When Henry Came Home (47 page)

             
Henry thought for a moment. "You can't worry that way," he said. "You do that, and nothin' happens at all—you just get stuck in fear, and that's the same as gettin' off track."

             
Joey looked a little distraught. "Seems just thinkin' about it'll send you off," he worried. "Seems like I'm goin' 'round in circles."

             
"I reckon—you just gotta trust the Almighty, trust he won't let you get off. It's—like walkin' a rope—you get scared, or you think you're all right out on your own, and you fall. All you gotta do is put trust that He's there, holdin' on."

             
"That's harder'n it sounds," said Joey.

             
"Yes." He paused. "Takes most folks all their life, seems like, and not even then. Mostly I guess it's tryin' that matters."

             
Joey sat down, finally. "Henry—" he started, knowing Ma wouldn't approve, "you seen a lotta bad stuff, in the war, huh?"

             
"Yes." His lips formed the word, but there was no sound.

             
"How—how come you still believe in God?"

             
"You doubtin'?"

             
Joey flushed. "No, sir, I--" he shrugged. "Just—" he shrugged again.

             
Henry looked at him. "Askin'," he filled in, sighing a little. "I s'pose it's natural." He paused again, and Joey moved to get up and leave. "The war—" he started, and Joey turned back. "—It—didn't have anythin' to do with the Lord. That was what men did all to themselves, free and willing. And I believe in the Almighty—cause I know Mary ain't gone forever."

             
Joey got up, stood for a moment in his working clothes. "Thank you, sir," he said, feeling small.

             
Henry looked after him. "Joey—" The boy turned at the door. "Did it satisfy?"

             
He paused, and then nodded. "Yes—yes, sir."

              The snow melted early that spring and without much rain, promising a brutal summer. Joey took a wagon in to town from Henry's, bringing in Ms. Beaumont to buy food while he stocked up on supplies for the horses. When he pulled up in front of the general store he hopped down and ran around the back of the buckboard, just in time for Ms. Beaumont to get down herself. His face fell a little, but he reached up and brought down her bag.

             
"Thank you, Mr. Jacobs," she said.

             
"You—you don't have to call me that." He reddened. "Joey is fine."

             
"I would prefer Mr. Jacobs," she returned. "If you will excuse me..."

             
He backed away quickly, letting her go. He watched, biting the inside of his cheek, as she went up the stairs and into the store. After a moment, though, he shook his head and went around to the back, leading the horses, where feed and other bulk products were stored. He began loading the wagon.

             
"This your Pa's or Peterson's today?"

             
Joey looked up to see the weathered old grocer. "G'day, Mr. Mayor," he said, respectful but smiling. "Mr. Peterson's account this time."

             
Goodwin withdrew a small notebook from his front pocket and began making a tally of the items being loaded. "How is he, son?" he asked. "Haven't seen him in town for—months, now."

             
Joey shrugged another bag onto his shoulders and carried it to the wagon. "All right, I guess," he said. "He took real sick towards the end of winter, but he's doin' better."

             
"The little girl?"

             
Joey stopped, grinning. "Fine, sir. Walkin' and ever'thing."

             
"Good, good. --That reminds me. Someone in here lookin' for your boss.'

             
"Mr. Peterson?" Joey was curious.

             
"You're probably too young to remember him comin' before—Edward Malley."

             
Joey shook his head. "I don't know him," he agreed.

             
"Well, he's around town somewhere or other. Can't see more'n three paces in front of his own nose and's got thick black hair hangin' almost in his eyes, so I reckon you won't have too hard a time pickin' him out."

             
"Well—I'll look. Thank you, Mr. Mayor."

             
"You got ever'thing there you need?" He was always and first a businessman.

             
Joey hopped up on the seat, flapping the reins a little. "Yep. Nice day to you!" He waved and drove the horses back out in front, where Ms. Beaumont waited with a sack at her feet on either side. Joey got down again and picked them up, one in each arm, hoisting them into the back with the feed bags. "I gotta stay a little longer," he told her, coming back to wrap the reins around the provided length of pole. "I'm lookin' for someone, but I won't be more'n twenny minutes."

             
She nodded slightly in acknowledgement, and he started off. "You lookin' for someone with dark hair?" she asked, and he turned, walking backwards. "A man?"

             
He stopped. "Yes, ma'am."

             
"Think I saw him." She pointed. "He's goin' that way."

             
Joey tipped the hat he did not have. "Thank you, ma'am, I'll be back shortly."

             
She stepped down beside the wagon to wait.

              Joey headed in the direction Ms. Beaumont had indicated, hurrying; he didn't want to make her wait long. The way he was going lead towards the hotel, and he thought maybe whoever it was—Malley—had gone to get a room. Well before he reached the big white building, however, he passed a man and then turned back, knowing it had to be him. The stranger walked haltingly, his brow furrowed as if trying hard to remember something long forgotten, and his dark hair had fallen out from under his hat and hung forward as he riveted his eyes to the ground. Joey waited at the end of the boardwalk, in front of the Chinese laundry, until Malley got to him.

             
"Sir?" he said. Malley started around him as if he hadn't heard, so Joey took a step forward and repeated himself. "Sir?"

             
The other man stopped, looking up and squinting at him through a pair of small wire-rimmed glasses. "Are you talking to me?" he asked, not rudely.

