Until the Harvest (11 page)

“What if that deputy’s up ahead?”

“Guess you’ll have to outrun him again,” Charlie said.

Henry didn’t ease his grip on the wheel until they pulled into the barn in Blanding where Jack Barnett stored the bootleg liquor he sold out the back door of a rundown dive. Jack himself walked over and knocked on Henry’s window with one knuckle. Henry rolled the window down.

“I wasn’t sure you boys would make it through. I hear the sheriff’s been patrolling every road between here and Wise on the lookout for certain folks known to make questionable deliveries out here.”

Charlie opened his door and pulled himself up so he could lean against the car while favoring his bad leg. “Henry, here, outran that fool deputy. Lost him on Prentice Road.”

Jack whistled. “Guess this car is as tough as it looks.” He glanced at Henry. “And you must be a whole lot tougher than you look.”

Henry shoved his door open, forcing Jack to step back, and then walked around the car and unlocked the trunk. Jugs of moonshine nestled there.

“You want these? Or should I take ’em on back to Clint?”

Jack laughed and slapped his leg. “Son, you take those back and your hide won’t be worth a plugged nickel.” He moved to the rear of the car and grabbed a jug in each hand. “Good show, though.”

Henry started grabbing jugs and handing them off to Jack. All he wanted to do was get the car back to Clint and go home.

“You boys got the other, ah, merchandise?” Jack asked.

“You know it,” Charlie said, dragging the sack out of the backseat.

Jack rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking. Hey, I’m headed over to the bar after this. First one’s on the house.”

“Shoot fire, we ain’t going to pass that up,” Charlie said. “We aim to play a little, too.”

Henry had no desire for a drink, but didn’t see a way out of it. And it might be better to let some time pass before heading back the direction they’d just come. “Sure, whatever,” he said.

Jack slapped him on the back. “Try not to get too excited, son. Might even be some girls out there this evening.”

Girls, thought Henry. Well now, that might not be a bad thing.

Margaret put a plate of scrambled eggs with toast in front of her mother and added some coffee to the china cup she always used. Lenore made a face and nudged the plate away.

“I don’t see how I could possibly eat anything this morning.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Without opening her eyes she told Margaret to add some sugar to her coffee, then picked up the toast and nibbled one edge. “Your father and I have come to a decision.”

Margaret stiffened. Her father had left the driveway of their cookie-cutter, two-story an hour earlier without mentioning anything. But then, he probably wouldn’t.

“Oh?” She tried to sound noncommittal.

“Yes, it’s simply ridiculous that you hire yourself out to do the common work of a maid. You should either be going to school or seriously considering marriage.” Lenore’s eyes were open now, and Margaret could see how bloodshot they were. “And since marriage doesn’t seem likely at this point—especially with your complexion—you have a choice. Quit working for
that Phillips woman and start courses at the community college, or find your own living situation.”

Margaret stood as though turned to stone. She thought of the woman who turned into a pillar of salt in the Bible. What did she do? Look back at something terrible? Maybe something as terrible as her mother.

“But what about Mayfair?”

Lenore made a face as though her coffee were too bitter. “You’ve been babying her long enough. It’s time she learned to stand on her own. With you at school I’ll be able to give her my full attention.”

“Have you told her?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to my daughter.” She placed both hands on the table and pushed to stand. She leaned there a moment, as though finding her equilibrium. “To either of my daughters. I’ll expect your answer by the end of the week.” She took her coffee cup and toast, leaving the room and her dirty plate behind.

Henry woke with a throbbing head and a mouth that felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He rolled over and realized he was lying in a pile of hay. It had crept under his collar and his neck itched something fierce. He scratched, but it only made things worse.

Moaning softly, he tried to sit up, though his head clearly weighed about twenty pounds. He opened his eyes as though he was afraid of what he might see. And once he got them open he did experience something between fear and dismay.

Sunlight filtered in through cracks in the walls of Jack Barnett’s barn. It would have been pretty if it hadn’t been shining on the Barracuda sitting in the middle of the barn with long scratches down the sides. Leaves were stuck under one
windshield wiper, and mud spattered the car from front to back. Probably hiding more scratches.

Henry groaned and rubbed his temples. The noise he made must have been louder than he realized because there was an answering sound. Not a groan or a moan, more of a sigh—a distinctly feminine sigh. He turned slowly to his left and saw a woman nestled in the hay with a wool blanket pulled up around her. She shifted and stretched and opened her eyes. When she saw Henry, a slow smile spread across her face.

“Morning, lover.”

Henry felt rooted to the spot. He remembered drinking too much and playing his fiddle like a man possessed. He remembered girls without near enough on for the late January weather. He remembered dancing—not something he’d ever thought he was any good at, but last night . . . Oh no. He remembered singing along with “My Eyes Adored You” while clinging to the woman in the hay beside him.

“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

C
HILD
,
WHAT
IS
GNAWING
AT
YOU
?”

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