Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Mornin’,” he croaked. “Uh . . .”

  “It’s Barbara, darlin’. I don’t guess we were properly introduced.” She snaked her arm out from under the blanket, which fell back to expose her bare shoulder. She smiled at him in a way that made him feel like she knew him a whole lot better than he knew her.

  “Uh, Henry,” he said, taking her hand.

  He tried to look at her without being obvious. He had a feeling she was older than he was. She had blond hair, but he could see that it was dark at her part. Smudged blue eye shadow made her eyes look bruised. Come to think of it, they looked sad, too. Henry kind of wanted to comfort her, but felt sorely in need of soothing himself.

  “Don’t worry none,” she said, sitting up and fishing a tight sweater out from under the blanket. She pulled it on over her head. “It ain’t like we’re married now.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Course, you didn’t. That’s the way these things usually go.”

  She kept stirring around in the hay and came out with a pair of bell bottom jeans that she tugged under the blanket and wiggled into. Henry’s stomach continued to knot, and although he wanted to throw up, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t feel any better if he did. She stood and walked over to a pair of platform boots. He watched her hop on one foot and then the other as she pulled them on. He realized their breath was puffing in the cold air inside the barn.

  “Where’s your coat?”

  She gave him a hard look. “Back in the bar. Don’t reckon either one of us was feeling the cold much last night.” She hefted the blanket and draped it around her shoulders. “Reckon this’ll do for now.”

  Henry scrambled to his feet, wincing at the sudden movement.

  “Can I take you home?”

  Barbara looked him up and down real slow. “Well, ain’t you sweet.” She laughed. “I can walk it. Got a place across the creek with my sister. Ain’t nothing but a footbridge between here and there. Don’t you worry about me none.” She snugged the blanket a bit tighter and headed for the door. Halfway there she turned around and looked at Henry again. “Just so you know, you was real nice to me. Can’t always say that come morning.”

  Henry wanted to ask what she meant, but she was gone by the time he’d formulated a question. He buried his face in his hands. In exactly what way had he been nice to that girl?

  Something thumped over at the car, and Henry jerked his head up—regrettably. He hobbled over to the Barracuda and peered inside. Charlie was laid out in the backseat sleeping. He must have kicked the door trying to get comfortable. Henry felt his pockets and found the key. He pushed open the wide double doors at the rear of the barn, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine. Charlie jerked to a seated position, looking like someone had stepped on his grave.

  Charlie cursed and Henry felt a grim satisfaction. He was glad someone else felt as bad as he did.

  “Where’d my girl go?” Charlie asked.

  “What girl?” Henry eased the car out and drove around the barn to the road. He turned back toward the road home.

  “Linda. Sister to that girl you were with. They might not have been the best-looking women I’ve ever seen, but they was willing, and that makes up for a lot.”

  Henry grimaced. What had he done? “I think they both went home.”

  “Huh. I might’ve been willing to slip mine a few extra bucks this morning.” He giggled—a ridiculous sound. “She surely earned it. Ow! My leg’s on fire this morning.”

  “You probably slept on it wrong,” Henry said. He was dreading their arrival at Clint’s house, but he didn’t know what else to do but go back.

  “Well, I did at least one thing right.” Charlie slumped against the side window and stretched his leg along the seat. “Man, Pa is gonna skin you when he sees this car.”

  Henry felt that didn’t deserve a response. And anyway, as bad as his head hurt, being killed by Clint Simmons might be a relief. He tried to laugh, but if anything, his mouth was dryer than before. A creek ran alongside the road. He pulled over, and Charlie cracked one eye, then grunted and settled back to sleep. Henry got out and crouched beside the stream to splash icy water on his face. It hurt, but the aftershock somehow made him feel a little clearer. He scooped up a handful of water and slurped it. Now that felt good.

