When Henry Came Home (55 page)

              Edward stepped out of the carriage with a small grunt and closed the little door behind himself. He tugged down his vest neatly and took a moment to squint at his pocket watch, holding it perhaps six inches from his face. "Bentley," he said brusquely, his eyes narrowing in the parched summer sun.

             
"Yes, sir?" A younger man looked down from the driver's seat.

             
"Stay here. I'll be out in a while. Is that--" he pointed at a vague brown shape. "The house, over there?"

             
"Yes, sir."

             
"Good." He started walking, slowly but with well-placed, certain strides, and was satisfied when he identified the front steps. "Beautiful," he said to himself in earnest, smiling grimly. "Home." He stepped up onto the porch.

             
"Stop right there."

             
He obeyed, searching for a body to go with the voice. At last, on the other end of the porch, he saw a blurred figure move to stand—it was small, and the tone was of a girl or a young boy.

             
"Put your hands up."

             
Hesitant, he did so, frowning. "I'm sorry," he said, "I'm nearly blind. I can't see you."

             
"You don't need to. I've got a gun on you, though."

             
"All right."

             
"What do you want?"

             
"I didn't know if there would be anyone living here—I only wanted to see the house—you see, I knew some people that once lived here. I don't mean any harm."

             
"You don't make any sense. We've always lived here."

             
"Well, perhaps for as long as you can remember—" he paused, struck suddenly with a thought. "Dear Lord—are you Daisy?"

             
The childish voice was indignant and obvious. "Who
else
would I be?"

             
Edward let out a breath that was half a laugh, in disbelief. "It can't be—how old are you?"

             
"Twelve years, nine months, and eighteen days."

             
He laughed. "May I come closer—please? I want to see you."

             
"Of course not. Stay where you are. And keep your hands up."

             
Edward obeyed. "And your father," he persisted. "Is he—he still here?"

             
"Where else
would
he be?" At this point, she had become entirely exasperated.

             
"Of course, of course!" he laughed, giddy. "Daisy my darling, I'm your uncle—put the gun down and let me see your father."

             
She tilted her head to one side. "Are you John?"

             
He was puzzled. "No—don't you know—he's dead?"

             
"Of course I do. And don't move! I don't believe you."

             
Edward's hands went back into the air. "All right," he said, thinking. "Is Ms. Beaumont here?"

             
"Yes."

             
"She knows me."

             
"All right." The small voice rose in pitch. "Ms. Beaumont! Ms. Beaumont!" After a moment, the woman came out. "Do you know this man?"

             
The maid looked him up and down, calmly. "Yes, Miss," she said at last. "I believe he's a friend of your father's."

             
"Hm," concluded Daisy. She let the gun fall, uncocking it, and slipped it into the holster at her side, so large on her little frame that it dropped nearly to her knees. She took notice of Edward again. "You can put your hands down," she said, clumping over to the door as Ms. Beaumont disappeared inside. "Come in."

             
A little relieved but too glad to be upset, he felt his way along the wall to the door and followed her in. "Where is he?" he asked, trusting that someone was still in the hall.

             
"In the bedroom." It was Daisy.

             
"Oh," he said, feeling for the door into the parlor. "Well, I'll wait for him then."

             
"Why do you have to wait? You are a strange man," she stated. "I don't understand you at all."

             
He smiled, crookedly, feeling her small hand slip into his. "That can go both ways," he said, picking his way down the hall after her as she led. It was dim, and he couldn't see much of anything at all.

             
"There you are. Go on in."

             
Edward felt the door and stepped through into the little bedroom, in all respects the same as it had been eleven years previous. He went a little further and the bed came in to view. "Henry," he said, whispering because it seemed right. He waited.

             
"—Edward," came the reply at last, thin and weak. After it followed a listless cough.

             
Edward's heart leapt and he shuffled quickly to the side of the bed. The pale face in the sheets was easy to identify. He looked down and then, in one sudden motion, knelt so that his knee touched the floor. Close now, he grasped Henry's hand, pale and thin and fragile, clutching it as tightly as he dared so that their arms pressed together. He put his other hand on top. "Henry—" he began, his voice breaking. "Did you—ever imagine--!" He pressed the knot of fingers and palms to his forehead, taking in a rasping breath.

             
"Why are you crying?"

             
Edward looked up, blinking and seeing the indistinct form of the girl sliding up on the other side of the bed, next to her father. Her voice was plain, a little demanding. He smiled, laughing softly through his tears. "Did you ever have anything precious," he asked, "that you lost, and thought you would never see it again? And it made you so sad to think of that, and then, all of a sudden, you found it?"

             
She considered a moment. "Yes," she said at last, frank. "My dolly."

             
"Well—when I left your daddy last time, I didn't think I would—" he swallowed.  "Ever see him again."

             
"Oh."

             
"Daisy..." his voice was whispered, barely audible.

