Until the Harvest (7 page)

As they drove back to Emily’s, Mayfair seemed even quieter than usual. Margaret glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that her sister had her head back and her eyes closed.

“You okay, sweetie?”

No response. Margaret pulled over and turned around for a better look. Mayfair’s skin was beaded with sweat. Margaret touched her, and Mayfair jerked away, shaking.

“Sweetheart, I want you to eat this.”

Margaret fumbled with the candy wrapper. Her fingers couldn’t seem to get it undone, but finally the candy popped out. Mayfair grumbled but let Margaret place the sweet in her mouth.

“Suck on it. Get all that good sugar going. Isn’t it yummy?”

Mayfair opened her eyes. “I don’t feel good.”

“I know. The candy will make you feel better. Here, eat another one as soon as you finish that.”

Mayfair sighed and took the second peppermint.

“As soon as you finish them both, you can take a nap, and then we’ll get you a snack back at Emily’s. Okay?”

Mayfair nodded and obediently sucked on the candy. Her color was better, and the sweat had dried, but she looked dazed.

Margaret turned back to the front and restarted the car. As she pulled out, Emily reached over to pat her knee.

“You’re a good big sister. She’s lucky to have you.”

“Thanks for saying so, but I wonder what made her sugar drop. She had her shot and a good breakfast right on time. That shouldn’t have happened.” Margaret glanced in the rearview mirror again, thinking she was the lucky one and maybe Frank wasn’t such a fool after all.

Henry stalked through the living room where Mom sat watching the evening news, Dad’s spot next to her hopelessly empty. He could feel her eyes following him, but he kept moving. He opened the front door and clicked it closed behind him. The disapproval was tangible. He thought he could see it like fog rolling in. But he’d made up his mind, and his mother would just have to get used to his new role as provider. He got in his dad’s ramshackle truck and headed for the Simmons place.

Clint met him on the front porch, which was propped up at one corner by a broken crate. “Hear the sheriff’s been out to see you.”

“Yeah. Didn’t tell him anything.”

Clint squinted at Henry, working his jaw under a scraggly, graying beard. He spit a stream of tobacco juice into the yard. “You sure about that?”

“You accusing me of something?” He didn’t know why it mattered, but he wanted the moonshiner to respect him.

Clint flicked an eyebrow and worked his jaw some more. “I reckon not. I reckon if you’d said anything, Pendleton would’ve been out here by now.”

Henry stepped onto the porch and looked the old man in the eye, trying to keep the shiver of fear at bay. “Reckon you can trust me enough to give me some paying work?”

Clint looked thoughtful, laughed, and then slapped Henry—hard—on the back.

“Come on into the house. Charlie’s awful pitiful since they took that bullet out of his leg.”

Inside, the house was dark and hazy, a combination of woodsmoke leaking from a badly drawing chimney and cigarette smoke from Charlie. Henry smothered a cough.

“Hey, there, Henry-boy,” Charlie slurred. It was clear he’d been imbibing in the family recipe. “Come on over here and have a drink with me.” He waved broad and loose. “Purely medicinal for me, but you go on and get drunk if you want to.”

Henry picked up a pint jar that looked none too clean, and Charlie sloshed some moonshine in it. Henry figured the alcohol would kill anything in the glass. He took a swallow and wrestled it down, working hard not to gasp at the fire.

“Don’t be hitting that stuff too hard there, Henry,” Clint said. “Might be I have a job for you tonight.”

Henry put some swagger in his voice. “What would that be?”

“Since Charlie got shot in his gas-pedal leg, I’m short a driver. Need a delivery made over toward Blanding. Think you could handle it?”

“Reckon I could. When you need it done?”

“Tonight. But Pendleton’s supposed to have some extra deputies out after the other night’s altercation. You got nerve enough to drive through a checkpoint?”

Henry took another slug of moonshine and found it went down a little easier. “No problem.”

Clint grinned. “There’s a hundred bucks in it for you.” He paused. “Just remember, you’ll be owing me for anything you lose between here and Blanding.”

Henry swallowed hard. His throat felt tight. He coughed and spit. “Since I won’t lose anything, that won’t be a problem.”

Clint laughed, but it didn’t sound pleasant. He slapped Henry on the back again and hollered for Harold. Charlie’s younger brother appeared from a back room. “Load the goods in Henry’s truck. Throw some hay and those old burlap sacks in there to cover it up. Henry, here, is feeling lucky.”

Ten minutes later Henry walked out to his truck, feeling anything but lucky.

Henry didn’t see the sheriff’s car parked on a side road in the dark, but whoever was inside saw him approaching and flashed the blue lights. For a minute, Henry felt as though the cab of the truck had emptied of oxygen. Then he took a ragged breath and eased to a stop just shy of the dirt drive where the cruiser sat. Sheriff Pendleton got out and walked over to the driver’s side window, which Henry rolled down as cold air poured over him.

“Howdy, Henry. Thought that must be you driving Casewell’s old truck.”

