Until the Harvest (32 page)

A week later, well into April, Mayfair was ready to go home. She was able to speak pretty well, although sometimes she seemed to lose words or get lost in the middle of a sentence. She also walked with what Margaret had come to think of as a stutter. She’d be moving along pretty evenly when her left foot would hang as though an invisible hand were holding it down. After a moment’s hesitation, she would typically resume forward motion. Margaret hoped everything would work itself out once they got home and life began to feel normal again.

A week or so earlier, when Lenore and Wallace stopped by for what Margaret had come to think of as her mother’s drama fix, Dad had quietly suggested Mayfair come back to her parents’ house. Lenore had been down the hall working the nurses’ station for sympathy, which the nurses were learning not to give, when he made the offer.

Margaret took her father’s hand. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d touched him. “Dad, you know it’s not a good place for her,” she’d said. “But it’s good of you to ask.” She wasn’t sure where that last thought had come from, but it seemed to please him. He’d squeezed her hand, and she thought his eyes glistened, but it could have been her imagination.

“Home again, home again, jiggety jig,” Margaret sang as she pulled the Volkswagen up to the door of the gray house. Mayfair giggled. “Oh, it’s good to have you home again.”

“It’s good to be . . . home.”

There. The hesitation. Although it might have been emotion. Margaret tried to act unconcerned. The doctor told her she shouldn’t fuss over her sister unnecessarily, just support her and assume she would continue to heal. She also had strict instructions to keep Mayfair’s blood sugar under control. Another episode could be life-threatening.

It was evening, and although the days were getting longer, it was already dim inside. Margaret fumbled for the light switch, and when she flicked it on, voices shouted, “Welcome home.”

Emily, Perla, Henry, and Frank and Angie Post crowded near the little table, which was loaded down with enough food to feed them for a week. There were Mayfair’s favorite fried pork chops, cheesy scalloped potatoes, green beans, angel biscuits, and a coconut layer cake.

“We wanted to make sure you came home to a good meal,” Perla said. “I hope you’re hungry.”

“What? No . . .” Mayfair shook her hand as she looked for the right word. “Jell-O?”

They all laughed, and Emily folded Mayfair in a big hug. “I can’t begin to tell you how much we’ve missed you. My house is just empty without you girls in it.”

Margaret shot a glance at Henry. It wasn’t empty. He was there. She wondered where Barbara was. As though on cue, the pregnant girl materialized in the doorway, looking uncomfortable.

“Hey,” she said.

“Now that you’ve met, we insisted Barbara come with us, although it took some doing. No sense in her sitting at the house alone when we have something this wonderful to celebrate,” Perla said. “I hope that’s all right?”

Mayfair smiled a brilliant though slightly crooked smile and took a step toward Barbara, but her left foot stuck. Margaret took the chance to move into the gap. She took Barbara’s hand and pulled her toward the table.

“We’re so glad you came. These folks are known for taking in people who need a family. I’m glad they included you. We can’t have too many people celebrating Mayfair’s return home.”

Barbara’s chin quivered, but she seemed to gather herself. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Let’s bless this food and eat,” Emily said. “Before it gets cold.”

Henry thought Margaret was magnificent the way she pulled Barbara in and made her feel part of the group. He’d been trying to warm up to Barbara in case she decided to marry him. He wished she’d decide one way or the other, but any affection he’d managed to dredge up was eclipsed by what he felt for Margaret just then. He was still trying to figure out his purpose, but whatever it was, he had a strong feeling Margaret was part of it. He suddenly understood how Esau must have felt when the reality of giving up his birthright came home. What had he thrown away?

Henry tried to eat, but the food stuck in his throat. He was so glad to see Mayfair at home, laughing and talking and smiling, but the reality of his mistakes was becoming all too real to him. What if he’d gone back to school? He could’ve written Margaret long letters and then spent time with her when he came home on break. He would have had the satisfaction of knowing she was with his grandmother while he was away. Once he had his degree, they would have gotten married and run the farm together—with a room for Mayfair. Something broke open in Henry, and it was all he could do not to cry right there in that room full of laughter.

His father had felt this for his mother. This is what had been lost when his dad died. The memory of love had to be what his mom carried in her heart even now, a memory that clearly
sustained her. Henry had vowed never to love anyone the way he loved his father. What he had failed to do was vow never to love anyone the way his father loved his mother. He thought he might die, but instead, did his best to choke down a slice of coconut cake.

27

M
ARGARET
TRIED
NOT
TO
FUSS
over Mayfair too much. Their routine had more or less returned to what it had been before the trip to the hospital. When Mayfair wasn’t in school, they spent their time with Emily, and Mayfair was taking more of an interest in the garden. She and Henry pored over seed catalogs, planning rows of corn, tomatoes, beans, lettuce, carrots, squash, and she didn’t know what all. Mayfair had her heart set on growing watermelon, and although Henry said he thought they might be too far north, Margaret could see Mayfair would get her way.

Their parents seemed content with a weekly phone call, and already Margaret could sense that soon, calling once a month would be more than enough.

It was a rare Sunday at home when Mayfair began talking about Beulah, whom they’d visited the day before. “She’s not going to live much longer, I think.”

