Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  An image of Henry flashed through Margaret’s mind, but she ignored it. “No. No one in particular. I just might have to take in orphans or something.”

  Beulah leaned forward and gripped Margaret’s knee with surprising strength. “I can see it in your eyes. There is someone. Don’t settle for less than your heart’s desire.” She sagged back against the cushion and pulled her nubby sweater tighter around her shoulders. “Settling can seem like a good idea, but you’d best fight for what you want.”

  Mayfair reached over and took Beulah’s hand. Again, something special seemed to pass between them, and Margaret bit the inside of her cheek. It was only her imagination.

  “Sometimes what you want doesn’t matter.” Margaret was surprised by how angry she sounded. She tried to temper her comment. “What I mean is, you have to do the best you can with what life gives you.”

  Beulah looked around the dark room. “Settling can be worse than trying for something better and failing. At least then you’d know you tried.”

  Margaret felt the conversation was drifting into deep waters. “Well, I’ll do my best not to settle,” she said. “Now, how about I make you a cup of tea?”

  “Oh, I meant to offer you some tea,” Beulah protested. Then she looked at Mayfair and smiled. “But since I have a feeling you know your way around my kitchen now, why don’t you go ahead?”

  Margaret stood, glad to escape further conversation, and went into the kitchen to put a pan of water on the gas stove before heading out back to bring in the sheets that were dry. The towels would take a bit longer. Beulah might just have to tend those herself. On the way back in, she saw the bathroom and stopped long enough to clean toothpaste, whiskers, and dried soap off the basin. She guessed it was good they used toothpaste and soap. She glanced at the tub. That would take more time than she had. She pulled a mold-spotted shower curtain closed and reentered the kitchen in time to catch Mayfair pouring hot water over tea bags in three mugs.

  “It’s good for her to talk to you,” Mayfair said.

  “Well, I guess I’m glad, then.”

  Mayfair gave her sister one of her sweetest smiles and carried two mugs into the front room, leaving Margaret to bring her own. They stayed long enough to drink their tea, and then Margaret announced it was time to go. Beulah looked disappointed. Then she brightened.

  “But you’ll come again,” she said.

  Mayfair said they would before Margaret could jump in. She wasn’t sure this was a friendship she ought to encourage. At least they hadn’t seen that awful Clint Simmons. There was something about him that frightened Margaret.

  When Charlie showed up at the door, Henry was tempted to leave him out in the cold. But he kept knocking, and Mom let him in.

  “Hey, Henry, can I, uh, have a word with you?”

  Henry cut his eyes to his mother, who sighed and left the room. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Need you to finish a run to Jack’s for me.”

  Henry thought he might not mind taking his fiddle over there and playing for a while. Some of those boys weren’t half bad, and he was itching to play some music. Even if that girl he woke up next to in the barn was around. It had been long enough that she’d know not to expect anything from him. Charlie must have taken his hesitation for indecision.

  “You’d better do this, or Pa’ll string you up.”

  Henry thought Charlie sounded a little bit desperate. “Did he send you over here?”

  “Sure he did. Said you’d better do this or else.”

  “Why aren’t you doing it? You can drive fine now.”

  “I’m taking care of another piece of business this evening. I’ve got the load in the car, it’ll just take a minute to shift it over.” Charlie started out the door, clearly expecting Henry to follow him.

  Henry grinned. It was kind of fun making Charlie sweat. Guess he could use a night out. He hollered in his mother’s general direction. “I’m going out. Be back soon.”

  Load shifted, Henry drove to Jack’s place, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. He knew running moonshine wasn’t right, but it seemed like he was getting kind of good at it, and it was nice to make some real money. Charlie even paid him up front. He liked being good at something.

  When he pulled into the barn at Jack’s, Henry got out whistling and began unloading the moonshine. He knew the ropes by now. He looked across the field at the lights from the bar. It looked inviting, the way the light spilled out across the yard. He wasn’t going to drink anything, just play a little and get warmed up. Maybe he could get the best of being under Clint’s thumb after all.

