Until the Harvest (20 page)

“Henry, light somewhere,” Emily said.

He looked startled and moved to take the third chair at the table. Then he stopped and seemed to rethink it.

“You know, I think I’ll go check on Bertie, maybe gather the eggs if that needs doing.”

Emily made a shooing motion with her hands. “Yes, yes. Go do the chores.”

Henry shrugged into his jacket and headed out the door with a look of relief on his face.

“Just like a man,” Emily laughed. “They can always find something to do outside when there are problems inside.”

Margaret tried to smile, but she was scared for Mayfair. Emily patted her hand again. “Perla’s coming over in a little while. We’re going to watch over the two of you in shifts until we’re sure Mayfair’s all right. Unless your mother is coming over?” She raised an expectant eyebrow.

Margaret was relieved to have help but wished Emily hadn’t
brought up her mother. She had no intention of calling her parents. Her mother would either tell her to handle it herself or turn Mayfair’s illness into a personal crisis. She wanted someone to help her be responsible for her sister, and she’d much rather have the Phillipses’ family than her own.

“I’ll be glad to see Perla,” she said, dodging Emily’s hint.

Emily sighed and patted Margaret’s hand, as though she understood. “All right then, let’s pass the time with a few hands of gin rummy.” Her eyes twinkled. “We don’t have to play for money, but we can if you want to.”

Margaret smiled, in spite of herself. Emily was the last person to gamble.

Henry finished mucking out Bertie’s stall and forked some fresh hay in. He wanted it all done before Margaret fetched the cow that evening. He liked the work, found it soothing after the strangeness of the day. He flexed the hand that had been injured when he misfired. Good as new. Had Mayfair healed it? Maybe. He guessed if she did, that was a good thing.

A scuffing sound brought Henry around to the front of the shed. Clint leaned there, his beard looking wilder than usual. He spit tobacco juice on the ground, and Henry almost spoke up. He didn’t want the cow byre soiled like that.

“Where’d you come from?” he asked.

“Charlie come home from that wedding between the senior citizens. Said there was some sort of hoorah. Sounds to me like that girl’s been healing folks again. Like maybe she’s touched.” He scratched under one arm. “Old woman could use some help like that.”

“That’s a load of bull.” Henry tossed the pitchfork in the corner where it clanked and fell over. He didn’t pick it up. “I got work to do.”

Clint stood upright. “You got work to do for me is what I came for. Need another load hauled out to Jack in Blanding. His business is doing real good.” Clint rubbed his hands together. “I got a load in the car now. Switch it on over to your truck. I figure you go in the afternoon like this and no one will much be looking out.” He sneered at Henry. “Especially when they see a fine, upstanding boy like you out and about.”

Henry picked up the pitchfork for something to do and looked at the wall as he spoke. “Can’t do it today. Too much going on around here. Maybe Charlie can take it for you.”

He didn’t hear Clint move, just felt the older man grab a handful of shirt collar and jerk him back so that he fell hard in the middle of the shed. He sat, stunned, looking up at Clint, his tobacco-stained beard quivering.

“You hard of hearing, boy? I didn’t ask a question.” Clint’s hand rested on a knife sheathed on his belt. Henry hadn’t noticed that before. “Now get up from there and come load the ’shine before I decide to cut your pay—or something else—in half.”

Henry stood, and for a moment he felt like he could muster the strength to tell Clint no. He saw his mother’s car go by out on the dirt road, probably on the way to tend Mayfair. He looked at Clint. How was it that he’d been craving this man’s approval?

Clint nodded after his mom’s car. “Maybe I should step on over there and look in on the ladies. See how that girl’s doing. Sounds like working a healing might have took it out of her. It’d be the Christian thing to show my concern.”

Climbing to his feet, Henry gave Clint a mean look. He might not have much choice in whether he made this delivery, but he could choose not to play Clint’s game.

“I’ll run your ’shine, but I won’t have you messing with my family,” he said.

Clint laughed. And rightly so, thought Henry. He’s meaner than six of me.

They transferred the jugs to the bed of Henry’s truck, laid a tarp over them, and then threw in a chainsaw and a few sticks of firewood.

“You got that fiddle of yourn?” Clint asked. “Seems that crowd out at Jack’s liked your playing the other night. Take it along, and you’ll have a good reason for being out that way.”

Henry got in his truck and swung by what he now thought of as Margaret’s house before he headed out. He let the ladies know he’d be gone for a while but would check back on them before bedtime.

He pulled Margaret aside as he headed back out. “Clint Simmons has been hanging around,” he whispered. “Charlie was at the wedding and gave him the idea that Mayfair might be a healer.” He darted a look at the bedroom door that was open a crack. Did he see Mayfair moving around? “Anyhow, I told him to get on out of here but wanted you to know just in case.”

“He wouldn’t do anything, would he?” Margaret asked a little too loud.

“Who wouldn’t do anything?” Grandma chimed in.

“Clint Simmons,” Margaret said.

