When Henry Came Home (30 page)

             
"Well... That every time the sun goes across the sky, it's kind of like a man's life. Every time it comes up again, it's like a different kind of man, but they are all mostly the same because it comes out in a blaze of glory, like a young man, all fiery inside, and then mellows in the middle of the day, like a grown man who realizes he can't change the world. Then, the sunset is like an old man, who decides to fight anyway even though he can't win, because he would rather go out in a blaze of glory than die quietly or slowly. The difference in every day is not really the sun, because it always stays the same, but in the world—if there are clouds or not, or rain or snow. That is the same as men, because everyone is born into a different kind of life."

             
"Do you think that's true? That all men are the same, and what changes them is where they are born or what happens to them?"

             
"Partly. I think men are all different, very different. But I think things happen to people or they decide to do things that change them inside."

             
"Like Sarah?"

             
He paused. "Maybe."

             
"Do you think badly of her, Hen?"

             
"No," he said, "not at all."

             
"I'm glad."

              There was a stop along the way, at a little town with a little train station. Mary was worried. "What if she got off here?"

             
"I don't know," said Henry.

             
She stood up. "I'll just run out and ask the ticket man if he's seen her," she said. "Do you mind?"

             
"Go ahead."

             
"I'll only be a minute." She blew a kiss and went out into the cramped little corridor. The man who had taken her ticket was coming from the other direction, and she had to stop and let him squeeze past.

             
"Where ya goin, Ma'am?" he asked.

             
"Just outside for a look around."

             
"Well, hurry Ma'am—we'll only be stoppin' a minute for mail and some cargo. Ain't nothin' much here worth seein'."

             
"All right, I'll be quick."

             
There was one passenger boarding the train from the little town, and the only spot left was in Mary and Henry's cabin. The boarder was an elderly man, thin as a sapling and just about as knobby. "Hello, son," he said, seeing Henry. "Anyone else in this cabin?"

             
"My wife will be along after a moment."

             
"Well—I hope you don't mind the intrusion, son, but this looks to be the only space available on this here train."

             
"No intrusion at all. There's plenty of room."

             
The old man chuckled. "Glad to hear that. Wasn't 'specially lookin' forward to spending the night in the dining car, which is where they was gonna put me otherwise. Real nice furniture in there, but not much for sleepin’, I'm afraid. Not on these old bones, anyway." He tossed the one bag he was carrying up into the net above and shuffled past Henry, inadvertently bumping his knee. Henry sucked in a small gasp. The man turned, sitting down across from Henry. "Oh," he said, "did I hurt you, son?"

             
"I have a—kind of—bad knee."

             
"My apologies, son, no harm meant."

             
"It's fine, nothin' to be sorry about. My name's Henry Peterson."

             
The old man put a hand out. "Isaac Hannibal. –It's odd, I know, but my mother was a traveling actress. To this day I'm not certain of her real name." He leaned back, letting out a moan of contentment. "So," he said, "how'd you throw out your knee? Some durn fool thing like ridin' a bronc, I suppose."

             
"No, it's—" he looked up, distracted a moment as Mary slid open the door. He turned back. "—From the war," he finished. "Any luck?"

             
"Nope. Real small place." She sat down, glancing at the new company and smiling.

             
"This is Mary, my wife," said Henry. "Mary, Mr. Isaac Hannibal."

             
They shook hands. "Real nice meetin' you, Ma'am. Please, just Isaac, both of you."

             
Mary sat forward. "Where are you headed?"

             
"Oh, Abilene I suppose. That's where my ticket says, but if I fancy it I might just hop on the next train out of there, too."

             
"Do you travel much, then?"

             
He nodded upwards to his bag. "What's in that is what I own, and no more. I live simply."

             
"How curious," said Mary, interested now. "How do you earn a living?"

             
He shrugged. "That's already done. Used to be a banker. Now when I want money I have it wired to me from my account. I reckon it'll last me till I die." He paused. "What about you folks?"

             
"We're headed for Abilene, too. We're looking for my sister, and we think she might be there."

             
Hannibal was about to inquire more about this sister, but a look from Henry told him it might not be the best idea. "Where you from?" he asked instead.

             
"A little tiny town, back aways. We have a little place just outside city limits." She shifted a little as Henry put his arm around her.

             
"Little place, huh? Well, how'd you meet up?"

             
Mary looked puzzled. "Meet?"

             
"You know—first see each other. Who introduced you?"

             
"Oh," said Mary. "I—guess I don't know."

             
"We've always known each other," explained Henry. "We lived just down the road apiece since we were born."

             
The man laughed. "And still not tired of each other's comp'ny?"

             
Mary giggled and hugged close to her husband. "No sir," she said firmly. "Not a bit."

             
"Never been married, myself. Never felt the need, I reckon."

             
"You oughta consider it, sir," ventured Mary politely. "It's awful nice."

