When Henry Came Home (51 page)

             
Edward sat forward. "Watch this one," he said. "They do a whole show in Boston every year now, with hundreds of these."

             
Joey stepped back, and a moment later something hissed up into the air and exploded, sending out an enormous chandelier of light against the navy sky, thousands of sparks drifting down to the ground, slow.

             
"That's beautiful," murmured Henry. "I wish--" he cut himself off, and was silent. Daisy reached one hand up, waving vaguely, trying to capture the sparkling rain.

             
"Mm," murmured Edward, and gazed even when nothing was left.

             
After a few minutes, Joey's boots sounded softly on the first step. "I'll sleep out in the barn tonight," he said, softly. He put out a hand. "Thanks, sir, for the show."             

             
Edward didn't see his hand, but nodded. "Glad to do it, boy. Sleep well." He waited until the boy's footsteps faded, then got up, stretching and yawning. "Well—" he said, and stopped. He had learned, over the years, to sense certain airs, and when he bent over, he saw that Henry had fallen asleep. Daisy stared up at him innocently, and he took a risk and picked her up. She whimpered a little, but he shushed her and she fell silent. Carefully, he took her inside, leaving the door open. "Ms. Beaumont—?" She appeared. "Will you—take her, for a moment? Thank you." He went back out, careful of creaking boards, and stood over Henry. He was still asleep, his breaths wheezing softly, in and out. "All right," he murmured, and slid his arms beneath him, one under his thighs and one behind his back. He braced himself to lift, but found that Henry came away with almost no strain at all. "Well," he murmured. "—Well."

             
Turning sideways, he maneuvered through the doorway and down the hall. A lamp burned on the table beside Henry’s bed, and Ms. Beaumont was in the process of tucking Daisy into her crib, shoved up against the other side of the bed. Edward set Henry down and stood again, circling the bed as Ms. Beaumont came back. He looked down at Daisy and, after a moment, reached out to tap her button nose. "If you wake your Daddy tonight," he told her, "you're a very naughty little girl."

             
She looked up at him, quite seriously, and blinked.

              Breakfast, in the morning, was nearer to noon, and when Henry at last appeared he smelled of soap and shaving cream. Edward caught it, and grinned. "So?"

             
"I haven't felt as clean since--" he coughed, weakly. "—Thank you." He touched the edge of the table, feeling his skin raw and sensitive against the rough wood.

             
"Better than a bath?"

             
"After—after I got used to breathing under water—yes."

             
Edward laughed, recognizing it as a small joke. "Good, good." He shook his head. "I can't stand them, myself. I figure if I want to be rained on, I'll go outside—" he cut himself off, leaning forward a little over his meal. "I sound like a city man, don't I."

             
"Well—"

             
He sighed. "Can't even take a little rain. I've been away too long. Almost twice as long there now, than I've ever lived out here."

             
"Is—that bad?"

             
Edward considered. "I don't know," he said at last. "I miss it here, I guess. This is where I came from. But it's too late, now, to come back. For good, I mean."

             
"But if you don't like it..." Henry looked down at his plate. He didn't like meddling in other folk's affairs, but Edward seemed to be making it into light conversation.

             
He shrugged. "I like to say I don't. But I come here and I see all that's lacking, all it could be—" he sighed again. "I don't like to look at it that way either. It's what everyone is thinking, now, in the city. Men always try to make the unknown into the known, I guess." He ate a little more. "So—I suppose I should ask after family. How are your folks?"

             
Henry shifted a little. "Fair, I guess. Pa—has trouble with his heart, but the other chil—my younger brothers are old enough to look after things now."

             
Edward chuckled. "I can see your Ma going stir-crazy with him dawdling about the house. –What about Mary's folks?"

             
"Fine. Brian looks as if he'll take over after his Pa with the ranch. Joey's not sure yet, I think, but he'll—find something."

             
"Hm." Edward sat back, chin in hand.

             
"Edward—I—"

             
Edward glanced up, raising his eyebrows briefly.

             
"I'm glad you came."

             
He smiled lightly. "Well, so am I."

             
"No—I mean—I've been... lonely."

             
His voice was low. "I know what you mean."

             
Henry swallowed and was very still. "I don't think I realized it—not until Sarah left—"

             
Edward stood, suddenly, nearly knocking over his chair. "Sarah was here?" he demanded.

             
Henry was silent a bare moment, taken aback. "Y-yes--"

             
"When?"

             
"Edward—please--"

             
"All right, all right." Edward sat back down, taking a breath. "I'm sorry—please, when was she here?"

             
"About—two months ago. Just for one night, and then she was gone."

             
Edward sat forward, hungrily. "How was she? How did she look?"

             
"L-lost. Edward, I—"

             
He stood up again and went to look out the small kitchen window, his back to Henry. "I'm sorry," he apologized again. "I—look, I haven't told you everything. My work—it only takes up half of my time. The rest—for—for years, I've spent trying to find her. Sarah."

             
Henry lacked for words. "I..." he said, then frowned, frustrated with his inability. "Why?" he said at last.

             
He turned back. "I've always kept in contact with her mother, now and then, and I heard—when she ran off. I knew—it was my fault."

