Until the Harvest (34 page)

He watched Margaret move around the Simmonses’ kitchen with his mother and grandmother. They were like dancers performing an intricate choreography that would ultimately feed most of Wise. Mayfair sat at the table and watched, clearly delighted with all the goings-on. He wondered why she looked so happy at a funeral, especially since she’d gotten so close to Beulah.

When Clint and Harold came in the front door, the old man looked bewildered by the house full of food and women. Henry suspected it was the cleanest the place had been in at least a decade. He felt a moment of panic when it occurred to him that someone might stumble on the still out in the woods. He sidled over to Clint.

“Do I need to make sure folks steer clear of the, ah, works out back?”

Clint ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. “Naw. Took it down about a month ago. I closed up shop when Charlie left. Been meaning to give it up for a long time, and it—” He coughed and blew his nose in a handkerchief. “It seemed to make Beulah awful happy.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.” Henry couldn’t have been more surprised if Clint had said he was taking up disco dancing. “Guess I’ll get a bite to eat, then.”

“But who are all these people?” Clint asked. “And where’d all that food come from?”

“Mom and Grandma decided Beulah needed a proper send-off. I guess when they decide something like that, it’s going to happen.”

Clint grunted. “Guess I can stand it for a little while.”

He pulled a flask out of his coat pocket, sloshed whatever was in it into a mug, and topped it off with coffee. His look
let Henry know in no uncertain terms that he should keep his mouth shut. Henry eased away as others stepped in to offer their condolences. He wondered how long Clint could stand all the socializing. He’d probably pull out a shotgun and run them all off before the day was out.

He snagged a fried peach pie and stepped out back for a breath of fresh air. The spring sunshine warmed the dirt-packed yard, where Clint’s hunting dogs had worn the grass away. A woman sat in an old chair with missing slats. A hound had his head in her lap, looking blissful as she caressed his ears. Henry felt his heart leap when he realized it was Margaret.

“Hey, there,” he said, swallowing his last bite of pie.

Margaret turned, and he saw that her freckled cheeks were tracked with tears.

“Oh, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.

She swiped at her face and bowed her head over the dog. “I guess I miss Beulah more than I thought I would.” She sniffled. “She was always so glad to see us, and it made her happy when I helped put things to rights out here. Seems lonesome without her.”

Henry glanced back at the house overflowing with people. He guessed he knew what it felt like to be lonesome in the middle of a crowd. He squatted down next to her chair and scratched the hound’s shoulder. The dog began to pat the ground with a hind foot.

“I’m still awful lonesome for Dad. But I guess, maybe, it’s good that he went like he did—in his sleep in his bed in his own house. I’ve been talking to that preacher, Ray, and maybe when you’re a person of faith, dying isn’t such a bad thing. It’s just rough on whoever’s left behind. Beulah sure seemed to love the Lord.”

“Are you a person of faith?” Margaret asked. Her hand still rested on the dog’s head, and Henry saw that he could move his own hand a little and touch her.

“I’m trying to be one. Guess I have a ways to go.”

“Me too. When I thought Mayfair might die, I talked to God a lot and sometimes . . .” She raised her eyes to treetops unfurling their new spring leaves. “Sometimes I thought He was listening and maybe, just maybe keeping Mayfair alive not for her sake, but for mine. I guess I owe Him for that.”

“Mayfair’s pretty special. Guess we all owe Him one there.”

Henry swallowed and let his fingers slide over Margaret’s. He felt her stiffen and then relax. He snuck a peek at her face and thought he saw a smile. He tried to think of the words that would let her know how he felt, but before he could open his mouth, his mother hollered from the back door.

“Margaret, I think something’s not quite right with Mayfair. You’d better come.”

Margaret whirled from the chair and ran toward the house.

When Margaret pushed her way into the living room, she saw Mayfair sitting in the middle of the floor with a funny look on her face. Clint was crouched in front of her with a mug in his hand. He tipped it and whatever was inside ran down Mayfair’s chin. He spoke so softly Margaret couldn’t hear, but she instantly wondered if he’d been drinking, and it struck her that alcohol was about the worst thing anyone could give Mayfair.

“No,” she cried out, fighting her way forward.

Clint gave Mayfair another sip, and it looked like she swallowed most of it.

“What are you giving her?” Margaret towered over Clint, hands on her hips. “Someone bring me some punch or orange juice. Now.”

Mayfair blinked slowly and tilted her head up to look at her sister. “More,” she said.

Clint looked Margaret in the eye as he gave her sister another
swallow. Margaret wanted to knock the cup from his hand but hated to make more of a scene than they already were.

“You’d better not be giving her moonshine,” she hissed as Perla pressed a cup of punch into her hand.

Clint rose to his full height and looked down at Margaret. “It’s grape juice,” he said. “Made it myself.” Then he walked out of the room.

Everyone stared at Margaret as she helped Mayfair to the sofa where she’d visited with Beulah so many times. She tried to ignore the looks. Everyone knew how sick her sister had been. Of course she was going to be cautious. Gradually, the hum of conversation resumed, and Margaret gave Mayfair her full attention.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. Clint seemed to know what was happening before I did.” She smiled. “He’s so nice. I’m glad he and Beulah got better before she died.”

“What are you talking about? Beulah didn’t get better.”

Mayfair smiled. “I’m sleepy. I don’t think Clint would mind if I took a nap in Beulah’s room.”

