Until the Harvest (17 page)

Henry woke on the sofa in his mother’s house. He smelled bacon and felt hunger rise up in him. His mother had never cooked all that much, often leaving it to Dad. It kind of embarrassed him when he was younger. Most of his friends’ mothers did all the cooking, but it was just the way it was, and he hadn’t thought about it in a long time. He guessed his mother had no choice but to do the cooking now.

The memory of the accident in the tree stand came over him slowly. He still didn’t feel all that certain about the extent of
his injuries. He looked at his hand. There were cuts and marks there, but they didn’t look fresh, and they hardly hurt at all. How long had he been sleeping?

He remembered Mayfair touching his face and how the burning, aching fire smoldering there eased. He remembered how Margaret almost reached out to touch him—like she wanted to, but something held her back. Probably his fault. He needed to be nicer to her. He was actually beginning to look forward to seeing her.

And then he remembered praying. He surely hadn’t prayed much lately. He couldn’t remember what he said, exactly, but he knew he closed his eyes and asked for something. Maybe help. Maybe healing. Maybe relief. Or had he just been wishing? Sometimes he didn’t really know the difference.

He stood like an old man, expecting everything to hurt, only nothing did. He flexed his injured hand and decided there really wasn’t any serious damage there. He walked around the corner to the bathroom and leaned on the sink to examine his face in the mirror. The blood on his shirt was dried and stiff. He examined the left side of his face. It looked like he’d had some bad acne and maybe walked through a briar patch. But again, the cuts were closed over and well on their way to healed. He fingered the long cut along his jaw—still tender. That was the one so like his dad’s.

“Henry?” Mom’s voice came from the living room, and then her head popped around the doorframe. “Oh, there you are. How are you feeling?”

“Pretty good,” he said. “I thought I was hurt worse than this. Guess fear will do that to you, make you think you’re hurt bad when you’re just roughed up a little.”

Mom opened her mouth and then closed it again as if she was going to say something but changed her mind. “You were sleeping so soundly I hated to bother you last night. I’m just
glad you seem better this morning. Breakfast’s about ready if you feel up to it.”

His stomach rumbled as though in answer. “I guess I am,” he said with a laugh. “Just let me wash up.”

Mom headed back to the kitchen, and Henry ran the water until it got warm. He wet his hands and splashed water on his face. The cuts tingled a little, as though the water were antiseptic. He soaped up and rinsed off, patting his face and hands dry. He winced a little at the cut on his jaw, but nothing else hurt more than a little. He sure was lucky. And hungry. He tucked the towel back over the rod and went to the table.

“Frank and Angie have set the date.”

Emily was practically dancing when Margaret and Mayfair came in Sunday morning. They were all going to Emily’s church together. Margaret was kind of looking forward to it after too many Sundays in the big fancy church her mother felt suited their “station in life.” The idea of a small country church appealed to her immensely.

“When?” she asked, trying not to think it had better be quick before one of them keeled over.

“Valentine’s Day. Isn’t that romantic? Frank says it’ll save him remembering their anniversary, but I think he’s a romantic deep down.” Emily slipped her feet with their sensible pumps into overshoes as she talked. “Perla is going to make the cake, and you and I are going to do little finger sandwiches and mints and canapés, and I don’t know what all. You can help me decide.”

Margaret grinned in spite of herself. She wasn’t sure how she’d been roped into catering a wedding, but she didn’t mind. It might even be fun. If she wasn’t going to fall in love and get married, she could at least help take care of those who did.

Mayfair climbed into the back of the Volkswagen, and the
three of them drove to church, where Emily knew everyone. She introduced Margaret and Mayfair but seemed to sense that neither girl was entirely comfortable meeting new people and eventually left them with Cathy Stott. Cathy was eager to tell them how her son Travis had become a doctor and had gone in with another man in a practice up near Wheeling. Margaret was glad not to have to make conversation much beyond nodding her head, but she could see where Cathy might wear someone out.

Soon enough the service started, and Margaret found herself enjoying the hymns and the enthusiasm with which the congregation sang them. As the last strains of “In the Garden” faded, the pastor rose and, without any preamble, launched into the Scripture reading.

“Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.
”

Margaret realized she was holding her breath. She loved the Psalms with their poetry. Somehow they spoke to her more than any story in Genesis or even the stories about Jesus ever had. She was glad the pastor opened today with pure poetry.

“
If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.
”

Pastor Johnston stopped and looked out over the congregation as though giving them time to absorb what he’d said. Margaret thought about the moonlight shining the other night. It hadn’t been light exactly, but not dark either. She imagined God seeing dark times like that, outlined in silver, because the
darkness was light to Him. She squeezed her hands in her lap and waited for more. Would there be more?

