When Henry Came Home by Josephine Bhaer Page B

right."
                  The hotel boy wasn't waiting for them in the hall, so Henry and Mary went out to sidewalk and then down into the street. The sky was silent now, and the dirt had been packed so hard that a little rain wasn't enough to make mud of it. The street, for the most part, was empty. They crossed over to the other side, but when they started up the steps, Henry's foot slipped and he stumbled back heavily. Mary was quick, grabbing his arm and pulling forward, but not quick enough to keep his leg from buckling a little before he regained balance.
                  "You okay?" she asked, one hand on his arm and the other on his back. He leaned forward against her grip, and she saw his jaw clench tightly as the fingers of his empty hand dug into his palm, white. He breathed in sharply through his teeth. "Hen," she said quietly, bending near and wrapping her arm around him, "you okay?"
                  He nodded sharply, but shut his eyes, tight.
                  "You want me to get someone?"
                  He shook his head, and unfolded his hand to grip her arm. "Wait," he whispered, almost hissing.
                  "All right," she said, feeling helpless. She took his hand and squeezed it. "All right."
                  After a long moment, he straightened, opening his eyes, though his jaw was still tense. "Okay," he said, breathing a little easier.
                  Mary was worried. "Hen—are you sure?"
                  He shook his head again. "Happens—sometimes--" he said. "It—goes away."
                  "But what if it's not--"
                  Again, he shook his head, moving his arm in a sharp cutting-off gesture. "Just—bone splinters, doc says. Move the wrong way--" He left it hanging, closing his eyes briefly as he let out another tight breath.
                  "We can go back to the hotel, if you want. Wait a while."
                  "No—it's all right. Let's go in."
                  "Here." She slipped under his arm, and they went up the steps. Inside, the front room was devoid of people, filled with things. A couch that had belonged to Mary's mother, always designated to go to her when she married; Henry's large walnut desk, a leather chair behind it that was new; in the corner a cabinet with drawers, for filing. On the desk there was a plate of cookies, with a little white card standing folded on top. Mary looked around, biting her lip. "It's wonderful," she said, her eyes bright. Quickly, she left Henry and stepped into the back rooms, looking for the hidden do-gooders.
                  In her absence, Henry went to the new file cabinet, his steps slow and careful, quicker on his bad leg to keep the pressure off. The cabinet was polished a deep, nearly red brown, and he ran his fingers along the top edge, lightly. He turned and went to the desk and touched the little white note on top of the cookies, picking it up and flipping it open. "To the Petersons," it read in scripted letters. "From your loving town. May you always be happy.” Mary came back then, looking puzzled, and he handed her the note.
                  "Can't find nobody," she said, and read. She looked up, smiling, and picked up two cookies, giving one to Henry. "It's sweet," she said. "They don't want us knowin' who all it is-- just ever'body."
                  Henry tossed the cookie a few inches back to the plate and pressed his hand to the desktop. "How am I gonna do business?" he asked, quietly disturbed. "Knowin' we owe ever'one? I can't charge, knowin' that."
                  Mary took his hand, swallowing quickly. "Sure you can. Just ask a fair price, that's all anyone wants. You'd do that anyway, but it don't matter." She took another bite of her cookie, then held it up to him until he bit off a piece, reluctantly. "Come