Until the Harvest (2 page)

“I’ve already called Al Tomlyn. He’ll send someone shortly. I knew I should wake you, but I didn’t know . . .” She glanced down at her tightly cinched robe. “I’d better put some clothes on.” She shot a look at the bedroom door, and her face crumpled.

“Mom, what’s going on?” His stomach churned, and it felt like his heart was trying to keep up with his speeding thoughts. “Why did you call the funeral home? Who died?” As the last word fell from his lips, the earlier feeling of disorientation closed over Henry like jumping into the swimming hole on a hot day. And he thought he might drown.

Turning toward the door to his parents’ room, Henry took a tentative step. His mother grabbed his arm. “I can’t go in there,” she said.

“Can I?” Henry wasn’t sure if he was asking his mother or himself. He took another step, and Mom released his arm. She tightened the belt to her robe, as though tying a tourniquet to stop—what? The pain?

Henry pushed open the bedroom door. His father lay in the bed, blankets tucked beneath his arms, hands folded neatly on his chest. For a moment, Henry breathed again, and then the wrongness of the scene penetrated his thick brain. His father would never sleep like that. Dad would never stay in bed past six in the morning. Henry glanced at the clock on the bedside table, and his shoulders sagged when he saw it was twenty after six. As if everything would be all right if it were only five fifty-five.

“Dad?” Henry’s voice squeaked. He cleared his throat. “Dad, time to get up.” He moved the last few feet to the bed and gently shook his father’s shoulder. The icy dread that roiled his stomach earlier gripped his heart. He laid two fingers on his father’s throat and felt his own pulse slow, as though trying to match what he was feeling—nothing. Nothing at all.

Mom stood in the doorway, watching dry-eyed. “Son, the men from Tomlyn’s are here. Can you . . . ?”

Margaret Hoffman bustled around Emily’s house, tidying things and making sure every surface gleamed. It wasn’t only to please her sweet employer; it was because every woman in the community—including Margaret’s own mother—would traipse through here just hoping to catch a speck of dust, an unmade bed, or a dirty dishrag. Emily was easy to please. It was the rest of the world that gave Margaret a hard time.

She sighed and put the last of the breakfast dishes away. News traveled fast, especially when it was as sad as Casewell Phillips dying in his sleep. And as soon as the ladies of Wise could throw together a casserole or a cake, they’d be knocking on the door with their condolences. Poor Emily. Margaret couldn’t think of anything harder than losing a child, no matter if he was six or fifty-six. She squared her shoulders. Well, she’d been working for Emily since she was sixteen—five years now—and if there was anything she could do to be a comfort, she would be more than glad.

“Margaret?” Emily walked into the kitchen, bracing herself against the backs of chairs like an old woman. She was nearly eighty, but she’d always behaved as though she were much younger.

“Yes, ma’am? Do you need something?”

“I do. Somehow I’m not sure how to dress for . . . this.” She waved a hand vaguely in the air. “People will start coming any minute. Won’t they?” She turned wet eyes on Margaret, as though she had the power to change things.

“Yes, ma’am, I expect they will. The house is about as ready as I can make it. Now, let’s see about getting you dressed in something nice.”

Margaret hooked her arm through Emily’s and led her to the bedroom. She sifted through Emily’s closet, finally pulling out a plaid skirt and a simple blouse. “I think this will be about right. You can wear one of your sweaters over it. I don’t think it’s supposed to warm up much today.”

“Oh, thank you, sweetheart. I’m not normally at sixes and sevens like this. But you know that. Don’t you?”

“Oh yes. It’s not like you to be unsure of yourself.” And it wasn’t, thought Margaret, but losing a child so suddenly would set anyone off. They didn’t even know when Casewell died exactly. Was it in 1975? Or 1976? What would they put on the tombstone?

A knock on the back door, followed by the squawk of worn hinges, interrupted her musing. She’d been meaning to oil that door.

“Must be family,” Margaret said. “I’ll go tend to it while you finish dressing.”

Emily nodded and rummaged through the drawer where she kept her underthings. For a slip, Margaret hoped. Emily would be mortified if she forgot a slip in her present state of mind. But she’d likely be even more mortified if Margaret hovered over her like a child.

Closing the bedroom door, Margaret walked into the family room and found Henry standing with his head down and shoulders slumped. She’d heard he was in from college but hadn’t seen him. Normally, she wouldn’t be seeing him now. Emily always insisted on doing for herself over holidays so Margaret could be with her family. Not that she much enjoyed being with her family, except, of course, with Mayfair. Her sweet little sister was always a bright spot.

“Hey, uh, Margaret? Right?” Henry straightened up a bit.

Margaret nodded. “Your grandmother is getting dressed. She’s a little fuddled this morning.”

“We all are,” Henry said, and for just a moment Margaret
caught a glimpse of anguish, but then his face shuttered closed again. “Mom thought I should bring Grandma over to the house. Make it easier on everyone.”

