When Henry Came Home (57 page)

             
"And I with you," returned Edward. "You told me once, though, that what we imagine is often better than reality."

             
He cleared his throat. "So I did."

             
"Do you believe it now?"

             
"I think—it is a matter—of—" he was silent for a while, thoughtful, then started anew. "Two times—" he whispered, "in my life—I never imagined—I could ever be happy again. And—both times—I was wrong."

             
After a moment, Edward reached out and patted his hand, softly. "It's getting late—do you want something to eat?"

             
He closed his eyes again. "No. I'm not—no." He paused. "Edward, would you—bring me into the parlor?"

             
Edward shrugged. "All right. Are you certain?"

             
"Yes."

             
He stood and slid his arms under Henry's body, jostling him a little as he lifted, blankets and all. "I'm sorry," he said. "Did I hurt you?"

             
"No—I—can't feel my leg anymore." He tugged at the blankets a little, pulling them up around his neck.

             
"Are you cold?"

             
"A—a little. Yes. The door—a little more to the right. There."

             
Edward got through safely. "Well," he said, "I'll stir up the fire. You'll get warm."

             
"Yes," whispered Henry, almost to himself.

             
Daisy looked up as they entered. She sat in the large chair behind her father's enormous desk, hardly used anymore except for her daily lessons, with her dinner plate. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, and then, "What are you doing?" Jumping up, she hurried around to the middle of the room.

             
"It's—all right, monkey," he said.

             
She looked dubious, but went to Edward's side to guide him. "Here on the sofa," she instructed, and Edward put him down. Quick, she slipped under her father's head, putting a pillow on her lap.

             
"Thank you," he sighed, smiling a little.

             
She peered down at him. "Are you hungry, Daddy?" She swung her legs.

             
He closed his eyes, barely shaking his head, and found that the gentle shudder of the sofa was pleasant. "No. –I'm sorry, monkey," he apologized to her rosy, worried face. "I don't like—to disappoint you."

             
"It's all right, Daddy," she said, glancing up briefly as Edward stirred the fire. He stood, and she watched him shuffle towards a chair. "Right and forward," she told him.

             
"Mm. Thank you. Is Ms. Beaumont—ah." He heard her footsteps. "I wonder if I could have something—?"

             
"Here, sir." She handed him a plate and a fork.

             
"Thank you. And my man should be outside, or in the barn I guess..."

             
"I've taken him a meal."

             
"Ah. Thank you again."

             
"Yes, sir."

             
Daisy picked up her father's hand and hugged it to her chest. "Do you want me to read, Daddy?"

             
He felt her face, along the smooth line of her jaw, his eyes closed. "No," he breathed. "Why—don't you give Edward a—recitation?" He held her chin a moment, smiling faintly, then let his arm drop.

             
Daisy looked up at Edward, who grinned at her from across the room, his spotted grey hair falling forward a little in his eyes. "All right," she said, amiable. "What do you want to hear?"

             
Edward chewed and swallowed. "What do you mean?"

             
"Well—what do you want to hear? I'm very good at memorizing."

             
He raised his eyebrows a little. "All right—do you know Lord Byron?"

             
She smiled. "Oh yes. Would you like 'Farewell to the Muse,' 'She Walks in Beauty,' or 'So We'll Go No More a Roving?'"

             
"Goodness—do you really have them all memorized?"

             
"Of course."

             
"Of course. Let's hear 'Roving,' then."

             
Daisy sat up a little straighter, her thin, precise little voice suddenly soft and gentle. "'So We'll Go No More a Roving,'" she titled. "Written by Lord Byron, seventeen eighty-eight to eighteen twenty-four.

"So we'll go no more a roving

    So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

    And the moon be still as bright.

"For the sword outwears its sheath,

    And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

    And Love itself have rest.

"Though the night was made for loving,

    And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

    By the light of the moon."

             
Edward set his plate aside and took his glasses off to clean them. "That was lovely, darling," he said, honest.

             
"Thank you."

             
They sat a little in silence, and Edward did not put his glasses back on, but rubbed at the bridge of his nose; for the most part, except for reading, they were fairly ineffectual, and he didn't mind having them off a while.

             
"Can you—"

             
"Shh," she cut him off softly, but with a certain curtness. "Daddy's gone to sleep."

             
"Can you play the piano?" he asked, nearly whispering this time.

             
"Yes," she replied. "Just a little. Daddy taught me before he had to stay in bed. Where do you travel to?" she asked in return.

             
They talked a little longer, warm by the fire, perhaps a little too much, but presently the hour waned and Daisy shifted, having sat too long in one place. On her lap, Henry moaned slightly. "Daisy?" he murmured.

             
She took his hand. "I'm here, Daddy."

             
He sighed, and returned to sleep.

             
Edward got to his feet, groaning softly, and put on his glasses. "Shall we go to bed, then?" he asked, approaching the sofa.