Grandma made a dismissive sound. “Oh, I know Clint and Beulah from way back. He’s an old goat, but he’s harmless enough. And Beulah’s a saint for putting up with him all these years.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Why would you even mention him?”

“Henry says maybe we should keep an eye out for him.” Margaret seemed to have completely missed the fact that he was trying to tell her something in confidence.

“
Pshaw
. You go on about your business, Henry, we’ll be fine.”

After Henry left and Emily went home, the little house seemed to swell with silence. Margaret hadn’t really spent time alone
with Perla before. It’s not that she didn’t want to, she simply wasn’t sure how to. Perla always seemed so put together—and so elegant—kind of delicate and dainty. Margaret felt awkward and too tall in comparison.

Margaret looked around the plain room and wished she’d spent more time making it pretty. Maybe some curtains or a cloth for the table. It occurred to her that if her own mother came in, she wouldn’t care what she thought, but she wanted Perla to be pleased.

Perla sat at the table and fiddled with a dish towel. “I’m glad you and I have some time to get to know each other.” She glanced up at Margaret. “I thought maybe we could talk.”

“Well, okay. How about I make some tea?”

“That sounds lovely.”

Margaret bustled around the kitchen, filling the kettle, finding two mugs that matched, and digging out a tin of tea. Soon, the two women sat at the table sipping from steaming cups.

“Did you want to talk about anything in particular?” Margaret asked.

Perla glanced toward the bedroom. The door stood partially open, and they could see Mayfair’s sleeping form curled in the bed. Margaret stepped over and closed the door in case Perla was worried about her sister hearing.

“Actually, there is.” Perla picked up her spoon, then set it down again.

Margaret began to feel uneasy.

“I saw what Mayfair did for that child today. And I saw Henry’s hand after she ‘helped’ him, as she put it. I know what a misfire injury looks like, and his hand . . .” She shook her head. “There’s something special about your sister.”

“I’ve always known she’s special.” Margaret tried not to sound defensive, but she didn’t like where this conversation was headed.

Perla gazed into empty space over Margaret’s shoulder. “I know how hard it can be to have a knack for something. The kind of knack that sets you apart and makes people look at you differently. I think Mayfair may have a knack for healing people.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Margaret stood and dumped the rest of her tea into the sink. She rinsed the mug, staring out the window at the darkening sky. What business did Perla have coming in here and talking to her like this? And so what if she’d thought the very same thing?

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Or afraid of.” Perla finally looked at Margaret, and she felt, maybe for the first time in her life, that someone was really trying to see beyond her abundance of freckles and outward competence to the girl inside.

“The summer I met Casewell, Wise suffered a terrible drought. Somehow the food I cooked saw us through. I’d always had a way of cooking food so that it lasted longer than it should have—fed more people than made sense. But that summer was the first time I saw that God might have given me that ability for a reason.”

“What are you saying?” Margaret turned around and leaned against the sink.

“I’m saying that miracles don’t always feel like it at the time. I’m saying that blessings can be difficult, but they are blessings nonetheless.”

Margaret shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“No, it’s the sort of thing you never really understand. I just wanted you—and Mayfair—to know you aren’t as alone as you feel.”

Margaret wrapped her arms around herself and looked at the floor. “Well, thanks, I guess. I’m not sure Mayfair is a healer or anything, but I appreciate you wanting to help.” She looked back up at the older woman and saw not sympathy, but kinship there. “And I appreciate you sharing your story.”

Perla nodded once and tapped the table. “Speaking of cooking, what’s for supper around here?”

Margaret smiled. “Emily brought egg salad sandwiches from the wedding, and I think there’s a good-sized hunk of cake, which I think you might have baked. Guess that means it’ll be more than enough?”

Perla smiled back. “That sounds just right.”

The run went smoother than Henry anticipated. All the way to Jack’s place he kept imagining police cars and deputies hidden down every side road. Any car that pulled out behind him struck a chord of fear. Once he arrived, he caught a glimpse of Barbara inside the makeshift bar but ducked on out before she saw him. He’d thought he might like to play some music, but the itch to slide his bow across the strings faded the longer he was away from Mom, Grandma, and even Mayfair and Margaret.

Guessing his mother might still be with the girls, he drove over to Margaret’s house. He hoped they’d have something to eat. He was ravenous.

Henry’s tires crunched over remnants of snow in the yard at the gray house. Light poured out the kitchen window, warm and inviting. Henry suddenly felt good. He was glad to be there.

Laughter greeted him when he knocked on the door, then stepped inside. His mother and Margaret were at the table eating wedding cake.

“Oh, Henry, you’ve caught us having seconds,” his mother said.

Margaret grinned—something Henry couldn’t recall seeing before. “But when cake lasts like this one does, why not?”

That last statement mystified Henry, but he let it go as his mother pulled out a chair and fetched a plate of sandwiches from the refrigerator.

“Are you hungry? We’re just eating leftovers from the wedding, but they’re delicious.”