When Henry Came Home (46 page)

             
"You don't have to tell me," Sarah informed him, unconcerned.

             
Henry's voice was quick, detached. "When they brought the wounded in, there were so many that the doctors had to treat those first who had the best chance of survival. I was put aside, and by the time anyone realized I was alive I had gotten through infection." His fingers clawed gently at the seams on his pants. "...It was safer just to leave it on than it was to amputate and risk infection again."

             
She toyed with her food. "And John?"

             
"He didn't make it back to camp." Inside, he burned.

             
She glanced up, and his eyes held her. "Don't look at me that way," she said, suddenly curt. Nervous, she shook her head as if to toss her copper hair, only it was tied up. She waited, but he did not speak. "Why do you talk to me?" she asked, filling the silence. Her voice was sharp, accusing. "The way you say it—just flat out, easy like that—you don't talk to anyone else that way, not even to Mary you didn't. You answer me, but it seems always to me like you wanna say somethin' more, but don't dare." She paused, and something twisted in her face and her voice. "It's easy to talk to someone you hate—isn't it?"

             
"I don't hate you."

             
Her eyes pulled away from him. "Don't look at me that way."

             
He licked his lips and swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was a whisper. "I'm only thinkin'—if—if Mary were here, she'd a' had somethin' to say or do to make it all right with you, and I—I don't know what it is."

             
She stood, tossing her fork down. "You ain't Mary," she said. "Not even half."

             
"No," he agreed, quiet, watching her go. When she had gone he sat very still for a long while, sifting carefully through the whirlwind of shifting emotions that was Sarah. He found himself strangely at a loss.

              Later, when Ms. Beaumont had returned Daisy to Henry's care and they had eaten, he turned her back again while he got up, half rising and then sitting down again for a moment to cough. He accepted what his chest, painfully tight, had been telling him since he woke—illnesss was setting in. Finally, he stood and received the glass of water Ms. Beaumont held out to him, Daisy straddled on one hip.

             
"Bring the crib and a few blankets in to the parlor," he told her. "And put Ms. Jacobs' things by my bed after you've dressed it with clean sheets. Did the man with the carriage stay?"

             
"Yes, sir. I told him he could make a fire in the pit."

             
"Good, he'll be warm enough." He went into the parlor, Ms. Beaumont and Daisy following after. He indicated the sofa and she put the baby down, then went into his room to bring out the crib.

             
Sarah was hovering about the mantle, looking at the photograph of Mary and letting her fingers drift over a few other items as she examined them. Henry remained standing, watching her, and finally she turned to the piano, her smile forced. She sat down and folded back the solid wooden cover with a bang.

             
"Don't," said Henry, sharp.

             
She glanced over one shoulder, fingers poised, and saw his face. "I was only going to play a little Mozart," she returned. His face did not move, and she shrugged, getting up. "Oh well," she half-sighed, and let one diffident finger bounce off of middle C before closing the wood back over the keys.

             
Henry turned from her, stung, closing his eyes tightly against the tears that came. His hand clenched and then unfolded; clenched again. It—the memory—it seemed, was suddenly tainted, bittered forever. And all he had left were memories.

             
She turned, and realized the magnitude of what she had done. "Do—you hate me now?" she asked, morbidly curious.

             
"No," he choked. But it was there, in him—the seed of hatred. Deep within. He struggled against it like a drowning man.

             
Ms. Beaumont emerged finally, dragging out the crib.

             
Sarah turned. "What are you doing?"

             
Henry had mastered himself, and faced her again. The piano, just behind her, clawed into his sight. "You'll sleep in my room tonight," he said.

             
She looked from him to the crib and back again. "I won't put a cripple out of his bed," she told him, her voice steady and cool.

             
He matched her eyes. "You'll sleep in my room tonight," he said again, and it was final.

             
She held his gaze for a minute more, then turned on one heel, stepped sharply to the door of his room, and slammed it behind her.

             
Henry let out a heavy sigh of what was almost relief, and his shoulders sank.

             
Ms. Beaumont, bent over the crib, looked up as she stood. "Sir--" she said, "you've gone white--" She rarely ever spoke to him first.

             
His hand fell to grip the back of the sofa and he coughed shallowly. "Just—get me a blanket, Ms. Beaumont. I—won't be staying up tonight."

             
"Yes, sir."

              In the morning, Sarah emerged from his room, dressed, her hair wound tightly up under a small ladies' cap. It was early, and Henry still lay on the sofa, though awake. He pushed himself up to look at her as she came in, and the heavy blanket that covered him fell down to his waist, though he wore a nightshirt as well.

             
She took a step forward. "I want to apologize," she said, soft. "For yesterday—all of it." She turned her eyes to the floor.

             
Henry coughed thinly. "It's all right," he said, finally, and swallowed. "You're hurt and only wantin' to hurt someone back because of it."

             
"You always forgive," she said, "why? I know I hurt you bad." Her glance went to the piano and then skipped away. She came further into the room, and unconsciously one of his hands reached down to pull the blanket up to his chest. He coughed again, and this time it took him so that his body shook. She looked at him strangely, her brow furrowed.

