Until the Harvest (4 page)

Emily appeared in the doorway. “You’ve got it shining in here,” she said, admiring the spotless fixtures. “Henry’s out in the chicken coop. Might not be the time to join him, but maybe you’d be kind enough to check on him in twenty minutes or so?”

Margaret nodded. She’d check to make sure he hadn’t killed any chickens, if nothing else. She and Mayfair could go gather the eggs in a little while. Her sister always enjoyed being around animals of any kind.

After finishing in the bathroom and changing the sheets on Emily’s bed, Margaret went looking for her sister. She found her nibbling an oatmeal cookie and reading
Little House in the Big Woods
for the umpteenth time.

“Only one cookie, Mayfair. Want to help me gather the eggs?”

Mayfair lit up. She placed her half-eaten cookie on a cloth napkin and ran for her shoes and coat. “Let’s take Henry some cookies,” she suggested as she went.

“He’s been cleaning out chicken mess. He’s too dirty to eat right now.”

“Take him a wet washcloth.” Mayfair slid her arms into her jacket. “A warm one.”

Margaret rolled her eyes. If it had been anyone other than her sister suggesting such a thing, she wouldn’t even consider it. She got an old washcloth out of the linen closet and dampened it in water as hot as she could stand. It would cool quickly. Mayfair took up a plate of cookies, and they walked out to the chicken house.

Henry sat on the ramp the chickens used to come and go, muttering to himself.

“We brought you cookies,” Mayfair said.

He looked up as though someone had just offered to rob him of his chickens at gunpoint.

“And Margaret has a cloth for you to clean your hands.”

Margaret stuck out the cloth. Henry took it, rubbing it over his hands like he’d been hypnotized and told to do it.

“It’s warm,” he said.

“We knew you’d be cold.” Mayfair smiled and handed him the plate of cookies. “And hungry.”

He handed her the soiled cloth and bit into a cookie. “Good,” he said through the crumbs.

“Emily and I made them.” Mayfair sounded pleased, and Margaret realized this might be the longest conversation she’d heard her sister have with anyone outside the family.

“How’re you coming with the coop?” Margaret asked.

Henry looked over his shoulder. “Guess I’m about halfway. Probably hasn’t been cleaned out since my grandfather died forty years ago.”

“Surely your father . . .” The words died on Margaret’s tongue. Well, that had been insensitive.

Henry stiffened. “I’m sure he did. It was just a way of talking.” He shoved the remainder of a cookie in his mouth and handed the plate back to Mayfair. “Guess I’d better get back to it.” He shot Margaret a look she chose not to interpret.

“We’re just here for the eggs,” Margaret said and moved to the side where she could enter and check the laying boxes. Mayfair balanced her plate on a rock and scurried ahead of Margaret. Inside, she carefully collected the few eggs, even reaching beneath two hens still on their nests. Margaret didn’t like to do that, since a hen pecked her on the back of the hand one time. But the chickens let Mayfair reach beneath them as though they wanted her to have their eggs.

Job finished, the sisters walked back to the house leaving
Henry to chip bird mess off the roosts. Margaret felt bad for him. It wasn’t a nice job, and somehow she felt she’d made it worse for him. If only he weren’t so—what? Angry? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, it made Henry Phillips hard to be around.

3

H
ENRY
WASN
’
T
SURE
HOW
MUCH
money his parents had or how his father had left things, but he figured Mom would need some help now. He could always get a job in fast food or bagging groceries, but he had an idea he could make money more easily than that. And Charlie Simmons could be his ticket to quick cash.

The first few nights he rambled around with the Simmons boys, he snuck out his window after he thought his mother was asleep. But she knew what he was up to—at least he was pretty sure she did—so he opted to stop trying to hide it. The previous night he’d strolled out the front door at ten, telling Mom not to wait up for him. The look on her face made his stomach clench, but he chose to ignore it. She should be grateful he was willing to take risks in order to provide for her. A man had to do what a man had to do.

Of course, he hadn’t really wanted to hike through the woods to break up a rival family’s still in the dark of night. He hadn’t really enjoyed running through the woods, tripping, falling, banging his knees, and having shots fired over his head. Henry knew the Simmonses were one of only a few families still running bootleg liquor and maybe breaking a few other laws, but he
was determined to prove he could handle anything they dished out. He had to, if he wanted a fair cut of the profits.

