Henry admired how the old man didn’t waste time. Maybe that’s how it was when you got old.
“I guess I’ve got something on my mind,” he said.
Angie leaned forward. “Well, spit it out then. Or is it too harsh for my tender ears?”
Henry grinned in spite of himself. “I reckon you can take it, Miss Angie. Has Frank told you about my problem?”
“I should hope he did. There shouldn’t be secrets between a man and his wife.” She wagged a finger at Henry. “Not that I’d tattle it to a living soul. It’s just between us.”
“Well, Barbara moved in with Mom today.” He flicked a look at the couple. They didn’t seem surprised. “And I told Clint I wasn’t going to, uh, work for him anymore.”
“How’d all that go?” Frank asked.
“I guess it went better than I expected. The thing is, Charlie wondered if I was going to marry Barbara, and, well, now I’m wondering if I should.”
Angie crossed her arms, pressed her lips together, and looked at Frank.
“My wife is allowing me to speak, in spite of having an opinion of her own on the matter,” Frank said. “Henry, do you want to marry her?”
“Not particularly. But she seems okay, and I’m glad she didn’t do anything to, well, to hurt the baby. And I’d sure like to be there to take care of him or her.”
Angie made an exasperated sound. “The question is, does she want to marry you? I swear, you men think you can just decide things and women will go right along with it.” She leaned toward Henry. “Did you ask her?”
“When she told me she was pregnant she said she didn’t want me to marry her; just that she needed someone to help take care of the baby.” Henry felt hope rise in him. Maybe he didn’t need to marry her, after all. Maybe she’d let his mother adopt the baby.
Angie snorted. Not very ladylike. “That doesn’t mean a thing. There’s hardly a woman in this world who’d tell a man she wants to marry him before he asks. A lady likes to be asked.” She sat back as though resting her case.
“That’s true,” Frank said. “Found that out the hard way.”
Angie swatted him again.
Henry sighed. “I guess I’d better talk to her, then.”
“I would if I were you, son,” Frank said. “You can burn a lot of years not talking about something.”
The next day Mayfair insisted they go back to visit Beulah. Margaret invited Emily to come along, but she wasn’t sure of her welcome and said maybe next time. At the Simmonses’ house Beulah sat in a dining room chair in the front yard. Spring had begun to show signs of arriving, and the sun was bright, but Beulah sat swaddled in quilts and shawls. She wiggled an arm out to wave the girls over.
“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I’m feeling much better.”
Mayfair’s forehead crinkled, and she took the woman’s hand. “Are you?”
“I am. If only because of the peace of mind you’ve given me. Now come inside, and we’ll have a nice visit.”
Clint stepped out onto the porch and nodded at them but didn’t speak. Beulah struggled to stand, and her husband rushed to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and helped her to the house. Mayfair dogged their steps.
Once inside, Margaret wished they’d stayed in the yard. The house was gloomy and had a definite chill. Clint stoked the fire until it blazed bright enough to chase some of the drear away, then left them alone. Mayfair sat close to Beulah while Margaret perched on a cane-bottomed chair. She itched to find a dustrag and a broom.
“I see you over there wishing you could clean my house,” Beulah said.
Margaret protested.
“No, it’s all right. It needs a good cleaning. I try to get Harold to help out, but I think it hurts his pride to do women’s work.”
“I’d be more than glad to run a dustrag over a few things,” Margaret said. “If it would be a help to you.”
Beulah sighed and sagged deeper into the sofa. “Honey, it would. When I’m gone, these boys can wallow in their own filth, but for the time being I’d surely like to see a shine on the end table there.”
Margaret was on her feet. “Where are your supplies?”
Beulah directed her, and Margaret felt something like a surge of happiness. It was silly, but she felt that doing a little cleaning was the best comfort she could give. And she was good at it. Mayfair seemed to comfort people by her very presence. Margaret suspected her absence—or at least her fading into the background—was her gift.
