When Henry Came Home (32 page)

             
"The night I—" he cut himself off. She nodded and he paled—thinking how close it had been.

"It was right after you said I should go dance, and I told you no. You turned away, but I could half see this look on your face, Hen--" she stopped, smiling at him, half in pity as he looked away from her. "No, don't do it now, Hen, it breaks my heart, please—" She touched his face and he looked back, down at his hands. She reached out and twisted her fingers into his. "Well—I saw that look, Hen, and all at once I said to myself, 'Mary, that man loves you more than anything. He loves you so much, he'd do anything he ever could to make you happy, and no one that comes along is ever gonna love you half as much.' So—I guess I knew right then."

              He swallowed. "But—you loved me because I loved you? That don't make no sense."

             
She laughed softly. "Sure it does, Hen. Makes the best sense in the world. Why do folks love God? Because He loves us more than anyone can, and it makes us wanna give back the same way." She smiled. "I reckon it helps a little if you kinda take a likin' to him first off, though." Mary scooted closer. "What about you, Hen? When did you fall in love?"

             
He smiled faintly, looking into the fire. "Oh," he said softly, "…long before that."

              Henry stood out in the front yard, just next to the steps leading up to the porch, watching. It was early morning, when the sun was not quite visible on the horizon but then again maybe it was. He liked to go out walking in the morning, and he had just returned, feeling warm blood pumping steadily through his veins. There was a small creek that ran down a split in the land only a little ways from the house, coupled on either side by a few low trees that had been trimmed up for easy passage, and usually it was there he went for his morning stroll because it was cool and the almost-dry trickle of water made his thoughts flow easy. Indeed, morning was the only time he could go out, in these months; it was the coolest part of the day, when the night had sucked all the heat out of the land and the rising sun had not yet the time to put it back. Later, the sun would chase him into the house, seal him there, hot and feverish if the heat came inside, and it always did. So he stood now, cane in hand, looking out over the flat horizon and feeling old at thirty because of it. Maybe he was old, inside. Wars made things go faster. While the firing and the killing was going on all around, time stole itself away, taking advantage of the lack of attention given to it to carry things along twice as fast, three times, four times as fast—and by the time it was over, a boy had been made into a man and then into an old man without even knowing it. It was only when he got back home, when the deceleration hit him full force, that he realized he'd been gone decades while only a few years had passed, maybe not even that.

             
But here, out here—things were not measured by age, but rather by season. It was not how many seasons had passed, but what season was next to come, as it had come before and would always come again. The flat, bare land was constant, changing a little here and there, but always with the promise of changing back, next season, next time. Things went in full circle, evened out.

             
He turned suddenly, smiling and squinting a little in the new light, although the dawn was still fresh. Mary, as he had sensed, was behind him up on the porch, her arms crossed in front of her to keep out the slight chill. "I love this land," he said suddenly.

             
She took a step forward and leaned a shoulder against the post next to her, her large eyes distant. "Yes," she said softly, one hand folding out towards him absently. He took it and came up next to her on the porch, stepping behind her and slipping his arm around her waist. With her fingers she explored the top of his hand, feeling his breaths go in and out softly at her back. She leaned back a little, into him, and set her head into the crook of his neck. She worried for him, sometimes, in spite of herself, because he loved the land so. Many times, she had thoughts about moving to the east, going down that one long train track far in the distance, their only connection to any world beyond. The eastern states would be cold in the winter and cold even in the summer at times, too, but she knew that there were comforts and amenities enough to keep his health, ease him a little. In the east there was civilization; hot fireplaces and apartments insulated from the outside climate; hot steam baths, maids, butlers.

             
But she knew he would not go, and even suggesting it hurt him a little. Although he could no longer live within and through this country that needed to be touched and felt and explored, he could yet see it, and remember, and that seemed to be almost enough. And then there was what she only half knew, and that subconsciously; he loved the land because she was in it, a part of it, and would not be whole in another place. She knew that she could leave, especially for him—but no, she did not want to. Still—there was that draw. If only. If only. It would have been best for him.

             
She reached up and touched the side of his face.

             
"You smell like biscuits," he said.

             
She smiled. "They're cooling."

             
He laughed softly, clearing his throat at the same time. "But you're thinking of something." Well—he knew, of course. It was a kind of silent stalemate between them. Neither side, he knew, would ever win, and so they stayed where they were, because it was the place in which the argument had begun. And for him it was good, because in that way, he won. He did not mind, not much, having only to look. She was bright out on the plain, and brought to him in her eyes and voice and hands everything that he had once harvested from the wilderness himself. And so he was happy, and so was she, if concerned.

             
"Mm," she murmured. "Nothing much."

             
The sun was up now, and it was warm, very warm. A light sweat broke out on his brow, shining dully against his pale skin. Mary glanced up and prodded him gently with her elbow. After another moment they turned together and went inside, he holding the door. She helped him into his favorite chair and retrieved a few papers and a pencil from the desk for him.

             
"I'll be in the kitchen," she said, petting his head affectionately and then turning.

             
But he caught her hand lightly before she could go, and she stopped, looking back. He looked into her eyes, then down at her fingers, turning her arm so the palm faced up. He brushed her hand with the tips of his fingers, feeling the calluses and blisters that had formed there.