  Slinging droplets from his numbed fingers, Henry considered the crystal water. It was beautiful. He bet there would be moss and ferns come summer. Mayfair would appreciate how pretty this was. A smooth white stone gleamed in the shallows. He reached for it, gritting his teeth against the cold sinking into his bones. The force of the water tumbled it once, twice before he snatched it into the frigid air. He held it up and saw how it sparkled in the sun—pure and clean.

  A memory of trout fishing with Dad when he was eight or nine flickered in his tired brain. They’d hiked to a remote stream, carrying their poles and other gear. Dad trusted him with the wicker creel. He remembered how it bounced against his leg as he walked. He hadn’t much known what he was doing, but Dad had been patient and eventually he hooked a rainbow trout. It broke the surface, splashing water like a spray of diamonds in the sunshine. He’d nestled the trout along with two Dad caught into moss lining the bottom of the creel. That night Mom rolled the fish in cornmeal and fried it for supper. He remembered the look Dad gave him—like they were two men who had, together, conquered the wilderness.

  Henry hung his head, letting misery wash over him. Dad was dead, and he’d made a mess of things with that girl last night. He listened to the music of the stream, wishing he could go back in time to that other stream and the sunshine and his father. He tucked the stone in his pocket. For once, he wouldn’t blame Margaret for judging him harshly.

  “Good thing she can’t see me,” he said as he got back in the car.

  Charlie grunted and then snored. Henry had an urge to shove him out and leave him on the side of the road, but that probably wouldn’t help his case with Clint. He started the car and realized it had begun to snow. There really hadn’t been any snow since before Christmas. Now huge fluffy flakes drifted down, skimmed across the windshield, and whirled away. It should have been beautiful, but at the moment Henry didn’t feel he deserved any kind of beauty.

  9

  CHILD, WHAT IS GNAWING AT YOU?”

  Margaret looked up from the ironing to see Emily standing in the doorway, hands propped on her hips.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, that just isn’t so. I’ve never seen anyone press napkins quite so thoroughly.”

  Margaret dialed the heat setting back and stood the iron on the end of the ironing board. She snapped a crisp napkin in the air and folded it as though she was going to be judged on how perfectly the corners met.

  “I’m just careful about things.”

  Emily walked over and took the napkin from Margaret and then led her to the sofa. “If you want to tell me what’s troubling you, I’d be glad to listen. Goodness knows, I tamped things down enough times in my life to know how it can fester.”

  Margaret thumped down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. She could stand up to meanness or indifference, but kindness undid her completely. “Mom says I have to quit my job and go to school or move out.” She lifted her face. “Or I could get married, but that’s not likely.”

  “Is she dissatisfied with your working conditions?”

  “Oh no, Emily.” Margaret grabbed the older woman’s arm. “She thinks this kind of work is beneath her daughter. Somehow she thinks it reflects badly on her.”

  “What kind of work does she want you to do?” Emily placed her hand over Margaret’s and patted. “I’ve often wondered myself at your being satisfied with something that challenges you so little.”

  “Mom wants me to do something that puts me in the way of marrying a doctor or a lawyer.” Margaret flopped back against the sofa cushions. “She doesn’t think women are supposed to do anything other than look good and be a credit to their parents.”

&
nbsp; “Well, then, that leaves things wide open, doesn’t it?”

  Margaret didn’t understand. “What do you mean?”

  “Lenore has offered you the chance to go to school and study whatever you want or to step out into the world on your own.” Emily clapped her hands. “Oh, the possibilities. And you’re such a smart girl.”

  “Well, maybe, but what about Mayfair? If I leave or spend most of my time in school, no one will be around to protect her, to make sure she gets her insulin shots on time, and that she always has candy in her pocket just in case. Mom is determined to transform her into some sort of debutante.”

  Emily sighed and clasped her hands, looking thoughtful. “What if you took her with you?”

  “I don’t think Mom will let me.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s take this one step at a time. If Mayfair weren’t in the picture, what would you want to do?”

