When Henry Came Home (12 page)

             
"Word is, they're puttin' together a town meetin," he said, counting up the purchases. "They'll be wantin' you to speak, I reckon." He flashed his gaze upward for a moment from his business.

             
Henry paled. "When?"

             
"Tomorrow, I think, mebbe day after. Two and three bits, darlin'."

             
Mary paid. "Things sure move fast," she said. "Henry only decided yesterday."

             
The grocer shrugged. "I reckon now it's been long enough, everything's just gonna go in one big rush. Shoot, mebbe judgment day'll show up next week."

             
Mary grinned and picked up her things. "Maybe it will, and maybe it won't," she said, as they turned to go.

             
They heard the old man's last words as the door was closing behind him. "Don't much matter to me!" he called. "Too old to care!"

             
Mary giggled. "He's been a hundred and ninety since I was born," she informed Henry.

              As it happened, the town meeting was held two days later, in the theatre; it was the only place with enough seats. Mary and Henry arrived early, to meet up with Mark Rogers. They were all alone in the big place except for a few men helping to set up.

             
Rogers adjusted his collar and brushed a few specks of dust from one sleeve. "I'll just get everything started," he explained. "Tell folks what's going on, answer some questions, then introduce you."

             
Henry looked up from the front row to the stage above, where two men were setting up a podium they had found backstage. "Can't-- well, can't we have that down here?" he asked, uncertain.

             
Rogers looked him up and down, pulling thoughtfully at his lip. "Hm," he said. "I'd forgot."

             
"No—" returned Henry, quick, "it's not-- what I mean is—it's a
town
meeting..."

             
"Yes," declared Mary. "It's not 'you' or 'us' telling them what's happening. It oughta be down here so anyone who wants can get up and speak. Nobody oughta be higher."

             
Rogers hit him lightly on the shoulder. "Equal say for all, eh?"

             
"Just common sense."

             
"Bring it down here, boys!" called Rogers, twisting to look back and waving an arm. He grinned. "We do it how the mayor wants it."

             
"Please..."

             
Rogers laughed. He couldn't have found a man more ideal for the running if he had drawn up specifications on paper. "They're starting to come in-- you folks sit down here and I'll fix things up nice."

             
It was only minutes before the theatre was nearly full—it was a small building, and ranchers and traders and breeders had come from outlying areas all around. The town itself did not have a very significant population; mostly, it was a stop-in for those in rural areas, to get mail and food and other supplies. At length, Rogers moved to stand behind the podium. He hesitated a moment, clearing his throat, and then spoke up. "All right, folks, let's get started!" The muted roar quieted a little, but did not disappear. Rogers looked about himself for a moment and spotted a broken chair leg lying a few feet away. He rapped it firmly upon the podium, and the sharp tattoo echoed throughout the theatre. Conversations stopped, for the most part, and citizens settled into their seats. "All right," repeated Rogers, not so loud this time. "I reckon y'all know what we're here for, but I'll just say it anyway for anyone who's got confused. I'm Mark Rogers, County Supervisor over in Hickory. It's been decided that the county seat's going to farm out its responsibilities to the towns it holds, so eventually you folks should have a courthouse and a jail. Meanwhile, a mayor's being elected in every town. Now—while I'm up here—anyone else out there wanna join in the running?" He paused, grinning, and there were titters from the audience. "Well. Any questions?" He paused, waiting. "All right, then, I'll introduce our only candidate thus far, Mr. Henry Peterson."

             
There was applause, and Mary stood for a moment to help Henry up. "You'll do fine," she whispered, squeezing his hand briefly before sitting back down, tucking the back of her dress under neatly. Rogers stood aside and Henry took the space behind the wooden stand. He looked up and out, and suddenly every whisper and shuffle, so normal in a crowd no matter how well behaved, stopped cold. He swallowed. "Well," he said, "I—I guess you folks know who I am—I reckon there ain't much to be said beyond that, except if any of you might be havin’ a reluctance to run against me, don't, because I'll step down to any man who wants the job--"

             
"Durn it," came a voice from the back, "folks ain't gonna volunteer when they know they got the best man, son!" There was laughter and a few loud agreements.

             
Henry swallowed again, and paled. "Well—thank you," he half whispered. At the sound of his voice, the crowd quieted again, to hear. "Are—are there any questions?"

             
There was another pause, and then a man towards the middle stood. "Yeah," he said. "Name's Gerald Hawkins, and I got a piece of property out on the north end of Main Street, but I been hearin' today and yesterday you ain't gonna let me build my hotelero there."

             
Henry grasped the side of the podium. "Mr. Hawkins, I'm sorry—"

             
"Durn right he ain't!" interrupted another voice, thin and nearly wailing. "He ain't gonna let you put one brick on another, sir!" Mrs. Wilkins stood, maybe fifteen feet away, and faced Hawkins. Her face was set, her lower jaw jutting forward. She jabbed a finger at him. "Ain't nobody gonna stand for your dirty gambling crowds!"

             
"Mrs. Wilkins, please--" His knuckles whitened.

             
A few other members of the audience rose, and soon a heated argument developed, generally between those interested in keeping peace and quiet and those interested in personal liberty. "Please..." Henry protested, but his voice was lost in the noise. Suddenly, Rogers, who had taken Henry's seat next to Mary, leapt to his feet, snatched the broken chair leg from the podium, and banged vigorously, ceasing only when the crowd had quieted down.