When Mom sent him to Grandma Emily’s to help out this morning, he’d been secretly relieved. Not that he’d show it, but he felt somehow anchored on his grandmother’s farm. He felt safe, like he had a purpose. Not to mention connected to Dad. They’d spent a lot of time over there together, helping his grandmother with the garden or the few animals she kept.

He remembered one time when they were weaning the milk cow’s latest calf. He was only ten or so and liked messing around with the calf while she was in the stall next to her mother, scratching her behind the ears and petting her wooly head. Daisy didn’t think much of it, but there was little she could do.

Then he’d been in the calf lot one day when Daisy ambled in for the evening milking and saw her chance. He’d had his back to the annoyed cow when she charged, and his father roared, “Stop,” in a voice like thunder. Poor ole Daisy skidded to a stop, and he’d escaped into the barn just in time to avoid a trampling. Dad ran shaking hands over his shoulders and down his arms. He’d laughed a little and said he’d take a boy over a milk cow any day and warned him to stay clear of Daisy. Thinking back on it he wondered that Dad hadn’t yelled at him for being in the calf lot when he shouldn’t have been, but his father had never been one to yell or berate. He just gently admonished.

He sat on the ramp leading up to the now much cleaner chicken house and swallowed past the lump in his throat. Chickens scratched near his feet, even though there wasn’t much for them to peck at this time of year. But they went over and over the ground around the coop just the same. He envied their mindless pursuit. They weren’t agonizing over what to do with their lives. They were simply looking for something good to eat.

His stomach rumbled on cue. He wished he had some more of those oatmeal cookies Mayfair brought out. The one he’d
eaten had been delicious, but then Margaret ruined his appetite. That girl seemed way too uptight. Probably a real prude—all prim and proper. But she did look out for her little sister, and Henry liked Mayfair. Something about the younger girl made him feel like he should take care of her.

He stood and dusted the seat of his britches. It was probably lunchtime by now, and Grandma was sure to feed him well. Although he was almost too dirty to go inside. Once he warmed up, he’d probably reek of chicken manure. But who cared? It wasn’t like he had anyone to impress. Margaret might be cute if she loosened up, but that wasn’t likely.

Henry ambled down to the house and kicked his work boots off at the front door. He stepped inside in his stocking feet and shrugged out of his jacket. He probably should have left it outside, too, but he dumped it on a hook near the door instead.

He heard laughter from the kitchen. Margaret and Mayfair were singing along with the radio. It sounded like Captain and Tennille doing “Love Will Keep Us Together.” He peeked around the corner and saw Margaret singing into a wooden spoon while Mayfair danced next to her. They joined in together on the last chorus and collapsed into giggles. Henry had been determined to hang onto his foul mood but smiled in spite of himself.

“Not bad,” he said, walking into the room.

Mayfair ducked behind Margaret and smiled shyly past her sister’s shoulder. Margaret blushed in a way that almost made her look pretty. Even with all those freckles. Maybe if she did something with her hair. . . .

“Lunch is just about ready,” Margaret said, reaching for the radio knob as John Denver came on.

“Wait, I like this one.” Henry bumped Margaret’s hand as he turned up the volume.

He listened to the opening lines, then jumped in with “Thank God, I’m a country boy.” By the end of the second verse, Mayfair
joined in. Margaret looked a little surprised but joined her voice to the din with the third verse. They made such a racket, Emily came into the room, saw what was what, and added her soprano. They were all dancing and carrying on by the time the last notes died away. Henry wished for his own fiddle so he could play another chorus or two.

Emily flicked off the radio as laughter replaced the music. Mayfair positively glowed, Margaret looked more relaxed than Henry thought possible, and for a moment he forgot he was mad at the world.

“Well, now, that was a fine way to start our lunch off,” Grandma said. “You’re all good singers, though I can’t say much for your dancing.” They laughed some more. “Henry, go wash up, and we’ll have us some of this fine potato soup Margaret has cooked up.”

