Until the Harvest (24 page)

He drove aimlessly, not knowing where he was going. He tried to think through the situation but couldn’t come up with a plan. It surprised him when he saw the Talbot sisters’ house up ahead. Lights were on in the sitting room, and he whipped into the drive not certain what he planned.

Frank stepped out onto the porch as Henry shoved the truck into Park. The old man raised one hand and then dropped it to his side and leaned against a post holding up the tin roof. Henry spilled out of the truck and tried to walk toward Frank like a man who knew what he was about.

“Howdy, Frank. How you likin’ this weather?”

Frank stood upright and considered Henry. “Been a mite warmer of late. Crocuses poking through over there by the
steps.” He pointed with his chin. “Makes Angie awful glad, and anything that pleases that woman pleases me.”

Henry felt his stomach knot tighter. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a woman who made him happy? He had Barbara, who was making him miserable, Margaret confusing him, Mom nagging at him, and Grandma, well, he guessed she was usually a comfort. He put one foot up on the edge of the porch and leaned on his knee.

“Marriage suits you, then?”

“Down to my toes.” Frank leaned forward and peered into Henry’s face. “I’m thinking you didn’t come here to ask about my love life, though.”

Henry took a deep breath and blew it out slow. “I guess maybe I need some advice.”

Frank nodded. “Come on in and sit. Angie’s tending to her evening toilette, so we’ll have the parlor to ourselves.”

Henry smiled at Frank’s language. The old man had been a world traveler, but he pronounced the French word with a mountain twang that let Henry know he was making fun a little. He was surprised he could smile.

Inside, the house was warm and the lights not too bright. Henry kind of wished he could just lean back on the sofa and go to sleep. He felt bone weary and wasn’t sure he even wanted to talk about his problems right then. But Frank looked at him with an open expression that had him spilling everything out before he even knew what he was going to say.

He told about how he’d been running moonshine, about not wanting to go back to school, and about Barbara. When he finished, he subsided into the sofa. He felt like he was made of lead, and the softness of the cushions pillowed around him.

“Is that all?” Frank asked. Then he grinned at Henry’s incredulous look. “It’s enough. I just wanted to make sure we have everything out on the table.”

Henry thought of Margaret and how he’d been thinking of her differently lately, but he decided that really didn’t matter at the moment. Even if he was interested in more than friendship, having gotten another girl pregnant probably wouldn’t recommend him to her.

“So how can I help you, son?”

“What would my dad tell me to do?” Henry tried not to let his voice quiver.

Frank leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “He’d tell you to get shut of Clint Simmons and that whole clan. Your father had a bit of history with ole Clint. When Casewell was young and foolish, he stole moonshine from a Simmons still. When I came up on them—I was known to drink in those days—Clint was fixing to cut on your dad. That’s were he got the scar on his chin. I talked Clint out of skinning your dad alive, and we all came to a satisfactory understanding.”

Henry sat stunned. He couldn’t imagine his father ever doing something so . . . wrong. And not a little foolish. He guessed maybe Frank really had saved Dad’s life.

Frank looked Henry in the eye. “I suspect Casewell would tell you to go on over there and tell Clint straight to his face that you’re done working for him.”

Henry started to protest, but Frank held up a hand. “Somehow, after this business with Mayfair, I think that might work out better than you anticipate. As for school, I’m pretty sure he’d tell you to get your hindquarters back in class.” Frank squinted at Henry. “But you know that already. As for this business with the young lady, he’d tell you to go talk to your mother.”

Henry scrunched his forehead. “What? Why would I do that? She’ll probably disown me when she hears this. She’s already mad at me.”

“Son, your mother is a complex woman with a history all
her own. She was your age once, and she may have made some decisions that weren’t the best, but she came through them, and I have a feeling she’ll be a whole lot more help to you than your father ever would.”

Henry flopped his head back on the cushion and noticed a crack in the ceiling. Frank’s advice and the revelation about his dad sat in his gut like week-old biscuits. But at the same time, he suspected his father would agree with most of it. Except for talking to his mother. That was ridiculous.

Heaving himself to his feet, Henry stuck out his hand. “I appreciate your listening to me. Seems like I don’t have anybody to talk to much these days.”

Frank shook Henry’s hand. “There’s not having anyone to talk to, and then there’s not talking to the ones you’ve got. You make sure you know which is which.”

Henry sighed and trudged out the door to his truck. What did he expect? There was no magic wand he could wave to fix everything. No last-minute miracle to save his hide.

When she wasn’t in school, Mayfair was with Margaret at Emily’s. Even when she wasn’t technically working, Margaret liked being at the farmhouse. It felt safer there, like nothing bad could happen. The three of them were sitting at the table sipping hot chocolate on a Saturday morning when Henry stomped in with the milk. He didn’t speak and barely looked at the women.

“Good morning, Henry,” Emily said.

He grunted and set the milk pail on the counter. “Bertie’s got pinkeye.”

Emily frowned. “I thought that only came on in the summer. We’d better call Dr. Langley and get him out here to look at her.”

Margaret got up to strain the milk. “Seems like less today.”

“I told you, Bertie has pinkeye. Cuts down on production.”
Henry looked like he wanted to dump the milk over Margaret’s head.

She raised her eyebrows. “No need to get mad about it. I was just commenting.”

“Well, keep your comments to yourself unless they’re helpful.”

“Henry,” Emily chided, putting a hand on his arm. He jerked away.

“Call the vet. I’ll be out at the shed.” He started toward the door.

“Hey, where’s Mayfair?” Margaret looked around, but her sister was no longer in the room.

Henry peered out the window. “Looks like she’s in the cowshed. If she messes with Bertie’s eye, she can make it worse or even get pinkeye herself.” He glared at Margaret. “Why don’t you keep better track of her?”