She hummed softly as she wiped down the tables and found a dust mop to get at cobwebs in the corners. Clint stuck his head into the room once, paled, and ducked out again. Margaret was glad to know a clean house was a weapon against him. She swept the room out and was debating taking up the braided rug and dragging it out into the yard for a good shake when she finally turned her attention back to Beulah and her sister.
They were sleeping. Mayfair’s head on Beulah’s shoulder, hands clasped. Margaret smiled. Now that was worn out—sleeping in the midst of her cleaning. She tiptoed over and laid a hand on Beulah’s arm.
“Beulah? How about I take this rug out and shake it real good?”
Beulah blinked and opened her eyes as though she was returning from somewhere very far away. “What? The rug? Oh, honey, don’t mess with that thing. I’ll get the boys to drape it over the fence and whack it a few times.”
She stretched her arms and then swiveled her neck. “Lawsy, I must’ve needed that nap. I feel better than I have in months. Maybe it’s the pleasure of a clean room.” She smiled and then peered at Mayfair. “This young one must need some rest, too.”
“She’s been having a hard time with her diabetes lately.”
“Sugar? My mother had the sugar. It was awful. She lost most of her toes before the end. This child is too young and too good for such as that.”
Margaret touched Mayfair’s arm. “Wake up, sweetie. It’s time to go.”
Mayfair made a sound like a balloon losing the last of its air as her head flopped forward.
Margaret grasped both shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Mayfair? Wake up.” Icy fingers wrapped around her heart. “Beulah, do have orange juice or something sweet to drink?”
“I think so.”
The older woman struggled to her feet and shuffled into the kitchen. She returned in what felt like at least a year to Margaret with a glass of juice. Margaret sat on the arm of the sofa and cradled Mayfair against her chest. She gently pried her lips open and poured a little juice in. It ran down Mayfair’s chin. She tried again and more juice ran down onto her sister’s shirt.
“She has to take it. She just has to take it,” Margaret whispered.
“Honey, we need to get her to a doctor.”
“If we can get her to take some juice—”
“Margaret. I’ll get Clint to take you to the hospital. I saw this with my mother. She needs a doctor.”
Margaret held Mayfair, willing her to wake up, to absorb a little of the sugar on her tongue until Clint appeared and scooped the child into his arms. Margaret cried out and then clapped a hand over her mouth. He was only helping. They got in his car and flew to St. Joseph’s Hospital.
22
THE SMELL OF ROAST CHICKEN permeated the air even before Henry set foot in his mother’s house. He’d missed lunch, and his stomach rumbled. It might be awkward to eat a meal with Barbara and his mom, but based on the aromas coming from the kitchen, he thought maybe he could manage it.
Inside, Barbara laid a third plate and silverware on the table. Mom smiled at him as she spooned mashed potatoes into a bowl.
“I saw you pull up. Seems like you timed things just right.”
“I didn’t set out to come for supper, but since it’s ready . . .”
Mom walked by and bumped him with her hip. “By the time you wash your hands, we’ll have this on the table.”
Barbara didn’t look directly at Henry, moving to the stove to dish up green beans instea
d. He could smell the bacon grease, and his mouth watered. He hurried to wash his hands.
The three of them sat, and Mom said grace. Henry was grateful she hadn’t asked him. He wasn’t sure God was on speaking terms with him at the moment. They passed the dishes and ate in silence for a few moments.
“How’s your grandmother?” Apparently Mom was going to make conversation.
“She was fine when I left there this morning. I’ve been over at the Talbot place.”
“Oh? Are Frank and Angie settling in well?”
Henry shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of potatoes. “I guess.” He made a face. “They’re kind of touchy-feely. Like they’re flirting with each other.”
His mom smiled as if that was the best news she’d heard in a long time. “As it should be.” She turned to Barbara. “Frank and Angie are a sweet couple who just got married.”
“Even though they’re ninety,” Henry said under his breath.
“Ninety?” It was the first peep he’d heard from Barbara. “They got married when they were ninety?”
