Until the Harvest (23 page)

“I thought today would be the day,” Beulah said. “I counted three days and just knew you’d come.”

Mayfair fluttered onto the sofa next to the woman who looked older than she probably was. Margaret watched her sister take this strange woman’s hand, and something seemed to pass between the two that sent a pang of jealousy through Margaret.

“How are you feeling?” Margaret wanted to take charge, but she wasn’t sure how to do it.

“Oh, much better,” Beulah said and patted Mayfair’s hand. She got a faraway look on her face and echoed herself. “Much better.”

Margaret laced her fingers together, released them, and crossed her arms. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, well, no. I don’t suppose so. I put in a load of laundry a while ago, and I ought to hang it out. But that can wait.” A
smile creased her lined face. “Just sit and visit with me for the time being.”

Margaret shifted from foot to foot. She had nothing to say to this woman. “How about Mayfair visits with you while I hang out that laundry, then I’ll come join you?”

Beulah half rose then sank back down. “Oh, I can’t let you do that.” Her eyes pled with Margaret, but she couldn’t tell if the plea was to help or to let it go. She opted to help since sitting in the dingy room while Charlie watched an episode of
Sanford and Son
turned up too loud didn’t hold much appeal.

“I’ll be done in no time,” she said, looking around for the laundry room.

“On the back porch,” Beulah said, nodding toward a doorway. “I surely do appreciate it.”

“Glad to help.” Margaret wound her way through the unkempt house until she found a dented washing machine, emptied its contents into a wicker basket missing one handle, and headed out the back door, where she found a clothesline.

It was a cold morning, but the sun shone bright, and Margaret found she didn’t mind hanging out the family’s faded sheets and towels. She was glad there weren’t any personal items to handle. Touching Clint Simmons’s underwear—clean or otherwise—might have been too much.

Pegging the last washcloth, Margaret stood back and admired the linens billowing in a slight breeze. If they stayed long enough, she’d bring them in. She tucked her numb fingers under her arms and went back inside. She had to pass through the kitchen to rejoin Mayfair and Beulah, but the stacks of dirty dishes begged to be washed. And then she thought she might as well wipe down the counters and table. She wished she had a mop for the floor, but settled for wiping up the worst of the sticky spots with an old rag she found under the sink. Then she dried the dishes and tidied the cupboards as she put the dishes away.

“Margaret? Are you in the kitchen?” Beulah sounded worried.

“Yes, ma’am. Just tidying up a bit.”

“Come sit with us. There’s no call for you to do my housework.”

Margaret sighed, hung the dingy dish towel on the stove handle and went into the living room. Beulah motioned toward a rocking chair near the sofa, and Margaret sank into it. Charlie had disappeared, leaving the room blessedly quiet.

“I ought to scold you for cleaning my house, but I guess I’ll thank you instead. Heaven knows I wasn’t going to get it done, and those boys . . .” She shook her head. “Well, I didn’t raise them like I should have.”

“I don’t mind—honest. Actually, I kind of like setting a place to rights.” Margaret blushed. “Not that your place needs—”

“Oh, but it does.” Beulah cut her off. “I may be feeling poorly, but I can see fine. Now leave my sorry mess for a minute and tell me about yourself.”

She looked so expectant, Margaret wished she had something to tell. “There’s not much. I work for Emily Phillips. Mayfair and I just moved into that little gray house on her property. We’re pretty happy there, I guess.”

Beulah waved a hand in front of her face as though fanning away a fly. “No, no. Tell me about you. What are your dreams, ambitions? Do you have a young man? What will you do with your life?”

The hungry look in Beulah’s eyes made Margaret want to take stock of her life and find something interesting to tell the older woman. “Mostly I just want to live on a farm and raise a family.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Too many young women these days are all caught up in their rights.” She said the word
rights
like it was dirty. “All I ever wanted was a home and a family.” She sighed. “But then, nothing ever turns out quite the way you think.”
Beulah examined Margaret closely. “Do you have a young man in mind to help you make this dream come true?”

An image of Henry flashed through Margaret’s mind, but she ignored it. “No. No one in particular. I just might have to take in orphans or something.”

Beulah leaned forward and gripped Margaret’s knee with surprising strength. “I can see it in your eyes. There is someone. Don’t settle for less than your heart’s desire.” She sagged back against the cushion and pulled her nubby sweater tighter around her shoulders. “Settling can seem like a good idea, but you’d best fight for what you want.”

Mayfair reached over and took Beulah’s hand. Again, something special seemed to pass between them, and Margaret bit the inside of her cheek. It was only her imagination.

“Sometimes what you want doesn’t matter.” Margaret was surprised by how angry she sounded. She tried to temper her comment. “What I mean is, you have to do the best you can with what life gives you.”

Beulah looked around the dark room. “Settling can be worse than trying for something better and failing. At least then you’d know you tried.”

Margaret felt the conversation was drifting into deep waters. “Well, I’ll do my best not to settle,” she said. “Now, how about I make you a cup of tea?”

“Oh, I meant to offer you some tea,” Beulah protested. Then she looked at Mayfair and smiled. “But since I have a feeling you know your way around my kitchen now, why don’t you go ahead?”

Margaret stood, glad to escape further conversation, and went into the kitchen to put a pan of water on the gas stove before heading out back to bring in the sheets that were dry. The towels would take a bit longer. Beulah might just have to tend those herself. On the way back in, she saw the bathroom and
stopped long enough to clean toothpaste, whiskers, and dried soap off the basin. She guessed it was good they used toothpaste and soap. She glanced at the tub. That would take more time than she had. She pulled a mold-spotted shower curtain closed and reentered the kitchen in time to catch Mayfair pouring hot water over tea bags in three mugs.

“It’s good for her to talk to you,” Mayfair said.