             
"Hold on, folks!" he bellowed. "Why don't we all just set down and let the man speak? We're civilized here, ain't we? Now set down!" Most of the citizens returned slowly to their seats, and a few more bangs of the makeshift gavel sufficed to put the remainder back in place. He let the stick fall to the podium, loudly. "All right," he closed, and sat back down.

             
Henry looked out at the crowd, unseeing, for a long time, his face pale. They sat silently, waiting—almost for reprimand, perhaps. He swallowed again, looking ill. "I—" he said, "I—" his words fell to a whisper, two aged pieces of parchment fluttering against one another. His eyes flashed blankly. "I'm sorry," he whispered finally. "—I can't—"

             
He turned from the podium and walked away, slowly and amidst perfect silence. After a the nearest hint of a hesitation, Mary hopped up and followed him, the soles of her shoes tapping out staccato notes that echoed in the rafters above.

She followed him out of the theatre and down the board sidewalk, staying just behind. He walked all the way to the little door with the glass window reading "Henry Peterson: Accounts, Bookkeeping, and Miscellaneous," and put his hand on the knob. He stopped there, and stood a long while with the late afternoon sun on his back, not moving. Then a shudder ran through his body, and Mary stepped close. She put a hand in the center of his back. "Hen... Let's go inside."

              He took a deep breath and stepped back when she opened the door, and went in before her as she ushered him forward. She guided him into the bedroom, and he let her without protest. He sat down on the edge of the bed and laid his cane across his knees. “I—” he began, and then heaved.

             
Mary was there with the water basin, holding it as he emptied his stomach again and again. When he was done, sweaty and pale, she put the bowl aside and sat down next to him, placing her hand on his. He looked away.

             
"It's not—" he began, and let his breath out.

             
Mary rubbed his hand. "It's alright," she said softly, gently. "What's not?"

             
"When-- when you married me-- you didn't expect—"

             
Mary sat up straight. "Don't go puttin' words in my mouth," she said firmly. "I ain't the—the fool you think I am. Of course I expected."

             
"I don't think you're a fool—"

             
"I know that," she half-snapped. For a moment she kept herself tall, then relaxed and sank against him, leaning her head on his shoulder. "I don't like to see you get this way, Hen, that's all."

             
"I—I'm sorry." Henry looked down and then away again. His voice was quiet when he spoke, and quick. "When I went to fight-- that was so maybe people wouldn't have to ever do it again, so it would all be settled right there-- I'm sick of fighting. I ain't blamin' folks for disagreein', and maybe that's how the world has to work and I just didn't see it, but I don't want to, Mary, I don't want to. I know folks will talk, and I'm sorry--" His shoulders sank. "I'm just—plain tired."

             
Mary let it sit, out, for a while. "Do you remember what you asked me before?"

             
"About what?"

             
"You asked me if I'd think less of you if you didn't do this."

             
"But that was before I said--"

             
"But nothing, Hen. I said no and I meant it. In fact, I think more of you for not doing it."

             
Henry looked down at his hands, feeling miserable and a terrible fool, and after a moment his shoulders and chest began to shake.

             
"Hen..." she whispered, putting a hand on his back. "Hen—are you crying?" She saw a drop of wetness appear on his hand, and wrapped her arms tightly around him. "Oh... Hen..." she murmured softly, rocking him back and forth. "Don't be ashamed, Hen..." But her saying it out loud only made the silent sobs press out more deeply, quicker. She rubbed his back some more, and let him cry for a long, long time. "It ain't just this, is it?" she asked finally, when the quaking began to settle some.

             
"No," he choked.

             
"Tell me, Hen, go on."

             
He coughed. "It hurts," he breathed, brokenly, almost as if pained. "--Hurts—that you love me."

             
Mary was silent, holding him. "Do you want me to go away?" she asked, at last, her voice very small.

             
"No," he said, immediately, his hands on her arms. "No—Please—Please don’t leave,” he begged quietly. “If you left, Mary, I would die."

             
"All right. All right. –You wanna lay down and I'll make some tea, or you wanna come into the kitchen with me?"

             
"The—the kitchen." He tried to reach for the cane, which he'd dropped, but Mary stopped him.

             
"Forget that old thing," she said. "I got a shoulder here." She helped him up and let him put his arm over her.

             
He coughed again, and winced. "I feel like I'm makin' you my mother," he said, as they went into the kitchen. He didn't want it to be that way, a burden to her. It wasn't the way it was supposed to go.

             
"Your ma ever make you tea when you felt poorly?"

             
"…N-no-- John, I guess, but mostly it was all of us lookin' after the little ones with no time for bein' sick."

             
She patted the hand that gripped her shoulder. "Maybe you need a little mothering, then," she told him. "That ain't a bad thing, and I figure if a man and wife can't cry on each other they're pretty much lost in the world." She held his arm as he sat down at the kitchen table, then went to light the oven. "Hen," she said, bent over, "I don't expect everything perfect; I never did." She straightened and got out the kettle, clattering some with the pots. "I reckon you don't either, even though maybe we'd like to make it that way for each other. All we can do is just try our best, and get on with it when we fail—or think we've failed, anyway."

             
He watched her, silent for a while as she got things ready, and loved her just for being there in the same room. "All this about politics..." he said quietly, almost without noticing, "seems like it's just about folks runnin' each other's lives. Maybe it's fine for some, and I guess it's got to be that way to have law, but I don't like having any business with it. I—I know it ain't possible, but I'd like it a whole lot better if folks just ran their own lives, and helped out when it was needed."