Until the Harvest (26 page)

“Margaret, I’m going to tell you this straight out.” Emily folded her hands on the kitchen table and leaned forward. “Henry’s gotten a girl into trouble, and she’s staying with his mother for the time being. Henry will live here while Barbara is with Perla.”

Margaret furrowed her brow. “Into trouble? Who’s Barbara?”

“She’s a girl he met, well, I’m not entirely sure where it was, but it was somewhere he shouldn’t have been. And now she’s pregnant.”

Margaret shot to her feet without knowing she was going to. “Pregnant? She’s going to have a baby? Henry’s baby?”

Emily reached out a hand and motioned for Margaret to sit. “I know it’s a shock. But I’m glad he wants to do right by this girl.”

“Do right? Is he going to marry her?” Margaret felt like a
swarm of bees was loose inside her skull. She plopped back down for fear she might fall over.

“That I don’t know. But he—we—are going to see that this child is taken care of. I guess that baby will be a Phillips, and we’re going to make sure it has a family.”

Margaret popped up again like a jack-in-the-box. “I’m going to get after that tub. I appreciate you letting me know about . . . everything.”

She rushed to the bathroom, plopped down on the toilet lid, and buried her face in her hands. Henry was lost to her. She told herself there had never been a chance. She told herself she didn’t really even like him. She told herself it had been nothing more than an idle daydream and he never would have made her happy anyway.

Hot tears spilled onto her fingers, and she wiped her hands on her slacks. She dug out cleaning supplies and a scrub brush. Henry Phillips wasn’t worth caring about. He was a low-down womanizer who didn’t care about people. She spilled cleanser into the tub and began scrubbing like she would if she thought she could scrub Emily’s words out of her head. Tears mixed with the cleanser, and Margaret vowed to keep lying to herself until it didn’t hurt anymore.

Henry didn’t know where to go when he left Clint’s. He had no desire to go to his mother’s, where Barbara would be settling into his bedroom and making it her own. And he didn’t want to go to his grandmother’s, where Margaret surely knew everything by now. He almost wished he could go back to school.

Instead, he drove to the Talbots’. He guessed it should be the Posts’ now that Frank was the man of the house, but it would take the community of Wise a long time to get over using the name that had fit that land for the past hundred years or so.

The late March afternoon had warmed nicely, and Frank and Angie were sitting in a porch swing soaking up the sun. They both waved as he pulled into the yard.

“Howdy, Henry. Come and sit a spell,” Frank said.

Henry walked over and sat on the edge of the porch near the couple. “Fine day for sitting in the sun,” he said.

“Fine day for just about anything—or nothing, so long as you can do it with your sweetheart.”

Frank wrapped an arm around Angie and kissed her forehead. She swatted at him, but Henry could tell she liked it. He wondered if he’d have anyone to sit in a swing with when he was ninety. If he lived that long.

“You just visiting, or you got something on your mind?”

Henry admired how the old man didn’t waste time. Maybe that’s how it was when you got old.

“I guess I’ve got something on my mind,” he said.

Angie leaned forward. “Well, spit it out then. Or is it too harsh for my tender ears?”

Henry grinned in spite of himself. “I reckon you can take it, Miss Angie. Has Frank told you about my problem?”

“I should hope he did. There shouldn’t be secrets between a man and his wife.” She wagged a finger at Henry. “Not that I’d tattle it to a living soul. It’s just between us.”

“Well, Barbara moved in with Mom today.” He flicked a look at the couple. They didn’t seem surprised. “And I told Clint I wasn’t going to, uh, work for him anymore.”

“How’d all that go?” Frank asked.

“I guess it went better than I expected. The thing is, Charlie wondered if I was going to marry Barbara, and, well, now I’m wondering if I should.”

Angie crossed her arms, pressed her lips together, and looked at Frank.

“My wife is allowing me to speak, in spite of having an
opinion of her own on the matter,” Frank said. “Henry, do you want to marry her?”

“Not particularly. But she seems okay, and I’m glad she didn’t do anything to, well, to hurt the baby. And I’d sure like to be there to take care of him or her.”

Angie made an exasperated sound. “The question is, does she want to marry you? I swear, you men think you can just decide things and women will go right along with it.” She leaned toward Henry. “Did you ask her?”

“When she told me she was pregnant she said she didn’t want me to marry her; just that she needed someone to help take care of the baby.” Henry felt hope rise in him. Maybe he didn’t need to marry her, after all. Maybe she’d let his mother adopt the baby.

Angie snorted. Not very ladylike. “That doesn’t mean a thing. There’s hardly a woman in this world who’d tell a man she wants to marry him before he asks. A lady likes to be asked.” She sat back as though resting her case.

“That’s true,” Frank said. “Found that out the hard way.”

Angie swatted him again.

Henry sighed. “I guess I’d better talk to her, then.”

“I would if I were you, son,” Frank said. “You can burn a lot of years not talking about something.”

The next day Mayfair insisted they go back to visit Beulah. Margaret invited Emily to come along, but she wasn’t sure of her welcome and said maybe next time. At the Simmonses’ house Beulah sat in a dining room chair in the front yard. Spring had begun to show signs of arriving, and the sun was bright, but Beulah sat swaddled in quilts and shawls. She wiggled an arm out to wave the girls over.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “I’m feeling much better.”

Mayfair’s forehead crinkled, and she took the woman’s hand. “Are you?”

“I am. If only because of the peace of mind you’ve given me. Now come inside, and we’ll have a nice visit.”

