When Henry Came Home (16 page)

             
"You—gonna be all right?" I asked.

             
She nodded, and smiled a little, sweetly.

             
I took a step back. "Well, I-- ah—gotta—"

             
She nodded again, closing her eyes briefly. How do women understand?

             
I closed the door behind me when I left, trying not to look back. Remember that feeling when you were a kid and you got mad or embarrassed or just something and all you wanted to do was just run on forever, to get away from it? I know that feeling well.

             
I suppose—well, it was not Mary and Henry, completely. Not even half. I'd been feeling that way for a long time. In fact—I searched my mind for a time when I had not, and the memory was dim. I didn't actually run, of course, not in the literal sense, but on this occasion I marched rather swiftly back in the direction of my hotel. My aim for that flask of brandy sitting at the bottom of my little bag was delayed only for a moment, when I nearly ran over a woman--

             
I stopped.

             
"Sarah," I said. There are occasional benefits to being severely myopic, and this was not one of them. Had I recognized her as I came forward, which for me was impossible, I might have turned, gone a different route, to avoid her. But by the time I was close enough to see the fine details of her face with any clarity, it was too late, and my utterance came out bluntly.

             
She looked at me, her face calm and unsmiling but not unpleasant. For a moment her eyes cast about my face, curious. "Edward," she replied, after a moment, her tone almost as flat as my own.

             
"You remember me," I insisted, with more enthusiasm.

             
She looked at me again. "Yes," she said, smiling faintly. "Do you remember me?"

             
I grinned, forgetting everything. "Of course!" I exclaimed. I caught her hand and kissed it, feeling my dry lips stick and then pull away from the fabric of her glove. "Dear Sarah." I stood back, looking at her, and there was a pause in our conversation. Sarah wasn't half as pretty as her sister, but then that wasn't saying much. If Helen of Troy's face contained infinite beauty, what was half of that infinity? "I just got in, yesterday. I've been with Henry and Mary."

             
"You know, then, of course."

             
I stopped. "Yes—and I'm sorry, Sarah. I can't tell you how."

             
"Thank you," she whispered. "I—meant the wedding, really."

             
"Oh," I blurted, feeling the fool. "Well—yes, that." I realized then that I was still clinging loosely to her hand, and immediately dropped it. She pulled it back as I let go, and intertwined it with its mate at her waist. "I'm glad for them."

             
"Yes, me too," she agreed, absently.

             
"I'm just coming from there. Henry, he..." I glanced over my shoulder.

             
"His coughing fit, yes. I saw. It… happens, sometimes."

             
"Unfortunate."

             
"Yes."

             
There was silence again. "Well," said I, "I had better be getting back to the hotel—I feel as red as a beet." I smiled. "Too much time in the East," I joked lamely.

             
She smiled back, a little. "Yes," she said.

             
"Well—see you around, then?"

             
"Yes. It's good to see you again, Edward."

             
"Is it?" I turned to go, but stopped, sensing something. I looked back at her form, now a little hazy; she was still standing there, watching me, her white-gloved hands folded in front of her waist. I stepped forward again, biting my lip. "Would you like," I said, "to come up to my room for a bit?"

             
She looked at me, startled and perhaps a little angry that I had asked her. But somehow I sensed that she was neither surprised nor angry, not truly. Of course I realized that in asking her to my room, alone, I had done something to infringe upon her honor, but there was no one else about to hear, and for some reason that I felt only intuitively, I sensed that between us it did not matter.

             
"All right," she said at last, and hurried to step beside me as I went. Her face was drawn, and there was a quality about it—something I could not quite identify. As with most redheads, her skin was rather fair, and I detected a slight flush as we entered the lobby.

             
At the door to my room, I felt suddenly compelled to stop, to ask again. "We can go somewhere else," I offered. "Maybe the steps out back of the grocer's, if you want."

             
"No," she said, softly but certain, and stepped past me, so that I could only see her back. "It doesn't matter."

             
I wondered, briefly, exactly
what
did not matter, but the thought passed and I closed the door, shutting us in. She sat down in the chair by the desk, and I sat opposite on the edge of the bed. "Well," I said, suddenly wondering what I had expected to talk to her about. On a sudden, fatalistic whim, I leaned over and reached for my bag, digging down to the very bottom of it for the gleaming flask of brandy. I think, now, that I did it mostly to see her reaction.

             
Sarah, if she was surprised at all, did nothing to show it.

             
"I hope you don't mind," I said. She shook her head slightly, and I tipped my head back. When a few tablespoons had burned down, I leaned back on my elbows, studying her. She didn't meet my eyes, but slipped off the small handbag she carried on her arm and placed it in her lap. "You know," I said, thoughtfully, "I-- don't feel—I don't know quite how to put it. Yes—I don't think I'm ashamed to drink, with you in the room."

             
"And you would be—" she looked towards the window. "With them."

             
"Yes," I said plainly, then realized the insinuation. "No-- well—"

             
"No," she returned, almost coolly. "I understand."

             
But she didn't. Couldn't! I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart instantly boiling over. It—all of it—was suddenly there, brought out in a moment. I clenched a fist. "You don't—
agh!
" I let out a breath and got to my feet, went to the window to look out at nothing. "You don't understand—what it's like to pity someone and yet—
envy
them, with—everything--" My hands clenched into tight, knotty fists.

