Cutler 05 - Darkest Hour

Now it would be business-stupid to keep Henry on just to tag along and stand behind Charles whenever he's doing something, wouldn't it? You're a smart enough girl to see that, Lillian. And besides, nothing makes a man want to just lay down and die as much as knowing he's worthless, and that's what Henry's got to face every day as long as he's here.
    "So," he said, sitting back, contented with his logic, "in a way I'm doing him a big favor by letting him go." "But where will he go, Papa?"
    "Oh, he's got a nephew lives in Richmond," Papa said.
    "Henry won't like living in a city," I muttered.
    "Lillian, I can't worry about that now, can I? The Meadows, that's what I got to worry about and that's what you should be worrying about too. Now go on, get out of here and do whatever it is you do this time of day," he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand and then bending over his papers again. I stood there for a moment and then left slowly.
    Although it was bright and sunny outside, it looked gray and dismal when I stepped out of the house and walked toward Henry's quarters. He was finished packing and was saying good-bye to the laborers who were still with us. I watched and waited. Then Henry threw his sack over his shoulder and grasped the improvised handle of his old suitcase and started down the drive toward me. He stopped and put his suitcase down.
    "Well now, Miss Lillian," he said, looking around. "It's a fine afternoon for a long walk, ain't it?"
    "Henry," I sobbed. "I'm sorry. I couldn't change Papa's mind."
    "I don't want you to fret none, Miss Lillian. Old Henry will be fine."
    "I don't want you to leave, Henry," I moaned.
    "Well now, Miss Lillian, I don't think I'm leaving. I don't think I could leave The Meadows behind. I carry it here," he said, pressing his hand over his heart, "and here," he said, pointing to his temple. "All my memories is of The Meadows, my times here. Most of the folks I knew are gone. Hopefully to a better world," he added. "Sometimes," he said, nod-ding, "it's harder to be the one who lingers.
    "But," he said, smiling, "I'm glad I lingered long enough to see you grown. You're a fine young woman, Miss Lillian. You're gonna make some gentleman a fine wife and have your own plantation someday, or something just as big and proper."
    "If I do, Henry, will you come live on my place?" I asked, wiping away my tears.
    "Absolutely, Miss Lillian. You won't have to ask old Henry twice. Well now," he said, holding out his hand. "You take good care of yourself and from time to time, think of old Henry."
    I looked at his hand and then I stepped forward and hugged him. It took him by surprise and he just stood there for a moment while I clung to him, clung to what was good and loving at The Meadows, clung to the memories of my youth, clung to warm summer days and nights, to the sound of a harmonica in the night, to the words of wisdom Henry had spun around me, to the vision of him rushing over to help me with Eugenia, or the vision of him sitting beside me in the carriage when he would take me to school. I clung to the songs and the words and the smiles and the hope.
    "I've got to go, Miss Lillian," he whispered through a voice that cracked with emotion. His eyes shone brilliantly with unspent tears. He picked up his tattered suitcase and continued down the drive. I ran along.
    "Will you write to me, Henry? And let me know where you are?"
    "Oh sure, Miss Lillian. I'll scribble a note or two."
    "Papa should have had Charles drive you someplace," I cried, still keeping up with him.
    "No, Charles got his chores. I ain't no stranger to long walks, Miss Lillian. When I was a boy, I thought nothing of walking from one horizon to the other."
    "You're not a boy anymore, Henry."
    "No ma'am." He pulled his shoulders up the best he could and increased his stride, each long step taking him farther and farther away from me.
    "Good-bye, Henry," I cried when I stopped running alongside him. For a few moments, he just walked and then, at the end of the driveway, he turned. For one last time, I saw Henry's bright smile. Maybe it was magic; maybe it was my desperate imagination at work, but he looked younger to me; he looked like he hadn't aged a day since the time he carried me on his shoulders, singing and laughing. In my mind his voice was as much a part of The Meadows as the songs of the birds.
    A moment later he made the turn at the end of the drive and was gone. I lowered my head and with a heart so heavy it