As Henry scrubbed his fingernails with a soapy brush, he let the pleasure of singing in his grandmother’s kitchen sink in a bit. He almost wished he could stay here. He didn’t care if he ever saw the Simmons boys again. He could quit school for good and run his grandmother’s farm. She had the chickens, and they could get a pig to raise come spring. Maybe even a milk cow. Now that would be good. Margaret probably knew how to make butter—she seemed like the kind to have a knack for those sorts of things.

Henry stopped scrubbing and dropped the brush in the sink. He rinsed his hands and dried off. But then again, his mother needed him. And anyway, all that taking care of animals would be a lot of work. And it would definitely tie him down. He’d end up losing the chickens to foxes, the pig would get foot rot, and the cow would go dry. Farming was a whole lot of trouble, and he reckoned life was hard enough. The heck with John Denver and his stupid song.

As he dragged back into the kitchen, Margaret dished up
soup and put bowls on the table, along with a loaf of warm soda bread and a jar of peaches that probably came from the tree down at the cold spring. Well, the world didn’t much suit him at the moment, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy lunch.

As they sat, Emily folded her hands and bowed her head. Margaret and Mayfair did the same, but Henry didn’t feel like bowing before a God who would take his father. He watched the women as his grandmother said grace.

He had the feeling Margaret wasn’t all that into praying, either, but Mayfair seemed completely absorbed. She clasped her hands and her thumbs almost touched her nose. She squinched her eyes as Emily thanked God for the food, the hands that prepared it, and finally for Henry, who had been such a help. Henry wanted to bat the prayer away as if it were a cobweb drifting over his face, but he sat still out of respect for his grandmother.

Once the prayer ended, Henry tasted his soup. Man, it was good. Rich and buttery. He broke off a hunk of bread and slathered it with apple butter. Margaret might not be a barrel of laughs, but she sure could cook.

“Oh, it does my heart good to see a man eat after he’s worked all morning.” Emily patted Henry’s arm. “Your grandfather was lean, but he’d eat a whole pan of biscuits if I let him. He’d even pass up dessert for biscuits and jelly. That man could eat.”

Henry thought his grandmother looked almost as proud as she would if she’d just said, “That man saved a child from a burning building.”

Grandma turned to Margaret. “Will you help me make a casserole this afternoon? It’s my week to take something to Angie Talbot.”

Margaret agreed and added some more soup to Henry’s bowl without asking. He started to get annoyed but decided to eat the soup instead.

“Angie Talbot. Didn’t her twin sister die a while back?” Margaret asked.

“Yes, poor thing. She’s always kept her feelings to herself, but I know it was hard on her. Of course, Frank Post is over there most every day, but he’s old as the hills himself.”

Henry considered how ancient you had to be for his grandmother to think you were old as the hills. “How old is he?”

“Oh, both of them must be near about ninety. I think they were sweethearts once a long time ago. Or maybe it was Liza he was sweet on.” Emily sopped up the last bit of her soup with a piece of bread. “I doubt anyone remembers. At any rate, the members of Laurel Mountain Church take turns looking after Angie. One of those visiting nurses comes in just about every day, but we like to see to our own.” She cocked her head and looked at Henry as if she was trying to decide something.

“If you’re up to it, you could spend some time walking the old fence line this afternoon to see what needs fixing. I’ve been thinking about getting a cow.”

Margaret made a sound like she was going to speak, but Emily kept talking.

“Before I make up my mind, I need to know if that fence will hold an ornery old milk cow. You think you can manage something like that?”

Henry had thought he might go home and sleep the afternoon away after his rough night, but suddenly, walking the fields in the thin January sunshine seemed like a much better idea.

“I reckon I could.”

“Good. About the time you finish, we should be ready to go over to the Talbot place. You can drive us.”

Margaret acted like she was going to say something again, but Emily shot her a look. “Let’s gather these dishes and get started on that casserole. Henry, take some cookies with you.”

Mayfair scurried to wrap cookies in a napkin for Henry.
She ducked her head as she handed them over. “Can I come with you?”

“What?” Henry wasn’t sure he’d heard the girl.

“I want to come, too,” Mayfair said, peeking out from beneath long lashes. “Like Laura helping her Pa on the prairie.”