Margaret felt as if she’d been slapped. “I keep up with her just fine. Why don’t you stop being such a pain in the rear end?”

Henry looked taken aback, but then he slammed out the door. Margaret grabbed a jacket and followed him.

In the cowshed Mayfair had her arm around Bertie’s neck singing “‘A’ You’re Adorable.” Bertie seemed to like it, but Henry grabbed Mayfair’s wrist and pulled her away from the animal. Bertie swung her head to look after Mayfair as Margaret stepped closer to see the cow’s eyes.

“They look fine to me, Henry. What makes you think she has pinkeye?”

“Because she’s holding the left eye closed most of the time, and it’s watering. Are you blind?”

Margaret took another look. The eye was wide open and clear. She made a sweeping motion to invite Henry to take a closer look. He did and cursed.

“Watch your language,” Margaret said.

“I’ll say whatever I feel like. You’re not the boss of me.”

Margaret felt anger rise in her. Henry was being a jerk. He was mistreating Mayfair, alarming Emily for no good reason, and using language none of them needed to hear. She’d had enough.

“Henry Phillips, I am sick and tired of you dragging around like you’re the only person in the world who’s ever suffered anything. Losing your father is no excuse for acting like an overgrown jerk who only cares about himself. You’ve been rude to your grandmother, mean to Mayfair, and you’ve treated me like dirt.” She stomped her foot on the hay-strewn ground. “I’ve had just about enough.”

Henry looked surprised, then red began creeping up his neck. He leaned toward Margaret, stuck his finger in her face, and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Mayfair was there. She put a hand on Henry’s arm and one on Margaret’s. She didn’t speak, but Margaret felt there was a voice inside her head whispering
peace
.

Henry lowered his accusing finger, and the red faded from his face. He looked at Mayfair as if she’d just parted the Red Sea. Margaret could swear she saw tears in his eyes, but he turned away. His shoulders slumped.

“Guess I was mistaken. I could have sworn that eye was infected.”

“It’s good to be cautious,” Margaret said. “We can’t be too careful with our Bertie.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Think Grandma’s got some more chocolate back there in the kitchen?”

“I’m sure she does.” For a moment Margaret had the urge to take Henry’s hand and walk with him back to the house, but she caught herself before she did. Had he been reaching for her hand? Or was that her imagination?

She heard a sound behind her—kind of like a kitten mewling—and even as she turned, she saw Mayfair falling.

“Get some juice. Now.”

Before she finished speaking, Margaret was on the ground cradling her sister’s head as the girl’s body stiffened and quivered. Saliva ran from the corner of her mouth, and Margaret wiped it away with her shirttail. Henry reappeared with a glass of Tang and helped Margaret get Mayfair to a sitting position. Together they held her while Margaret pressed the glass to her lips. At first she didn’t think the child could swallow, and liquid ran down her chin. Mayfair’s eyes were fixed and glassy. Panic began to rise in Margaret, but then Mayfair swallowed convulsively, taking juice down and coughing.

“Good girl. Try some more.” Margaret could hear the pleading in her own voice.

Mayfair swallowed again, and this time it seemed to help. She relaxed a bit and was able to finish the juice. Henry’s eyes met Margaret’s over Mayfair’s head. The tenderness she saw there let her know he hadn’t meant anything he’d said or done that morning. Except maybe what he meant to tell her now. And she was too frightened to interpret exactly what that was.

20

H
ENRY
COULD
SEE
HIS
MOTHER
sitting on the sofa reading a novel. Talking to her about his problem had been at the bottom of his list, but somehow after seeing Mayfair suffer a seizure and the way Margaret handled it, well, he wanted his family.

She looked up as he came inside and let the book drop. “Henry, Emily called to let me know what happened. Is Mayfair all right?”

“She’s better now. But I think Margaret is really worried. She said something about how these seizures or whatever are happening more often.”

“Poor child. I tend to think she should be home with her mother, but then I remember what Lenore Hoffman is like.” She shook her head. “Sometimes life isn’t fair, but God can use everything, if you let Him.”

“Everything?” Henry flopped down in a rocking chair and kicked off his boots.

“Absolutely.”

“I’ve got a problem, Mom.” Henry ran a hand through his hair until he felt like it must be standing on end.

“I’ll help if I can,” she said, folding her hands over the book in her lap.

“There’s this girl.”

His mother smiled and smoothed her skirt over her knees. “It’s about time.”

“Not like this.” Henry hung his head. “I . . . she . . . I don’t even remember, and it was only that once . . .”

“What is it, Henry?”

“She’s pregnant.” He snuck a look at her face. It was definitely a shade paler than it had been.

“Pregnant. Who is she?”

“Her name is Barbara. I don’t think you’d know her.” He peeked again. Was that relief? Surely not.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Henry threw his hands up in the air and began jiggling his knee. “I was hoping you could . . . advise me. Frank thought maybe you could.”

His mother leaned her head back against the sofa and tapped her folded hands against her mouth. She closed her eyes and seemed lost for a moment.

“What does Barbara want?”

Henry winced. “I guess she wants help. Maybe money to take care of the baby. She didn’t say anything about getting married.” He jiggled both knees. “I guess she doesn’t have anybody to help her, really.”

“She didn’t say anything about getting rid of the baby?”

Henry’s eyes flew to his mother’s face. “No. As a matter of fact, she seems anxious to take good care of it.”

“Good. I’m glad of that.” Mom seemed to fall deep into thought again. “Ask her if she’ll come stay here.”

“What?” Henry wanted to rub his ears to make sure they were clear.

“She needs help. She needs to eat the right food and drink
plenty of milk. She needs someone to make sure that baby is born healthy and into a home where people will love it.”

“But, what if she thinks . . . I mean are you saying I should . . . you know . . . marry her?”