When Henry Came Home (44 page)

              The next evening, Pa hitched the horses to the old buckboard and took Henry out to the house, letting Joey tag along to care for the baby in the back. It was a silent ride, as nothing much could be said, and they arrived as the sun was touching the horizon.

             
Henry, in the overcoat and scarf Ma had insisted upon, slid down to the ground without a word and stepped up to the porch. Joey looked up at his father as he reached the steps, expectant. But Pa only laid a firm, comforting hand upon the boy's shoulder, rumbling quietly. "You watch, son,” he said. “There goes a man." And then the older man let go and turned a little, struggling mightily with himself to draw a solid breath.

             
Henry faltered at the steps, but reached out and grasped one of the posts holding up the roof over the porch, pulling himself up the stairs. A moment later, he disappeared inside.

             
Pa patted Joey's back. "All right," he said, and lumbered heavily down from the wagon. He followed Henry's steps into the house, the boy lagging slightly behind with the sleeping child.

             
Inside, it was cool and dim, and Pa had to labor for another moment against his failing breath until his eyes adjusted and he saw Henry, standing firm in the center of the room, his back to the door. To one side, next to the piano, Ms. Beaumont stood uneasily, hands folded behind her back, waiting for instructions.

             
Henry drew in a careful breath, and then let it out. He did not look at Ms. Beaumont. "Don't—touch it," he whispered quietly, carefully, as though if he did not restrain himself, he might suddenly fracture.

             
Ms. Beaumont, uncomprehending, glanced over at Pa. The older man nodded slightly to the piano, and then waved her gently away with one hand. Ms. Beaumont stepped aside and Henry closed his eyes, letting out another breath. "Thank you," he might have whispered.

             
Joey shuffled forward a little with the baby, turning large, questioning eyes up to his father, who responded with a comforting arm that seemed to say, "wait."

             
Henry felt that the pieces of his heart, which had already been broken, might suddenly crumble and blow away. He was numb. He did what seemed right, which was to look about the house, ensuring that every item was in its place. He stepped into the kitchen and observed but did not see the rolling pin upended on the corner of the counter, the plates arranged in the open cabinet from left to right, smallest to largest. The spices on the shelf, ordered according to color and season.

             
He took another careful breath and went back to the hall. He opened the door at the end, and it was not the same. There was a new bed there and a few small items that did not belong. The room was no longer his. It was not a part of the house. He closed the door firmly and turned away.

             
All was well in the bath; soap arranged, towels in place.

             
He turned, and opened the bedroom door.

             
"Pa—!"

             
But Pa was there before Joey spoke, catching the young man when he faltered, his knees buckling beneath him as he sank against the great barrel chest, limp and pale. "Get a glass of water," Pa ordered, wrapping an arm about the boy's chest to hold him up.

             
"No—" protested Henry as Ms. Beaumont went by, almost desperate. "No—no water—"

             
"Son—"

             
But he didn't want her to do it, to touch the glasses, ever, to put her fingerprints where Mary's were, to smear them out, ever, ever-- "No," he whispered, sobbing.

             
But Pa held him firm. "Bear up, son, bear up," he rumbled quietly. "You've got to now, remember that."

             
Ms. Beaumont appeared with a glass, and Pa forced him to take a sip or two. Henry began to cough, but Pa held him firm as he got it out, until finally he took the water of his own accord.

             
"Good boy," affirmed Pa. He glanced out the window. "Now it's dark, and you've got to get settled for bed. Come on in your room."

             
Henry went without protest, though his eyes were dull and unseeing, for he did not want to see, did not want to remember, for it could not be real.

             
"Here, son," Pa was saying, "set down on the bed. Ms. Beaumont--"

             
"No," said Henry, trying to rise.

             
But Pa held him down. "It's got to come sometime, son, might as well be now. It's hard, but you've got to." He turned slightly, and rose, stepping away. "Ms. Beaumont."

             
The woman stepped forward, knowing her duty, and did it cooly; and though Henry sobbed like a child, she relented not at all. When she stepped back, he lay upon the bed in his nightclothes, face down, silent.

             
"Son—" Pa said, stepping forward. He hated it, as much as the boy, but he could see no other way, and that was all. With a gesture of his hand he shooed Ms. Beaumont out of the room, and lowered his voice to speak again. "Son." He put a hand gently upon the young man's back, and felt the ribs beneath his callused fingers.

             
Henry drew in a ragged breath and turned his face away.

             
Heavy in heart, Pa lowered himself to the edge of the bed, clasping his hands tightly between spread knees. He did not speak for a long while. "It's too soon," he said to himself at last, shaking his head and cursing himself inwardly. "Shoulda realized—it's too—"

             
"I'll bear it."

             
"Son?" Pa looked at the boy's still form; he had spoken only just audibly.

             
"I'll bear it," he whispered again. "Just—" his chest heaved. "Just let me--"

             
Pa let his hand rest back on the thin, bony shoulder. "All right, son, all right." Quietly, he rose and left the room.

             
When Pa had gone, Henry was still. Then, slowly, he clutched Mary's pillow to his body, and wept for all that was lost.

              In the morning, he dried his tears and called for Ms. Beaumont to bring the baby.

