Until the Harvest (10 page)

Margaret climbed the stairs to her bedroom, assuming that’s where Mayfair must be. She hoped the day hadn’t been too awful. She was eager to tell her all about Bertie. The door of their room stood ajar, but the lights were out. Margaret moved to her bedside table and clicked on the lamp. She jumped when she saw Mayfair squinting and blinking at her from the far side of the bed. She was jammed in the corner where the bed met the wall, her knees pulled up under her chin, and her cheeks streaked from crying.

The urge to scoop her sister into her arms was almost more than Margaret could bear, but she knew it would be overwhelming, so she sat on the bed and placed one hand on her sister’s knee.

“Tough day?”

Mayfair nodded and heaved a stilted sigh. “I don’t think Mommy is very happy with me.”

Margaret bit her tongue against ugly words. “There’s a lot in this world Mom isn’t happy with. You can’t let that worry you.”

“But she could be happy.” Mayfair spoke like it was the simplest thing.

“Maybe. Maybe she doesn’t want to be.”

Mayfair sat up and grabbed Margaret’s hand. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Why would someone want to be unhappy?”

Margaret squeezed her sister’s hand. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier. Maybe happiness seems like something that could
disappear at any moment. Maybe it seems safer to say no to happiness than to have happiness say no to you.”

She released Mayfair’s hand and moved to her dresser. She began to brush her hair with vigorous strokes. One hundred times each night. If she kept it up, maybe her hair would get smoother, fuller, more lustrous. That’s what her mother said she needed to do. She figured it was worth a shot. Maybe then boys would give her and her freckles a second look. Maybe then one boy in particular . . . she stopped and hung her head.

Mayfair reached for the brush and began to run it through Margaret’s hair, slow and easy. Margaret felt frustration she didn’t even realize she carried slide away. The rhythm of the brush across her scalp soothed her and sent tingles over her skin. Almost like Henry’s touch had. She let herself remember how his hand felt over hers.

After a few moments, Margaret took the brush and invited Mayfair to sit on the bench. Mayfair not only didn’t mind having her hair brushed, she seemed to really enjoy it. The younger girl smiled and slid onto the seat. Margaret ran the brush through the silken strands. Mayfair’s hair wasn’t just pretty, it never seemed to tangle.

“Shall I braid it?”

“Yes, please.”

Margaret parted her sister’s hair and wove braids over each ear. She tied them off with pink ribbons.

“There, now wash your face, get into your pajamas, and we’ll read out loud until time for bed.”

Mayfair stood, the sorrow Margaret had seen when she turned on the light dissipated now. Her sister smiled, grabbed Margaret in the briefest hug, and tiptoed down the stairs to the bathroom.

Yes, thought Margaret, watching her go, best not to wake Mother.

8

H
ENRY
HADN
’
T
MEANT
TO
END
UP
at the Simmonses’ place again this evening. Sadie called from Ohio, and after she talked to Mom, she asked for him and lectured him about going back to school and not shaming their father. He felt heat rise in him just remembering. She’d always been kind of bossy, and while he’d mostly ignored her when it suited him, today she’d gotten under his skin. Dad hadn’t even been her real father. He felt guilty as soon as that thought crossed his mind. He grabbed his fiddle and got into the truck, meaning to drive around but found his way to the Simmonses almost without thinking.

Charlie was still supposed to be laid up, but someone had made him a crutch, and he was hobbling around the house, dropping ashes from his cigarette. Henry remembered being in school with him before he dropped out. Seems like he’d been really good in science. Henry started to ask him about it and then thought better.

“You did a fine job there the other night,” Clint said. “I heard the sheriff pulled you over and you talked your way out of it.”

Henry puffed his chest out. “Yup. Wasn’t nothin’ to it.”

“Reckon you could do it again? I hear the sheriff’s been watching that stretch of road regular.”