             
"Yes, sir. Are you Edward Malley?"

             
"Yes. I'm sorry—can you come a little closer?"

             
Joey stepped forward again, and felt awkward standing what felt like nose-to-nose with the taller man, though it was really more like two feet. He bit the inside of his cheek. "Mr. Goodwin—the mayor, he said you're lookin' for Mr. Peterson."

             
"I am," replied Edward, "but I don't recall talking to any mayor."

             
"Well, sir—he's also the grocer."

             
"Ah. And who are you?"

             
"Joey Jacobs, sir. I work for Mr. Peterson."

             
The other man's eyes misted slightly. "Mary's kid brother. Boy—tell me—is what I hear—?"

             
When he didn't speak further, Joey completed the question. "She's—dead, sir, yes."

             
Edward looked down, blinking, feeling an old, old pang in the back of his throat. He ignored it. After a moment he reached up under his glasses and wiped away the wetness, adjusting them as he glanced up to see the boy still there. "Of what?"

             
"Childbirth."

             
"And—the baby?"

             
Joey smiled. "Daisy? Oh, she's fine. About a year and a half. Mr. Peterson and her live out that way some." He pointed. "If you want I can take you—I'm goin' now."

             
Edward considered a moment. "All right," he said at last. "I've got a bag in the hotel—will you wait a moment?"

             
"Sure. The buckboard's just down--"

             
"No—right here, I mean, or come with me to the hotel. I can barely see you, son, let alone hope to find your buckboard."

             
"Oh—sorry, sure, I'll come." Joey turned and they started towards the hotel.

             
"It's been a while since I was here," he mused, conversationally. "Town's grown, though I remember some. Takes me a day or two to—orient myself, I guess, then I'm all right, but you caught me just comin' in this morning."

             
Joey found himself taking a liking to the man. "Where're you from, sir?" he asked.

             
"Boston, mainly, though I wander a bit. You don't remember, but your Ma took me in about a year once when you were just a babe. You and your brother were howlers, I remember."

             
Joey was surprised but pleased by this revelation. "Here's the hotel," he said quickly, as Edward was about to pass it.

             
"Thanks," he grunted. "I'll be just a minute." Joey waited outside, watching folks go by, until Edward came out again, carrying a battered old carpetbag. "This's all," he said, hefting it, and they started back.

             
Ms. Beaumont was still waiting, patiently, beside the buckboard.

             
"This is Ms. Beaumont," introduced Joey as they neared. "She's Mr. Peterson's maid. Ms. Beaumont, Mr. Malley."

             
Edward grunted in acknowledgement, fumbling for the hand that was offered and clasping it briefly. "Please—Edward."

             
Ms. Beaumont nodded. "Pleasure to meet you, sir." She turned to Joey. "Will we be going back now?"

             
"Uh-huh."

             
She pulled up her skirt a little and climbed up into the seat, ignoring or not taking notice of the hand that Joey offered.

             
"I'll ride in back," said Edward, and hitched himself over the side after his bag.

             
Joey shrugged amiably and went around to untie the reins.

              At the house, Edward jumped out, careful of the uneven ground. "Go on and do what you need to," he told Joey. "I'll find my way."

             
"Sure. Nice meetin' you, Mr. Malley."

             
"Call me Edward." He waved briefly and hurried after the quickly disappearing form of Ms. Beaumont, who was carrying both sacks of food. To Edward, she looked like a blurry hourglass shape. He caught up with her just as she was going up the steps, and he tripped up onto the porch after her. "Ma'am," he said, "do me a favor?"

             
She stopped before the door. "Of course, Mr. Malley."

             
"Tell Henry someone's waiting for him on the porch, but don't give him my name. I'll wait."

             
"All right."

             
He held open the door for her and she went in.

             
It turned out that Edward was a while waiting on the porch, and so he sat down on the steps and tried to piece out vague shapes in the distance. It had become, with him, a kind of private game: there, what was probably a barn; a mass of faint green he guessed to be a tree. At last, though, there was a noise behind him, and he leapt to his feet, turning to meet what was certainly a man in the doorway, no doubt Henry.

             
"Old friend," he said, feeling warmth flood his body. He had not realized until now how very lonely he had been, and how very good it was to know that he was with someone who knew him, longer and better than anyone, even if that were not very well; it did not matter. He stuck out his hand and shook fiercely.

             
Henry slipped his hand from his guest's and stepped out onto the porch, gripping the doorjamb and then the post by the steps. Edward was visibly older; his face was lined, mostly at the corners of his eyes, and his glasses were thicker, magnifying the startling green behind them. "Edward," he said, cautious. He was glad that he had come, but he had other reservations that were not so selfish.

             
Edward realized his reluctance. "I heard," he said, low. "In town. I'm sorry, Henry."

             
"Thank you." He coughed lightly.

             
Edward took a deep breath, trying to drag himself from sorrow like one waking from a deep slumber. "Well," he said, "let me have a look at you." He came closer, putting a light hand on Henry's shoulder, to see his face. "I'm afraid my eyes aren't any better," he said. "Too many years over a drafting board, and late at night." He stepped back into his private world of haze, a little startled at what he had seen, though he supposed he should have expected it.