Until the Harvest (18 page)

Apparently Bert had been known for his moonshine when he was still living, and some of his kin, who kept up his business for a time, felt it was appropriate to honor him by giving him a hollow marker. A section at the top lifted away, and several gallons of liquor could be stored inside. The Williamsons had given up running moonshine a decade or so ago, but they still facilitated its delivery. And Charlie had arranged for the Simmons family to be the county’s new supplier. Henry found that a bit odd. Seemed most moonshiners were running out of business, not finding new customers. And Charlie had never struck him as much of an entrepreneur. Oh, well, it meant money in his pocket, and that was the main thing.

Henry got out of the truck and stumbled over a footstone. He muffled a mild curse. He didn’t think anyone was around, but making a lot of noise didn’t seem like a good idea. He planned to find the stone and then go back to the truck for the liquor. Being in a cemetery after sunset made him feel funny. He wasn’t afraid. It just felt like a place he wasn’t meant to be.
He stood and scanned the markers. There, one stuck up well above the others. That had to be it.

He wound his way over to the stone and found the removable section. Easy. He hurried back to the truck. Best to get this over with and head home. He was steps away from the stash of moonshine when someone said, “Howdy.”

Henry yelped and grabbed at his chest.

“Oh, hey there, didn’t mean to scare you,” the voice continued.

A man stepped away from the front of the church, and Henry could finally see him against the dimming sky.

“You gave me a start,” he said.

“Guess you didn’t expect anyone to be here this time of day.”

Henry could feel the tension stretching his shoulders tight. Who was this guy? And what was he doing out here? Could he be Clint’s new customer? Sweat popped out under his arms, even though it was cold.

“This is my church,” the man said, nodding toward the building. “I like to come out here of an evening sometimes. Spend a little time with God.”

“Oh yeah. That’s good.” Henry waited for the man to ask what he was doing there.

“It is good. Jesus knew how important it was to spend time alone with His father. I think folks tend to overlook how important one-on-one time with God is.” He stepped forward and stuck out a hand. “Raymond Sawyer. Call me Ray. I’m the pastor here.”

Henry took the man’s hand in the dark of the cemetery and was surprised at how warm it felt. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise. You in a hurry?”

“No, I guess not,” Henry said. His head told him to get out of there as fast as he could, but there was something about this man that appealed to him, maybe even reminded him of Dad. He wanted to keep talking.

“Come on inside. I want to show you something.”

Henry followed Ray through the front door of the church. It was only a little warmer inside and smelled kind of musty with a hint of lemon furniture polish. Ray flicked on a light above the podium up front. The church was pretty simple—some rows of pews, a dais with the podium, and some chairs to one side that looked like they might be for a choir. A bare wooden cross hung on the wall above the dais. The single light caused it to cast dramatic shadows. Henry felt an urge to cross himself like he’d seen a Catholic buddy do at college.

Ray led the way up to the podium, where an immense Bible lay. He flipped to the front cover and then turned a few of the parchment pages until he came to some handwritten entries.

“Here you go—everyone who’s been married, born, or died in this church since 1798.”

Henry stepped up and began to turn the pages. The names went on and on. Babies being born, people getting married, old folks—sometimes not so old—dying. It was impressive. Sometimes the script was fancy; sometimes it was a barely legible scrawl. An entire community, a whole other world recorded at his fingertips. He stepped back and looked at Ray.

“It’s great, but why show me?”

“You were out there in the cemetery. I figure you were looking for family. Searching for your history or some such.”

“Uh, yeah. It’s getting pretty dark, though. Guess I’ll have to come back another time.” Henry glanced at the book, looking for a name to throw out if Ray asked whose history he was after.

“Of course, there’s a whole lot of history in here that goes even further back. Maybe goes back so far that you and me are kin.”

Henry tried to hide his confusion. What was this guy talking about?

Ray flipped forward in the Bible and then brightened, like
he’d found an unexpected surprise. “Like this here,” he said. “Sometimes the good Lord whispers in my ear, and right now He says what you’re looking for is more likely here than out there.” He tapped the open book, then nodded toward the cemetery.

Henry wanted to walk out and be done with this crazy pastor, but he couldn’t resist looking where the man’s finger pointed. It was Genesis 25:34. He read the verse out loud. “Then Jacob gave Esau bread and pottage of lentils: and he did eat and drink, and rose up, and went his way: thus Esau despised his birthright.”

He knit his brow and looked at Ray. “What’s that mean?”

Ray shrugged. “It means ole Esau there thought his stomach mattered more than where he came from and where he was going. Come on back Sunday, and maybe I’ll have a sermon on it. Now, I’d best be getting on home, and probably the same goes for you.”

“Yeah, guess I’d better.”

The two men walked out and Ray set off whistling down the road. Henry hopped in his truck and drove over a ridge out of sight. He sat there for fifteen minutes, then circled back and stashed the liquor inside the Williamson stone in the cemetery. One of the jugs seemed significantly lighter than the rest and Henry was tempted to check it out, but he was in too much of a hurry. He wanted nothing more than to get on home, wanted nothing more than to forget the crazy preacher who spoke in riddles.

“Frank and Angie have decided to tie the knot right there in the parlor of her house on Valentine’s Day.” Emily handed Margaret another stack of towels as she cleaned out the linen closet, sorting, organizing, and deciding what needed to be thrown away. “I guess we’ll need enough food to feed fifty or so.
It won’t be a big do, but there are quite a few folks who want to wish them well.”

