When Henry Came Home (34 page)

             
She sat up. "I'll pack!"

              In the morning, Mary hitched up the horses early, and they were off before sunrise. The Jacobs' place was back towards town and out the other way, and so they rode through, Mary waving as they went like she was in a parade. "Guess I shouldn't tell nobody here," she decided. "Wouldn't be fair to Ma."

             
On the other side, out on the empty road, Henry glanced at her. "We oughta make a surprise," he said.

             
Mary grinned elvishly. "Yes! How, Hen? What will we do?"

             
He looked uneasy. "I—don't know," he said. "I never played one before."

             
She laughed. "But you musta! Everyone has. Think. No-- wait, of course you have! Don't you remember? Our house, out in the ocean?"

             
"Oh," he said, coloring. "Yes." He set his jaw, and pondered a little more. "We—" he began, hesitant at last, "—we could have Joey in. Have him ask you out to ride, and you'll say—"

             
"And I'll say no, thank you, not for nine months!" She threw her arms around him. "Ma will be so happy."

             
He smiled, a little uneasy.

              When they came up in front of the large white house, one of the twins—Brian—was out on the front porch. He had watched them from a distance, and scurried inside the house when the horses stopped.

             
"That boy," muttered Mary, "is gonna grow up a bandit if Ma don't ride him good." She got down and held the horses while Henry slid off the buckboard. As he touched the ground, Ma came out onto the porch, Brian trailing in her shadow. He peered out from behind her bulk.

             
"Children!" exclaimed Ma, happily, throwing up her hands. She called her young ones by their names until they had grown and gone away, and then she called them ‘children’ because they would always be hers. She turned slightly and waved Brian out. "Go on now, and get the horses!" Behind her, he gave a sullen look and hurried out, grinning conspiratorially at Mary. She caught his ear as he went by, tugging playfully before letting go.

             
"You be good," she warned him, smiling.

             
He stumbled away from her. "In a pig's eye!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, grabbing the horses as they skittered sideways at the noise.

             
Mary laughed and she went with Henry up to the porch. Ma, looking past them at her boy, shook her head in dismay. "Just don't know what I'm gonna do with that one," she sighed, again tossing up her hands. "He's taken to sayin' that cause he knows it ain't foul, but it sure is coarse and folks don't like it." She sighed and turned her attention to her guests. "Well, dears, come on in. Pa'll be in—" she stopped, looking suddenly into Mary's face for the first time. "Why—oh—why, darlin'!" She put a hand to her mouth, flushing. "It's a baby, ain't it!" She bustled forward and crushed Mary to her chest. "Why girl, I—I just don't know." She stood back at last, wiping her eyes and looking between them, proudly.

             
"Aw, Ma!" said Mary. "It was gonna be a surprise! How'd you know?"

             
Ma shook her head, sniffling and smiling, and herded them through the front door. "Your eyes, darlin', the eyes tell. Well—well, such a blessin'... come in, children... sit down."

             
There were heavy, booming steps on the front porch, and the door flew open. Pa, an outline against the light outside, raised his hands. "Where's my girl?" he demanded. "Brian come skulkin' in with horses—ah!" He spotted her as his eyes adjusted and lifted her from the ground. "How are ya', darlin'?"

             
Mary squealed, kicking her heels until he let her down. "Fine, Pa—" she started, giggling.

             
"Now Ben, you just stop that!" Ma demanded, pushing herself between them. Pa, puzzled, took a step back, and she let out a hefty breath, swiping back loose strands of hair for nothing better to do; she always had to be busy with her hands. She smiled, as though weary but relieved and happy all in the same moment. "Ben, you just go on and guess."

             
Pa looked even more confused. "Guess what--?" Mary caught his eye, over Ma's shoulder, and winked. Suddenly his jaw hung a little loose, and he looked between her and Henry. "Is it—what I want t'say, anyway?"

             
"Go on, Pa, say it," urged Mary. "Go on."

             
"A—a baby comin'?" He ran a hand through his hair; over the years and more so recently, it had become a stark, pure white, contrasting darkly with his sun-browned skin. The action had become habitual, as if he were a little confused at the unnatural turn of age.

             
"Yes, Pa."

             
"Oh, darlin'—!"

              "Scared as hell, ain't you, son?" Pa's words were more of a statement, a certainty. He grinned like a satisfied cat.

             
Henry shifted, and took a sip of lemonade. "Yes," he said. They were out on the back porch together, which was screened off with mosquito netting.

             
"Don't worry yourself—it was the same with me, the first time. Second time too. And especially the third and fourth. That there was a real surprise." Of a sudden, Pa snapped his fingers. "Say—I got in some new machinery. Don't use ferrier's equipment but twicet a year, but I been savin'. Care to see it?"

             
"All right."

             
There was a thin wooden door on springs to close in the porch, and Pa hurried to hold it open. He was eager as a boy, and Henry was reminded of Mary, though Pa's face was burnt and flat and rather ugly. They started across the yard to the barn. "Sure, son" said Pa, "you'll love bein' a father to your young'n, you watch. I see you're real careful, but things fit in, you'll see."

             
"Yes, sir."

             
Pa took a sudden few steps to get in front of Henry. He stopped in his tracks, under a large oak, and leveled a thick finger. "Damn it all, son, how long's it gonna be a'fore I c'n git you t' stop 'sirrin' me?"

             
Henry looked startled. "I—" he said, gathering himself, "I—reckon when you s-stop callin' me 'son.'"

