When Henry Came Home (39 page)

             
"I—well, I hit where I was aiming." Henry's hands rested uneasily on his thighs, palms flat. His shoulders slumped.

             
Doc's hand came up with a small hand-held piece, another conical shape attached at one end. He got up again with a small grunt and bent to look into Henry's ear, although he wasn't expecting to find much. "I was—in the east—" he said, haltingly, in between thoughts as he examined his patient's ear. "—A bit—during the war--" he moved to the other side, closing one eye and widening the other to peer through his instrument. "Seems—I heard things—'bout someone named Peterson." He turned, tossing the instrument back into his bag, and put a hand on Henry's head, holding his eyelid up with a large thumb.

             
"Lots of men by that name," said Henry. "Maybe—maybe even it was John."

             
Doc performed the same operation with the other eye. "Nope—this was a Henry Peterson."

             
Henry didn't say anything.

             
Doc stepped back, and looked at him straight on. "Don't like to talk about it, do you?" he asked. "Don't want folks to know you're a hero. Why?" Henry looked away and after a moment Doc turned to rummage in his bag again. "...Not even your own wife?" These words were quiet, no longer in his usual large and comfortable tones of conversation, and his back was to Henry.

             
"I—I guess that's my own business," said Henry, paling. His hands curled into fists, and then slowly unknotted themselves.

             
Doc paused a moment, not turning around. "Reckon so," he said finally. "I 'pologize. Too many times I stick my nose where it ain't wanted."

             
"'S all right."

             
"Well, I reckon you'll forgive me then if I stick this cursed thing down your throat." Doc's smile was penitent, and Henry opened his mouth obligingly, making the proper noises when prompted. "Well, there—whoops!" Doc lost his hold on the tongue depressor, and it fell lightly into Henry's lap. The movement startled Henry, but then he fumbled for the little stick and handed it back. "Thank you, son, thank you..." muttered Doc, who turned his careful eyes away and placed the item back in his bag. "Go on and get buttoned up, and I'll go claim my glass of water from your little lady." He hiked his specs up with a thumb and forefinger, grinned, and left the room.

             
Mary heard him come out into the hall and met him with the glass. He took it and stepped past her, going into the kitchen. "What is it?" she asked, her brow creasing slightly as she followed.

             
"Your man—he been tired at all, lately?"

             
She pulled back slightly, caught. "Well—last night, I guess, he got real sleepy all've a sudden. Kind of—confused." She bit her lip. "Why, Doc?"

             
He reached up and put a hand, soft and pink, on her arm. "I don't wanna scare ya, darlin', but I think mebbe he had a kind of stroke, probably last night like you said." He shook his head before she could be concerned. "Don't worry yourself, cause it don't look like nothin' much; it was real small, and lots of folks have'm and don't notice. Jus'—watch out a little. I didn't say nothin' to him, cause I think the worry'd be more than it's worth—but I think he'll be fine." He patted her arm and let go.

             
"Thank you, Doc," she said, softly, watching him go.

              Mary crawled up onto the bed, feeling a little like ten years old and Christmas morning in her long-sleeved nightgown. Though the days were warm, it was cooler in the evenings now, and it wouldn't be long before they'd start up the fireplace at night. She curled up next to her husband, her head on his shoulder.

             
He looked down at her. "I killed a man," he said, his voice hollow.

             
"Wasn't your blame."

             
"Wasn't the first." His breath caught, slightly.

             
She slid her arms around his body. "I know," she whispered, and he was silent.

             
He gave a short, rasping cough, then settled back. "Don't know why... seems like--" his voice was quiet. "Like one's always gotta die for another to live."

             
"Don't—" her voice broke. "Don't say that, Hen, don't." Her arm drew away from him, to cradle her belly.

             
His eyes fell on her, examining for a moment. "I'm sorry," he said, and put an arm around her. For a minute he was quiet, stroking her hair and feeling torn. "I think—" he said, "I think maybe I was scared to love you, knowin' what I had inside. Scares me—sometimes-- 'cause I'm not scared—like maybe I might hurt you, and not care."

             
She looked up at him. "You'll never hurt me," she told him, confident. "Not meaning to, anyway."

             
"How do you know?"

             
"You don't think you'll ever want to hurt me, do you?"

             
"No—but I've seen—men change."

             
She smiled. "No. You'll never change."

             
"I—I don't know if that's good or bad," he said, teasing a little.

             
"Both, I guess." She shifted, sitting up on her knees to face him. "Hen—" she said, hesitant, "Doc didn't tell, but I think I oughta--" He watched her, waiting, and her hands grasped his, worrying it. "He said—last night, maybe—you had a kind of stroke."

             
Henry looked down at his hands, saw them tremble for a moment and then stop. That's what it had been, then.

             
"He said it wasn't a bad one, just small, but you oughta go easy."

             
"Sure," he said, "I guess." He was suddenly a little afraid.

              Sometime in the night, he woke, gasping and coughing, because Mary was shaking his shoulder gently, her other hand pressed against his brow, sweaty and cold. For a moment he remained in the nightmare world, the shots in his mind loud as reality. "Run," he urged, pleaded, clutching her arm. "Please—
run!
"

             
"Shhh," she soothed softly, kissing his forehead.

