Henry slid his fingers around Margaret’s and held her hand. “Me too. I guess it could all just be coincidence—Angie’s mind getting better, my hand healing so fast, the little girl with the bee sting—but somehow I think it’s more than that.”
He squeezed Margaret’s hand, and she felt her pulse race, her heart flutter. Why, oh why, was he being so sweet? She wanted to be mad at him and the rest of the world. He cleared his throat.
“I’ve been thinking, though.”
Margaret looked at him expectantly, afraid if she spoke he might release her hand.
“Your parents.” He nodded toward the door. “Well, I’m just really lucky to have the family I do. I’ve got great memories of my dad. I can’t count how many times he told me he loved me or that he was proud of me.”
Margaret felt tears prickling her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was crying over Henry’s losing his father or her never really having much of one.
“Anyhow, I’ve just been thinking that your parents aren’t like mine.” He gripped her hand a little tighter and looked right at her. “And I wish it could be different for you.”
She gazed back into those eyes the color of rich brown soil ready for planting, and it was like something electric passed between them. Something powerful, something that felt like . . .
Mayfair moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.
24
HENRY HATED TO LEAVE THE HOSPITAL, but he needed to tend the animals. Grandma opted to stay in hopes that Mayfair would fully awaken. She seemed to be more responsive but still wasn’t really aware. When Margaret gripped her sister’s hand, Mayfair squeezed it back, and they all thought she turned her head toward Margaret’s voice, but it could have been involuntary. The hospital staff acted as if they didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but Henry knew Margaret’s hopes were high.
Bertie met him at the cowshed, clearly eager for her milking. Henry rubbed her neck and led her into the stall where he tucked his head into her side and fell into the rhythm of milk striking metal. It was lonesome on the farm, knowing that everyone was at the hospital. No grandmother in the main house. No Margaret and Mayfair in the little gray house. Just Bertie chewing her cud.
Henry thought about that moment before Mayfair’s eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken Margaret’s hand, only that it had felt right. It wasn’t like sparks flew or anything. And yet there had been an attraction. He guessed maybe he found Margaret’s devotion to her sister and her sensible way of looking at the world appealing when his own world felt so upside down. He liked her willingness to work hard and take care of his grandmother. He admired the way she had stepped away from her awful family but not from Mayfair. And although he still wouldn’t call her beautiful the way some of the girls at school were, with their perfect hair and short skirts, he guessed she was prettier than he’d realized. Even her freckles had grown on him. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d admired about porcelain skin.
Bertie mooed and looked at him over her shoulder. Henry realized although he’d finished milking, he was still leaning into the cow’s warm flank. He gave himself a shake and stood, patting Bertie and talking to her as he let her back out into the pasture. She ambled off a few feet and stopped to crop grass as though she liked his company as much as he did hers.
An image of life on the farm with Margaret flashed through Henry’s mind. He’d carry the brimming bucket to the house. She would take it from him, strain it, and leave it for the cream to rise. They’d sit down to supper together and talk about the farm and their plans for adding livestock and maybe some field crops, now that it was early spring. She’d wash the dishes while he listened to farming updates on the radio. Maybe they’d talk over what they heard. And then it would be bedtime.
Henry flushed and hurried for the house. He was an idiot to even entertain such thoughts. If he married anyone, it would probably be Barbara. He slowed and tried to picture her the way he had Margaret. No good. All he saw was a flustered young woman trying to care for a baby while burning the biscuits. He didn’t have high hopes for Barbara’s domestic skills. He guessed for now he’d just pin his hopes on Mayfair getting better and pray that maybe God would take care of everything else, too.
Mayfair kept opening her eyes, though she seemed to be having a hard time following movement. She’d try to watch Margaret as she walked around the room, but her eyelids would hang, and she’d have to blink and try again. She still hadn’t spoken, but she was getting more consistent when Margaret asked her to squeeze her hand.
Mom and Dad had gone home so Mom could lie down. She’d left strict instructions to call if there was any change, but Margaret took that to mean she should only call if there was an opportunity for Lenore to come back and be the center of attention. She thought Mayfair’s improved responses would likely offer just such an opportunity, so she didn’t call.
