When Henry Came Home (31 page)

             
"Thank you again, Mr. Hannibal. Were will you go?"

             
He gestured out the window, indicating the excitement down the street. "I'm achin' for a little action at the moment, Ma'am. I reckon I'll find it down that way apiece."

             
"Will you let us treat you to dinner, then?"

             
"Oh, no, Ma'am—I'm afeared I can't be trusted to hold to no dates, leastways not now. I'm here or I'm gone, and I'm goin' now. Nice meetin' you folks, though."

             
Mary smiled. "Well, at least stop by if you happen this way around supper."

             
"I will, Ma'am, that I will." Again, he shook Henry's hand. "Hope you get feelin' better, son."

             
"Thank you, sir," Henry said quietly to Hannibal's retreating backside.

             
Mary hugged him as he struggled again not to cough. "Here," she said, seeing a bench in the small lobby. "Sit down here a minute and I'll get us a room." She went up to the front desk, where a balding man was reading a paper. "Good morning," said Mary. "Do you have an empty room on the first floor?"

             
The man looked up, setting the paper aside. "Sure do, Ma'am. Sign right here." He turned around to get the key from a board behind him. "There ya go. Just up those stairs to your right."

             
"No—" said Mary. "I meant this floor, here."

             
The man frowned. "Sorry, Ma'am, there's just my room and dining facilities." He glanced behind Mary, and saw Henry sitting on the bench. He looked pale and his chest shook with a series of small, involuntary coughs. "Well--" he said slowly, "I reckon I could move upstairs a night or so. How long you folks plannin' to stay?"

             
"Just a night, maybe two at most."

             
The man chewed his lip a moment. "All right. Hold on—he a lunger?"

             
Mary looked slightly startled. "Well—no, sir," she said. "Just a little worn from the train ride, is all."

             
"Good. Gimme a minute or two and I'll be set for the night."

             
"Thank you, sir."

             
"No thanks needed. You kinda look like my kid sister, back home."

             
"Well—my thanks to your sister, then." Mary grinned.

             
He headed up the stairs. "I'll pass it along."

             
Mary went over and sat next to Henry. "We'll get on in after a minute," she said, rubbing his back again. After a minute she turned and opened her bag, taking out the hors d'oeuvres, little pastry-like things. "Eat one of these," she said. "You ain't had anything since lunch yesterday."

             
Henry looked a little ill at the sight of food, but took it and ate it anyway. He swallowed and pushed her hand gently back when she tried to offer him another. "You eat too," he said.

             
She smiled sheepishly. "All right."

             
The man from the counter made a few trips up and down the stairs in the next few minutes, nodding politely towards them at each pass. Finally, he came down from the stairs and took his post back behind the counter. "You folks can make yourselves at home now," he said. "Just go on into that hall back there. Last door on the right's my room, door at the very end is the washroom."

             
Mary helped Henry up, and he put a hand on her arm, wheezing dryly. She picked up their bags. "Much obliged," said Henry as they passed the desk.

             
"Sure you ain't a lunger, now?"

             
"Sure," confirmed Henry, trying to suppress a cough.

             
The room was dry and comfortable; neat to the point of spartanism, though the wallpaper was gilded and flowery. The bed had been stripped, so Mary quickly spread out the tick from the clean sheets that had been left folded on top and let Henry lay down. She went to the end of the bed and pulled off his boots. "There," said Mary. "How's that?"

             
"Much better."

             
Her stomach complained loudly, and Mary giggled. "I'm famished, and I guess you are too. You be all right if I run out real quick and fetch a meal? Those tidbits were like a drop in the bucket."

             
"Yes." He paused, catching her hand. "Mary—be careful. Carry your handbag close, but let it go if anyone tries to take it. Maybe—ask the clerk here at the desk where the closest place is."

             
She cocked her head and smiled. "Folks can't be as bad as all that," she said.

             
"Mary—please—"

             
She nodded her head, sobering. "All right, Hen, all right." She patted his hand and turned to go.

             
Henry was dozing lightly when she returned only a few minutes later, but roused quickly at the smell. "There's a place right next door," she said. "The woman tending tables took me in the back and got me what I needed." She set the basket down on the bed as Henry sat up, scooting over. "She lent me this basket too; I'll just return it tonight."

             
They fell to eating quickly; both were half-starved. Mary caught Henry's eye as she stuffed a slice of bread in her mouth and grinned. He smiled back, and she chewed quickly. "The two of us are regular hogs," she giggled.

             
"Better fat hogs than thin."

             
She waved a hand at him, trying to be serious. "Oh, go on and finish, then. I'm full."

             
"So am I." They piled the plates back into the basket.

             
Mary put the basket aside and tugged at his arm. "All right, get up now and I'll make the bed." She helped him up, hearing his breath start to wheeze again. "You better go sit," she told him.

             
Henry sat in the armchair on the other side of the room, coughing softly while Mary made up the bed with the white sheets that had been set out. She smiled as the white cotton billowed upward, but when it fell her eyes were sad.

             
"Sarah'n me used to do this together, every Monday night," she said.