             
"That tickles!" she protested, pulling back a little but then relenting when he tightened his grip slightly. His fingers brushed over her palm again, and she tilted her head, looking at him oddly. "What is it?"

             
He looked up at her, sober, and she felt the flicker of pain in her heart as his eyes pierced straight through her. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

             
At this, she frowned, puzzled. "For what—" and then she laughed, understanding, and knelt beside him. "You silly old man," she said, grinning. "For hands like these? Don't you understand? I like it!"

             
"But..."

             
"It makes me strong! See, here—try." She put up a hand to test against his, and in a moment had overpowered him. "You see?"

             
"I'm—not very strong, anymore," he admitted quietly, withdrawing his hand.

             
She stood, brushing stray locks of hair away from her eyes. "Now you tend to your work, and I'll do mine."

              Just after the noon hour, after Mary had brought lunch and taken it away again and gone out to the barn to work a while, he heard a horse whinny in the distance, and the soft but heavy pattering of shoed hooves in the dust became distinct. At the sound, a sharp lance of apprehension struck in the pit of his stomach, and he let the papers he was holding drop into his lap. He glanced towards the window, but his chair was too far to see out for any distance and the drapes were half closed. It was always like this, it seemed, and he thought suddenly that it was not because he did not know what he would do when the visitor came, but that he did not know what he would do if ever it were
not
a visitor coming.

             
After a few minutes, the horse was reined in out in front, and he heard the big barn door grate open as Mary came around the corner. Her voice called out in greeting, though the exact words were muffled, and another voice answered; it was only Willam Burke, a man who lived out in the brush country, alone. Henry looked down, and saw that he had half crumpled the papers in his lap.

             
Mary brought Burke in the front hall. "Can I take your hat, sir?" she asked.

             
Henry smiled faintly, knowing what Burke's response would be even as he said it. "No, ma'am, that's—well, thank you much, ma'am, then, thank you. I 'preciate it."

             
"Henry's right in there, Mr. Burke, go on in."

             
"Thank you, ma'am, kindly." He came through the doorway, ducking self-consciously although he was not a tall man. He came forward a little and stopped, his hands like boards at his sides, peering around nervously and affording Henry perhaps every third glance. Willam Burke was sweaty and unshaven and fairly dirty and knew it well. Henry sat calmly, waiting until Burke realized he was to speak first. "Uh-- Mr. Peterson—I come to ask if you'd help in writin' a letter—to my brother--" he shifted and his hands looked as if they might go somewhere for a moment, then snapped back to his sides. Burke was, in fact, dearly wishing for a hat to turn—or at least his hands were. Instead he allowed one hand to rub back the clumps of hair plastered to his forehead.

             
"All right," said Henry. He gestured to his desk, across the room. "There's some pen and papers over there, if you'll—" he said.

             
"Yes—yessir," returned Burke. He bobbed his head once and went over with quick, nervous movements, although it was heavy on his mind to be careful. His own abode was no more than a one-room cabin, and every object within was blunt, unbreakable. Here, though, there were lamps and small glass figures and pens and paper—he had to be cautious, and the fear of damaging the property of another (especially a woman, and it certainly looked as though the woman of this house owned it) made him nervous. He found the paper, but—

             
"To your left. And the envelopes are the third drawer down on the right."

             
He was relieved when the objects were safely in Henry's hands, and stepped back, respectful. Sure, he had made fun of educated folks, in town with the boys, but Henry Peterson was different—he could think, not like some other men who just had money and a degree. And he wasn't pushy about it, either.

             
"Please—sit down."

             
"Maybe I better—"

             
"No, please. Sit." Burke sat, perching on one corner of a stuffed velvet armchair. Henry inked the pen, and at the top of the first piece of paper wrote out,
Dear R.B
. He paused. "All right. Go ahead."

             
Burke fidgeted. "Well—I reckon—ask him how the fam'ly is—"

             
I hope you are well. How are May and her mother? Knowing you, business is going well.
Burke went on dictating, hesitant, and Henry wrote, filling in where he had an idea of what the man was getting at. He knew that R.B. was a high-class news paper man in Boston now, and that Willam tried hard to live up to those standards as best he could. He didn't think he would mind him filling in, or correcting poor grammar. When they had finished, Henry folded the letter neatly and labeled the envelope with an address copied from a small, worn piece of paper Burke gave him. He set down the handwriting boldly, in a way that he thought a man like Burke would have written, could he write or even read. "There you are," he said, handing the letter over.

             
Burke took it, standing suddenly as if he had been pricked. "Th-thank you, Mr. Peterson, I thank you," he said, returning in favor the payment due.

             
Henry took the money and promptly handed half of it back. Burke probably had friends who would have done it for much less than the sum he was offering, and perhaps even for free. But Burke came to him out of a kind of loyalty, because two years previous Henry had helped him greatly without any fee, because he could not have paid. He was tempted to give all of the money back, but Burke was a proud man and would have been shamed by the action.

             
As it was, he put up his hands. "N-no, sir, that's payment."

             
"This is far away plenty to pay for paper and twice the time. I wouldn't cheat you, Mr. Burke." He looked him straight in the eye, and at last Burke took the money.