“For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well
.”

The pastor asked them to bow their heads and he prayed, but Margaret didn’t hear what he said. She was thinking of those last words. They sounded like Shakespeare could have written them, but no, here they were in the Bible.
Fearfully and wonderfully made
. Who was? The one who wrote the poem? Or everyone? Surely not her. She had seen herself. She knew herself, and she was a long way from wonderfully made.

The prayer ended and Pastor Johnston began his sermon. It was about how God knew them all, deeply and personally. Knew them better than they knew themselves, and He loved them anyway. Not because they were wonderful, but because they were His and He knew the potential that lay in each and every heart. The pastor claimed that what God wanted from them was that they live up to that potential. Even in small ways.

Margaret shook her head. She doubted she had much potential, she doubted God had planned much for her, but she realized that she wanted to live up to whatever small thing He intended. She promised herself that she would figure out what it was. Taking care of Mayfair, helping Emily, learning to farm, whatever it was, she was going to give it her all. Margaret felt lighter as the service ended. For the first time in a very long time she felt like she might have some purpose, like God might—eventually—come to be pleased with her, even if her mother never was. She smiled. And it felt good.

14

H
ENRY
GRABBED
THE
PHONE
on the second ring. Clint’s drawl wasn’t the most welcome sound. Henry had begun to have second thoughts about his chosen method for providing for his family but doubted Clint would care.

“Boy, ain’t seen you around lately. You been avoiding me? Or maybe you’re still laid up from your carelessness.”

Henry ran his fingertips over the scar on his chin. More than a week after the accident he was nearly as good as new with only a few fading marks. Except for this scar—that one seemed like it would stay after all. “I’ve been busy,” he said.

“I need you to make a run for me tonight. Got a new buyer, so this one oughta be easy. Sheriff won’t be lying in wait for you.”

“Guess I thought Charlie would be up and about by now. Maybe you don’t need me anymore.” Even the hint of disagreeing with Clint made Henry’s palms sweat.

“Charlie’s doing the run to Jack’s place. You’ll be solo this time. You be here at six.” Clint hung up, and Henry guessed he’d better go.

Over the past week, he’d been hanging around the house, helping his mom pack up some of his dad’s stuff, and he’d been at his grandmother’s a good bit, doing the milking, helping
Margaret fix up her house, and not saying much. He liked that no one seemed to expect too much of him—maybe because of his injury. They accepted whatever he was willing to do and mostly left him alone. Well, except Margaret. She got kind of bossy sometimes, but he didn’t mind that as much as he used to. Somehow he thought Clint would be more demanding.

Maybe what he needed was someone who expected something of him. He took a shower and put on decent clothes. Maybe Clint would send him someplace interesting, with music and girls. He’d take his fiddle, but this time he wouldn’t drink. If he was going to get tangled up with anyone, he wanted it to be a conscious decision. He’d be making good money, regardless. Especially since Charlie wouldn’t be along to mess things up. Maybe this was a blessing. The cut on his jaw tingled, and he rubbed it. Yeah, a blessing.

As soon as Clint saw Henry, he began giving him a hard time about his nearly healed wounds.

“You using some kind of miracle salve?” he asked, grabbing Henry’s hand and turning it over to examine the new pink skin. Then he grabbed Henry’s chin, and Henry jerked away.

“Just healed fast. That’s all.”

Clint looked at him sideways. “Maybe. And maybe you had some special doctoring. I hear that youngest Hoffman girl might be some kind of healer.”

Henry felt a bolt of fear run through him. He’d just as soon Clint didn’t know Mayfair existed.

“Way I hear it, she set Angie Talbot’s mind to rights. Ain’t no medicine can do that.”

“That’s pure gossip,” Henry scoffed. He knew Clint’s woman went to see the Talbots from time to time, and anyway, Wise was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

“Maybe. ’Course seems like gossip almost always has a seed of truth buried in there somewhere.” He peered at Henry’s face again. “Might be that girl could do my old woman some good. She’s got the female complaint.”

“I don’t see how she could help.” Henry wanted more than anything to steer the conversation in another direction. “How about this run you want me to make? Time’s a wastin’.”

“In a hurry, are ya? Well, this one should be easy.”

The new run turned out to be a simple drop-off. In a cemetery—no music, no girls—just an envelope of cash hidden in a tombstone. Clint gave him directions to an old graveyard adjacent to a Baptist church up north. It was dark when Henry arrived. A poor excuse for a moon lit his way. He was supposed to find a large stone that stood a good four feet tall with the name Bert Williamson inscribed on it.