“That’s sensible,” Margaret said. She wondered if she should go on home but felt a surge of desire to be a help to the Phillipses’ family. “I could stay here and send anyone who stops by on over to your place.”

Henry’s brown eyes warmed, and he almost smiled. “That’d be great. Thank you.”

They stood staring at each other, and Margaret became aware of how she must look. She’d thrown on a worn blouse over green polyester slacks when Emily called early that morning. She knew she’d need to tidy the house so selected something shabby. Now she almost wished . . . But why? To impress a college boy who had been a year behind her in school? He wasn’t likely to notice her even on a good day, at least not for the right reasons. She had a round face absolutely covered in freckles, and a figure her father indelicately referred to as “good for childbearing.” Plus, her hair tended to frizz. None of which would impress the tall man in front of her with his wavy chestnut hair and broad shoulders. He scuffed one foot on the rag rug, and Margaret jumped.

“I’ll go check on Emily.”

Henry nodded and focused on a picture of his family that was sitting on the mantel. Margaret followed his gaze. The photo showed his parents with Henry and his sister Sadie on either side. Casewell looked like he’d been pleased with the world on that particular day. Margaret hoped he’d felt the same right up until he went to sleep the night before.

After the funeral, Margaret tried to get her parents to take Mayfair home instead of subjecting her to the crush of mourners at the Phillipses’ house, but they wouldn’t hear of it.

“She needs to be exposed to crowds like this,” Margaret’s mother said.

Her father nodded as his lips tugged down. “She’s twelve now. We can’t treat her like a child forever.”

Margaret sighed. No wonder it was hard for her to think of these people as Mom and Dad. Wallace and Lenore Hoffman were typically more concerned about appearances than they were the well-being of their children. Mayfair would retreat into her books for a week after being forced into a social situation like this. She could manage sitting in church between her mother and older sister, but circulating in a house full of people would be too much. Why couldn’t her parents see that?

Mayfair’s shoulder touched Margaret’s as they got out of the car and walked toward the house. An impromptu parking lot had been created in a nearby pasture, and Lenore picked her way through the grass like she expected to encounter cow manure at any moment. Wallace tried to take his wife’s elbow, but she shot him a look and jerked her chin in the air. Margaret wondered what they were fighting about now.

“There are too many people,” Mayfair whispered.

“I know, sweetie.” Margaret tucked her sister’s hand into her own and pulled her tight against her side. “Maybe we can find a quiet spot for you to read. Did you bring a book?”

Mayfair reached into the patch pocket of her skirt and pulled out a well-worn copy of
Anne of Green Gables
.

“Good for you, coming prepared.” Margaret’s praise raised a timid smile. “Just remember, the angels are holding hands all around you. Nothing can hurt you while they’re here.”

Mayfair gave a jerky nod and turned her head so she could watch the people entering the house through her peripheral vision. Margaret ached for her sister, wishing she could make life easier for her. Who knew? Maybe there really were angels, although she doubted it. She reached into her purse and felt
for the handful of hard candies she always carried. If Mayfair’s sugar dropped too low, she’d need something fast, and Margaret prided herself on always being prepared.

Henry ducked his head and aimed for the front door. He’d had enough of hearing about what a wonderful man his father was, how he was with Jesus now, and how he’d had a weak heart ever since he was born and was lucky to have lived this long. If anyone knew how great Casewell Phillips was, it was Henry. Someone even commented to his mother that it had been a blessing for Dad to die in his sleep. That was when Henry’s hands balled into fists, and his heart began to beat a drum in his head. It was leave or hit someone, and he didn’t want to disgrace his mother. Although he was getting closer and closer to not caring.

Bursting through the screen door, Henry nearly collided with two women scrunched together there. He started to push past them and then recognized Margaret, the girl who worked for his grandmother.

“I suppose you’ve come to spout platitudes like everybody else,” he said. “Well, save it.”

Margaret’s cheeks turned scarlet, and she put an arm around the shoulders of someone he realized was little more than a girl. “That’s pretty fancy vocabulary for somebody without any manners. Guess you learn big words like that in college.”

He stopped short. There had been no call for his outburst, but he was too ashamed to back down. Instead, he continued the attack. “You have to be pretty smart to get into college in the first place. Let’s see, which school did you go to?”

Margaret leaned in so her heavily freckled nose was inches away. “I’m going to assume that grief is making you act out of character. Now, you can either go on, or you can help me
find a safe place for Mayfair while I check to see if your family needs anything.”

Henry opened his mouth to tell her where she could go when his eyes met the girl’s. They were more gold than brown and something about them stopped up his words. He felt a sudden deep longing, though he wasn’t sure for what—his father, he supposed. Dad would never treat guests like this. Tears pricked his eyes and the beating of his angry heart slowed, as though matching some rhythm outside him. And all at once he wanted—more than anything—to make this girl happy.

“What do you mean, ‘a safe place’?”

“Mayfair’s kind of shy around people. I was hoping I could tuck her somewhere out of the way until it’s time to go home.”