             
Pa made to say something, then stopped and frowned, thoughtful. "Well," he said. "Well.  --It don't seem right, callin' you anything else, an' I can't expect you t' go callin' me Pa—" he let his finger drop and ran a hand through his whitened hair, then through again. "Durn it all, now I've gone and skairt you—I do 'pologize, son." He turned, gesturing. "Come on," he said, walking slow as Henry caught up. He put an arm over the younger man's shoulders, lightly. "You go on and call me what you like."

             
"Th-thank you, sir."

             
At the barn, Pa used his great, brawny arms to heave one of the doors open, just enough to get through. They went inside, and a shaft of light from the opening sliced across the floor. That, with pinpoints leaking from cracks and spaces and knotholes in the lumber, was enough to dimly light the huge structure. Pa's barn, indeed, was large; the ceiling reached lofty heights known in the cities only to cathedrals, and the beams crossed over one another like a great spider web up above.

             
Henry paused in the middle of the packed-dirt floor, smiling faintly. Pa lumbered to a corner and began to pull away a large canvas cloth, revealing a piece of machinery underneath. After a moment he noticed he hadn't been followed and looked back. He paused, looking at the boy looking up. "Rememb'rin', son?" he asked.

             
Henry blinked and glanced at him. "Yes..." he said, turning his eyes upward again. "You taught us buildin', here."

             
Pa laughed, booming and deep and satisfying. The rafters seemed to shiver slightly, and grew still. "Wasn't nothin', son. Showed you'n John there a few tricks, and you went and got the whole thing built all yourselves. Bright pair 'a kids, you two were, real bright." Henry looked a little unsettled, so Pa beckoned with an arm. "Come on over here, lemme show you this." He turned back, pulled off the rest off the canvas covering, and stood back a little, proud. "Saved me all winter for this," he said. "See here where it comes down?" He pointed, and Henry bent forward slightly to see, running a finger along the slick, untarnished metal. "That there airs it. Gonna make some real fine iron, maybe try my hand at a little steel. Ain't got much experience, but I'll figger it."

             
"I'd like to see it—when it's up and goin'," admitted Henry.

             
"Sure, son, sure. Won't be a month or two 'til we fire her, but sure. Pound it out yourself if you want." His hand went through his hair and he shifted from one foot to the other, his body restless if his mind was not.

             
Henry paled. "We'll—we'll see," he said, quietly.

              In the evening after dinner, Mary pulled Henry through a door into the sewing room and kissed him. "I got a place I wanna sleep, if it's all right. –Pa'll have to take you upstairs."

             
He glanced down. "All right."

             
"You sure?"

             
"Yes." From the parlor, they heard Ma start in on the piano.

             
She grinned, pulling him back the other way out through the door. "Come on, then." They went down the hall and into the front room, where Brian and Joey were standing by the piano as Ma danced her fingers over the keys. The twins looked up as they came in, their mouths snapping shut. Their expressions were identical, almost guilty. From the leather chair in the corner, Pa grinned and shut his eyes, leaning his head back and crossing his arms over a solid abdomen.

             
Ma turned to look at Mary and Henry and then twisted back to eye her boys. "I ain't gonna have you two bein' like that," she said. "Ain't no shame. Now go on, sing." Her voice was no-nonsense, and when she started up again her fingers were heavy on the keys. Tentatively, looking like a pair of wet cats, the boys began to sing. Neither one moved his head as Mary and Henry sat down on the sofa, but their eyes strained to follow, hurriedly averting when Henry glanced over at them.

             
At last, Ma finished the song and the boys bolted before she could protest. Brian tromped from the room, but Joey scrambled for a little space on the far side of the sofa, at Mary's feet. She reached over, smiling, and patted his head. "That was beautiful," she whispered. He flushed and hid his face.

             
"Come play with me a while," wheedled Ma, gesturing to her daughter. Mary hesitated a moment, then went over and sat on the piano bench beside her.

             
"Don't know as I remember much," she muttered to herself, but as her hands passed over the keys they reoriented themselves quickly. She sounded out a few chords and wiggled back and forth to get settled. "Guess you never forget.” She shrugged and joined Ma in a series of lively songs.

             
Henry watched the two women, and when Pa opened one eye he peered at Henry. Joey, finding the attention drawn away from himself at last, climbed up on the sofa where his sister had been, next to his brother-in-law. After a few minutes, Ma declared herself finished, leaving Mary to play. Ma sat down in a rocker by the window and began to knit. Joey, cautious, scooted a little closer to Henry, and after a moment the man's hand rested on his head and then around his shoulder, almost absently. He was still watching his wife. Joey smiled sheepishly and scooted still closer.

             
When Mary had finished her fourth piece she turned suddenly, swiveling so that she sat backwards on the bench, feet dangling. She put one hand on the bench on either side of her. "Recite, Hen," she half-begged.

             
He looked back at her blankly, swallowing, a little startled to have been put on the spot so suddenly. He realized then that his arm was around the boy—Joey—and moved to withdraw it. He stopped, though, seeing the boy's eyes looking up at him, smiling. He glanced back at Mary. "All right," he said. She grinned, and he grasped his cane, using the boy's shoulder to stand. His eyes went around the room, then turned inward, considering.

             
"I've heard you do Henry the Fifth, on occasion," noted Pa, from the corner. He shifted, a hint of a smile on his face, and his eyes remained closed.

             
Henry blinked. "All—all right." He looked down at Joey, knowing that the boy would not have heard the story. "Long ago," he said, "Henry the Fifth was king of England."

             
"Were you named after him?"

             
"Was I—no—no, I don't think so."

             
"There was a King John, too."