  Margaret tilted her head and squinched her eyes. “Honestly? I’d like to keep working for you and maybe help do more farming. You have chickens and now the cow, and we can put in a big garden in the spring. I’d like to make butter and can vegetables. Maybe raise and butcher another hog.” She sat forward and used her hands to illustrate her words. “We could cure hams and bacon, if we had a smokehouse. Being on the farm—it just makes me feel alive and useful. I can see what I’ve accomplished when I look at a clean bathroom or gather the eggs I use to make a cake.” She glanced at Emily and subsided back against the cushions again. “Of course, what you do with the farm is up to you.”

  Emily smiled and patted Margaret’s knee. “I’m not opposed to doing a bit more farming, although I’m not sure about that smokehouse. But is that preparing for your future?”

  “I’d save every penny I could, and one day I’d buy a little farm of my own, and Mayfair would come live with me. Maybe we’ll have sheep and sell the wool or make things out of it and sell blankets or socks or something.”

  “No husband or children?”

  “It might be nice, but I’m not counting on it.”

  “Well, I have an idea, but I need to ponder and pray a bit before we discuss it. Go on and finish the ironing, and I might have news for you come lunchtime.”

  Emily stood and disappeared into her bedroom. Margaret sat a moment, not sure what to think. Would Emily let her come live here? But if she did, Mayfair would be defenseless. How could she abandon her sister? Still, if it would somehow work out, the life she’d just described sounded like heaven. For just a moment, she let herself picture living on a farm, raising a garden, caring for animals, watching over Mayfair. They’d be their own little nation of two—independent and utterly free. Margaret stood abruptly and turned the heat up on the iron again. She glanced out the window at the falling snow and considered that daydreams were little more than snowflakes—lovely, but hopelessly fragile.

  By the time Henry pulled up in front of the Simmonses’ place, there was about an inch of snow on the ground and more coming down. He saw Clint at the end of the porch messing with something. The old man barely flicked a glance their way as they parked and got out of the car. Charlie half fell out of the backseat and hopped over to the porch. He must have lost his crutch somewhere in the night. Henry joined him, feeling he was about to face a firing squad.

  “You boys took your sweet time making that delivery,” Clint said.

  Henry realized the older man was skinning out a red fox. The animal’s pelt looked bright and thick. He’d get some good money for it.

  Charlie struggled up the steps and flopped down on a cane-bottom chair. “We stayed for the entertainment.”

  “Thought you might’ve.” Clint made a final cut, separating the skin from the carcass. He wiped the blade of his knife on a pant leg. “Either that or you run off with my car and my money.”

  “We ain’t that dumb, Pa,” Charlie said, digging in his pocket for a wad of bills. He handed it to his father.

  Clint grunted and laid the fox skin out on the porch boards so he could take the money. Henry felt an irrational urge to stroke the glossy fur. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

  “Mighty fine pelt you’ve got there,” Henry said. “You trap her?”

  “Shot her. She’s been at the chickens the last couple a nights.” Clint stopped counting bills long enough to look at Henry. “Only thing I hate worse than a liar is a thief. Course that ’un,” he pointed at the carcass with his chin, “is about to repay me for them chickens.”

  He finished counting and looked from his son to Henry. “Seems you boys are short.” Clint thumbed through the bills again. “I figure there oughta be another fifty dollars in here. Don’t suppose ole Jack shorted you?”

  “He might’ve, Pa.” Charlie kicked his chair back on two legs and looked unconcerned.

  Henry had been afraid of what Clint would do when he saw the car, but this was a new fear coiling in his belly. He knew men had been gunned down for less than fifty dollars. He eyed the rifle leaning against the edge of the porch.

  Clint’s hand shot out and knocked the chair from under Charlie. “You want to try again, boy?”

  Charlie yelped and lay still, grimacing and holding his hurt leg. “Could be I give some money to them girls last night.”

  Henry blanched. They’d been paid?

  “Boy, if you ain’t the dumbest cuss I ever knew.” Clint whirled on Henry. “And you. Why’d you let him do a fool thing like that?”