Clint stepped out onto the porch and nodded at them but didn’t speak. Beulah struggled to stand, and her husband rushed to her side. He slid an arm around her waist and helped her to the house. Mayfair dogged their steps.

Once inside, Margaret wished they’d stayed in the yard. The house was gloomy and had a definite chill. Clint stoked the fire until it blazed bright enough to chase some of the drear away, then left them alone. Mayfair sat close to Beulah while Margaret perched on a cane-bottomed chair. She itched to find a dustrag and a broom.

“I see you over there wishing you could clean my house,” Beulah said.

Margaret protested.

“No, it’s all right. It needs a good cleaning. I try to get Harold to help out, but I think it hurts his pride to do women’s work.”

“I’d be more than glad to run a dustrag over a few things,” Margaret said. “If it would be a help to you.”

Beulah sighed and sagged deeper into the sofa. “Honey, it would. When I’m gone, these boys can wallow in their own filth, but for the time being I’d surely like to see a shine on the end table there.”

Margaret was on her feet. “Where are your supplies?”

Beulah directed her, and Margaret felt something like a surge of happiness. It was silly, but she felt that doing a little cleaning was the best comfort she could give. And she was good at it. Mayfair seemed to comfort people by her very presence. Margaret suspected her absence—or at least her fading into the background—was her gift.

She hummed softly as she wiped down the tables and found a
dust mop to get at cobwebs in the corners. Clint stuck his head into the room once, paled, and ducked out again. Margaret was glad to know a clean house was a weapon against him. She swept the room out and was debating taking up the braided rug and dragging it out into the yard for a good shake when she finally turned her attention back to Beulah and her sister.

They were sleeping. Mayfair’s head on Beulah’s shoulder, hands clasped. Margaret smiled. Now that was worn out—sleeping in the midst of her cleaning. She tiptoed over and laid a hand on Beulah’s arm.

“Beulah? How about I take this rug out and shake it real good?”

Beulah blinked and opened her eyes as though she was returning from somewhere very far away. “What? The rug? Oh, honey, don’t mess with that thing. I’ll get the boys to drape it over the fence and whack it a few times.”

She stretched her arms and then swiveled her neck. “Lawsy, I must’ve needed that nap. I feel better than I have in months. Maybe it’s the pleasure of a clean room.” She smiled and then peered at Mayfair. “This young one must need some rest, too.”

“She’s been having a hard time with her diabetes lately.”

“Sugar? My mother had the sugar. It was awful. She lost most of her toes before the end. This child is too young and too good for such as that.”

Margaret touched Mayfair’s arm. “Wake up, sweetie. It’s time to go.”

Mayfair made a sound like a balloon losing the last of its air as her head flopped forward.

Margaret grasped both shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Mayfair? Wake up.” Icy fingers wrapped around her heart. “Beulah, do have orange juice or something sweet to drink?”

“I think so.”

The older woman struggled to her feet and shuffled into the
kitchen. She returned in what felt like at least a year to Margaret with a glass of juice. Margaret sat on the arm of the sofa and cradled Mayfair against her chest. She gently pried her lips open and poured a little juice in. It ran down Mayfair’s chin. She tried again and more juice ran down onto her sister’s shirt.

“She has to take it. She just has to take it,” Margaret whispered.

“Honey, we need to get her to a doctor.”

“If we can get her to take some juice—”

“Margaret. I’ll get Clint to take you to the hospital. I saw this with my mother. She needs a doctor.”

Margaret held Mayfair, willing her to wake up, to absorb a little of the sugar on her tongue until Clint appeared and scooped the child into his arms. Margaret cried out and then clapped a hand over her mouth. He was only helping. They got in his car and flew to St. Joseph’s Hospital.

22

T
HE
SMELL
OF
ROAST
CHICKEN
permeated the air even before Henry set foot in his mother’s house. He’d missed lunch, and his stomach rumbled. It might be awkward to eat a meal with Barbara and his mom, but based on the aromas coming from the kitchen, he thought maybe he could manage it.

Inside, Barbara laid a third plate and silverware on the table. Mom smiled at him as she spooned mashed potatoes into a bowl.

“I saw you pull up. Seems like you timed things just right.”

“I didn’t set out to come for supper, but since it’s ready . . .”

Mom walked by and bumped him with her hip. “By the time you wash your hands, we’ll have this on the table.”

Barbara didn’t look directly at Henry, moving to the stove to dish up green beans instead. He could smell the bacon grease, and his mouth watered. He hurried to wash his hands.

The three of them sat, and Mom said grace. Henry was grateful she hadn’t asked him. He wasn’t sure God was on speaking terms with him at the moment. They passed the dishes and ate in silence for a few moments.

“How’s your grandmother?” Apparently Mom was going to make conversation.

“She was fine when I left there this morning. I’ve been over at the Talbot place.”

“Oh? Are Frank and Angie settling in well?”

Henry shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of potatoes. “I guess.” He made a face. “They’re kind of touchy-feely. Like they’re flirting with each other.”

His mom smiled as if that was the best news she’d heard in a long time. “As it should be.” She turned to Barbara. “Frank and Angie are a sweet couple who just got married.”

“Even though they’re ninety,” Henry said under his breath.

“Ninety?” It was the first peep he’d heard from Barbara. “They got married when they were ninety?”

“Or thereabouts,” Henry said. “Guess it took ’em a long time to figure things out.”