When Henry Came Home (7 page)

             
The back door, as they had supposed, was not locked, and they went in to find the little boy waiting for them. "I saw you out the window," he said, handing Mary a heavy red blanket.

             
"Thank you." She shook it open, threw it over Henry's shoulders, and got under it herself, feeling little bumps raising on her arms under the sleeves of her dress.

             
"I thought—maybe you'd want a hot bath."

             
"What?" asked Mary, although she had heard perfectly.

             
"It's just next to your room—"

             
"Oh, you wonderful boy!" she exclaimed. She reached out to hug him but pulled back, realizing she was sopping wet. "Thank you, thank you! Hen, do you--"

             
Henry was already reaching into his pocket, and flipped the boy a coin. The child held it for a moment between his fingers, looking at it almost hungrily, then slipped it into his own pocket, warm and dry. He nodded a thanks. "This way," he said, and they followed. In the large washroom, he pointed out the soap and towels and departed quickly, followed by another "thank you" from Mary.

             
When the door closed, Mary stripped to underclothes and then tugged off Henry's pants while he was unbuttoning his shirt, both of them gazing eagerly at the steam rising from the tub. "You go first," said Henry. The tub was rather small.

             
"No, you go. You're turning blue."

             
"So are you."

             
Mary put her hands on her hips. "Well then, if neither of us is gonna have a nice time in a hot bath while the other freezes, we'll just have to squeeze in together. Before the water gets cold, anyway." Henry looked a little dubious, but let Mary help him in over the edge. After a moment she slid in the other way, facing him, sighing contentedly with the just-under-scalding water. "Oow!" she cried seconds later, her brow wrinkling. She wiggled her feet. "My toes! I got pins-and-needles from them coming unfrozen!"

             
Henry smiled and rubbed her feet under the water.

             
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes. "Mmm. That's better." They basked for a long while, their bodies turning lobster red in the steaming water. At last, however, it began to mellow down to room temperature. Mary sighed. "We better get out," she said reluctantly, "or we'll get chilled again." The room was warm now, from the heat of the water soaking into the wood, and they dried and dressed comfortably in dry clothes Mary found just outside the door. "I feel like I been ironed," said Mary, hot now. She opened the door and went out in the hall. "I wonder if they're done yet." Entering the vacant room, she crossed the floor and peered out the window. "I don't see anyone," she said, turning to Henry, who had followed her in. She went back to the window and lifted the shade a little more, boldly. "Nope," she said after a minute. "Nobody. Shall we go look? I expect they're waiting for us inside."

             
"All right." He looked distinctly unhappy, but Mary skipped over and took his arm.

             
"Don't be upset. We'll do a nice turn for them sometime, or for their young'ns, when they get married. That's how it goes."

             
"—All right."

             
The hotel boy wasn't waiting for them in the hall, so Henry and Mary went out to sidewalk and then down into the street. The sky was silent now, and the dirt had been packed so hard that a little rain wasn't enough to make mud of it. The street, for the most part, was empty. They crossed over to the other side, but when they started up the steps, Henry's foot slipped and he stumbled back heavily. Mary was quick, grabbing his arm and pulling forward, but not quick enough to keep his leg from buckling a little before he regained balance.

             
"You okay?" she asked, one hand on his arm and the other on his back. He leaned forward against her grip, and she saw his jaw clench tightly as the fingers of his empty hand dug into his palm, white. He breathed in sharply through his teeth. "Hen," she said quietly, bending near and wrapping her arm around him, "you okay?"

             
He nodded sharply, but shut his eyes, tight.

             
"You want me to get someone?"

             
He shook his head, and unfolded his hand to grip her arm. "Wait," he whispered, almost hissing.

             
"All right," she said, feeling helpless. She took his hand and squeezed it. "All right."

             
After a long moment, he straightened, opening his eyes, though his jaw was still tense. "Okay," he said, breathing a little easier.

             
Mary was worried. "Hen—are you sure?"

             
He shook his head again. "Happens—sometimes--" he said. "It—goes away."

             
"But what if it's not--"

             
Again, he shook his head, moving his arm in a sharp cutting-off gesture. "Just—bone splinters, doc says. Move the wrong way--" He left it hanging, closing his eyes briefly as he let out another tight breath.

             
"We can go back to the hotel, if you want. Wait a while."

             
"No—it's all right. Let's go in."

             
"Here." She slipped under his arm, and they went up the steps. Inside, the front room was devoid of people, filled with things. A couch that had belonged to Mary's mother, always designated to go to her when she married; Henry's large walnut desk, a leather chair behind it that was new; in the corner a cabinet with drawers, for filing. On the desk there was a plate of cookies, with a little white card standing folded on top. Mary looked around, biting her lip. "It's wonderful," she said, her eyes bright. Quickly, she left Henry and stepped into the back rooms, looking for the hidden do-gooders.

             
In her absence, Henry went to the new file cabinet, his steps slow and careful, quicker on his bad leg to keep the pressure off. The cabinet was polished a deep, nearly red brown, and he ran his fingers along the top edge, lightly. He turned and went to the desk and touched the little white note on top of the cookies, picking it up and flipping it open. "To the Petersons," it read in scripted letters. "From your loving town. May you always be happy.” Mary came back then, looking puzzled, and he handed her the note.

             
"Can't find nobody," she said, and read. She looked up, smiling, and picked up two cookies, giving one to Henry. "It's sweet," she said. "They don't want us knowin' who all it is-- just ever'body."

