When Henry Came Home (48 page)

             
"I don't look well," said Henry plainly, observing Edward's face. "I know it. I—was poorly through most of the winter, but I'll manage." He paused, turning back to the door. "Come on inside and see the baby."

             
Edward followed him back into the cozy little house, which felt warm even though he couldn't clearly see much of anything. Like the apartment before, it had a special quality about it, and he felt instinctively that nothing had been displaced since she had gone.

             
Henry moved to the other side of the sofa and sat down, putting aside his cane and bending to pick up the little pixie on the floor. He whispered soft words to her, and she giggled and held out the toy she carried, inviting him to play.

             
A little reluctant to interrupt what seemed a private matter, Edward followed his host around and remained standing, watching them from a distance.

             
"Sit down," said Henry, after a moment. Edward did so, and he handed over the baby.

             
She felt foreign to his touch, strangely so, and of course he realized that he had not held a child since—he thought back—since he had lived with the Jacobs'. He smiled, though, seeing her face for the first time. She was beautiful and rosy and happy, and when she grinned two teeth showed on her lower gums. For a moment she studied him, then reached and pushed back towards Henry. "Da-dee," she said.

             
"It's all right, pumpkin," he told her.

             
She looked back at Edward, and he would have sworn her expression was dubious. "Hoo-hoo-hoo!" she voiced, gunting it out like a little monkey.

             
"That's Uncle Edward," replied Henry.

             
Edward smiled. "Uncle," he repeated, under his breath. "Was she really asking who I was?"

             
"I'm—not sure, but she never says it when we're alone. She doesn't talk much yet, but I think she understands more than she lets on."

             
He put a hand under hers, bringing it close so he could see all the fine details of her fingers; the tiny, thin nails, the little dimples where her fingers joined her palm. "Well," he said. "She's perfect." She began to squirm then, and with a nod from Henry he let her down on the floor to play.

             
"Edward—" said Henry, his voice pained. "I have to—to say—I won't have drink—"

             
Edward understood what he was getting at immediately, and reached out to pat the other man’s shoulder as he stood again. "Don't worry," he said. "I haven't had a drop in more'n two years." Although he couldn't see, he guessed that Henry looked relieved.

             
"I'm glad."

             
He sauntered about the room, careful of Daisy and her things on the floor. "Wound up one night in Baltimore," he explained, "nearly killed myself with whiskey. Nobody knew who I was, so they took me to the Doc and left me the night. By morning I was only starting to sober, and I guess I told him all my woes. I get to the part where I say I get drunk every time I take a train because the noise kills me, and he just looks up from his little desk, where he's been sitting the whole time, just reading this book, and says, 'cotton.' It was the first thing he said, so I stopped and asked him what exactly he meant by cotton. He says, 'Cotton. Plug your ears with cotton.'" Edward smiled grimly at the memory. He shrugged, peering at the photos on the mantle. "I just started laughing, right there. Couldn't stop for an hour. Haven't had a drop since."

             
"Cotton, then," remarked Henry.

             
Edward turned back, seeing his dim, pale form on the dark couch. He shrugged. "I guess it wasn't really that. Just made me realize how ridiculous the whole thing was. Wasting my life for no good reason at all."

             
"What have you been doing—since?"

             
He sat down on the piano bench, facing out. "Same as always. My company took me back—I'm lucky I'm good at what I do. They needed me too much to keep me fired." On a thought, he reached into his pocket, standing again and going to the couch. "Here."

             
Henry took the photographs and began to look through them. They were all buildings—immense structures of steel and iron. Some had been taken when only the girders showed, others when they were completed. "You--?"

             
"Yes, those are mine. Well, mostly. There's kind of a group that works together, and I'm the head." He laughed softly. "I think it's kind of ironic—those pictures, and the plans, too—are all I'll ever see of them. I'd love to be able to stand on the street outside one and just look up and see the whole thing—right up to the top."

             
"Sometimes—" offered Henry, hesitant to make the supposition, "having it in your mind is better than the reality."

             
Edward shrugged. "You're probably right." He laughed again. "That's something to think of—being able to see it and finding out I hate what I've done."

             
Henry smiled, coughed a little. "When you were here—before—you said—you wanted to ride." It was almost a question.

             
"Did I? I still haven't."

             
"We—there are horses, out by the barn."

             
"I couldn't! I'd get lost as soon as I started," he objected, chuckling.

             
"Joey'll take you out," he countered. "He'll be here 'til late afternoon."

             
"He's grown into a fine boy," commented Edward. "Like his father."

             
"He's been—a great help," Henry said, his voice soft.

             
Edward considered. "Well," he said at last, "let me have a look at the horses, and I'll think on it."

             
"Good." Henry took his cane. "Will you--" Edward stepped forward, and took his arm. "Thank you," he said, tugging down the bottom of his coat a little after standing. "Ms. Beaumont." He waited for her to appear in the doorway. "Please keep an eye on Daisy," he said. "I'll be out on the porch."

             
"Yes sir." She went back into the kitchen to get the potatoes she was peeling.