             
Hannibal laughed again, slapping his knee. "I reckon so, darlin’," he said. He yawned, stretching his arms above his head. "I better get on into the dining car and have some grub before I fall asleep. Care to join an old feller?"

             
Henry looked at Mary. "We better just stay here," she said. "But thank you anyway."

             
He shrugged and got up.

             
"Would you mind, though," added Mary, "bringing us back a bite or two?"

             
"Not at all, folks, not at all."

             
"He seems like a nice old gentleman," said Mary when Hannibal had gone.

             
"Yes," said Henry, stifling a yawn.

             
"Oh," said Mary, yawning back, "it's catching." She stood up, rocking a little with the motion of the train, and pulled two pillows down from the overhead netting.

              When Isaac Hannibal returned from his dinner with a little paper sack filled with hors d'oeuvres, he found Henry leaning against the window of the car, legs stretched out along the bench seat. Mary was curled up with him, her head resting on his chest. Henry's jacket was spread over both of them, and they were sound asleep. Disturbed slightly as the door of the cabin opened and shut, Henry shifted a little and coughed.

             
Hannibal smiled to himself as he tucked the bag up above and settled down to sleep as well.

              Morning came in the form of a clouded sunrise and a screeching from the rear of the train. Henry, startled awake immediately, grasped the back of the bench with one hand and put the other over Mary to keep her from toppling off his lap.

             
Hannibal chuckled; he was already up and had been expecting this. "Just the breaks, folks," he said. "We're here."

             
Mary sat up on the edge of the seat, rubbing her eyes. Henry took in a rasping breath and coughed painfully. The screeching continued, and out the window a platform came into view. "You okay, Hen?" asked Mary. He nodded, but bent forward with a hand cupped over his mouth. Sometimes in the morning he was likely to start into coughs. Mary patted his back softly.

             
"Anything I can do?" asked Hannibal politely.

             
Mary looked up. "If you could, sir—a glass of water?"

             
Hannibal made a motion as if to tip his hat, though he wasn't wearing one. "Back in a minute, Ma'am."

             
By the time he returned, Henry had quieted, although he looked rather pale, and accepted the water with a nod of thanks.

             
Hannibal glanced out the window, and looked anxious, seeing the crowds outside. "Well—you folks gonna be all right?"

             
Mary smiled. "Yes, thank you."

             
He shook Henry's hand. "Well, I better be on my way then—see what's to be seen." With that, he was gone.

             
Mary stood and unloaded their things from the net above, handing down Henry’s cane. "Why look here," she said. "The tidbits we asked for." She handed down those as well. "They oughta do us for breakfast, you think?"

             
"I reckon," said Henry, biting back another cough. He drank the rest of the water and set the glass aside, then slid on his jacket.

             
Mary set their bags on the seat for a moment and helped Henry up, then bent to tuck the little paper sack into one of their bags. Her hair was loose from sleeping, tumbling down her back.

             
"You look beautiful," said Henry, with feeling.

             
She blushed and smiled. "Thank you."

             
Their cabin door slid open. "You folks departing in Abilene?" It was the uniformed man who had taken their tickets.

             
"Right now," said Mary, hefting the bags.

             
He looked from Henry to the luggage. "You want me to help you with those, Ma'am?"

             
She shrugged. "No thanks. I got 'm."

              The platform was, in reality, as busy as it had looked from the inside. It was cold out, but dry and dusty all the same. Mary could hardly hear herself speak for all the noise. Crowds swarmed, and she feared she and Henry might lose track of each other. "Put your hand on my arm!" she told him, straining to be heard above the ruckus. He did so and they began slowly to make their way across the platform. It was not as high as the one at home, but at the edge there were four steps.

             
"Give the bags here," said a voice.

             
Mary turned to see Hannibal. "Oh," she said, "thank you!" She handed him the bags and let Henry put his arm around her shoulder, steadying him as he went down.

             
"Saw you from over there a ways," stated Hannibal. "Shoot, son, if I'da known you was—well, anyhow, I woulda stayed on to help. Ain't as if I got pressin' business, anyways." He hefted the bags, carrying his doubled up with one of theirs. "Where's yer hotel?"

             
"I don't rightly know," said Mary. "We just thought we'd pick it out as we came." The dust was making Henry wheeze, and she rubbed his back.

             
"Well then—I s'pose we kin find somethin' for ya along here." He started down the boardwalk.

             
Mary was astounded at the sights, as they went. "Look there, Hen," she said. "A medicine man, with feathers and all!" The half-breed Indian was standing on a box, preaching his wares to a crowd of rowdy men. She twisted her head around to see everything. "I never seen so many guns in my life, Hen." The apprehension in her voice was tinged with anticipation.

             
They lost Hannibal in the crowd, but found him again when things petered out at the edge of the main street. "Here's a nice little place," he said. "Mostly business folks here." He shoved the door in with his back and set the bags just inside. "Well," he said, his eyes darting eagerly back outside, "if you folks're set, I'll be on my way."