Perla had come to join Emily, and both women went to pick up supper at a nearby diner. The consensus was that Margaret needed to eat something other than hospital food. Margaret didn’t much care but was glad for a moment alone with her sister. She pulled one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs over to the bed and twined her arm with Mayfair’s. Her sister turned her head but seemed to struggle to focus. She closed her eyes and squeezed Margaret’s hand. It felt like a hug.
“Were you listening to Henry and me?” Margaret asked. “When we were talking about you? It’s the funniest thing, the way people seem to get better when you’re around. And then you get worse. Could you tell Henry held my hand?” Margaret stroked Mayfair’s arm. “I don’t know why he did it, but it was nice. I can’t decide if I like him or not. I mean, I like him—even when he’s an idiot—but sometimes I feel there could be more. Like we could . . . Well, that’s probably silly. But when he held my hand like that, it seemed as though I could see a future with him in it. And maybe children—a girl and a boy, I think.”
Margaret laid her head down on the cool sheet. It smelled perfectly clean. Mayfair sighed. It was a sweet, contented sound. A single tear rolled down Margaret’s nose, much to her surprise. Where had that come from? She heard a sound at the door and sat up. Clint Simmons pushed a wheelchair into the room. Beulah sat in it, all smiles.
“Oh, my sweet, sweet friends. I’m so glad to see you. How is she?” Beulah reached toward Mayfair as though she could hurry Clint closer to the bed.
Margaret swiped at the dampness on her face and smiled. “She’s better but not quite well yet. I’m hopeful she’ll be her old self soon.”
Clint wedged the chair in as close to the bed as it would go. Margaret placed Mayfair’s hand in Beulah’s and watched tears rise in the older woman’s eyes.
“She squeezed my hand. Oh, and her eyes are sneaking open.” She waved at Mayfair. “Don’t you put yourself out, sweetheart. I don’t need to look into your eyes to feel your love. You rest.”
Something like pain passed over Beulah’s face. Margaret laid a hand on her knee. “Are you all right?”
Beulah brushed her concern away. “I’m better than I’ve been since I can’t remember when.” She glanced back at Clint and smiled. “There’s more to being all right than feeling up to dancing a jig.”
Margaret snuck a glance at Clint, who was looking at Mayfair with an expression she might call concern. When he realized he had Margaret’s attention, he averted his gaze, quickly looking out the window instead. His hand slipped from the handle of the wheelchair to his wife’s shoulder. She placed her fingers over his.
An inner light seemed to come on inside Beulah. “Yes, indeedy, I’m finer than frog hair. Now, what does the doctor say about this precious child?”
“He says it may take some time, and there could be some lasting effects, but now that she’s awake, he’s hopeful she’ll have a full recovery.”
Margaret didn’t dare share the whole truth in front of Mayfair. The doctor said there could be some long-term impact on her sister’s speech and motor skills, but she wanted Mayfai
r to think all would be well. She turned the conversation back toward Beulah.
“But what about you? How are you feeling?”
Beulah smiled even wider. “I’m feeling like the Lord has blessed me enough for two lifetimes.”
Clint whipped out a handkerchief and blew his nose, a great honking sound that made Margaret cringe. Beulah looked up at him like he hung the moon.
Margaret wasn’t sure how to respond. She’d been to the Simmonses’ house, seen how they lived and how they acted. How could Beulah feel blessed?
Perla and Emily returned, and Margaret felt a strange tension fill the room. When Beulah saw Emily, she held her arms out, and the two women hugged like sisters reunited after years apart. Clint took a step back, though he kept one hand on the wheelchair. When Emily straightened from greeting Beulah, she looked him in the eye.
“It’s good to see you, Clint. I’m so glad the two of you came to visit Mayfair.”
He cleared his throat with a great racket and nodded. “Child like that—she makes you think about what’s true and what ain’t. Guess maybe it’s time for some of us to move on.”
Emily nodded. “I’m glad.”