             
Edward went first down the hall, Henry following, and turned to hold open the door just as Henry stumbled forward and fell. In a moment that was strangely slow, Edward put out his hands and made a blunt catch around his midsection, pulling him up against his own chest. "Henry--" he said. His face, close again, was ashen. Edward slid under his shoulder and put a hand on his chest to hold him as he stood, listening to the other man's ragged breaths. "Henry, are you all right?"

             
He shook his head. "Yes—just—weak--" He coughed, wincing and pushing away to stand. "Thank you. Go on—it's all right."

             
But Edward kept his place, forcing him to lean on his shoulder as he steered him back to the sofa to sit. "Ms. Beaumont," he said, "some water please." She nodded and went to fetch a glass. "Henry," he said, turning back, "do you need a doctor?"

             
He shook his head again. "No—there's not much he can do." He smiled, faintly, thin, and it didn't show in his eyes. "It's not—unexpected. Go out with Joey—I just need to rest."

             
"No," said Edward flatly, and so they sat in an awkward silence for a while. Ms. Beaumont returned, with water for each, and left again. "Well," Edward started again, at length, "I had brought a little present for you—but I guess it's not very useful out here—without running water, I mean."

             
"We have water."

             
"Do you? I didn't think I saw anything as tall as a water tower. I must have missed it."

             
"No—there's no tower. I've—got a system of pipes, running from a kind of pond over west a little ways. That's why—I picked this spot. It's a little lower, kind of in a basin, so pressure builds."

             
Edward was immediately interested. "But then—why isn't this area filled with water?"

             
"I'm—not quite sure. The pond comes from a small geyser underneath, and I think the ground over there is so hard and rocky nothing gets through."

             
He looked satisfied. "Well, have you got a bath, then?"

             
"Yes—the last door down the hall."

             
Edward sprang to his feet and hurried down. There was a sound of the door opening, and then of running water. In a few moments he came back and went to his bag, which he had left by the door. "These," he said, going to the couch. He held out both hands, with a set of copper fittings.

             
Henry reached up and took one, turning it over in his hand. "What is it?"

             
"You'll see. I'll go back to town tomorrow, get some parts, and put it in myself. I think you'll like it." He grinned.

              At dinner, Edward studied the hazy outline of Henry's face, searching for something he could not quite put a finger on. At last, he pointed at him with his fork. "You read," he ventured. "Much more."

             
"—Yes," admitted Henry, a little puzzled. His mind went to long, sleepless nights, alone—and pulled back quickly. He forced himself to look at Edward.

             
"It's how you talk," Edward said, pushing around the food on his plate. "More like—well, me. Or the professors who taught at the university."

             
He gave a fleeting smile. "I—think it comes and goes," he said. He swallowed and glanced down at the table. "I—know I can't give her much—but I want Daisy to have an education, at least."

             
Edward's smile was bittersweet. "I think that's enough," he told Henry. "You have an education, and you can do most anything from there."

             
Something flashed in Henry's face, and then was gone. He let the tines of his fork tap against the edge of the plate. "I hope so," he said.

              In the morning Joey came by again with the buckboard, as Edward had asked him, and hollered a greeting. Edward came out of the house, feeling fresh after a bath, and climbed up next to the boy. "'Morning, Joey," he said, smiling. Absently, he patted the outer pockets of his coat, which bulged oddly with the fittings he had brought.

             
"How do, Mr. Malley." He started the horses again.

             
"Oh—please, just Edward. I've never been called Malley in my life."

             
"Oh," said Joey, a little frustrated in his attempt to be polite.

             
Edward had a thought, and turned to him. "How old do I look?" he asked.

             
Joey squirmed uncomfortably. "Well—" he said.

             
He laughed. "You won't hurt my feelings, less you're upwards of sixty, anyhow."

             
"Well—maybe—forty-five?"

             
Edward grunted thoughtfully. "I look more like fifty, then."

             
"No—" protested the boy. "No, I was honest, sir."

             
He patted Joey's shoulder, chuckling amiably. "All right, I believe you. Good thing, too—you guessed about right. I suppose that is a little old to expect not to be called 'mister.'" He squinted up at the sky for a moment and took his glasses off to wipe them clean, reducing his vision to nearly zero. "Are there clouds?" he asked.

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"Does it look like rain, then?"

             
"Mm—well, might be, this afternoon or tomorrow. It's raining out on the horizon-- not much wind, but it's coming the right way."

             
Edward took a deep breath and felt his chest rise and fall in accord with the land. "I love spring," he said. "Nothing better than the smell of wet earth, things growing."

             
Joey smiled. "Are you—a poet, sir?" he asked, flushing a little.

             
Edward laughed, heartily. "No, boy, but I used to be a drunk. Things look a lot prettier since I stopped."

             
"Oh," he mumbled, uneasily.

             
"If you care to know," he said at last, grinning, "I'm an engineer. Buildings and things." He took a picture from his inside pocket and held it out for Joey to see, a difficult thing in the bouncing cart. He tucked it back away. "Haven't the slightest clue why I do it. Making cities, you know—they're easy to get around, but I hate them. And in a few years they'll be everywhere and I'll be responsible for it, partly." He sighed to himself. "Oh well. They say progress and all that, but I don't believe a word." He glanced over. "What about you, boy?"