Henry felt a tingle of warning, but there was no way he could back down in front of these guys. He decided to hedge his bets. “Might be hard to slip through there again this soon. Sheriff might wonder why I was headed out that way again.”

“What if you was in a different car?”

Henry’s eyebrows rose. “All I have is the truck.”

“Might let you drive the Barracuda if you think you’ve got the guts for it.”

Henry swallowed hard and tried to think. The only thing that might be worse than getting caught with Simmonses’ moonshine would be doing damage to Clint’s 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. He shrugged. “That might work. Wouldn’t want to risk your car, though.”

“Charlie’ll ride along. He can’t drive, but he can keep an eye on you.” Clint pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a silver Zippo. He clicked the lighter shut. “I reckon you know enough to make sure nothing happens to the car or the ’shine.”

Henry swallowed and nodded once. He wondered if Clint would care if anything happened to Charlie. He sure as heck didn’t care if anything happened to him.

“I’m even thinking to give you a raise in spite of your not providing your own transportation. Guess you could say it’s one of those perks of employment.” Clint smiled, as though he liked the sound of that. “I’m gonna give you a hundred fifty if you get back here with the car and my boy all in one piece. How long you reckon it’d take you to make that much using your college education?” He pronounced the last word “ed-u-kay-shun.”

Henry didn’t think Clint expected an answer, but he pondered the question, anyway. Farming cost money before you ever made anything at it. Of course, if he started out working for his grandmother and gradually took things over . . . He shook his head. Nope, this was easy money. He was in.

“You got the keys?” he asked Clint.

“Whoa there. Harold’s loading the car. Remember, the back will ride low with all that liquor in there. Take ’er easy over the rough spots.”

Henry wanted to roll his eyes. He’d take her however he could get her.

“Come on in here and eat a bite while you wait. Tough to run ’shine on an empty stomach.”

Henry followed the older man into the kitchen, where a woman in a stained housedress stood at the stove. He pictured his own mother in her spotless slacks and blouse. She typically wore an apron in the kitchen, but Clint’s woman wiped her hands on her skirt.

“You ’bout ready over there, woman?”

“Hang on. I’m taking the last of it out of the skillet now.”

Henry wondered if she was the only one who got away with talking back to Clint. He wanted to ask her name and if she was Clint’s wife and mother to Harold and Charlie, but he didn’t think conversation—or curiosity—would be welcome.

She slid a platter piled high with fried meat and boiled potatoes onto the table, then opened a bag of Wonder Bread and set it down next to the platter. Clint gestured toward the table where Charlie was already seated and heaping his plate.

“Sit. Eat. You’ve got work to do.”

Henry took a seat, and the woman plopped a mostly clean plate down in front of him, along with a fork. He figured he’d better eat or else he’d offend Clint and maybe his woman, too. Henry eyed her as she stirred something in the skillet—gravy, he guessed. Then again, maybe she didn’t care. She looked kind of pale and gaunt, sickly. If she was, he hoped it wasn’t catching. He stuck his fork in a piece of meat, since there didn’t seem to be any serving utensils. After adding a couple of potatoes and a slice of bread, the woman offered him a bowl of gravy, along with a weary smile.

Henry added gravy and took a bite. Squirrel. Well, he’d eaten most every squirrel he ever shot, and this wasn’t half bad. A little tough. Probably Clint’s woman didn’t parboil her squirrel like Grandma did. But still it was tasty. He finished what was on his plate and hoped that would satisfy his host.

“Got your fill?” Clint spoke as Harold banged open the back door.

“Aw, did you save me any?” he whined.

“Son, I ain’t left you to starve yet. Your ma made aplenty. Now sit down and shut up.”

Harold grabbed a squirrel leg and was eating before his rear hit the chair. Henry figured manners weren’t a priority for the Simmons clan.

Clint turned his attention back to Henry as he fished a key out of his pocket. He dangled it in front of Henry but didn’t offer it to him. “Boy, you sure you don’t want to back out?”

