When Henry Came Home (15 page)

             
Inside, I enjoyed a look around their cozy home. It's always nice to be in a house like that. Mary fluttered about a bit, rearranging here and there, and took my bag from me.

             
"Is this all you have?" she asked, a little worried.

             
"I travel light," I explained, nodding, to put her mind at ease.

             
Suddenly a little cloud came over her bright face. "Oh dear," she said. "We haven't got room for you here! There's just our bedroom and the kitchen—unless you want to sleep in here on the sofa." She looked despairingly out the wide front window, where people passed by unawares. "It's mainly just the office," she apologized.

             
I decided to be gallant, snatching her hand from the air as it waved about and kissing it lightly. "Don't worry, my dear, I shall take refuge yonder--" (I pointed over my shoulder with my free hand) "--in that there hotel."

             
She smiled, relieved that she had not become a poor hostess. "You gotta come for meals, though, Edward," she begged, trading looks with Henry. He smiled faintly, and I knew he did not object. In fact, he had appeared rather tolerant of all my flirtations, as if he knew she'd never do anything. Of course she wouldn't have, I knew that. But I didn't expect
him
to know. In fact, if anyone were to be a little jealous, I'd have to admit that it was I. Sure. I was.

             
I nodded in the direction of the hotel again. "I better go get myself a room while I can," I said. "Busy day out there."

             
"Oh—of course, yes," agreed Mary. Her hand lighted on my wrist. "Have you had anything to eat?"

             
I squirmed. "Just breakfast," I admitted. "But I'm not hungry—I'm always a little ill on the train." It was the truth, just minus the second reason I didn't want food. Not that she couldn't smell it on my breath (you'd be amazed how sensitive the nose of a woman can be), but there are some things you just don't talk about in front of a lady.

             
Mary blinked rapidly, struggling with a tearful smile, and broke from Henry to give me another hug, longer this time. I put my arms around her and felt like I had a mother again. "I'm so glad you came home," she whispered. She knew, of course. That's the thing about old friends—twenty years later, and they still know the things that dig right into the pit of your heart. It's good and terrible all at the same time, and I had to get out.

             
I pulled away. "I—better go," I said. I shook Henry's hand and took my leave.

             
"Come on over for dinner!" I heard Mary call out behind me.

             
I didn't look back—that way if things didn't turn out for the best, I could just say I hadn't heard.

              The hotel was a clean-cut little place, and I got a room quickly in spite of the rush. I went up, washed my face, and lay down on the bed. It all hit me now—I hadn't slept at all on the train, and I promptly fell asleep to some lovely nightmares.

             
Well—look, I had better admit that I almost never have nightmares, and it is seldom that I drink. It was just that now, with the train ride and seeing Henry and Mary... It was a blow to the senses. As I thought I might that evening when I woke, I ended up avoiding dinner, just having a little something sent up to my room. With coffee. Henry and Mary were my friends—I wasn't going to embarrass them by getting roaring drunk the first night home. Or any night I was in town, for that matter.

              In the morning, I felt like a human being again, and decided to go over for breakfast. I knocked on the little door and Henry, from inside at his desk, motioned me in. He started to get up as I closed the door behind me, but I waved him back. "Don't," I said, without room for negotiation. He sat back, setting his cane aside, and, absently, his hands stacked a few papers to the side of his desk, clearing a little area in the center.

             
"Mary's just getting breakfast," he said. It was apparent that he was not going to mention my absence at dinner, although with a clear head I saw now that had I not been so close a friend, it might have been taken as an insult.

             
I felt suddenly remiss about my somewhat... overemphasized actions of the day previous. Henry, I noticed, had given an indication for me to sit down, and I obeyed. "I apologize," I said, "if my behavior yesterday..." I trailed off for a moment, feeling sober and stupid, but (fortunately) he came in quickly to relieve my discomfort.

             
"No—no," he insisted gently, and, what was more, quite sincerely. "It's all right." He took his cane from its place against the desk. "Let's go have something to eat." As if on cue, Mary came into the room; Henry must have heard her coming down the hall, although I had not. She gave him a hand up and me a good-morning smile. After, of course, she had kissed him.

             
We went into the little kitchen, and Mary scurried to their room to drag back another chair for me, against all of my protestations that she let me do it. When I had been properly set down in my place next to Henry, she proceeded to bustle around the kitchen, getting together the rest of the meal and urging us to go ahead and eat without her, though we refused wordlessly.

             
I watched her as she worked, quickly and efficiently, her hair hanging straight down to the small of her back. I don't think she realized that her hair was undone, or at least didn't connect in her mind that I was there seeing it, because I know she would have pinned it up quickly had the realization hit her. I glanced over at Henry, expecting him to start a polite conversation along the general interests of men, but he said nothing. In fact, he didn't even notice that I was looking at him; he was sitting there, watching Mary, quite content if not smiling. I cast my eyes upon him again, this time holding the gaze. He didn't seem to notice.

             
At least he wasn't ignoring the sight before him, which would have been the greater travesty. Ignoring me was a simple lapse in etiquette, but failing to appreciate Mary was the blackest sin. I have to admit this irked me slightly. Somewhere in my mind, I wanted to be angry with him, to be able to say to myself, "If I had her, I would appreciate her more than any mortal man." Yet there I was, my mind on him, when clearly his was in the right place.

             
"You love her, don't you?" I asked, softly conversational. I nodded upward in her direction.

