When Henry Came Home (8 page)

             
She hugged him close, kissing the top of his head. "She—warned me. Told me… what you couldn’t do." Feeling him tense, she put one hand on his chest and ran her fingers through his hair again. "Don't be angry, Hen," she pleaded, soft. "She only meant the best for you, and I didn't care anyhow."

             
"But I--"

             
"Shhh. I figger the best things only come from hard work, and I don't know why folks expect love to be any differn't than the rest." She shifted around on her knees and stepped off the bed, facing him. He looked down at his hands, still fingering the seam of his pants. Slowly, Mary put one hand out, and rested it on top of his. He stilled, and when she pulled back the fabric slipped from his fingers. For a moment she held the pair of pants to her body, then knelt at his feet. She looked up at him. "Is this all right, Hen?" she whispered.

             
He closed his eyes and nodded, barely, turning his face away.

             
Carefully, she slipped them on. "Put your hands on my shoulders," she said, at length, and for a moment they struggled together, silently. At last he stood and she put her arms around him, holding him steady. "It'll get easier," she whispered in his ear, fierce. "I promise, Hen. I promise."

             
Henry leaned back in the barber's chair.

             
"How d'you like your place?" The barber bent forward and slicked wet fingers through Henry's hair, getting it ready for a trim. He smelled strongly of shaving cream and shoe polish.

             
"Fine," said Henry. "Just fine."

             
"Hank let me in there, few months back, b'fore you rented it out—mite small, ain't it?"

             
"No." The comment was short, but not unpleasant. The barber began to trim, and Henry closed his eyes to keep out the flecks of hair. The three small rooms behind his office fit them perfectly, Mary and he; Mary had a kitchen, and they had a bedroom. The office served as a sitting room, but mostly no one came in for long; the main street was like a kind of meeting place itself, and when folks were there, they didn't seem to feel the need to sit down and discuss in a homey place like you did out further. Maybe it was that there was so much civilization all around, folks didn't feel the need to act civilized—not like they did when they were ten miles from nowhere and a parlor was about the only place you could imagine you were safe.

             
"Real pretty, what you've done with the front, though," commented the barber, snipping away without much thought to the action. He had been at his trade long enough he didn't need anything but the feel, the touch of a person's hair in his hands. After that, his thoughts just kind of floated away, and his hands did what they were supposed to.

             
"That's Mary's project. She likes things nice."

             
"Women always do."

             
"Yes."

             
He took a comb to Henry's hair. "Care for a shave, too? One bit more."

             
"No thank you." He smiled a little and handed the barber what he was due. "Mary might be put out."

             
"Oh, that's her territory, is it?" The barber chuckled and tossed the coins into the open register.

             
"I think so." His smile returned again, briefly, but it was more inward. It hadn't all sorted out yet, who did what and when, not in any sort of pattern, but he was enjoying the prospect of finding out.

             
The barber came back and pulled off the sheet covering his client. "Well, there you go then, and a nice day to ya." He put out a helping hand.

             
Henry took it and pushed himself up, nodding. "You too."

             
"Oh—hold on," called the barber as he was going out the door. "Whatsisname-- the county supervisor. A mister… Mark Rogers. He's in town, wanted to see you about something."

             
Henry paused, unsettled. "I don't know him."

             
"That's what he said, but he seemed real interested in meetin' up. Couldn't tell you where he is now—had him in here for a shave this morning and went off on his horse."

             
"Well—if you see him again, I—reckon I'll just be over at our place most of the day."

             
"I'll tell him that."

             
They both nodded in parting, and Henry shut the door. His office was a ways down the street, and he took his time walking back. It was almost noon, but the weather was mild and warm, with just a little breeze to cool. He could smell summer fast approaching. He thought about Mary as he walked—he wasn't certain he would ever be able to think of anything else again; not for too terribly long, anyway.

             
The general store was just between the barbershop and his office, and he stopped in.

             
"G'morning," said the grocer. "'Fore I ferget, there was a man in here, lookin' to see you. Said he was the, ah, county supervisor. Never heard of him, myself."

             
"Seems he's been looking other places, too. I came—"

             
"Your books! Yes, yes, just came in this morning. Let's see..." The grocer dug around behind the counter, rooting through a plethora of miscellaneous items. "Ah. Here we go." He slapped three books down on the oak counter, two thin volumes and one smaller, leather-bound issue. The larger two were light, but sized about the same as an atlas. "Fine specimens of binding, if you don't mind me sayin'."

             
"What do I owe you?"

             
"Five exactly. Fairly pricy, them things. Surprised me. Hope you ain't put out."

             
Henry slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his vest. "Not at all." He attempted for a moment to finger out the bills with one hand, but set the thin leather wallet down on the counter a moment later. "Take it out of that," he said, quiet.

             
"All right."

             
He nodded and took back his wallet, minus five dollars. He scratched at the purchases a moment, flat to the counter.

             
"Here, son, and good luck, whatever you're doin' with them things." The grocer picked up the books and, leaning across the counter, slipped them under Henry's arm.

             
Henry nodded again, and departed.