Henry could see a glimmer in the old man’s eyes that he didn’t like. Might be Clint would like it if he chickened out. Might be there were worse things than risking his life and freedom to deliver some moonshine.

“My dad raised me to do what I say.” He grabbed the key. “And so I will.”

Clint laughed and tilted his chair back on two legs. “Well, then get to it.”

Charlie jammed his crutch in the back along with his guitar and flopped into the passenger seat. “Bring your fiddle?”

“It’s in the truck.”

“Get it. There’s some decent pickers out there at Jack’s place, and it’ll give us an excuse if the sheriff gets aholt of us.”

Henry grabbed his fiddle and slid in behind the wheel. The
engine started with a low rumble that stirred Henry’s blood. This was a fine piece of machinery.

“We’re gonna make a quick stop along the way,” Charlie said. “Pa thinks you can still make a living running moonshine, but the real money’s not in liquor anymore.”

Henry glanced at his friend, at least he wanted to think of Charlie as his friend. He didn’t feel good about this extra stop, but he pushed down any misgivings, put the car into gear, and eased out onto the dirt road. He was itching to see what the car could do but knew better than to push it while Clint was watching. Once he hit the paved road, he slanted a look at his passenger. “Want to see what she’s got?”

Charlie grinned. “Open her up.”

Henry did. He didn’t see the deputy’s car tucked into a side road until after they shot past it. But just that glimpse made everything in him go tight, and he sent up an almost involuntary prayer that the deputy would let them go. His prayer went unanswered.

The flash of red and blue lights filled Henry’s vision. He pressed the accelerator and shifted, pushing the car along the pavement, squealing the tires in the curves. The black and white kept coming, but there was no siren. Henry almost wished the deputy would make some noise; the silence seemed to press against his skull. He had a vague impression of Charlie bracing himself against the door and grinning like a crazy man, but he didn’t have time to look.

Henry knew there was a side road up ahead that curved through property owned by the Prentices. It had been the main thoroughfare once upon a time, but when the county paved the roads, they straightened them out, and what was generally known as Prentice Road had been abandoned. It was probably grown over by now, but Henry had to get shut of the police car behind him.

“Hang on,” he said and opened the Barracuda up as far as he dared.

Charlie gave a Rebel yell, and Henry was grateful to finally have the silence shattered. He downshifted into a turn, and when he whirled out of it braked just enough to take Prentice Road way faster than could be good for either him or the car. Charlie hollered, this time most likely because the rough ride was hard on his leg.

Henry kept the car flying over the rutted, overgrown excuse for a road. He could hear branches scraping down the sides and wondered which would be worse, getting arrested and losing Clint’s load of moonshine or wrecking his car.

The road suddenly opened up into pasture on either side and Henry eased the car to a stop. He was panting, though why driving should wind him he didn’t know. Charlie held his injured leg and grimaced but didn’t speak.

The purr of the idling motor seemed overloud to Henry, but he didn’t hear anything else. There was no sign of an approaching car, no flash of lights. He realized his hands were shaking, and he gripped the steering wheel so Charlie wouldn’t notice.

“Reckon you outrun him,” Charlie said. “It was a doozy of a ride, but it shore did bang my leg around.”

“Sorry about that. How mad is your pa gonna be about the scratches?”

“Aw, maybe it ain’t too bad. We’ll look it over good once we get to Blanding.” He pointed at a dilapidated barn just up ahead among some overgrown trees. “And ain’t you the lucky one, anyway. You headed straight for the spot we needed to stop. Pull on up there and see if there ain’t a sack under that old drum behind the house.”

Henry nodded and eased the car down the dirt track, stopping to check under the rusted drum. Sure enough, there was a
sack of something under there. He started to look inside, but Charlie hollered at him, and he decided he might be better off not knowing. When they finally eased back out onto pavement, Henry felt like a chicken in the middle of a wide open field with a hawk circling somewhere above.