  As Henry started for the house, a figure stepped into the doorway of the barn. His heart double-timed for a minute, and then he realized it was probably just Jack coming up to take inventory.

  “I was hoping you’d come again.” The voice was soft, feminine, and somehow familiar.

  “Who, me?”

  “Yeah, you.” She stepped forward into the circle of light cast by one dusty bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was Barbara.

  “Oh, hey.” Henry didn’t quite know what to say. He’d convinced himself she would have given up on him by now, but it sounded like she had ideas. How was he going to let her down easy?

  “I’d have called you, but I didn’t know your number,” she said.

  Henry kicked at a clump of hay. “Yeah, well, I’ve been pretty busy. Don’t get out this way much. I was going to play a little before heading home.” He raised the hand holding his fiddle.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  Henry froze. He watched as her hand strayed to her belly. He looked at her eyes. There was defiance there.

  “Are you saying . . . ?”

  “I am.” The look got harder, like she was daring him to deny it.

  Henry ran his fingers through his hair. Lord, what had he done?

  “Are you . . . will you . . . what do you want me to do?”

  She tossed her head. “I ain’t asking you to marry me. I just want you to do right by the baby. Maybe even take it and let your mother raise it once it comes. Where I live ain’t fit for a child.”

  Henry tried to breathe in, but it was a fight. He finally drew a shaky breath and let it out again. “I don’t know about that.”

  She stepped closer and pointed at him. “You can tell your family, or I will. Don’t make no difference to me. I want to see this child have a chance.”

  Henry swallowed and looked at the woman in front of him. Her hair looked oily, and her clothes didn’t fit well. She was missing a tooth on the left side of her mouth, but in spite of the flaws, she was pretty. Except for the hardness around her eyes and the way she held her mouth that made Henry feel like he was her last hope in the world. He shifted his gaze to her belly, and she placed both hands there, as though protecting her child from him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I need some time to think about this, but we can figure something out. How do I get in touch with you?”

  “Write your phone number down, and I’ll get in touch with you,” Barbara said. “I’ll give you two days to come up with a plan, and then I’ll call you.” She looked at the dirt floor, and some of the fire seemed to go out of her. “And don’t try to blow me off. I can get Charlie to tell me where you live, and I’m not too proud to show up at your door.”

  Henry found a paper sack under the seat in the truck and a stub of pencil his father probably used for woodworking projects. What would Dad think about how his pencil was being used now? Henry wrote his phone number down and handed it to Barbara, who stuck it in her pocket and turned away, then stopped.

  “You wouldn’t have a few dollars on you?” she asked.

  He’d left the night’s pay in a can under a loose board in Dad’s workshop. He couldn’t buy liquor if he didn’t have cash. Henry dug into his pocket and came up with three crumpled ones and some change. “It’s all I have,” he said, holding it out.

  She turned slowly and took the money. “I can get men to
buy me liquor, but not many of them want to buy me a bottle of milk.” She cupped a hand to her belly again. “It don’t matter for me, but I’d just as soon feed this little one right.”

  She moved toward the door and stood there, silhouetted against the light from across the field. “I’ll be talking to you, Henry,” she said and was gone.

  Henry climbed into the truck and rested his head on the steering wheel, all thoughts of music driven from his mind. What in the world was he going to do now?

  19

  HENRY NEEDED ADVICE. He needed his father. He brought his fist down on the dashboard of the old truck and gunned the motor, tires spinning as he pulled away from the barn and the pregnant girl. As a matter of fact, he probably wouldn’t be in this predicament if Dad were still around. Henry cursed. He hoped his father was looking down from heaven to see this. Maybe he’d be sorry.

  He drove aimlessly, not knowing where he was going. He tried to think through the situation but couldn’t come up with a plan. It surprised him when he saw the Talbot sisters’ house up ahead. Lights were on in the sitting room, and he whipped into the drive not certain what he planned.