             
"All right."             

             
He stooped down and picked Henry up, careful to rest his head against his chest so that it did not fall back over his arm. Daisy hurried before him, yawning, and arranged the pillows at the head of the bed before Edward set him down.

             
"You can sleep in my room tonight," she told him. "I stay with Daddy some nights, anyway." She took his hand and led him out into the hall, dark now. In her room, she left him at the door and went to light a lamp. "There you are," she said.

             
He squinted a little. "I—don't remember a room here," he said, thoughtful.

             
"Nope. Daddy had some men come and build it when I was five."

             
"Ah. Well, thank you very much for the use of it."

             
"You're welcome. Here—Ms. Beaumont put your things just inside the door, and if you need her she's across the hall." She took his hand again and led him across the room. "Here's the bed."

             
"Thank you, darling, and good night." He patted her head gently.

             
She smiled. "Good night." She closed the door and returned to her father's room. Inside, in the chest of drawers, one side of the bottom drawer had her things in it, and she opened this and pulled out a thin white nightgown and slipped it on. Also sitting on top of the large wooden chest there was a pitcher and a bowl of water, so, pulling over a stool, she stood up on it and washed her face.

             
"Daisy?"

             
She let out a small, shrill squeal, clapping a hand over her mouth almost immediately. She spun, and her father was looking at her. "Oh, you
scared
me, Daddy," she breathed.

             
He smiled and motioned with a hand. "I'm sorry, monkey, I—didn't mean to." Barefoot, she skipped over and climbed up onto the bed, curling into his embrace like a small, pink-skinned rabbit. He brushed her hair softly with his fingers, and was content. He swallowed. "Daisy," he said again, whispered. She turned her eyes to look up at him, peering from under the blankets. "Do you—know why—I am not like other men?"

             
Daisy wanted to tell him that he
was
like other men, but she knew what he meant. "Yes, Daddy," she said, quiet. "You're ill."

             
"But—" he coughed softly. "Do you know—why I am ill?"

             
Her lower lip stuck out a little and she shrugged. "Everyone is poorly sometimes."

             
"But not as long as I."

             
"No." She considered this problem for a moment, but found no answer. The thought had never quite occurred to her; Daddy was simply Daddy, and required no explanation. But now, she was very still and quiet, knowing he was about to talk about the war; he had taught her everything from Homer to King George, but he almost never mentioned the war, and so she knew it was very important.

             
He touched the tip of her nose, small and pink, and continued to stroke her hair and did not speak for a long while. "Before you were born—" he began at last, "there—was a terrible war. Many—good men were killed, and many were injured. Some men—lost their minds." He closed his eyes a moment, taking a breath, his memory flashing vividly back, and he could smell and see and taste--

             
"And you hurt your leg?"

             
He blinked, and saw her round eyes. "Yes—" he said. "Yes—and—my lungs. I was in the hospital—for a long time. Many men were hurt badly—more so than I."

             
"Then war is a bad thing," she concluded.

             
"Yes." His voice was very soft.

             
She paused, uncertain, not wanting to make him sorry. "Why did you go to it, Daddy?" she asked, finally. "If it was bad?"

             
He considered, putting it far from him. "War is a bad thing, but—sometimes when there—is no other way—it must happen." He coughed. "Then you must go—and do your best for what is—right—even though it is terrible."

             
She scooted up so that she was sitting, and looked him in the eye. "All right," she said, solemnly, and he saw, somehow, the understanding in her eyes. Then she smiled, not disrespectfully, but to make him not so sad, and burrowed down again.

             
He put his arms around her suddenly, hugging her tightly to his body and feeling wetness sting his eyes. "I'm sorry—" he whispered, his voice breaking. "I'm sorry, monkey."

             
"For what, Daddy?"

             
He shook his head, and kissed the top of her scalp. "For making you—grow up so fast. It—wasn't supposed—to be this way."

             
She sat back on her knees as his arms slipped away, spent, looking down at him. With the tips of her fingers, she touched his shoulder, light. "It's all right, Daddy. I don't mind." She bent down, and hugged him, then sat up again. "Daddy?"

             
"What?"

             
She climbed backwards down off the big brass bed and went to her drawer in the chest. She came back, holding out an envelope to him. "Daddy..." she said again, climbing back up, "there's a school... in New York. I wrote to the headmistress, and she says I can come whenever I'm ready, even in the middle of a quarter."

             
He gazed up at her a moment, feeling his heart sink deeply, aching. She knew, then—that he was close-- "Monkey," he said, "Pa wanted you to go with him and Joey..." he let his voice trail off, feeling weak and tired and in pain. She looked at him with large eyes. "Is this what—you want, monkey?"

             
She nodded. "Yes, Daddy. I am going to be a teacher."

             
He smiled, faint and strained. "Very well."