             
Henry tossed the cookie a few inches back to the plate and pressed his hand to the desktop. "How am I gonna do business?" he asked, quietly disturbed. "Knowin' we owe ever'one? I can't charge, knowin' that."

             
Mary took his hand, swallowing quickly. "Sure you can. Just ask a fair price, that's all anyone wants. You'd do that anyway, but it don't matter." She took another bite of her cookie, then held it up to him until he bit off a piece, reluctantly. "Come see the bedroom. I think Ma musta done it up special." She led him down the tiny hallway to the back and into the little room. Sarah had given up the big brass bed she and Mary had shared, and now it stood in the middle of the room, against the right wall. "My great-gramma made that quilt," said Mary. "I hope Sarah ain't put out I got it, but I'm the one that quilts most." It was white, hand stitched, with red rose vines winding around the edge. You could still see little grey lines some places from the pencil that had been used to mark out the stitching.

             
"It's pretty—too nice for a bed. It oughta be hung up somewhere."

             
Mary shrugged. "I got another quilt. This one's for special occasions, so it don't wear out." She looked out the window. "Rain's comin' down again—gettin' dark." She turned back to Henry, her eyes searching. "You look tired. Wanna sit down here and I'll go see if there's food in the kitchen?"

             
"Sure." Mary pulled back the quilt and he sat down, grimacing a little. Then she was gone and he could hear her rustling down the hall and, after, faint footsteps in the kitchen. He toed off his shoes and rubbed his skull with one hand.

             
"There was ham sandwiches already made up," Mary announced, entering again. She handed him one, without a plate, and sat down beside him. They ate in silence, and when she was half-finished, Mary laid her head on his shoulder. "Don't let's ever be queer about bein' quiet," she said. "Talkin' don't always mean sayin' anything."

             
"I ain't no stranger to silence," Henry returned, smiling just barely.

             
Mary laughed softly and put her arm through his. "No, I guess that's my trouble," she said.

             
"But you're always sayin' something."

             
"Am I? I'm glad." She yawned. "It was a good day. Now, when does the fun stop and we gotta get to work? Never, I hope."

             
"It ain't work if you like it."

             
"I like it with you." She yawned again. "Maybe we oughta go to bed. You want anything else to eat?"

             
"No."

             
"All right. Here." She knelt on the floor and pulled off a sock.

             
"Don't—I'll—" he began, putting out a hand.

             
"Shh," she silenced him softly, her hands moving. "Just unbutton your shirt." And in a few moments, she stood and pulled back the covers, letting him get in. "I'm gonna get a glass of water." She went into the kitchen, reaching around all the while to unlace her bodice, and poured a glass from a pitcher on the counter. She drank it there and left it, then went back to the bedroom and slipped her dress off, hanging it over a chair. The room was almost completely dark now, and they had lit no lamps, but her eyes were used to it and she moved swiftly, unlacing her boots and putting her nightgown on over her head. She went around to her side of the bed and slid in quickly, softly, scooting over until she touched Henry's arm. She moved closer, her fingers gliding over his chest to embrace him. "Hen," she said quietly.

             
He was asleep.

             
Under her breath, she laughed. She listened for a moment, and discovered that he was snoring softly. Then she curled up next to him, wrapping herself in his arm. In his sleep, he shifted, pulling her closer, and it was not long until she, too, was sound asleep as death.

              Mary wakened lazily the next morning, sighing and rolling over a little. She stretched, her hands reaching out under the covers and feeling only cool sheets. Blinking against the morning light, she opened her eyes and saw him, sitting next to the bed on a little wooden chair. He was leaned forward a little, gritting his teeth. "Hen," she mumbled sleepily, "what are you doing?" He jerked slightly at the sound of her voice. Sitting up on one elbow, she saw that he was struggling with his pants, and sank back to the bed. "Hen..." she said softly, hurt. She waited until he glanced at her, looking like a shame-faced child, and patted the bed. "Lay back down."

             
Slowly, he lifted his body from the chair to the edge of the bed and sat there, looking at the ground. After a moment, she sat up and touched his bare shoulder gently, feeling his skin cool under her fingers and somehow sensitive. She put her other hand on his other shoulder and leaned forward against his back. "Please, Hen," she whispered in his ear, "Please don't hurt yourself. I'm here—to help you."

             
He fingered the seam around the top of his pants, his fingers trembling. "I—didn't—at home--"

             
She stroked his hair. "I know you done it for yourself at home, but there ain't no reason to hurt now, there just ain't. I'm here. We help each other out."

             
For a moment, his breath held, and then he sort of shuddered, letting it out. He cleared his throat. "A man—oughta be able to put on his—his own pants."

             
"Sure, he oughta. Things ain't always like they oughta be, either, but if you're thinkin' that way then you've already proved yourself, ain't you?" She was a little angry, but not much.

             
He shook his head, slightly. "I shouldn'ta—shouldn'ta--"

             
Mary didn't fill up the silence with words. She waited, holding him tight around his shoulders. He closed his eyes. "Now, I know you," she whispered tenderly, "so I know what you meant ain't against me. But if you're thinkin' you done me wrong by marryin' me, you're dead wrong. I knew with my eyes wide open how it was gonna be. Your Ma--" she stopped, drifting off.

             
Henry looked at her over his shoulder, eyes mournful. "My Ma—what?" he asked, knowing already.