  Frank stepped out onto the porch as Henry shoved the truck into Park. The old man raised one hand and then dropped it to his side and leaned against a post holding up the tin roof. Henry spilled out of the truck and tried to walk toward Frank like a man who knew what he was about.

  “Howdy, Frank. How you likin’ this weather?”

  Frank stood upright and considered Henry. “Been a mite warmer of late. Crocuses poking through over there by the steps.” He pointed with his chin. “Makes Angie awful glad, and anything that pleases that woman pleases me.”

  Henry felt his stomach knot tighter. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a woman who made him happy? He had Barbara, who was making him miserable, Margaret confusing him, Mom nagging at him, and Grandma, well, he guessed she was usually a comfort. He put one foot up on the edge of the porch and leaned on his knee.

  “Marriage suits you, then?”

  “Down to my toes.” Frank leaned forward and peered into Henry’s face. “I’m thinking you didn’t come here to ask about my love life, though.”

  Henry took a deep breath and blew it out slow. “I guess maybe I need some advice.”

  Frank nodded. “Come on in and sit. Angie’s tending to her evening toilette, so we’ll have the parlor to ourselves.”

  Henry smiled at Frank’s language. The old man had been a world traveler, but he pronounced the French word with a mountain twang that let Henry know he was making fun a little. He was surprised he could smile.

  Inside, the house was warm and the lights not too bright. Henry kind of wished he could just lean back on the sofa and go to sleep. He felt bone weary and wasn’t sure he even wanted to talk about his problems right then. But Frank looked at him with an open expression that had him spilling everything out before he even knew what he was going to say.

  He told about how he’d been running moonshine, about not wanting to go back to school, and about Barbara. When he finished, he subsided into the sofa. He felt like he was made of lead, and the softness of the cushions pillowed around him.

  “Is that all?” Frank asked. Then he grinned at Henry’s incredulous look. “It’s enough. I just wanted to make sure we have everything out on the table.”

  Henry thought of Margaret and how he’d been thinking of her differently lately, but he decided that really didn’t matter at the moment. Even if he was interested in more than friendship, having gotten another girl pregnant probably wouldn’t recommend him to her.

  “So how can I help you, son?”

  “What would my dad tell me to do?” Henry tried not to let his voice quiver.

  Frank leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “He’d tell you to get shut of Clint Simmons and that whole clan. Your father had a bit of history with ole Clint. When Casewell was young and foolish, he stole moonshine from a Simmons still. When I came up on them—I was known to drink in those days—Clint was fixing to cut on your dad. That’s were he got the scar on his chin. I talked Clint out of skinning your dad alive, and we all came to a satisfactory understanding.”

  Henry sat stunned. He couldn’t imagine his father ever doing something so . . . wrong. And not a little foolish. He guessed maybe Frank really had saved Dad’s life.

  Frank looked Henry in the eye. “I suspect Casewell would tell you to go on over there and tell Clint straight to his face that you’re done working for him.”

  Henry started to protest, but Frank held up a hand. “Somehow, after this business with Mayfair, I think that might work out better than you anticipate. As for school, I’m pretty sure he’d tell you to get your hindquarters back in class.” Frank squinted at Henry. “But you know that already. As for this business with the young lady, he’d tell you to go talk to your mother.”

  Henry scrunched his forehead. “What? Why would I do that? She’ll probably disown me when she hears this. She’s already mad at me.”

  “Son, your mother is a complex woman with a history all her own. She was your age once, and she may have made some decisions that weren’t the best, but she came through them, and I have a feeling she’ll be a whole lot more help to you than your father ever would.”

  Henry flopped his head back on the cushion and noticed a crack in the ceiling. Frank’s advice and the revelation about his dad sat in his gut like week-old biscuits. But at the same time, he suspected his father would agree with most of it. Except for talking to his mother. That was ridiculous.