             
"What, Daddy?" Daisy leaned forward a little, her manner suddenly soft. She touched his arm lightly with the tips of her fingers.

             
His breath wheezed in and then out again, once. "Go—do one of your—lessons. Let me talk with—Edward." He fumbled for her hand, and patted it gently.

             
She sat up. "All right, Daddy," she said, and slid carefully off the edge of the bed. "I'll be in the parlor."

             
Edward waited until he no longer heard her footsteps, and found that tears threatened again to overflow. He had not expected them, and forced them back this second time. "How—how are you, Henry?" he asked, intense. He put his face closer, so that he could see clearly.

             
Henry frowned a little, in concentration. "I'm—confused—sometimes," he whispered. "I'm not—certain."

             
Edward put a hand on Henry's brow, smoothing back hair that stuck with chill sweat to his forehead. "That's all right, old friend," he consoled. "You've a right to be a little muddled."

             
"The other morning—I—" he stopped, closing his eyes a moment and taking a careful breath. "Woke up and I couldn't think of what it was—the light—the—" he was frustrated, the word lost to him.

             
"The sun?"

             
"Yes—sun," he said it slowly, testing it in is mouth. "Can't seem to—hold on to it. Doc says—stroke--"

             
"Doc." Edward fondled the name lovingly. "When I was here last, do you know how long he told me you would live, at most?" He paused. "Six months, Henry. Six."

             
"Oh... has it—been longer?"

             
He laughed softly. "It's been eleven years, old friend, and here you are."

             
Henry gave a wan smile—and then suddenly, his gaze resolved, his eyes finally coming alive and dashing over Edward's face. "Yes—" he said, "I remember—Daisy was only a baby—"

             
"Yes, yes—that's it!" Edward laughed like a giddy schoolboy.

             
"Edward," he whispered fiercely, his dark eyes sparkling. "It's good to see you." He struggled vainly a moment against the sheets. "Please--" he said.

             
"Of course, of course." Edward got to his feet and bent, stacking pillows behind him on the bed, and carefully lifted him until he was sitting up a little, though not too far.

             
Henry sank back into the pillows, his body limp. "Thank you," he murmured, and Edward waited a minute or two, pulling up a chair to sit on, while Henry closed his eyes and breathed shallow breaths. "Where have you been—all this time?" he asked at last, opening his eyes.

             
"Everywhere. England, for a while, and France and Italy. I don't work, anymore."

             
"You're grey." He smiled faintly to show that he was in fun.

             
Edward reached up, touching his hair briefly. "So I am. I ought to be—next month is my sixtieth birthday."

             
"Congratulations."

             
He waved a hand in dismissal. "I'm an old man, and feeling it."

             
Henry smiled again, larger, and his eyes showed it. "Edward," he said after a moment. "Did you ever—find her?"

             
"Sarah?" He sighed and shrugged. "No. And I'm still looking, the fool I am."

             
"Was there ever a—woman for you?"

             
He chewed his lip. "You've become direct, my friend."

             
He coughed, wincing in pain. "No—time—to be otherwise. Or--" he coughed again. "Breath."

             
Edward shrugged and cast his eyes down for a moment, pressing his palms together. "There was a girl in Detroit, a widow, five years ago. I liked her—I think she loved me. That—that was all."

             
Of course there was only one conclusion. "You were in love with her—Sarah."

             
Edward sighed heavily, and rested his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. "Lord help me, always," he whispered. "But she loved John—and the only time I was fool enough to say it aloud was when I was drunk."

             
"I'm sorry." And he was.

             
"Even then I knew I shouldn't have. It was always foolish. --Pining away after my best friend's girl, envying him all the while, even when he was dead. Lord, I was a selfish bastard. Eats away at me inside, sometimes. Not—as bad as it used to."

             
"John would have—understood." Suddenly his body convulsed, forcing out a gripping cough. His hands gripped the sheet at his chest, twisting savagely. He pulled one hand away, reaching for the glass of water on the stand beside the bed, but Edward, squinting, got there first and held the glass to his lips.

             
"There," murmured Edward, tipping it up a little. "Not too much." He put an arm behind Henry's back and pushed him up so that he was sitting straight, and could breathe clearly. After a minute Henry nodded and Edward let him back down, setting the glass aside. "Don't talk," he cautioned softly, pulling the sheet back up over him.

             
But after a few rasping breaths, Henry smiled wanly. "I won't—last—six months—this time," he said, in short gasps.

             
"Shh. I always underestimate you, my friend, and I think everyone else has, too. Don't shortchange yourself."

             
Just then the door opened and Daisy tromped in. "You have to let Daddy rest," she insisted immediately. "Leave."

             
Edward laughed. "She's rather officious, isn't she?"

             
Henry agreed with a soft smile, but went unnoticed as she declared, "And what if I am?"

             
"Do you know what 'officious' means?" He was still grinning.

             
Henry's fingers found his arm. "I wouldn't—try to argue—" he whispered.