Margaret wondered if they were talking about Clint’s first wife dying in childbirth. Had Clint just let a couple of decades’ worth of anger slide away? She looked at him more closely as he gazed out the window again. Maybe there was a softening there around his thin lips. Maybe the light in his eye wasn’t the fire of anger anymore. Maybe miracles did happen.
“Marrrr . . .”
Margaret whirled toward her sister, who was trying to speak. Her face contorted, and she scrunched her nose. “Luuuuuff.” She took a breath and closed her eyes. “Luuuff alllll.” She lifted one hand and waved it back and forth.
Perla took the child’s hand. “Are you saying you love us all?”
Mayfair nodded, her head jerking, and opened her eyes, managing to focus on Perla for a moment. “Yesssss.”
“We love you, too, sweetheart. So very, very much.”
Margaret swallowed the tears gathering in the back of her throat and looked around the room. Well, they were a motley collection of people and certainly not kin, but somehow it felt like family. She wished Henry were there. Somehow the moment was incomplete without him.
As the day wound down only Emily remained to keep Margaret company at the hospital. She tried to talk Margaret into coming home with her.
“You need a good night’s rest, and I know you won’t get that here. I can stay with you in the gray house, or we can send Henry over there, and it can be just the two of us at my house. Either way, I know you’ll rest better.”
“I appreciate it, Emily, but I really do want to stay here with Mayfair. I wouldn’t sleep a wink for worrying about her.”
Emily stopped fussing and put an arm around Margaret’s shoulders. “I understand. I’d likely do the same.”
Henry appeared in the doorway, beat-up John Deere cap in his hand. He looked at Margaret, and then his eyes slid away. “You ready, Grandma?”
“I am. Mayfair’s had a good evening, but it’s time to let these girls get their rest.”
Henry nodded and looked at Mayfair. “She sleeping?”
“I think so,” Margaret said. “She’s still having a hard time focusing, and I think it wears her out.”
“I’ll be keeping you both in my prayers,” Henry said. “I’ll be downstairs, Grandma.” He disappeared and Margaret suddenly wished him back.
Emily hugged Margaret good-bye, patted Mayfair’s shoulder, and smoothed her silken hair across the pillow. “I expect we’ll be back tomorrow.”
Margaret sat down in the dim quiet room beside her sleeping sister. Something was different. She couldn’t remember Henry ever talking about praying—for her or for anyone else.
25
HENRY LET HIS GRANDMOTHER OUT at the front door and then drove the truck over to a stand of pines. The weather looked like it might turn, and he wanted to leave it under the shelter of the dense branches.
When he switched off the headlights and got out, he felt more than saw someone in the shadows. “Who’s there?” He wished he had his rifle.
“Pipe down. It’s just me.” Charlie stepped into the moonlight.
“What are you doing here? Get lost on a whiskey run?”
Charlie smirked. “Ain’t never got lost in my life. Anyhow, Pa seems to be letting the business slide. Might be a chance to step in and pick up the slack, make some real money. Think you might want to go partners?”
Henry considered that he could give the money to Barbara and her child or maybe help Margaret with Mayfair’s hospital bills, but he quickly discarded the notion of partnering with Charlie. “Reckon I’ll find something honest to keep me and anyone else who needs it.”
Charlie slid closer. “You going to marry her, then?”
It was on the tip of Henry’s tongue to say he would, even though he was pretty sure the baby wasn’t his, but deep down he knew Barbara wasn’t the girl he wanted to marry, and he thought she might not want it, either. Still, he wasn’t going to tell Charlie all that. “I might.”
Charlie scuffed his boot along the dirt floor. “How’s your ma feel about that?”
“She wants me to do what’s right.”
“You could probably get off just giving her a wad of cash and sending her away. I expect she’d go.”
“You think?” Henry scratched under his cap. What was Charlie getting at?
“You do a couple of runs with me, and we could pile up enough cash to convince her to take the money and skedaddle. I could handle the, ah, finances for you.”