             
"The only fault is Sarah's. She's been given chances—"

             
"I know, I know—but—" he let out an anguished sigh. "You don't know. No one does." He put a hand to his face, rubbing his brow and squinting downward. He began to pace, back and forth across the kitchen floor. "When I came last—Lord, I was drunk—! I met her. We went to my room—" his fist came down on the counter. "She was so fragile—right on the edge—I was already over, and I wanted her there, with me—I asked her to marry me, Henry,
marry
me. Of course she wasn't that foolish. But I ruined her—I did it. If I had only left alone—"

             
"She still made her choice..."

             
"I know, dammit, but if I hadn't been there, she would never have had the choice in the first place!"

             
"That's not true—she married Donovan—"

             
"And he died working for the railroad, I know that."

             
"No. He killed himself."

             
"But—"

             
"Mary and I—were the only ones that knew. We didn't want to bring more sorrow on her Ma. She doesn't know, either, that Sarah was here this winter. I did tell Pa."

             
Edward gave a nod, almost weary, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said at last, softly. "I can't stop now. You—understand."

             
Henry looked up at his searching green eyes, magnified behind small oval glasses. "I think so," he said.

              "You—are welcome back. Any time."

             
Edward, bent over his bag, closed it and stood. "Thank you. I'll remember that."

             
"I hope you will." Henry grasped the post of the porch railing with one hand. "And thank you—again. You—you made me smile. It's been… a very long time."

             
Edward grinned. "Well, I'm glad you remembered how." He embraced Henry in a bear hug. "Take care of yourself," he ordered, then stepped back, his throat suddenly dry. "I'm sorry to have to go."

             
"You—don't have to."

             
He shook his head, firmly. "No. I—goodbye, Henry." He patted his back softly one last time and stepped down off the porch. Suddenly, he turned, reaching into his coat pocket. "Wait—here, give this to the boy. Joey."

             
Henry accepted the envelope.

             
"It's his bank account, for when he wants to go off to a university."

             
"God be with you, Edward."

             
"I hope so." He flashed another white-toothed grin. "Someone's got to lead my way."

             
Henry found himself awake in the quiet, cool hours of the early morning, though he did not open his eyes. He felt the house around him stir, creaking a little here and there, and listened to it. At length he heard careful footsteps tip-toeing across the floor, and for a moment his heart, not entirely possessed of itself in the hour, leapt. His eyes flickered open and then snapped shut, and in his chair in the parlor he shifted, turning towards the wall and cursing himself for thinking, just for a single moment, that it was she—

             
He sighed, exhaling the anger because it was not right to hate the maid, just for that. He kept it inside, instead, and it turned to longing, a dull ache in his chest. For a long while he was still, cradling the sensation gently, so that it would not turn to agony.

             
At length, the sun began to rise, and with it he heard quicker, lighter steps upon the oak floor. He turned his head a little, opened his eyes, and watched her as she skipped about the room in her nightgown, his anger soothed. Thinking him still asleep, she first greeted every lamp and piece of furniture with the new day. He saw a wildness about her, something hardly contained, and it seemed almost as if she might suddenly burst, shattering the delicate things her mother had put about the room, so long ago… and yet not so very long at all.

             
But nothing was broken, and when she came to the most fragile ornament of all—him—she became tame, gentle. He closed his eyes and felt her pink fingertips touch his hands, exploring, turning them softly over and tracing the lines on his palms. He peeked out of one eye, then, seeing that she was not looking, and watched her as she moved, loving her. Suddenly, he caught her hands, cupping them inside his.

             
She gave a small gasp, her eyes wide, then grinned up at him and giggled, showing two teeth missing along the top white row. He saw the empty spaces, and for a moment his heart welled to the point of bursting. He forced back tears and patted his lap lightly, inviting.

             
Again her teeth showed and she climbed up, almost weightless, settling with her back against his chest, hugging one of his arms to her small body as he held it up. "Good morning, Daisy-dear," he murmured.

             
She grinned up at him, twisting her head back. "Morning, Daddy," she replied, a little bashful.

             
"Did you sleep well?"

             
She bit her lip and nodded. "I had a dream I was flying," she told him, spreading her arms. "I went all the way to Ma and Pa's and played with the chickens and Joey and Brian."

             
He smiled faintly. "Did you?"

             
"Do you have dreams, Daddy?"

             
"Sometimes, but none as good as that."

             
"Oh."

             
"Shall we have breakfast on the porch?"

             
She giggled. "Yes!" Quickly, she leapt down from his lap, her nightie flying up past her middle. She batted it down without thought and marched around to the back of his chair. The handles were too high for her, so she pushed against the back to make it move, looking around now and then to see she was going the right way.

             
"Wait," said Henry, when they were down the hall, and she let up. He leaned forward a little and opened the door. "All right."

             
Daisy heard footsteps behind her and turned to find Ms. Beaumont. "We're having breakfast on the porch," she announced, and went back to pushing. The maid followed them out, bringing the meal on a tray. She set it down on the rail and went back inside. "Here, Daddy," said Daisy, standing on tiptoe to reach the rail. She took his plate in one hand and hers in the other, wobbly, and he caught his just as it was going down. She grinned, elvish, and clutched her own plate with both hands as she scooted bottom-first onto the porch swing. Sitting back, feet dangling, she gazed up at the sky as she ate.