             
Henry looked pained. "Come over here, Mary-girl," he beckoned. The chair was large, and Mary squeezed in next to him. He reached up with one hand and stroked her hair. "We'll find her," he said. "If not here, then somewhere else."

             
She leaned into his touch. "No, Hen," she said softly, "you were right. If Sarah don't want to be found, she ain't gonna be. This place is too big—too noisy and confused." She pushed herself up. "I saw when I went out there. We'll wait a day or so for you to rest up, and then go on back."

             
"It only seems big—" started Henry, his hand drifting after her as she moved away.

             
Mary walked to the window. "I'm glad you can't see out here," she said, her hand touching the drapes gingerly. She turned her eyes down, then back at him. "There's a—brothel, I guess—across the street. I saw it when we came in. The girls—they laugh and act pretty when the men go by, but when no one's looking—I never seen faces so sad in my life. Miserable, Hen, trapped. We don't belong here. Maybe nobody does. It looks nice, all fancy and pretty, when you first see—but that's just on top. There ain't nothin' good underneath, Hen, nothin’." She paused, looking out the window. "You were right."

             
He struggled for a moment to stand, and she crossed the room quickly to help him. "Don't do that, Hen," she begged.

             
He held her tight. "It ain't all bad," he said. "There's good here, too. It's just people get lost quicker, it seems, and can't get back."

             
"Like Sarah, maybe." Her voice was hopeful.

             
"Yes, maybe. We'll look for her. We'll try."

             
She buried her face. "No, Hen. I understand now—it's her that's got to come back." She looked up at him and smiled tearfully. "Thank you for taking me," she said, "even when—when you knew."

             
"I don't know for sure," he half-protested.

             
She sniffed and tried to hold the smile. "No," she said, "but you sure guess good." She pulled away gently and went to tuck in the edges of the sheets. "Here, Hen, have a rest." She slipped the jacket from his shoulders. "I'll get you some water." There was a large porcelain pitcher on a dresser in the room, and she poured him a glass from it.

             
He took it from her hands and caught her dress. "I guess this place is fancy enough to have a boy who carries water," he told her. "Go on and have a warm bath."

             
She smiled and kissed him. "I think I will." She searched through one of the bags for a moment, picking out clean clothes, and went out into the hall, giving a small wave as she went. Henry nodded.

             
She was back within minutes, poking her head in the door. "Hen," she called softly, grinning, "this tub's big enough for two."

              When they arrived home the second evening following, there was an envelope waiting at the post office for each of them. Henry took Mary's shawl as she unwrapped herself in the hall, hanging it up on the clothes tree. She, in turn, took his jacket and put it up. "We'll leave unpacking for later," she said, shivering now that her arms were bare. "Let's go in and stir up a fire."

             
Soon they were seated together before a warm blaze. "Open yours," said Henry. He watched silently as she ripped the seal and unfolded the paper within.

             
"It's from Sarah," she said, whispering. Her hand shook a little as she read. "Dear Mary; I am leaving now, and I am giving this to the postman with instructions not to have it delivered until I am gone for several days. I am sorry my arrival caused such upset. I understand now that my children and I are not welcome at home any longer. I think I saw that since you didn't show at my wedding. But I guess you can't be blamed. You must tend to your crippl—" Mary cut herself off with a ragged intake of breath. She sobbed softly and let the letter fall from her fingers. She felt like someone had reached in and cut a piece off of her heart.

             
Henry plucked the letter from her lap and read it silently, quickly. When he finished, he let his hand down slowly to rest on his knee. "She doesn't mean anything by it," he told her gently, pulling her close. "She's pained, and trying to hurt others. There ain't no reason to it."

             
"I know," said Mary. "I know. It still hurts."

             
He kissed the top of her head. "I know."

             
"Read yours."

             
Henry opened the letter. It had a formal, stamped heading. He held it up to the light, but did not read aloud.

             
"What does it say?" asked Mary.

             
He took a careful breath. "Donovan wasn't in an accident,” he said slowly. “He killed himself, that's why there ain't no money. He left school and went to work for the railroad before that. The men who worked with him said he was havin' money troubles."

             
"…Oh," said Mary, drawing it out to a half-sob.

             
"Maybe Sarah will find her way back, someday."

             
"Yes," said Mary, numb.

             
They sat for a time, silent.

             
"And in the meanwhile," Mary said with finality, "we'll be happy."

             
"It ain't bad to be sorry."

             
She sniffed. "I know. But I'm done cryin’."

             
Henry took the pair of letters in one hand, and, hesitating a moment, leaned forward and tossed them into the fire. "Nobody's got to know about Donovan," he said. "Ain't no need to spread shame."

             
"No," said Mary, hugging him tight. She watched the papers wither away in the flames. "Hen--" she said at length, "when did you first know you loved me?"

             
He looked down at her. "What?"

             
"It's—well, a silly thing to ask right now, I reckon, but I been thinkin' about it since we met Mr. Hannibal, and he was talkin' about when we met. Go on, Hen, tell me."

             
He smiled. "You first."

             
She crossed her arms. "Well, all right. I been thinkin' about that, too." She paused. "I reckon—well, it was that night, at the fair."