“Well, I guess I’m glad, then.”

Mayfair gave her sister one of her sweetest smiles and carried two mugs into the front room, leaving Margaret to bring her own. They stayed long enough to drink their tea, and then Margaret announced it was time to go. Beulah looked disappointed. Then she brightened.

“But you’ll come again,” she said.

Mayfair said they would before Margaret could jump in. She wasn’t sure this was a friendship she ought to encourage. At least they hadn’t seen that awful Clint Simmons. There was something about him that frightened Margaret.

When Charlie showed up at the door, Henry was tempted to leave him out in the cold. But he kept knocking, and Mom let him in.

“Hey, Henry, can I, uh, have a word with you?”

Henry cut his eyes to his mother, who sighed and left the room. “What do you want?” he asked.

“Need you to finish a run to Jack’s for me.”

Henry thought he might not mind taking his fiddle over there and playing for a while. Some of those boys weren’t half bad, and he was itching to play some music. Even if that girl he woke up next to in the barn was around. It had been long enough that she’d know not to expect anything from him. Charlie must have taken his hesitation for indecision.

“You’d better do this, or Pa’ll string you up.”

Henry thought Charlie sounded a little bit desperate. “Did he send you over here?”

“Sure he did. Said you’d better do this or else.”

“Why aren’t you doing it? You can drive fine now.”

“I’m taking care of another piece of business this evening. I’ve got the load in the car, it’ll just take a minute to shift it over.” Charlie started out the door, clearly expecting Henry to follow him.

Henry grinned. It was kind of fun making Charlie sweat. Guess he could use a night out. He hollered in his mother’s general direction. “I’m going out. Be back soon.”

Load shifted, Henry drove to Jack’s place, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. He knew running moonshine wasn’t right, but it seemed like he was getting kind of good at it, and it was nice to make some real money. Charlie even paid him up front. He liked being good at something.

When he pulled into the barn at Jack’s, Henry got out whistling and began unloading the moonshine. He knew the ropes by now. He looked across the field at the lights from the bar. It looked inviting, the way the light spilled out across the yard. He wasn’t going to drink anything, just play a little and get warmed up. Maybe he could get the best of being under Clint’s thumb after all.

As Henry started for the house, a figure stepped into the doorway of the barn. His heart double-timed for a minute, and then he realized it was probably just Jack coming up to take inventory.

“I was hoping you’d come again.” The voice was soft, feminine, and somehow familiar.

“Who, me?”

“Yeah, you.” She stepped forward into the circle of light cast by one dusty bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was Barbara.

“Oh, hey.” Henry didn’t quite know what to say. He’d convinced himself she would have given up on him by now, but it sounded like she had ideas. How was he going to let her down easy?

“I’d have called you, but I didn’t know your number,” she said.

Henry kicked at a clump of hay. “Yeah, well, I’ve been pretty busy. Don’t get out this way much. I was going to play a little before heading home.” He raised the hand holding his fiddle.

“I’m pregnant.”

Henry froze. He watched as her hand strayed to her belly. He looked at her eyes. There was defiance there.

“Are you saying . . . ?”

“I am.” The look got harder, like she was daring him to deny it.

Henry ran his fingers through his hair. Lord, what had he done?

“Are you . . . will you . . . what do you want me to do?”

She tossed her head. “I ain’t asking you to marry me. I just want you to do right by the baby. Maybe even take it and let your mother raise it once it comes. Where I live ain’t fit for a child.”

Henry tried to breathe in, but it was a fight. He finally drew a shaky breath and let it out again. “I don’t know about that.”

She stepped closer and pointed at him. “You can tell your family, or I will. Don’t make no difference to me. I want to see this child have a chance.”

Henry swallowed and looked at the woman in front of him. Her hair looked oily, and her clothes didn’t fit well. She was missing a tooth on the left side of her mouth, but in spite of the flaws, she was pretty. Except for the hardness around her eyes and the way she held her mouth that made Henry feel like he was her last hope in the world. He shifted his gaze to her belly, and she placed both hands there, as though protecting her child from him.

“Okay,” he said. “I need some time to think about this, but we can figure something out. How do I get in touch with you?”

“Write your phone number down, and I’ll get in touch with you,” Barbara said. “I’ll give you two days to come up with a plan, and then I’ll call you.” She looked at the dirt floor, and some of the fire seemed to go out of her. “And don’t try to blow me off. I can get Charlie to tell me where you live, and I’m not too proud to show up at your door.”

Henry found a paper sack under the seat in the truck and a stub of pencil his father probably used for woodworking projects. What would Dad think about how his pencil was being used now? Henry wrote his phone number down and handed it to Barbara, who stuck it in her pocket and turned away, then stopped.

“You wouldn’t have a few dollars on you?” she asked.

He’d left the night’s pay in a can under a loose board in Dad’s workshop. He couldn’t buy liquor if he didn’t have cash. Henry dug into his pocket and came up with three crumpled ones and some change. “It’s all I have,” he said, holding it out.

She turned slowly and took the money. “I can get men to buy me liquor, but not many of them want to buy me a bottle of milk.” She cupped a hand to her belly again. “It don’t matter for me, but I’d just as soon feed this little one right.”

She moved toward the door and stood there, silhouetted against the light from across the field. “I’ll be talking to you, Henry,” she said and was gone.

Henry climbed into the truck and rested his head on the steering wheel, all thoughts of music driven from his mind. What in the world was he going to do now?

19

H
ENRY
NEEDED
ADVICE
. He needed his father. He brought his fist down on the dashboard of the old truck and gunned the motor, tires spinning as he pulled away from the barn and the pregnant girl. As a matter of fact, he probably wouldn’t be in this predicament if Dad were still around. Henry cursed. He hoped his father was looking down from heaven to see this. Maybe he’d be sorry.