  “I didn’t know.” Henry held his hands out in front of him as though trying to fend off what he was hearing. “I was drinking and . . . I didn’t know.”

  “Guess you thought she was after you for your good looks and winsome ways,” Clint said with a sneer. “You got a lot to learn, and this here is lesson number one. I’m taking the fifty dollars outta your pay.”

  Henry tried to swallow but couldn’t work up any spit. He guessed he was getting off easy, and after what he’d done the night before, he deserved much, much worse. But Clint wasn’t finished.

  “And I reckon you owe me another eighty for what you done to my car.” He spit and peeled a twenty off the dirty roll of bills in his hand. He wadded it up and threw it at Henry’s feet. “You want to drive for me again, maybe you’ll be more careful.”

  Henry picked the money up and stuck it in his pocket. He wasn’t sure he wanted to drive for Clint again, but at the same time he didn’t want the moonshiner to think he’d lost his nerve. He nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

  Clint cackled and kicked Charlie’s good leg when he’d finally managed to disentangle himself from the chair and sit up. Charlie grimaced, but didn’t make a sound.

  “You hear that boy? He called me ‘sir.’ Might be you could learn a thing or two from this one.” He turned back to Henry. “Now git on home. I’ll send word next time I need you.”

  Henry got his fiddle from the Barracuda and tried not to run to his truck. He climbed in, hoping the thing would start in the cold. He felt so desperate he actually whispered a prayer, asking God to get him out of there. The often temperamental truck started on the first try, and Henry drove home, taking care on the now slippery roads. He thought to thank God for the help, but when he considered what he’d been up to lately, he decided the truck starting was coincidence. No way would God want to help him now.

  Margaret stirred some chicken soup on the stove and then reached bowls down from the cabinet, along with a box of oyster crackers. She’d used Emily’s recipe, and the soup smelled wonderful—with lots of carrots, celery, egg noodles, and a chicken that had gotten too old to lay. Emily said it was best to stew a chicken that old, so they’d settled on making soup.

  Emily bustled into the kitchen and poured iced tea into two glasses as they settled at the dinette with their lunch. They sat and bowed their heads.

  “Father, bless this food for the nourishment of our bodies and bless the hands that prepared it. We thank thee for thy bountiful blessings. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  Margaret wondered if God was actual
ly listening to Emily. She hadn’t talked to Him much herself. Her mother took them to church most Sundays—the big Methodist church in town. It was the perfect opportunity for Lenore to wear her best clothes and gossip with her friends. Or people she pretended were her friends. Margaret had never gotten much out of it. Maybe she should try going to Laurel Mountain Church with Emily.

  Emily’s spoon clicked against her bowl, and she reached for her tea. “Margaret, I think I may have a solution to your problem.”

  Margaret stirred her soup. “That would be nice, but please don’t tell me I should take this opportunity to go to school and broaden my horizons or something like that. I may end up doing it, but it’s just not what I want right now.”

  “My dear, if you truly want to learn how to run a farm, and you aren’t afraid of some hard work, I might have a place for you to live.”

  Margaret dropped her spoon and clasped her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “With you?”

  “Not exactly.” Emily’s eyes twinkled. “John’s mother used to live in that little house to the east over the next rise. He kept it up while he was still alive, and as far as I know Casewell . . .” she hesitated, a cloud in her eyes. “Casewell kept an eye on it ever since. But now. Well, there’s no one to look after the place.”

  “The little gray house?”

  “Yes. There’s not much to it, and I haven’t been in it for years, but we can go over there after lunch and see what you think.”

  Margaret knew what she thought. She thought it was a miracle. Now, if only she could figure out how to bring Mayfair with her.

  They finished eating, although Margaret had to force the soup down, she was so excited. Then there was the tidying up, and then, since it was snowing, Margaret had to wait while Emily got on her coat, hat, scarf, boots, and mittens. Finally, they climbed into Margaret’s Volkswagen Beetle and drove the short distance to the house.