“Yeah, Dad gave it to me a while back.” Henry suddenly felt as if his father might be there in the truck with him. How many times had they ridden, side-by-side, on this bench seat? It was an uncomfortable sensation.

“Glad to see you’re not with any of those Simmons boys. I heard a rumor they might try and take over one of the Waites’ runs to Blanding. Thought I might see one of ’em come through here this evening. Not near the demand for moonshine there used to be, but some of the old folks still have a taste for it. Especially that stuff Clint Simmons makes. He seems to have a steady following.”

“Ain’t seen anyone on the road much,” Henry said. He was grateful for the winter jacket that hid where he must have sweated through his denim shirt by now.

“Where you headed?”

Henry’s brain felt scrambled. If he said Blanding it might make Sheriff Pendleton suspicious, and there wasn’t really anywhere else he could be headed on this road. He remembered his fiddle case sitting in the floorboards.

“Thought I’d see if I could find a little music—join in with my fiddle,” he said, indicating the instrument with a tilt of his head. The feeling his father was there washed over him again, and his face felt hot, his eyes gritty. He gripped the steering wheel hard and ducked his head. He was tougher than this.

But the show of emotion seemed to set the sheriff back a bit. He bowed his head and slapped the door of the truck once, twice. “This must be a hard time for you, Henry. I hope you know how sorry I am about your dad.”

“Yes, sir.” It was all Henry could manage.

“Still, you might look for another road to drive down if you want to avoid trouble. Like I told you before, I’d hate to find you tangled up in the Simmons business. A little moonshine I can overlook, but seems they might be branching out into . . .” He paused. “Meaner stuff.”

“I appreciate that. Guess I won’t stay out too late. Mom will be worried if I’m gone overlong.”

Sheriff Pendleton looked Henry in the eye and then glanced at the bed of the truck. “You hauling hay for someone?”

“Grandma’s looking to get a milk cow.” The words were there almost before Henry thought them. He held his breath, astonished at his own quick thinking.

“That so? Seems like she used to win ribbons for her butter at the county fair. Tell her if she has extra I’d be glad to pay a fair price for it.”

“I’ll let her know,” Henry said. He shifted the truck into gear and began to ease away.

“And, Henry.”

He looked back at the sheriff, who stood with thumbs hooked in his belt. “Yes, sir?”

“You be careful now.”

Henry pulled away, using every ounce of restraint he had to keep from pressing the gas pedal to the floor. He tried to whistle, but it was shrill and off key, sharp against the emptiness of the cab. He wondered what the sheriff meant about the Simmonses getting into “meaner stuff.” He tried to shake the whole thing off and noticed the sense he’d had of his father being present was gone now. And he found the absence worse than seeing blue lights flashing in the rearview mirror.

6

M
ARGARET
HAD
THE
DAY
OFF
, and she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. Typically, she went to Emily’s on Saturday, Monday, and Thursday, although sometimes she went other days, as well. Emily paid her by the week and had initially protested when Margaret came extra, but eventually seemed to understand that Margaret was happier on the farm than at home. The extra days became “visiting” days, and Mayfair came along after school and on the weekends.

But this afternoon both girls were at home. Mayfair curled in the window seat, reading, and Margaret sat at the desk they shared, a book of poetry by William Butler Yeats open to “The Wild Swans at Coole.” Dad was still at work, and Mom had gone to her bridge club, where she would drink too much and come home weepy. But for the moment, all was peace.

“Mayfair, let’s do something together this afternoon.” She turned around and leaned over the back of her chair. “What do you feel like doing?”

Mayfair read to the end of the sentence or maybe the paragraph, placed a slip of paper in her book, and closed its covers before turning her attention to her sister. “I’d like to go see Aunt Angie.”

Margaret smiled at Mayfair’s use of “aunt.” Lots of folks
called Angie that as a way of showing respect, but Margaret had gotten out of the habit once she was eighteen or so.

“Sounds good. The sun’s out, and it’s a beautiful day for a drive in the country.”

Mayfair smiled and hopped off the window seat to get her shoes from the closet tucked under the eaves. Margaret trailed behind her. Somehow she felt light today, as if good things might happen. She hummed as she prepared to head out and tried to think if there was anything they could take to Angie. Her mother didn’t believe anyone should eat sweets—least of all her diabetic daughter—so there were no cake or cookies to take along. She remembered the two jars of grape jelly Emily had sent home with them last fall when they helped make it. Only one jar had been opened. Margaret fetched the second pint jar, tied one of Mayfair’s hair ribbons around it, and tucked it into the pocket of her winter coat.

Frank answered the door at Angie’s house. He ushered the girls in with a finger to his lips. “Angie’s having her afternoon constitutional, but she’ll be up any minute, and I know she’ll be glad to see you.”

“Frank Post, I hear you whispering in there. You bring whoever that is on into the parlor.”

Frank grinned. “Guess she’s up. You girls shed your coats and come on into the house.”

Angie was settling into a wing-backed armchair in the front room. She smoothed her skirt over her knees and motioned for the sisters to sit on the sofa. “Girls, I’m so glad to see you. Did Emily come with you?”