             
Mary was outside with a small brush and a tin can of paint. She heard the soft
thu-thud
of two feet and a cane and looked up, grinning. "I missed a few spots," she said in answer to his glance at the tin can. She stood up. "Oh—don't touch me!" she warned, stepping back. There were spatters of paint all over her apron.

             
"I don't mind." There were little flecks of white in her hair, looking like baby's breath.

             
Mary laughed. "All right then, I think the paint's dried anyway." She put down the brush and can and kissed him, hugging him with hands splayed out so as not to smear his suit. "Mmm," she said, "you smell good." When his arm did not go around her, she stepped back and saw the books in his arm. "Oh—they came! Come inside and let me look." Leading the way into the small office, she wiped her hands on her apron, pulled around a chair for him, and held his arm as he sat down.

             
Henry handed her one of the large books. "That—that's just sketches," he said. "This other one's got other things, like supports and water pipes."

             
"Water pipes!" She laughed and sat down on the arm of his chair, fingering through the first few pages of blueprints, careful not to get paint on them. "Well, I kinda see. I can see the sense in it—I can see the house—but I know I ain't skilled enough to read one like it was a book."

             
"I can't either—or not yet," he said, opening his copy. "It's how they're built up in the cities. I reckon I'll figure it out."

             
"I'd guess so, too." She smiled at him and ruffled his hair. "Barber done a real nice job. You look even handsomer than you did this morning, with it sticking out all over."

             
He reddened slightly. "You can have a try, next time, if you want."

             
"And have a husband looking like a drowned chicken?" She grinned, mostly at the laugh the comparison elicited. "I know my limits, and I'll stick to them."

             
"Well—all right." He fingered the little book in his lap for a moment, and then offered it to her. "This is for you," he said.

             
"Oh, Hen, thank you!" she exclaimed, caressing the leather binding. "Who is it?"

             
"Morris. I know you like him." He wondered for a moment if she might be one of the poet's beautiful ladies, somehow emigrated from Europe, from a castle in England or France.

             
"I do, and I'll read to you tonight!"

             
"I'd like that."

             
She smiled again and pulled him up, wrapping herself around his arm. "Come on in the kitchen. I've got it all sorted out now, and I'll show you where everything is." She led him into the little alcove and began opening cupboards. "Plates here, glasses next door. Silver goes in there, in those little slots, and the pans get stacked here. 'Course I'll probably get them all mixed up by next week, but—" she stopped herself, shrugged, and hugged him suddenly. "Henry," she whispered, "It's ours."

             
He smelled her hair. "We're only renting," he said quietly into her perfect seashell ear.

             
"Oh, I—I know, but ours, together. Kiss me, Hen."

             
There was silence for a long moment.

             
When at last they parted, Henry was reticent, contemplative.

             
"Well—sit down and look at your books. I'll start lunch."

             
Henry did so, mulling them over absently while Mary hummed her way about. At length, he spoke. "The county supervisor—has he been by here?"

             
Mary half-turned. "Who? Oh—Rogers, you mean?" She shook her head. "No. Why?"

             
"Barber and the grocer said he was lookin' for me."

             
Mary turned around, looking stern. "Now Henry—you haven't been sneaking out nights to rob banks, have you?"

             
Henry looked startled and then grinned.

             
"I just couldn't abide a husband with criminal passions."

             
"You oughta know where I am, nights." He paled at his own immodesty.

             
Mary let her smile take over the forced frown. "I reckon I do, at that," she said.

             
There was a rap on the front door.

             
"I'll go answer it," said Mary. She went to the door, and he could hear her when she answered. "Why, good afternoon," she said brightly. "Sit down here a minute and I'll go get my husband. Would you like a glass of water?"

             
"No—no thank you, Ma'am, I'm right fine."

             
Mary's footsteps sounded in the small hallway, and then she appeared in the kitchen. She bent down next to him, straightening his collar, and kissed him. "It's Mr. McGovern," she whispered in his ear, excited. "Your third client comin' here."

             
"He's come for his papers."

             
Mary pulled him up and gave him his cane. "Go on, then," she said, still in hushed tones, so as not to be overheard. "I ain't never felt so—so grown up, I guess."

             
Henry half-smiled. "I reckon I've felt grown up all my life."

             
Mary put a hand over her mouth to quiet her giggle. "It's fun." Henry gave her another odd look and she waved him forward. "Go on. It ain't good business to keep him waiting—is that how it goes?"

             
Henry smiled fully for a second before turning to go through the doorway. "I reckon," he said.

             
Mr. McGovern, like the majority of the ranchers in the area, was a harsh man, though smaller than the norm of his robust species. And, like most, his harshness was purely in appearance, in his squinting eyes and in his skin, which was burnt to a generally pervading ochre. Rather than accepting his inferiority in size, he had exploited it, capitalized upon it whenever possible. He was wiry and tough, and often called upon when size was a factor—perhaps wedging under a downed wagon in the mud to secure straps, and even once rescuing a child who had fallen into a well. As he sat there in the small office, in the rather large leather chair, he looked as wound as a tin toy, as if at any moment that lithe energy might spring unbound from within, prompting him to pounce across the room like a wild cat. Such pent-up strength gave him a nervous quality, although he did not feel it and would have told you that he was perfectly at ease.