Margaret smiled. Now that she’d gotten used to the idea, she was kind of excited about the wedding and the reception to follow. It would be nice to celebrate something, and goodness knows, she wouldn’t be celebrating Valentine’s Day otherwise. She even had a dress picked out to wear. Her mother had insisted on buying it last spring, even though Margaret thought it was too fancy. She’d brought it out to the little house on a whim, and now she was glad.

“If Henry’s the best man, who’ll be the bridesmaid?” Margaret pictured one of the older ladies of the community in some flouncy chiffon number and had to grin.

“I think she asked Perla.”

Now
that
Margaret could picture. Perla might not be exactly young, but she was a beautiful woman with her still mostly blond hair and petite frame. Margaret considered her own figure. Big-boned, her mother said, as if that sounded any better. One of her girlfriends in school said she was just curvy, but when someone like Twiggy was the benchmark, it was hard to be curvy. She sighed and sorted through her stack of towels, setting the worn ones aside.

“These would make a nice rag rug for the bathroom,” she said to the back of Emily’s head, where she was rooting in the bottom of the closet.

Emily looked over her shoulder. “That’s a wonderful idea. That can be our next project once the wedding is done.” She dusted her hands and stood. “Now, I’ll let you organize the nicer things while I go find the recipes I want to use. You have a better head for organization than I do.”

Margaret began tucking towels, sheets, and other household items back into the closet. Fantastic. She wasn’t thin or pretty or popular, but she had a head for organization. What man wouldn’t want to snap her up?

Henry tried to stand still while his mother hemmed a pair of suit pants that belonged to his father. Initially, he balked at the idea of wearing Dad’s suit, but then he thought about how his father was Frank’s first choice for a best man, and the idea began to grow on him. It was like his father would be there in a way.

“Think I should throw Frank a bachelor’s party?”

His mom removed some pins from her mouth and looked up. “I know this wedding is a bit out of the ordinary, but I don’t see any reason to make fun of Frank.”

Henry bristled. “I’m not making fun. He’s pretty sharp. He might like to go out. I sure know some places I could take him.”

Mom bowed her head, inserted one more pin, then stood and fisted her hands on her hips. “There. Take those off and stop talking nonsense. I hate to think of you knowing about such places.”

“How do you know what kind of places I’m talking about? Might be I was going to take him to a church dinner.” Henry stripped down to his shorts and shoved the pants at his mother. “You always want to think the worst.”

“You’ve given me cause to think the worst of late. The sheriff stopped by again. He seems to think you might be doing some questionable work for that Simmons clan.”

“What did Pendleton say?” Henry thought he’d feel tougher if he were wearing pants.

“Sheriff Pendleton, if you please. Show some respect. He was just checking up on you. He and your father were friends, and he’s concerned that you’re falling in with the wrong crowd.” She folded the pants in her hands. “As am I.”

“No one needs to check up on me, and why is it that all of a sudden everyone knows what Dad would have wanted? He should have stuck around and let me know himself.”

Henry saw his mother’s face fall and wished he could snatch his words out of the air. Knowing he couldn’t, his instinct was to storm out and pretend he hadn’t behaved like a child throwing a tantrum. Instead, he flexed his fingers and reached out to lay a hand on his mother’s arm.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes I feel . . .” Tears clogged his throat, and he cleared it. “I feel like he left me, left us, I guess. And it makes me mad.”

Mom stepped closer and slipped an arm around his waist. “I know. Sometimes I feel the same way, that it was selfish of him to up and die. He should have loved me more than heaven.” She smiled and a tear trickled down to fall on the pants she held. “But one of the things that made your father such a wonderful man was that he didn’t love anyone or anything more than he loved God. He’s probably having a good laugh over something with Jesus right now.” She squeezed Henry. “And picturing that helps me let go. Maybe you need to find a way to let go, too.”

Henry nodded, squeezed his mom back, and headed for his room, where he dressed before walking out to Dad’s workshop. The stool he’d damaged the day of the funeral still sat on the bench, a layer of dust coating it. He ran a hand over the marred surface, then grabbed a hammer and knocked it to pieces. He shoved the bits of wood into the stove, found some old newspaper, shoved that in, and struck a match.

As the flames began to lick the pieces of wood, he felt a moment of satisfaction. He was taking charge, taking over, letting go, like his mother suggested. But as a leg began to blacken, regret pierced him, and he grabbed a dowel off the workbench to try to fish the leg out. He finally snagged it and flipped it onto the floor. Then he stomped on it until the embers died. Breathing heavily, he stooped to pick up the leg and yelped when it was still hot enough to burn him. He juggled it onto the workbench.

Henry stood looking at the stick of wood charred on one end. Why did he do that? Why did he do anything? Suggesting a bachelor’s party for a ninety-year-old and destroying his dad’s handiwork? He felt like there was something buried deep inside that was worming its way out. He was a little bit afraid of what it might be.

The hammer and chisel Henry used sat on the workbench. He picked them up, found a soft rag, and wiped them down. He returned them to their places and then began dusting the workbench and taking stock of what supplies were on hand. He found a pretty piece of birds-eye maple and turned it over and over in his hands. Dad was probably saving this for something special. Maybe he’d make a new stool out of it. Maybe he’d use the charred leg and rebuild something—a wedding gift. He ran a hand over his father’s tools and began to work.