             
He glanced at me, taking a moment to register the words. "—Yes," he answered at last. His eyes drifted to her again, then pulled back to me. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I'm—not a very good host."

             
Just then Mary came around, dropping herself into her chair. "What, Hen?" she asked.

             
"Oh, just talking about you, darling," I interjected lavishly when Henry groped for words.

             
She grinned, and I saw her reach for Henry's hand under the table. "Really?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "And what, exactly, did you say?"

             
"Only that you are the most beautiful creature on earth, of course. That God commissioned fifty thousand angels to sculpt your features, and then came to put the finishing touches on himself." As I complimented the phrase with a flourish of the hand, Henry seemed suddenly to fold inward upon himself, and I felt sharply that I might have trespassed into some sacred, tremulous territory reserved only for "love-by-moonlight" and soft whispered words. I retreated.

             
Mary laughed, as if the notion were ridiculous (it was not) and handed me a plate of ham slices. "You're flattering, Edward," she said emphatically, nodding once, as if to placate me. "Now, will you eat?"

             
"Very well," I grumbled, repressing the urge to shoot back with another praise. I dug into my meal.

              After breakfast, they took me out to review the town's progress since I had been gone. There were a few new buildings, but not many, and the ones that had always been there were in fair condition. My eye, now attuned to the engineer's calling, spotted every fault. Nevertheless, they were looked after with love, if not always skill.

             
A few people recognized me, one with an exclamation of realization that continued throughout our brief conversation, but mostly I was a stranger. It felt odd to be an outsider in my own town, but I had been in the same condition in so many other places that it did not trouble me overly much. In a fleeting rush of confidence, I had even left my small flask back at the hotel room, and I found that it no longer crossed my mind. Quite as often.

             
As we strolled along, Mary introduced me to the women while Henry naturally took on the men. As a result, I found myself becoming re-acquainted with a rather disproportionate number of females. It seemed as if there was not a woman in town that Mary did not know, and the older ones seemed to dote on her especially. She had a cheerful word for everyone, and they were glad to stop and chat and perhaps pick and gawk at me. Well—I didn't mind.

             
Henry, on the other hand, appeared to be in much the same position as myself, although slightly better off. The fact was, he simply didn't have a talent for frivolous conversation. The men, as they passed, clearly respected him, and he they; each offered a small nod or a tip of the hat or a friendly, quick good-morning, but nothing more. The few men who did stop for a while did so on their own initiative, and seemed to be generally talkative in nature; that is, able to carry on primarily one-sided conversations. They were all older than I.

             
Of course, I did have to remember that Henry had been gone as well, for several years, and had only been back two at the most. I reckoned it closer to one. People turned odd, when you went away.

             
At one point, we stopped outside a small shop while Mary went in to buy a few personal items. While we loitered by the door, Henry nodded very briefly to a man across the street who would have been about John's age, had he still been living. "That's Tom Jones," he said. "Maybe you remember him."

             
"Oh," I said, searching my mind and finally coming up with a fairly coherent memory to match the name of the face I could not see. Well—it was blurry, enough at least to give me an impression of blond hair and a ruddy, youthful complexion. You see, I am incredibly nearsighted. Past about three yards or so, I might as well be blind, although I've gotten fairly used to it. It's why they didn't let me in the army, when the war started, and I've always been a little ashamed... so I don't mention it much. Anyhow-- "Yeah, sure." I waited for a moment, half expecting an offer to re-introduce me. None came, although the memory I had pulled forth seemed to suggest that they had been far from strangers as youths. As I said, things change when you go away. "What does he do?" I asked, casually.

             
"I'm—not sure." He was silent, and I was silent. "Ranch hand, maybe," he offered at last, quietly.

             
"Hm," I said, neutral, and Mary came out and we moved on. We continued this way until the sun was above us, and nearly unbearable. For me, anyway. It seemed I had been too long in the East; there was a thin, pale sweat on Henry's brow, and Mary only got as far as a slight flush, but I was forced to wipe away the first of a few watery beads threatening to run down to my chin.

             
At last, Mary seemed to notice my discomfort, and, making a friendly but stabbing remark about frail Easterners, steered her husband back towards their apartment while I trailed behind. We crossed the street at the right time, and as we reached the other side a wagon passed behind us, stirring up a little dust. Henry's chest heaved, and after a moment of struggle he let out a dry cough. Mary murmured something by his ear and he nodded, covering his mouth with the back of a hand as he forced out another cough. She put her arm through his, quickening her steps, and helped him as he stumbled up the steps to the boardwalk in front of their apartment.

             
I jogged a few steps to catch up, and held open the door.

             
"Edward," she said, "Get some water from the kitchen, will you—?" We were inside, and Henry bent forward, leaning on Mary's arm and shoulder as he coughed, fighting unsuccessfully against the reflex.

             
"I don't--" I said, cutting myself off. I didn't know where the glasses were.

             
"Never mind," she said, shifting, and suddenly I was supporting Henry. "Help him to the sofa," she ordered, and disappeared.

             
I did so, slowly, fearing I might somehow injure him. But he seemed the better for sitting down, and closed his eyes tightly as he sat forward, attempting to calm the spasms of his own power. He had only succeeded a little when Mary came out and pressed a glass into his hands as she sat down beside him. He drank, and was finally able to take a short, halting breath. I stood before them, feeling helpless and idiotic. Mary glanced up at me, and I added intruding to the list.