             
He realized, suddenly, where he was, in a rush of time like a waterfall. At first, his urge was to turn from her, dark and ashamed, but he pushed it away and clung to her, tightly, his breaths quick and panicked.

             
"Shhh," she said again, wrapping her arms around him tightly, tightly.

             
How strong she is,
he thought.
How strong...

              As Mary's time drew nearer, Henry began to make preparations. He talked with the father of the boy, Ian, who helped in the yard, so that he could stay until the baby came. They offered him a place in the house, but he was a shy boy, perhaps a little slow, and preferred to sleep in the barn. Doc was contacted, and he agreed to stay in town as much as he could, and if he could not, to make certain that a midwife was available in his stead.

             
Mary, it seemed, was finally slowed by her condition, and walked about the house with one hand on her back and the other beneath her bulging stomach. When Henry looked at her, concerned, she gave a tired but glowing smile. "Feel like maybe if I don't hold it up, it'll drop right outta there," she said, and laughed when he showed worry because it was only a joke. He got up twice more in the morning before she woke, to prepare breakfast. He would have done it more often, probably, but she was quick and would stand for no nonsense.

             
One morning, however, he insisted that she remain beneath the covers.

             
"But Hen--" she protested.

             
He pointed a finger at her, sharply. "Stay," he told her, barely hinting at a smile. "I mean it."

             
She flopped back into the pillows. "You're trying to spoil me," she pouted, watching him rise stiffly. "And I won't stand for it."

             
He slipped on his robe, a new one. "All right. I promise—after today, I won't ever even think of lifting a finger again."

             
She raised her eyebrows. "Not a finger?"

             
He stopped in the doorway, looking back. "Well—maybe just one. Now and then."

             
"All right. In that case, you may go." She slid back down under the sheets, satisfied. There were noises from the kitchen, dulled a little as they passed through the walls, but she could imagine the causes of them and tracked his progress in her mind as he worked. After a while, she heard him coughing and something clanked, as if dropped. "Hen?" she called, sitting up.

             
It was a moment before he answered, and he came to the door of the kitchen so she could hear down the hall. "Stay," he said. It was only a few minutes more before he returned, with griddlecakes. "I'm getting faster," he said.

             
She snatched the plate from his hand, pretending to examine the four small items with care. She pointed. "This one's burnt on the bottom."

             
He sat down on the edge of the bed. "Yes—that was when I knocked the jar of flour off the counter."

             
Her brow went up. "The flour--!"

             
"Don't worry—the lid was shut tight and it didn't break. It's just—on the floor."

             
"Hm. Well." She tasted. "Very good! Where did you learn?"

             
"Growing up with nine other kids makes lots of work," he explained. He paused, listening, then slid over a little to pull himself up, letting out a small gasp of pain.

             
"Hen—" she said, then, seeing him go to the door, "Wait! What's that noise? Who's coming?"

             
He pointed to her again. "Stay. And eat."

             
She listened impatiently, eating a little, and heard a carriage or a buckboard come closer and stop. There were a few loud exclamations, but they silenced quickly. After that, the front door opened, thumping against the wall, and heavy footsteps sounded into the front room. Mary waited as long as she could, then set her plate aside, nearly tossing it onto the little table next to her side of the bed. "Hen!" she called, "I'm coming out!" She threw aside the sheets, but paused before getting up, hearing his cane in the hall. He appeared in the doorway.

             
"No you aren't," he said, just barely smiling. "You'll have to get past me, first."

             
"That's not fair!" she protested, grinning.

             
He smiled. "Ten more minutes. That's all. Actually—" He looked back, at someone Mary couldn't see. "Thank you—yes—thank you—" the front door swung shut, and a moment later there was a whinny and whoever had come was gone. "All right—come out." He waited as she got up and joined him in the door and lead her down the hall and into the front room.

             
"Oh—oh—Hen—" she stuttered, "Oh, it's beautiful." Against the far wall, there rested a darkly polished upright, the ivory keys gleaming dully in the morning light. She drifted towards it slowly, running her fingers over the silent keys, her other hand caressing her stomach. Carefully, she touched several of the black keys with her index finger, stroking them in adoration.

             
"You—you can teach the baby," he said, softly.

             
She turned, suddenly, and flew back to him, her arms around his neck. He felt, pleasantly, her firm belly press against his side. "Thank you, Hen," she said. "It's beautiful." She came away a little, and he motioned.

             
"Play a little," he said.

             
She smiled and bit her lip. "Not yet," she whispered. "Not till the baby comes."

             
He looked down, and kissed her for a long while. "All right," he said.

              Three nights later, she woke him, feeling a pang. "Hen—" she said, shaking his shoulder. "Hen—"

             
He turned to see her in the moonlight, just as she was torn with the first convulsions of labor. Her teeth clenched and her lips pulled back into a grimace, and in a moment it was gone. He moved quickly, pulling back the sheets. "I'll get Ian," he said, reaching—but felt her hand on his wrist.

             
"No," she said. "It's only started just now, and far apart. I've got a long while, and maybe even it'll pass, that's what Ma would say."