“Or thereabouts,” Henry said. “Guess it took ’em a long time to figure things out.”
Mom dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “I think they figured things out quite a few years ago. It just took them until now to do anything about it.” She gazed out the window into the distance. “Sometimes you have to wait, so as not to hurt someone you love.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Barbara said and then looked embarrassed. She took a bite of chicken and looked at her plate.
Mom patted Barbara’s arm. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, and while I thought I’d tell Henry later, he might as well hear it, too.”
Henry felt his appetite ebbing. This couldn’t be good. He eyed the dried apple pie cooling on the counter. Well, maybe it wouldn’t be that bad.
“When I married Henry’s father—Casewell—I already had Henry’s older sister, Sadie. Henry knows that much.” She leveled her gaze at him. “What he doesn’t know is that I was never married to Sadie’s father.”
Henry was washing a bite of bread down with milk, and he snorted the liquid into his nose. He coughed and swiped at his face with his napkin, finally standing and finding a paper towel to blow his nose. He turned around and stared at his mother. He knew Sadie was his half sister, but he’d never thought to ask about her father. He’d just assumed he’d died. Or something.
“I’m sorry, Henry. I should have waited until you swallowed.”
“Why? You waited about twenty years, what’s another thirty seconds?”
“Come sit down and finish your supper. I know this is a surprise to you, but as you can imagine, my story is likely to be a comfort to Barbara.”
Henry staggered over and slid into his chair, all thoughts of pie gone from his head. Barbara held her fork as though she’d forgotten about it. Her eyes were fixed on his mother.
Mom turned her full attention on Barbara. “I made a bad decision because I fancied myself in love. Maybe I was, but it still wasn’t right. I don’t know how you feel about Henry.” She glanced at him. “Or he about you, but I want you to know that God can use anything for His purpose, and good will come of this. I feel very confident about that.”
Barbara laid down her fork, and a tear tracked her cheek. “I . . . thank you for telling me. I thought it was only bad girls like me that got into this kind of trouble.”
Mom squeezed Barbara’s arm. “We’re all bad girls. It’s just some of us are forgiven. I don’t know where you stand with God, but if you ever want to talk about it, I’d be glad to listen.”
Barbara nodded her head and crumpled her napkin in her hands. “I don’t know why you’re being so good to me.”
“Because so many people have been good to me throughout my life. And God has been best of all. Now, let’s finish up before this food gets cold.”
Henry picked up his fork and stuck a bite of chicken in his mouth. He chewed mechanically, staring at his mother. “Does Sadie know?”
“She does. She remembers before Casewell became her father, so I explained it as best I could when she was younger.”
“What about Grandma?”
“Yes, and she had qualms about me marrying her boy, but she forgave me.”
Of course she did. Frank and Angie probably knew, too. Seemed everybody knew but him. Of course, he could have asked. He hesitated, then blurted his next question.
“What did Dad think?”
“He judged me for it when he first found out, but after we—well, we got to know each other better that summer the drought was so bad, and we overcame a lot together. I think it made our marriage all that more special, having to work so hard to understand each other.”
Henry didn’t know what shocked him more—that his mother had an illegitimate child before she married or that his father married her in spite of it. “I’d better be getting on back to Grandma’s,” he said.
His mother gave him a knowing look. “I guess this is a lot to take in. Here, let me give you some pie to share with Emily. You might even talk to her about all this. She’s a wise woman.”
Henry nodded and waited for the dessert, then drove to Jack’s instead of the farm. He wasn’t going to drink or talk to girls, he just wanted to get lost playing his fiddle. As he made the turn away from home, he remembered that his whole point in going by the house was to talk to Barbara about whether or not she wanted him to marry her. He wondered why Sadie’s father hadn’t married his mother, and anger welled up in him. He’d like to tell that jerk a thing or two.