  Heaving himself to his feet, Henry stuck out his hand. “I appreciate your listening to me. Seems like I don’t have anybody to talk to much these days.”

  Frank shook Henry’s hand. “There’s not having anyone to talk to, and then there’s not talking to the ones you’ve got. You make sure you know which is which.”

  Henry sighed and trudged out the door to his truck. What did he expect? There was no magic wand he could wave to fix everything. No last-minute miracle to save his hide.

  When she wasn’t in school, Mayfair was with Margaret at Emily’s. Even when she wasn’t technically working, Margaret liked being at the farmhouse. It felt safer there, like nothing bad could happen. The three of them were sitting at the table sipping hot chocolate on a Saturday morning when Henry stomped in with the milk. He didn’t speak and barely looked at the women.

  “Good morning, Henry,” Emily said.

  He grunted and set the milk pail on the counter. “Bertie’s got pinkeye.”

  Emily frowned. “I thought that only came on in the summer. We’d better call Dr. Langley and get him out here to look at her.”

  Margaret got up to strain the milk. “Seems like less today.”

  “I told you, Bertie has pinkeye. Cuts down on production.” Henry looked like he wanted to dump the milk over Margaret’s head.

  She raised her eyebrows. “No need to get mad about it. I was just commenting.”

  “Well, keep your comments to yourself unless they’re helpful.”

  “Henry,” Emily chided, putting a hand on his arm. He jerked away.

  “Call the vet. I’ll be out at the shed.” He started toward the door.

  “Hey, where’s Mayfair?” Margaret looked around, but her sister was no longer in the room.

  Henry peered out the window. “Looks like she’s in the cowshed. If she messes with Bertie’s eye, she can make it worse or even get pinkeye herself.” He glared at Margaret. “Why don’t you keep better track of her?”

  Margaret felt as if she’d been slapped. “I keep up with her just fine. Why don’t you stop being such a pain in the rear end?”

  Henry looked taken aback, but then he slammed out the door. Margaret grabbed a jacket and followed him.

  In the cowshed Mayfair had her arm around Bertie’s neck singing “‘A’ You’re Adorable.” Bertie seemed to like it, but Henry grabbed Mayfair’s wrist and pulled her away from the animal. Bertie swung her head to look after Ma
yfair as Margaret stepped closer to see the cow’s eyes.

  “They look fine to me, Henry. What makes you think she has pinkeye?”

  “Because she’s holding the left eye closed most of the time, and it’s watering. Are you blind?”

  Margaret took another look. The eye was wide open and clear. She made a sweeping motion to invite Henry to take a closer look. He did and cursed.

  “Watch your language,” Margaret said.

  “I’ll say whatever I feel like. You’re not the boss of me.”

  Margaret felt anger rise in her. Henry was being a jerk. He was mistreating Mayfair, alarming Emily for no good reason, and using language none of them needed to hear. She’d had enough.

  “Henry Phillips, I am sick and tired of you dragging around like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever suffered anything. Losing your father is no excuse for acting like an overgrown jerk who only cares about himself. You’ve been rude to your grandmother, mean to Mayfair, and you’ve treated me like dirt.” She stomped her foot on the hay-strewn ground. “I’ve had just about enough.”

  Henry looked surprised, then red began creeping up his neck. He leaned toward Margaret, stuck his finger in her face, and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Mayfair was there. She put a hand on Henry’s arm and one on Margaret’s. She didn’t speak, but Margaret felt there was a voice inside her head whispering peace.

  Henry lowered his accusing finger, and the red faded from his face. He looked at Mayfair as if she’d just parted the Red Sea. Margaret could swear she saw tears in his eyes, but he turned away. His shoulders slumped.

  “Guess I was mistaken. I could have sworn that eye was infected.”

  “It’s good to be cautious,” Margaret said. “We can’t be too careful with our Bertie.”

  “Right.” He nodded. “Think Grandma’s got some more chocolate back there in the kitchen?”