Henry thought about his vision of living on the farm with someone like Margaret. Or maybe not just like Margaret. Maybe it could be Margaret. He buried that idea, planning to dig it up later when he had more time to go over it. Right now he couldn’t shake the feeling that Charlie was working an angle, and he wanted to know what it was.
“What did you have in mind?”
Charlie sidled closer. “Two big runs back-to-back. One to Jack’s place tomorrow night, then we do a drop-off at that cemetery you did once before. It’ll all be over before sunrise, and the payout oughta be enough to put you in the clear.”
“What if Barbara won’t go for it? That’s a big risk to take on the off chance she’ll grab the money and run.”
“I been knowing her a long time. I think it’s a sure thing, but just ask her if you want to.”
Henry rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder, thinking. It was just one night, and even if Barbara wouldn’t take the money and go, it would still come in handy.
“How much are we talking about?”
Charlie named a figure, and Henry whistled. How could he pass that up?
“All right, but this is the last time.”
Charlie slapped him on the back. “We’ll take the Barracuda. I’ll meet you at the bridge down on Laurel Run at midnight tomorrow.”
Henry had the uncomfortable feeling he’d struck a deal with the devil, but he shook it off and went on into the house.
Henry woke the next morning to find a fine dusting of snow over the greening grass. When his grandmother referred to it as “poor man’s fertilizer” he thought to get the tractor out and plow the garden.
“That’ll be fine. I’ll get Perla to take me to the hospital. You just stay home and be a farmer today.”
Henry smiled. He couldn’t think of anything he’d like better than riding the tractor up and down the garden rows, the sun warm on his back, getting the soil ready for spring planting. He felt like winter might really be over, like his life might finally be coming together, and like all of his problems had a solution.
When Grandma came home that evening with the news that Mayfair had spoken a few words and seemed to be getting some of her dexterity back, he felt that God really was smiling on him. He remembered telling Margaret he’d pray for her and Mayfair, so he whispered a quick word of thanks and felt even better abou
t himself.
Grandma turned in early that evening, which suited Henry just fine. He hoped she wouldn’t even know he was gone overnight. He’d left the truck on the crest of the hill that ran down to Laurel Run. He figured he could put it in gear and coast a good way before starting it up. He was at the bridge ten minutes before midnight feeling pretty invincible.
Charlie rumbled up in the Barracuda. “Good. Give me a hand.” He pointed to the bridge in the moonlight.
Turned out the moonshine was stashed underneath. Henry helped load, wondering what made this run so valuable and why they didn’t load up at Clint’s house. He started to ask the question but knew from experience this wasn’t the sort of enterprise where folks appreciated questions. He clamped his mouth shut and finished loading.
They made it to Jack’s backwoods bar without incident, unloaded, and then Henry figured they’d head back to Clint’s or the bridge for the second load.
“Hold on.” Charlie laid a hand on Henry’s arm. “Second load’s here.”
Now Henry was really confused. Why would they deliver liquor and then take more away? Charlie pointed at some crates. There were only a few, and they didn’t weigh nearly enough. Henry was getting a bad feeling, but he knew better than to cause a stir. Jack looked grim and Charlie surely wasn’t offering any additional information. Henry noticed there was a shotgun in the backseat of the car that he hadn’t seen before. His earlier feeling of well-being was long gone.
“You drive,” Charlie said, tossing the keys. “I ain’t been to the church before.”
“Same stone?” Henry asked.
“Yup. Bert Williams or something like that.”
Williamson, thought Henry, but he didn’t correct Charlie.
They drove in silence, Charlie tapping his fingers on the armrest and Henry trying to puzzle out what he’d gotten himself into. He thought about Raymond Sawyer, the preacher at the Baptist church. What was the Scripture he pointed out? Oh, yeah. Esau scorning his birthright. He’d looked it up later and read the whole story, and now it came back to him. Esau had been so worried about filling his belly that he gave up his rights as eldest son. Henry wondered what his rights and duties were as his father’s only son. To inherit and run the farm? To take care of his sister, mother, and grandmother? To be the spiritual leader of the family?
Until the Harvest Page 20
