Until the Harvest (3 page)

“Dad’s workshop.” Henry spoke without thinking. He hadn’t been in the shop since the last time he was home at Thanksgiving. He didn’t really want to go there now, the memories would be too close, but the desire to help Mayfair outweighed his misgivings.

He led the two girls to the shop and pushed open the door. It was heavy, but the hinges were well-oiled. Dad would never leave it any other way. He wondered what would happen to the tools and supplies now that his father was gone but quickly shifted his thoughts back to Margaret and Mayfair.

A small potbellied stove sat in the center of the room with two chairs pulled up to it. Dad always said it was practical to use the waste from his labors to heat his workshop. Henry opened the little door and found a fire already laid. By his father, no doubt. He choked on sorrow, not sure he could do this. Not sure he could set fire to something his father had touched only a few days ago.

Mayfair brushed his hand, and he felt the warmth from her fingers. “I’m not cold.” Her voice was quiet but had a clarity that was almost musical. He wondered if she could sing.

He leaned toward her and smiled. “Dad would have my hide if I didn’t make his workshop comfortable for guests.” He looked back into the grate. “He laid that fire for you. The least you can do is enjoy it.”

His hand shook as he lit a long match and held it to the crumpled paper under the kindling. Mayfair touched his elbow, and the shaking stopped. Flames started to consume the paper and wood. He reached into a box and added some larger pieces of scrap lumber.

“You’ll be fine here,” he said. “I don’t think anyone will bother you.”

Mayfair smiled and slid onto one of the wooden chairs. She pulled a book from her pocket and was immediately absorbed. He saw Margaret tuck a piece of candy into her sister’s palm.

“Only if you need it,” she said.

Henry walked Margaret back toward the house.

“I thought you were leaving,” Margaret said in a way that made him think she was still stinging from his earlier greeting.

“I was, but I’m over it now. I guess people mean well.” He looked toward the house and the steady stream of people coming and going. “Dad would expect me to stay.”

“Parents expect a lot of their children,” Margaret said, her lip curling back.

“Do your parents expect a lot of you or Mayfair?”

Margaret shot him a look that he couldn’t read. “Both, I guess.”

“I like your sister.”

Margaret finally relaxed and shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “So do I.”

Henry noticed she was wearing a skirt with knee-high socks and brown shoes. He wondered if her legs were cold. He opened the front door for Margaret and earned a small smile. Man, she even had freckles on her lips.

2

A
RE
YOU
PACKED
YET
?”

Henry took a big bite of oatmeal to delay answering his mother’s question. She quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Son, I asked you a question.”

Henry gulped his milk. “I thought maybe I’d take a semester off,” he said.

His older sister Sadie snorted and rolled her eyes. She always had an opinion.

Perla cut a look at her daughter, then turned her attention back to Henry. “What in the world for? It’s not like there’s anything you need to do here. Your education is too important to shirk.”

“I’ve talked to most of my professors, and they understand. All I have to do is get ahold of Dr. Stanley to see if he’ll excuse my final paper. Then I can just pick up next August. I might even be able to take extra classes so I can still graduate in four years.” Henry carried his empty bowl to the sink and ran water into it. “You and Grandma need a man to take over here—to keep things up, maybe earn some money.” He swallowed hard. “With Dad gone, I figured I’d better stay a while.” He squared his shoulders and stood up straighter.

“You’ll never make anything of yourself without a degree,” Sadie said. She had just gotten her first job as a librarian at a university up in Ohio. Apparently they’d been very nice about giving her a week off for the funeral. Henry thought she was kind of full of herself at the moment, but she could be all right. If she wanted to. He reminded himself that she loved his father, too, even if he’d only been her stepfather.

Mom rubbed her temples and reached for her coffee cup. “I think you should go back, but if you can get approval from all of your professors, I suppose it’ll be all right for one semester.”

Henry let it rest at that. He was trying to behave as though he cared about school for his mother’s sake, but honestly, what did it matter? What did anything matter anymore? He’d keep going through the motions for her sake, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever go back to school. It occurred to him that he’d be free to pursue his music now, but that thought caused a stab of pain, and he brushed it aside, as well.

Later that day, Henry called Professor Stanley about his paper on Soil Genesis and Classification. Stan the Man as the kids called him was a real stickler, but Henry was confident his father’s dying would move even a crusty old guy like Dr. Stanley.

“Hello?” Dr. Stanley always sounded curt.

“Dr. Stanley, this is Henry Phillips. You’ve probably heard that my father passed away recently, and I’m planning to take a semester off to take care of my mother. Which means I won’t be able to get my paper in after all.”

Silence stretched and just as Henry started to say something more, Dr. Stanley cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear about your loss, but I’m sure your father would want you to meet your obligations in school and in life. The paper should have been completed by now and will be due as scheduled.” There was a rustling of papers. “If you intend to pick back up in an
ensuing semester, you’ll need this credit completed. I’m looking forward to reading your work.”

“But there’s no way I can get it done considering everything.” Henry heard a whine in his voice and tried to regain his composure. “I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Henry, without that paper, I’ll be forced to give you a failing grade. As I said, I look forward to reading your work. Please give my condolences to your family.” He heard a click and then a dial tone.

Henry stormed out of the house and slammed through the door of his dad’s workshop. Gordon Stanley was a jerk. Like the fool had any idea what Dad wanted for him. It was the last straw. What did he think he was going to do with a degree in agriculture, anyway? Be a farmer like his grandfather? He’d been hearing stories about John Phillips all his life, and somehow he’d thought it might be cool to follow in his footsteps. But what difference did a degree make? His grandfather died young. His father died young. He would probably die young, too.