             
There was a booming knock, suddenly, on the door. Henry, bent over a paper at his desk in the corner, sat up straight and twisted to look, wiping a hand quickly over one eye to clear it. "Ms.—" he began, but the maid was already in the front hall, her hand on the door. It was her habit to sit in at the kitchen table, nights, reading, and she had been close. He nodded for her to open it.

             
With a blast of thin, drizzly rain, Pa ducked inside, grabbing the door out of the woman’s hands and slamming it quickly. He was blanketed in a heavy leather poncho, dripping with rainwater. He pushed it up and over his head and held it out to the maid. "'Evening," he said. "I wonder if you'll take this in the kitchen to dry."

             
"Yes sir," she said, gripping it with both hands and making small steps back down the hall to keep from wetting her dress.

             
Pa started to clump into the front room to join his son-in-law when he noticed his boots were wet with syrupy mud and thought better of it. He smiled and was about to speak when Henry raised a hand, his index finger up. The younger man abandoned the gesture halfway to his lips, closing his hand into a loose fist, when he saw that Pa understood. Instead he cast his eyes to the center of the floor, where Daisy had fallen fast asleep on the rug near the fire. Pa smiled and tiptoed back to the hall, where he removed his boots and holster by the door. He padded back in a moment later and pulled a chair up to the desk.

             
"How long's she been out?" he whispered, a low rumble.

             
Henry spoke aloud, knowing his own voice was quiet enough not to wake the child. "Half an hour, maybe," he said. His hands, on the desk, carefully folded the paper he had been at and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Pa glanced curiously at this action but didn't comment.

             
"Rain's comin' early this year," he said instead. "Caught me by surprise in town, and late, too. Thought maybe I'd come over this way and sleep here the night, if I could."

             
"Of course."

             
"Good, good." His eyes drifted, with Henry's, towards the sleeping child. After a moment, he turned back. "How're you doin', son?" he asked, honest.

             
Henry looked at him, then back at Daisy, her chest rising and falling with the faint, peaceful breaths of a child. "It's a year, now," he said.

             
"Today. Yes, I know." He paused. "An' I'd be lyin' if I didn't say that's half the reason I stopped off."

             
"I'm—I'm always thankful for your concern."

             
"Pleasure's mine, son, all of it, if that’s the word." He put his hands on his knees, leaning forward a little. "Shall I go an' lay your little one down?"

             
"You'd be doin' me a service."

             
Pa pushed up and went to the center of the floor, bending over and sliding his hands beneath her stomach. They were so large only one arm and a leg dangled over the side. Henry watched Pa turn and go into the bedroom, propping his head on one hand.

             
After a bit, Pa returned with empty arms. "Went down without s'much as a peep," he said.

             
"She sleeps sound."

             
He sat down on the sofa, leaning back towards one armrest and lacing his fingers over his stomach. "All th' way through?"

             
"'Til maybe six."

             
"That's a blessing. Never had it with any a' ours till at least three years, it's gotta be." He ran a hand through his whitened hair, pulling it up a little. "It's why I got this," he said, chuckling a little.

             
Henry smiled faintly.

             
"Your folks stopped over ut'all?"

             
The smile was gone, replaced with a sense of unease. "Once," he said, quiet. It had been awkward, painful, for all of them.

             
"Mm," muttered Pa.

             
They sat both silent for a while, eyes wandering slowly about the room. "Pa—" began Henry at last.

             
Pa's chest swelled a little. Henry no longer addressed him directly, not much anymore, since mostly when they saw each other no one else was about and there wasn't a need, but in the past year he had occasionally called him 'Pa,' and it made the older man ache with contentment. "What is it, son?" he rumbled, his voice a little tight.

             
"I wonder if while you're here—if you'd do me a favor, by—takin' me out to the graveyard—tomorrow."

             
Pa frowned slightly, then realized— "Ain't you ever been out there, son?"

             
"—No, sir."

             
"Well—shoot, a' course. I reckon—we both missed the funeral, didn't we."

             
"I—I don't much mind."

             
"No," said Pa, thoughtful. "Neither do I." He looked at his host, straining his eyes a little to see from the couch. "Never did expect it to be this way, didja?" he asked, gently, and thought a moment later that maybe he shouldn't have.

             
"No," whispered Henry. He looked away. "...Maybe I should have."

             
"No," Pa said, quick. "Nobody expected it this way. People oughtn't." He closed his eyes and breathed out. "I 'pologize, son," he said. "I get tired, comf'terble, and my tongue gets loose."

             
"It's all right." He leaned over and blew out the candle on the edge of the desk, leaving the room in the dusky light of two lamps on either end of the sofa. "There's blankets in the hall cabinet," he said.

             
Pa waved a hand. "It's warm enough in here to keep a snake happy. I'm a polar bear."

             
"All right." Grasping the far edge of the weighty desk, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself up. "I—reckon I'll—go on to bed—" he said, hesitating through short, half-pained breaths. "Put the lamps out whenever you like."

             
"Will do. 'Night, son."

             
"Good night." He went to the door of his room, paused with his hand on the knob and turned slightly. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, lowly, and went in, closing the door behind himself. Pa lay still on the sofa, watching, and after a moment Ms. Beaumont appeared, her eyes turned downward, and disappeared through the doorway as well. A minute or two later she emerged, head still down, a small stack of folded clothing held in her open hands. She receded down the hall to her own room, and Pa settled back to blow out one of the lamps.