombstone. "Sure you oughta be doin' that?" queried Henry, smiling a little.

             
Mary looked puzzled, then glanced down at the stone below her and read the name. "Oh, he won't mind. This here's George Bonner, remember him?"

             
Henry considered, then shook his head.

             
"Used to run the shoe shop. Always did repairs for free. Ain't any shoe shop here, now. I kinda miss it."

             
Henry looked out at the yard of gray stones before him, some chipped and worn. There wasn't any fence around them; they just kind of petered out where the hill started to curve down, and when folks died they just added on the edges. That way there weren't any empty spots waiting to be filled. "Awful strange place to be," he said, "just after a wedding."

             
Mary shrugged. "Just part of life. You get born, fall in love, have kids, and die. Mostly that's it, I guess, but it's a lot better'n it sounds."

             
"So are we halfway through?"

             
She shrugged again. "Maybe, maybe not." She got up and wandered out among the stones, looking at them. "I got lotsa folks here. Grandpas, great-grandpas. Graveyard ain't got the power to scare, with so many nice folks here." She turned a little. "You got people here?"

             
Henry hung one hand up on the opposite shoulder. "Nah. My folks moved out here after they got married."

             
There came a deep rumble of thunder and Mary froze, looking up. A moment later she was in motion, weaving in and out of the headstones, her skirt gathered in her hands. A blade of lightning, far off, sliced through the sky. "Rain!" she cried, as little droplets landed on her brown skin and began to roll down. Henry laughed, catching her as she ducked under the tree. She threw her arms about him and looked up into his eyes, smiling, her face shiny and wet and adoring. "Am I so funny?" she asked, and kissed him before he could answer. After, she laid her head against his chest, looking out and down to where the town was. "I wonder if we should start back now before it floods or wait and see if it stops?"

             
"Let's set for a while." He braced one hand against the tree and slid down, slowly, to the ground. Mary dropped down beside him on the hard-packed dirt. They sat, quiet for a while, holding hands and watching the rain. Sometimes the wind blew it suddenly, and they got a little shower. It wasn't bitterly cold, though. "Mary—" said Henry, after a while.

             
"What?" She scooted closer.

             
"Just 'cause—just 'cause I don't laugh—that don't mean I ain't happy."

             
She put her head on his shoulder. "I know. Folks're all differn't."

             
He was silent again. Then, "Do you figure—we know each other well enough?" He paused. "To be married, I mean."

             
Mary shrugged. "Sure. Folks seem complicated, but they ain't so hard to figger. If we ain't aquainted enough, nobody who gets hitched is. I can't remember not knowin' you. I guess I know most everything about you right now. Most everything I need to, anyway."

             
"You—you do?"

             
Mary placed two fingers against her right temple and closed her eyes. "Absolutely. At this very minute, you are terribly hungry, and can't think of anything except havin' a scrambled egg sandwich." She opened her eyes and saw he was smiling.

             
"I think maybe you're readin' someone else's mind," he told her.

             
She got up and pulled him after. "Well, one of us is thinkin' that way, anyway, and now we're married we're s'posed to be one person, so I guess we oughta get back. Besides which, I am gettin' awful chilled."

             
"You want my jacket?"

             
"Nah. Walkin'll warm me."

             
"Sure? Maybe we oughta put it over our heads."

             
"It'd just be trouble." She tugged his arm. "Come on, before it pours!"

             
They stepped out from under the tree and started quickly down the hill, heads ducked down a little to protect their faces from the full force of the rain. "Looks like pouring to me," commented Henry.

             
Mary laughed. "You weren't here last spring!"

             
Henry's thoughts went back to the hospital for a moment. "No," he said. He slipped a little in the newly made mud, but Mary caught him by the arm, firm. He paled for a moment, but regained himself quickly. "Anyway," he said, when they were halfway there, "I've never had a scrambled egg sandwich."

             
"Never?" She seemed disbelieving.

             
"Well—it doesn't—sound very good."

             
"Oh, they're wonderful! I'll have to make you one."

             
"I thought you said your eggs could kill."

             
She laughed. "Well—the hotel cook, then. –You're shivering." Both of them were thoroughly soaked.

             
"So are you," he said. Little spherical raindrops dripped from his hair and down over his face like beaded pearls.

             
"Well, let's just hurry then." And so they did, with Henry only slipping once more.