Margaret looked up from where she’d been darning one of Henry’s socks. He didn’t know she had his socks, but when she saw the raggedy pair in the laundry room at Emily’s, she decided to repair them.

“What are you talking about? I thought you—” She’d never really talked to Mayfair about healing people.

“You thought I healed her?”

“Well, people do sometimes seem to get better when you’re around.” Margaret flushed and bent back over the sock with a light bulb stuck inside to fill it out. She liked the tick, tick of the needle against the glass.

“It isn’t me. It’s just that sometimes I think about Jesus, and it seems to rub off on people.”

Margaret tilted her head so she could see her sister. She wanted to ask what in the world Mayfair was talking about but bit her lip and waited instead.

“It’s like Jesus’ name inside my head makes things, people . . . smoother. Makes them fit.”

“Then why do you think Beulah is going to die?”

“Her body isn’t what needed smoothing out. It was inside—the real her. And now she’s smooth.” Mayfair smiled as though she had explained it all and it was the most wonderful thing ever. Then the smile faded. “But Clint isn’t all the way smooth yet. He’ll be sad when she dies.”

Something struck Margaret. “Can you tell whether or not anyone is . . . rough, I guess? I mean, like me? Or Mom and Dad?”

“Sometimes it’s harder when I really love someone.”

“So you couldn’t help me if I were sick? Or . . . rough?”

Mayfair shrugged. “I don’t know. But Jesus could, and that’s the main thing.”

“But what about Mom and Dad? Seems like you could smooth them out a bit.”

“You have to want to be better.” Mayfair yawned. “Can we have waffles for breakfast in the morning?”

“Sure,” Margaret answered.

Her darning lay forgotten in her lap. Did she have rough
edges that needed smoothing out? She’d always been healthy, except that time she thought she had appendicitis, but could she be like Beulah and need healing somewhere inside? And if she needed it, did she want it? She went into the kitchen to gather what she would need for breakfast in the morning, then fell into bed troubled over her own rough edges.

Barbara’s belly seemed to grow rounder by the minute. Henry wanted to press her for an answer to his proposal but was afraid she might see that as enthusiasm on his part, and he’d lost even the little enthusiasm he’d once mustered. After plowing his mother’s garden for the second time, he watched Barbara waddle onto the porch to sit in the sun, her hand pressed into the small of her back. Since the night she was included in Mayfair’s homecoming, she’d been quieter, more helpful around the house. He thought his mom was beginning to think of her as another daughter. Sadie called once a month and wrote a letter each week, but having someone around to take care of seemed to make Mom happy.

“Henry, call Barbara in for supper,” his mother hollered from the kitchen. The weather was so mild, she’d left the door open.

Barbara heard and stood with a grunt, then shot him an embarrassed look.

“Not too graceful these days,” she said.

“When’s that baby coming, you reckon?”

She looked at the floor. “Guess it might be earlier than I expected. You never know about these things.”

Henry thought he did know and decided to offer a jab. “By my count you should have a ways to go yet.”

Her color deepened, and she looked like she might turn and run. He immediately felt bad, but if this baby really wasn’t his, he might like to hang his hat somewhere else. He thought about
how Mayfair healed his hand and wished she could heal something like this. He took a step toward Barbara, hand extended.

“Don’t you lay a finger on her, Henry Phillips, or I’ll cut it off.”

Henry whirled toward the voice and saw Charlie coming around the corner of the house. “She’s my woman. You back on off.”

Charlie steamed up onto the porch and planted himself in front of a shocked-looking Barbara. He spread his legs and stood with hands on hips. “I’m claiming what’s mine.”

“What are you talking about?” Henry asked. Mom appeared in the doorway but didn’t interfere.

Charlie half turned toward Barbara and looked at her belly, then into her eyes. Hope bloomed there as Charlie took her hand.

“Baby’s mine. We thought, well, the plan was—”

Barbara cut in. “I was already pregnant that night, Henry.” She glanced at Charlie. “With his baby, but he wasn’t in a position to do right by me, so we figured on getting someone . . . upstanding to step in.” She lowered her eyes. “I did my best to get you into bed with me that night so you’d think the baby was yours.”

A wave of relief washed over Henry, and he felt his knees go weak. He sat down hard in the porch swing.

Charlie took over again. “We figured you’d marry her, or at least give her some money. Then she could run off with me.” He scuffed his boot. “Except I got arrested trying to raise the money to run off.” He brightened again. “But since Pa sorta encouraged me to turn in the guys running the dope, all I have to do is testify against them and do some community service.”

“You kids come in here and eat,” Mom said through the screen door. “It’s getting chilly.”

Charlie jumped. Henry guessed he hadn’t seen her there. “Eat? You want us to eat with you?”

“If you don’t, I’m going to have a whole bunch of food going to waste. Get on in here.”

Charlie looked at Barbara, and she shrugged. “They’re nice. That’s why I haven’t married Henry. I felt bad ’cause he was so nice to me. I hated to do it to him.” She glanced toward the door. “To them.”

Henry felt like whooping for joy. Being nice had finally paid off. “Come on in here,” he said, grinning. “I guess we all need to do a little repenting today, and it’s easier done on a full belly.”