The anger dissipated. Yeah, like maybe his kid would want to tell him a thing or two one day if he didn’t marry Barbara. The weight of his situation settled back over him. Why did his father have to go and die and start this whole mess? He should be halfway through the semester at college and hearing from Dad how proud he was to have a son earning a degree. He should be planning to come home for the summer to work on the farm and help in Dad’s woodshop. He should be doing a lot of things. Contemplating marriage to a girl he barely knew wasn’t one of them.
The sounds of the hospital filtered into the dim room where Margaret sat holding Mayfair’s limp hand. She’d slept a little through the night and thought it must be morning by now but didn’t have the energy to try to find out for sure. She’d been sitting there long enough to recognize certain sounds and patterns in the hall. The squeak of a nurse’s shoes, the beep of a monitor in the room opposite, the murmur of people talking, as though lowering their voices would stave off illness or even death.
She opened her mouth to speak to Mayfair again, but talking to her hadn’t done anything, and she suddenly didn’t have the energy to try again. She released her sister’s hand just as she heard a new sound outside. It was somehow bigger and brighter than anything she’d heard up to this point. Not the rush and rumble of an emergency, more like the joy of a party. Margaret turned toward the door.
“Here you are. Beulah called to let us know Mayfair was sick.” Emily bustled into the room, flipped the curtains all the way back, and snapped on a light. Perla appeared right behind her. “No need to sit here in the dark. It’s a beautiful morning. Now tell us how Mayfair is.”
Margaret started to speak, but instead of words, a wailing sob burst out of her. Perla stepped forward and wrapped both arms around her shoulders, rocking as Margaret sobbed. She tried to catch her breath. She was astonished by the violence of her tears and her inability to stop them. She gasped and felt her nose running on Perla’s sleeve. She was horrified and embarrassed and hated to think of anyone seeing her like this, but she was powerless to stop.
And in that moment Margaret felt something release. She was powerless. There wasn’t a thing she could do to fix Mayfair. She couldn’t make her parents love her any more than she could make Henry love her. And yet, somehow, here were people who did love her. Two women who were no kin to her had come to her aid. They came to offer what they could, even if it was only a shoulder to
cry on.
The crying eased, and Margaret took a deep, stuttering breath. The air was like cool water washing over her heart. She hiccupped, and Emily handed her a tissue as Perla eased her grip. Margaret blew her nose and blinked at the two women.
“I guess you needed that,” Emily said.
Margaret managed a weak laugh. “Maybe I did.”
Emily looked around the room. “This is the same hospital we brought John to when we found out he had cancer.” Her eyes clouded. “I felt like crying, too.” She exhaled a huff of air and stood up straighter. “But that was a different day and a different situation.”
She smoothed Margaret’s hair back from her hot forehead, and Margaret thought she might dissolve beneath the older woman’s hand. But there was strength, too. She took another breath, this one steadier than the last.
“She’s in a diabetic coma. They’ve done what they can to bring her sugar levels to normal, but her brain swelled. Is swelling. I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s causing the coma, and they”—she choked a little—“they don’t know . . . when she’ll wake up.”
Margaret had started to say “if” but thought better of it. Perla hugged her again, and Emily moved to the bed where she took Mayfair’s hand. She leaned over and spoke into the girl’s ear. “We’re here to keep your big sister company, Mayfair. You relax and have a nice rest. We’ll take good care of the chickens and of Bertie until you feel better.”
She stood and stroked Mayfair’s arm, then her cheek. Perla pulled a chair closer to the bed so Emily could sit, then sat on the foot of the bed. Margaret took up her sister’s other hand again, and the three women sat like that talking about the farm and life and plans for the future for the next hour. Margaret thought that if Mayfair had been awake it would have been one of the happiest hours of her life.
Henry played far into the night, losing himself in the music. Around three or four in the morning he grabbed a nap on a sofa in Jack’s back room, then headed for the farm sometime after sunrise. He hoped Grandma assumed he’d spent the night at home in spite of Barbara’s being there.
Until the Harvest Page 18