“Oh, I don’t know if—”

“Come get me when you’re ready to go.” Mayfair walked gingerly into the bedroom and settled into a rocking chair. She drew an afghan over her knees and closed her eyes.

“I think she’ll be fine, sweetheart.” Margaret hadn’t seen Emily approach. “Clint was there so quick, I don’t think it was much of an episode at all. I don’t know how he knew, but thank goodness he did.”

Margaret nodded and looked around, feeling lost. She wanted to thank Clint, maybe even apologize. But she didn’t see him anywhere.

29

M
AYFAIR
SAT
CURLED
ON
THE
SOFA
reading
Alliance Life
magazine. She’d asked Margaret to subscribe to it for her, and although Margaret didn’t know why her little sister would want to read a missionary magazine, she was happy to put in the order. Watching Mayfair get lost between the pages, she was beginning to wonder if her sister didn’t have dreams of her own.

Margaret, on the other hand, still had the same dream—to live out her days on this farm. Originally, she’d thought any farm would do, but now she was in love with the Phillipses’ family land, and maybe the Phillips family, as well. She glanced out the window at the greening countryside as she rested her fingers. She was trying to crochet some place mats for the table, and it was more challenging than she anticipated.

Her thoughts turned to Henry, who seemed different lately. When he’d held her hand at Beulah’s funeral, she’d felt the most wonderful tingling deep in her belly. It was a little scary, but she wouldn’t mind feeling it again. Was it wrong to imagine marrying him so she could stay on the farm? She liked him in spite of all the mistakes he’d made in recent months. She might even feel something more than liking.

She sighed and picked her crochet hook up again. Why had she chosen a pale yellow? It would surely show stains. But it was too late to turn back now. She was almost finished with the first place mat. One more, and she and Mayfair could use them, even if they weren’t perfect.

She glanced out the window again. It was open a crack, and the spring air carried the aroma of lilacs inside. Margaret closed her eyes and breathed it in. Getting married in the spring would be nice. There were so many flowers, and the world looked soft and new. She grimaced and gave herself a mental reprimand. Idle daydreams were a waste of time.

As she opened her eyes, she saw movement. She could have sworn a man had just walked by and ducked behind the shed where she parked the car. A chill ran up her spine. It was probably Henry. He’d come knock on the door in a minute, and she’d ask him in and give him a piece of cake.

But Henry didn’t come, and Margaret saw movement again. She could swear someone was inside the shed. There were cracks in the boards and, there, a shadow. She glanced at Mayfair, who seemed oblivious. She laid down her work and stretched.

“I’m going to get a breath of air,” she said.

Mayfair nodded without looking up from the article she was reading. Margaret stepped outside and walked around the house toward the shed. She heard the clank of metal and froze, her heart in her throat. Someone was out there.
Let it be Henry,
she prayed, stiffening her spine and walking as though she were confident of who she would find.

“Hey, there.”

Margaret meant to scream, but all she could manage was a squeak. Henry stepped around the corner of the house behind her. “Thought I saw you. Whatcha doing?”

She pointed a shaky finger toward the shed. “I heard something, saw something. I thought it might be you.”

Henry wrinkled his brow and stepped between Margaret and the outbuilding. “Stay here.”

Although she was hugely relieved, Margaret’s heart still raced. She glanced back at the house. She could see Mayfair’s dark head bent over her magazine. It was probably an animal. A stray dog or a raccoon. Henry reached the side of the building and cautiously peered around the open end where she drove in and out. His posture immediately relaxed, and he spoke, stepping into the space.

Margaret released the pent-up breath in her lungs. It took a moment for her breathing to even out, then she started forward. She could hear Henry and what sounded like another man. She rounded the corner and froze.

Henry almost laughed out loud when he saw who was in Margaret’s car shed and what he was doing. “Well, howdy. Looks like you’ve tackled a job there.”

Clint wiped his hands on a greasy rag. “Heard her drive away from the house the other day. Valves were making way too much noise. Reckon she don’t know about adjusting them.”

Margaret stared when she saw Clint with the engine compartment open on her car.

“When’s the last time you adjusted your valves?” Henry asked.

“What?” Margaret looked as though he were speaking a foreign language.

“Your valves.” He pointed toward the engine. “You should adjust them at least once a year, probably more than that.”

She shook her head and looked at Clint. “Why didn’t you come to the house?”

He grunted and leaned back down to tweak the final valve. “Didn’t know if you’d take kindly to me helping, so I thought
I’d ease on in here and do this little job. They were pretty bad, too. Needed doing.”

“But why?”

Clint looked at Margaret and then back at the car. “Your sister’s done more for me and mine than I could have deserved in three lifetimes. I wanted to do something to earn it.” He threw the rag down and stuck a wrench in his back pocket. “Not that I ever could.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you wanted her to heal Beulah.”

Clint slammed the lid, then turned and leaned against the car. “And so she did. Only she did even more than that. She managed to fix a lifetime of me being mad about Esther dying and taking it out on everyone around me.”

His first wife, Margaret remembered. “How did she do that?”

“Don’t know. When I was driving around that night and she just showed up to come go with me, I guess that was the first thing. Then the way she made Beulah light up . . . it was like I seen her for the first time. And maybe I robbed her of the good she deserved. I even made my boys scornful of her.” He looked out into the pasture where a doe and a fawn grazed in the edge of the field. “Even that deer out there had it better than poor Beulah. I was a sorry son of a . . . well, I knew I needed to do something different.”