             
"I do," she said, her voice level. Her hands were in her lap, unmoving.

             
I sat, suddenly, letting myself drop onto the edge of the bed. "Of course you do," my lips said, almost without my willing. The words simply fell out. "We're—alike." She flushed a little deeper, and suddenly I saw her beauty, sitting there in the noontime sun,  hair gleaming like polished copper. "You're beautiful," I said.

             
"Folks say so."

             
"They're right." I didn't think she had moved, since she sat down. I felt, at once, that I had found someone, somehow, who understood everything inside of me, and it ached with relief to simply have that knowing. Dear Lord, how misery loves company! "Marry me," I said.

             
I think she had expected everything that had come out of my mouth until that point. Her head, finally, moved, turning to gaze at me as though I had suddenly turned into a giraffe. Then she stood, and it was her turn to approach the window while I sat on the edge of the bed, aching with desire. "No, Edward," she said.

             
"I know I can't replace John, Sarah, not ever," I begged, remembering his strong, lithe form and the singular presence that I had so admired. I had long since given up trying to attain such dignity. "But I can make you happy, I'm sure of it. We—we understand each other. I know you see it."

             
She turned and looked down at me. "I do," she said. "And for a moment, I did want to say yes. But it would be wrong. We are the same, but in all the wrong ways-- our sins-- and I know in time we'd hate each other for it."

             
"Sarah—" I pleaded, knowing of course that she was right but not caring anyway, not caring at all.

             
"I don't love you, Edward." Her voice was weary.

             
And that, somehow, struck me to the bone. I could say nothing more, and after a moment she went to the door and slipped away and I knew, of course, that it would be forever. You only get one chance, with a girl like that, and I had tossed it away like a piece of rotten fruit, selfishly. I took another drink, despising myself.

             
After a while I noticed the blurry outlines of a few pieces of paper along with a pen and an inkwell. I had an urge, something carried over from childhood, to write someone a letter, but then remembered—of course—that I had no one to write to. How does a man get to be thirty-five years old and not have a soul to miss him when he is gone? I stood up and went to the desk, tapped the small stack of papers and watched them slide out over the surface of the polished wood like a deck of new cards.

             
I dragged a small chair over to the table and sat down on it, unscrewing the cap of the flask and setting it before me, to one side. I took up the pen and shifted a piece of paper around to suit my purposes, then began to sketch out a few preliminary designs for the plans I was hoping to present to my new department, occasionally pausing to tip my head back, the flask to my mouth. It helped, when I was particularly dispirited, to engross myself entirely in work. It was probably the reason I had been promoted so quickly and so often.

             
By the time lunch arrived, I wasn't very hungry, but when a man came with a silver-plated tray I let him in to set it on the table. I tipped him and he left without comment.

             
I worked throughout the afternoon, hardly noticing when evening arrived except that I had to get up to light the lamp beside my bed, which I then brought over to the table. I was startled—perhaps shocked would be the word—when there was a knock at my door. I ignored it at first, but it came again, along with a soft whisper of "Edward."

             
I opened the door and there she was—not Sarah, but the angel herself. Forgive the sarcasm... it comes forth only with spirits, although I admit that it is there in my mind many other times as well. We all have things we never say, do we not?

             
I looked at her for a moment, and my harshness melted. "May I come in?" she asked, quietly. She held up a basket. "Henry's resting, but I thought you might like something to eat."

             
I looked over her shoulder, and, seeing no one, cursed silently the fates. There are times when a man regrets any last shred of decency within his soul. Indeed—it seemed I still retained a tenuous thread or two.

             
In any case, I stood back and allowed her to enter, shoving the door when she was through so that when I let go it swung shut with the momentum. I turned, feeling a little dizzy, and saw that she was at the table, her back towards me. She glanced at me over one shoulder. "I see I'm a little late," she said, indicating the platter of food I had not touched.

             
"Lunch," I returned shortly, hearing my voice slur a little. Dear Lord—was I drunk? I glanced at the table and saw the open flask, sitting right there, next to the platter and my pen-stained papers. It dawned on me that of course she had seen it. I met her eyes and glared daringly, intending (apparently) to intimidate her into shying from the matter. 

             
Instead, she simply gazed back, holding my eyes steadily. At last I let out an angry breath and turned away. Behind me, I heard her move to put her little basket on the table next to my lunch, and I pretended to look out the window.

             
"These are beautiful," she said quietly. "You should show them to Henry. He adores things like that."

             
I turned. Her back was still to me, but I could see her hand, brushing my drawings gently, spreading them out over the top of the desk. She glanced at me over her shoulder again, her eyes serious and large. "Yeah. Sure," I said, slowly—to keep from slurring. "It's just for work."

             
"Do you ever draw anymore? I mean..."

             
I knew what she meant. People. Places. Pretty things. I shrugged noncommittally and shook my head. That habit had dwindled to nothing ever since I had gone to the city. There's not much beauty in a city. And the parts an out-of-towner might appreciate are only superficial.

             
"I could get you some paper," she offered. I was about to protest, but she went on. "No—let me, Edward. Just in case. Please."