             
"Ma'am—" he said, "I ain't dressed proper. If you'll get Ms.—"

             
Sarah looked down at Daisy, still sleeping, though stirring a little, fitful. "You must wonder where my little ones are," she said, ignoring him, "me so proud a' them before. A little hill, back east. With John, I like to think. Typhoid, it was, for the oldest. My littlest—he was always s'weak, an' after a time I just couldn't take him no more, knowin' it'd kill him. Left him off in an orphanage, run by nuns... they sent word, maybe a week later, he'd gone, too." She spoke almost to herself, looking down into the crib. "I ain't got no one, now."

             
"I'm sorry."

             
There was silence for a time, interrupted by another cough from Henry. He closed his eyes, faint, and sank back a little into the cushion.

             
Sarah looked up and took another step closer. "You're ill," she said, suddenly.

             
He shook his head a little, and put a hand to his mouth, coughing again. "It'll pass," he said at last, his voice rough.

             
She looked, her eyes wide, at his hand. "That's blood," she whispered.

             
"It's not—T.B. Happens—sometimes--" he winced and coughed again. After a moment, he felt it pass, and sat up. When he spoke, his voice was low and unforced. "Please—I'm not dressed right. Ms. Beaumont will--"

             
Her brow furrowed again, and she shook her head, stark concern on her face. "I'll help you dress, Henry. I'm here."

             
He looked up at her a long while and saw desperation. "You are not Mary," he said quietly, at last. "And I am not John."

             
Sarah's jaw hardened, the muscles beneath her skin tensing. The front door opened and then shut again, and Ms. Beaumont came down the hall, stopping in the doorway. Sarah stepped back, and her voice was a sharp hiss. "You would take this—" she pointed. "This—
whore
over me?"

             
In a sudden, passionate movement, Henry pushed himself up fully. "In my house," he said, "you will treat those I choose to employ with respect, or you will leave. Immediately."

             
Sarah stared at him a moment, disbelieving. "Very well," she said at last. "I'll leave you to your whore. Will you have her pack my things?"

             
"You will pack your own bag."

             
She went into the bedroom.

             
"My clothes, Ms. Beaumont."

             
She was gone, and returned a moment later, holding them out. "Sir--" she said quietly, "thank you."

             
"Don't," he told her, almost sharply. "I would have said the same for anyone."

              As Sarah left, in the carriage over the snow, there was a small spot in the distance; a single rider. Henry, dressed, had lain back down on the couch, but Ms. Beaumont saw it from the window. "Sir," she said, "young Mr. Jacobs, I think."

             
"Joey."

             
"Yes. He's just ridden past the carriage."

             
Henry, of course, had been expecting the boy; Ian's family was preparing to go to California in the spring, and he had been needed at home. Joey, glad for his first "job," had taken his place. Vaguely, Henry found the change pleasant; unlike Ian, Joey often came inside to visit.

             
"Make some breakfast," Henry reminded Ms. Beaumont. He settled back to wait for the boy.

             
"Yes, sir," she said, hurrying off. With the events of the morning, she had forgotten it entirely, but did not apologize, having learned some time ago that Henry disliked it.

             
Joey came in without knocking, as he always did, and the door closed loudly behind him, waking Daisy. She began to cry, but he swooped in quickly, tossing her up into the air and catching her lightly.

             
Henry sat up a little. "'Morning," he said.

             
Joey grinned. His smile, like his father's, was broad and showed a set of large white teeth. He had grown some and looked a little awkward in the man's body, just beginning to fill out. "'Morning," he answered. "Who's that leaving, this early?"

             
"Your sister."

             
"My--" he cut himself off, unbelieving. "But—"

             
"Help me up," Henry said, and Joey set the smiling baby back in her crib to take his arm. He glanced around for Henry's cane but didn't see it, shrugged, and let him lean on his shoulders over to the desk, where he sat down.

             
"You all right?" he asked, forgetting his sister for a moment as he saw how pale his companion was.

             
"I'll be fine." He took out a sheet of thin yellow paper, dipped his pen in ink and began to write. "Take—this—to your father," he said, halting as he concentrated on writing, his hand moving swiftly across the page. He finished the short note, blotted and folded it, and gave it to Joey. "Tell him I thought he oughta know, but it's up to him whether to tell your Ma or not; I don't think he'll want to. Go on and read it yourself, but start off now."

             
Joey licked his lips, serious. "All right," he said, then again, "all right." He turned and hurried from the house.

              He returned in the afternoon to do the work he had started out for that morning, and stopped off in the house. "You're right," he said. "Pa said don't let Ma hear, we just gotta let her go. He said she ain't comin' back except of her own free will."

             
"I—think he's right." Henry looked at the boy's face. "--What is it?"

             
"I just don't understand, I guess, how she c'n go an' do that, runnin' off that way. She's gotta know it's hurtin' Ma—" he stopped, frustration showing on his brow.

             
"It's a hard thing," Henry answered, quiet. "Sometimes—I think—sometimes folks get off track and just can't—or won't or don't want to, maybe—get back on. Sometimes maybe it's pride—not wantin' to admit they went off the wrong way, so they just stay."

             
"Oh," said Joey, and was withdrawn for a while. "Makes me scared sometimes," he said finally, his voice small. "Like maybe I'll get off and won't know it and then when I see I'll turn and be like her."