So why not go ahead and flunk out of school and just live his life however he wanted? The worst thing that could happen would be dying, and apparently that was going to happen regardless. He picked up a wood chisel and considered what kind of damage he could do with it.

A half-finished footstool sat on the workbench. Henry settled the point of the tool against the top and grabbed a mallet. He whacked the chisel, and it bit deeply into the wood. Henry hit it again, and a chip went flying. He looked at the marred surface of the stool and felt hot tears rise. He flung the tools down and cursed.

Henry gripped the edge of the worktable until he felt his fingernails sink into the wood. It hurt. He tried to focus on the pain, finding it preferable to the guilt, anger, resentment, and slurry of other emotions threatening to drag him under. He’d
always followed his father’s advice—done what was expected of him. Maybe it was time he made some decisions of his own. Maybe it was time to stand on his own two feet.

A Mason jar stood on the counter with a handful of finishing nails inside. Henry thought back to the night his father died and how Charlie Simmons supplied the Mason jars of moonshine his buddies drank. He’d gone to school with Charlie, who played a mean guitar—used to really like him. Maybe it was time to reconnect with his old buddy. Henry eased his grip, ignoring the blood oozing from a torn cuticle. Now that was a good idea. Charlie might be the solution to several of his problems.

“Why you feel the need to have a job is beyond me.” Lenore examined her manicure and seemed to be satisfied. “Your allowance should be more than enough to meet your needs. You ought to be going to school.”

Margaret sighed. She’d almost been ready to leave the two-story house in the middle of town for the peace of Emily’s house in the country when her mother wandered into her room.

“I like working. It gives me a feeling of satisfaction. And Emily Phillips is a lovely person.” Why did she even try to explain herself?

“But domestic work—it’s beneath you. And it’s an embarrassment to me.”

“Helping people should never be beneath anyone.” Of course her mother would be embarrassed by her. But that would likely be the case no matter what she did. It gave her a certain perverse pleasure to aspire to a life her mother disdained.

Lenore made a derisive sound, then brushed her nails against her perfect white blouse. “Well, the least you can do is take Mayfair with you. I kept her out of school again today—she looked flushed—and she’s certainly more suited for menial
work. Goodness knows she isn’t likely to have much success in this world. Between her idiotic diabetes and her attitude, it’s a wonder she’s made it this far.”

Mayfair sat curled in a window seat in the room the girls shared. Margaret didn’t know if her mother was even aware her younger daughter was present. Not that she’d speak more kindly if she did. Margaret wanted to point out that her parents had probably somehow passed diabetes down to Mayfair, but she knew better than to try to get her mother to take responsibility for anything.

“I don’t mind going.” Mayfair’s whisper softened Margaret’s heart. She’d be only too glad to have her sister along today, and Emily adored the child. It had been two weeks since the funeral, and the older woman’s sorrow still hung about her like a too-large dress. Mayfair seemed to cheer her.

“There, now. Maybe I’ll be able to get something done with both of you out from underfoot.” Lenore sailed out of the room and down the stairs.

Margaret looked at her sister. “Has she ever done
anything
?” The pair giggled. “Grab your stuff. Emily will be glad to see you.”

When they walked through Emily’s back door, they overheard her on the telephone.

“No, I understand. Send him over anyway. Maybe some time on the farm will be good for him. I can surely find plenty for him to do.” She paused, listening. “Yes, he’ll have to be willing to do it, but maybe it’ll be easier for his ole granny than for his mother. Young people are often like that.”

Margaret made some noise so Emily would know they’d arrived. Was Henry the mysterious “he” coming over to work on the farm? She remembered how vulnerable he looked lighting the fire in his father’s workshop. Stoic and sad all at once.

Emily came into the room as Margaret and Mayfair hung up their coats and removed their boots.

“Leave those wet shoes on the rug there. It’ll sop up any dampness. Mayfair, I’m so glad you came. You’re not sick, are you?” Mayfair shook her head. “Excellent, you can help me make some oatmeal cookies.” Emily reached out and gently squeezed the girl’s arm, knowing a hug might be overwhelming. “Henry’s coming, and I’m sure he still eats enough for two men his size.”

Mayfair smiled and headed for the kitchen. Emily turned to Margaret. “Perla’s having a time with that boy. Seems he got into some trouble last night. I won’t go into the details, but I think the two of them need a little time apart.” She placed a hand in the small of her back and stretched. “Getting too old to keep up with the young people, but I’d do just about anything for that boy.” A gleam lit her eyes. “He can clean out the chicken coop.” She shot Margaret a meaningful look. “I don’t expect you to help him, but if he’s willing to talk, it might do him good to have someone more his age to listen.”

Margaret schooled her expression. She had no intention of mucking out chicken poop with Henry. Although his father
had
just died. She supposed she should be digging deeper for some Christian charity.

“I thought he’d be back in school,” she said by way of not answering Emily.

“Apparently he got mad about some professor expecting him to keep up with his assignments in spite of his loss. Perla says he isn’t going back this semester.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment then opened them again. “Time and the Lord will set him right. We just have to put up with him until then. I’m sorry you have to see his bad behavior, but I know you’re a kind girl and won’t hold it against him.”

Fifteen minutes later, Henry slammed through the back door. Margaret paused in her scrubbing of the bathroom sink when he thundered into the house. She heard Emily speak to him,
then he reversed his trip with a similar amount of noise and bluster. When the door slammed the second time—he went back out, she assumed—Margaret heaved a sigh and marveled that someone Henry’s age could be so immature.