Until the Harvest (8 page)

“No, ma’am. We’ll see her again tomorrow.”

“I was hoping she’d stop by and save me the trouble of calling on her.”

“Do you want me to take her a message?” Margaret asked.

“Oh no. I’ll get Frank to haul me over there or maybe invite her to the house for some pound cake. I wanted to let her know how sorry I am about that call I made the other day.” Angie tapped her fingers against the arm of the chair. “It was the oddest thing. My mind was muddled so I couldn’t keep track of anything, but I’m clear as a bell now, and I wanted her to know it won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mind a bit,” Margaret said.

“Nonetheless, I’d like to clarify things. I apologize for dragging you girls out, as well. It was unconscionable, and I’m ashamed of myself.”

“It’s all right, Aunt Angie.” Mayfair moved to Angie and knelt at her feet. “It won’t ever happen again, and that’s the main thing.”

Angie ran a hand over Mayfair’s soft hair. Margaret tried not to be jealous of her sister’s rich brown hair that hung in silken waves past her shoulders. She was surprised Mayfair let Angie pet her that way.

“Thank you, child. I know you’re right.”

Mayfair settled there and leaned against Angie’s knee as they talked about the weather and how nice it would be if Emily really did get a cow. Angie talked about churning butter in a stone crock with a round dasher—up and down for what seemed like ages. Margaret enjoyed hearing about how things used to be done and wished she could learn. Who knew? Once Emily got a cow, maybe she would learn, though hopefully things were a bit more modern now.

When the visit drew to a close, Angie excused herself and disappeared into her bedroom. Frank walked the girls to the door and helped them on with their coats.

“I don’t understand it,” he said. “I was sure there was nothing to be done for—well, for the way Angie’s mind was slipping.”
He shook his head. “But here lately, she’s sharp as she ever was, maybe sharper. I just can’t explain it, but I surely am grateful.”

“Do you think it’ll last?” Margaret asked.

“I hope so. But I’m not taking it for granted, just in case it doesn’t.”

The girls set out in the gathering dusk, driving in silence for a good while. Margaret glanced at her watch. It was time for Mayfair to eat and have her evening insulin shot.

“She really is better now.”

“Who?” Margaret was surprised. Mayfair didn’t often begin a conversation.

“Aunt Angie. Her mind is better.”

“How do you know?”

Mayfair squinted up at the stars popping out one by one. She was silent so long Margaret thought the conversation might be over.

“I can just feel it. It’s like when you work a puzzle and someone tries to put in the wrong piece. You can tell something’s funny, and when you take that piece out and find the one that fits there . . .” Margaret was driving with one hand. Mayfair reached over to intertwine her fingers with her sister’s. “Well, it feels right.”

Margaret didn’t understand what Mayfair was talking about, but she was grateful for this moment of “rightness.” She noticed the warmth of her sister’s hand, saw the brilliance of the stars, and listened to the insulating hum of the little car. Soon enough, they’d be home again, a place where so little ever felt right.

Henry stuffed the wad of cash in his pocket. He thought it would feel good to earn so much money with so little trouble. Well, some trouble, but sweating it out while the sheriff leaned in his window wasn’t exactly digging ditches. But somehow
the money felt soiled, ill-gotten. He shoved it deeper into his pocket without counting it. It wasn’t so much that he trusted Clint Simmons as it was he wouldn’t challenge him even if the amount was off.

Driving home in the dark, he realized the hay was still in the bed of his truck. He wondered if he was supposed to return it. Shoot, maybe he’d take it to his grandmother for this cow she wanted to get. And maybe she’d let him help pay for the animal. He’d be glad to use this money muddying his conscious to buy a cow. Might make him feel better about the whole thing.

With that thought in mind, Henry let his shoulders relax. He realized he was exhausted. Weariness settled over him, and he was grateful to finally get home and slip inside to his room. He hoped he wasn’t disturbing his mother. He hoped she’d gone on to bed and was sleeping peacefully. But something inside told him she was likely lying awake worrying about him. He hardened his heart. Things changed when Dad died, and they’d both have to get used to it.

The next morning Henry woke from a fitful sleep. As tired as he’d been, he expected to sleep heavily, but indefinable dreams had kept him tossing and turning, and he rose feeling like he’d aged ten years.

“Henry, your grandmother called a little bit ago.” Mom sipped coffee and eyed him as if trying to come up with a plan of attack. “She said something about going to the stockyards today.”

“Yeah. I said I’d take her to find a milk cow.”

Mom’s face registered surprise. “Oh? You did? That’s nice. Although I’m not sure she can handle a cow on her own.”

Henry bristled. “She’s got me. And Margaret is going to help. Don’t treat her like she’s old and feeble.”

“That’s not what I meant. I’m glad she’ll have help, but what about when you go back to school?”

Henry poured coffee into a thick mug and sloshed some out onto the counter. He cursed softly and saw his mother stiffen out of the corner of his eye. He debated repeating the curse word louder but stirred a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee instead. “I may not go back to school. With Dad gone and Sadie off doing her own thing in Ohio, I figure you need me. Grandma, too.”

This time his mother’s feelings were clear in her posture. She sat up ramrod straight, her chin lifted, and her blue eyes steely. “You’ve decided that for sure?”

Henry set his jaw and met his mother’s eyes. “Pretty sure.”

“Well, then, I guess your grandmother is in luck.” She got up from the table where she’d been eating toast and jelly, walked to the sink to deposit her coffee mug with a clatter, and left the room.

Henry watched her go wondering what he would do for breakfast. He thought she’d be making it when he got up. He opened a cupboard and took down a box of Corn Flakes. If he could fend for himself at school, surely he could at home. Warring emotions rose in his chest, but Henry battled them down. The best thing would be to not let himself feel much of anything. He poured cereal in a bowl and added milk. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Nothing really mattered but that he fill his father’s shoes, one way or another.

“Henry, I have to confess I’m a little bit excited at the prospect of getting a cow.” Grandma fluttered around her living room, gathering up a head scarf and overshoes. She settled on the sofa and began donning the layers she thought she’d need for their trip to the stockyards. Henry grinned in spite of his dark mood. He liked to see his grandmother fluttering around. He’d have to keep an eye on her today.

Once they arrived at the stockyards, Henry felt happily distant from his night of delivering illegal liquor. The warehouse-sized barn was a maze of cattle, pigs, horses, sheep, and other animals, with more holding pens in the fields out back. He breathed in the earthy, pungent aroma. It smelled like warm animal hides, manure, and grain, with a faint hint of popcorn from the concession booth out front. It was oddly appealing.

Henry admired a brood sow with a litter of twelve and saw a fine Angus bull that he thought would be a good cross for some Hereford cattle. He imagined which stock he’d pick out for his own farm one day.

Grandma Emily trotted down the sawdust-covered aisle straight to the milk cows. There were several on offer, and at first glance Henry couldn’t see any real deficiencies with any of them. On the end, there was a smaller brown Guernsey that caught his eye and apparently appealed to his grandmother, as well. She stood at the rail and reached in to pat the cow on the neck. The animal turned soulful eyes on them, and Henry suspected his grandmother had just fallen in love.

A man and a child stood nearby, watching them.

“She’s an easy milker,” the man said. “Gentle as they come. Stacy here can lead her around by a ribbon tied to her halter.”

“She your cow?” Henry asked.

“Yup, she’s four, ripe with her second calf. She ought to freshen around April. I always did like to birth spring calves.”

“How come you’re letting her go?”

“Her first calf has come up into about the best milk cow I’ve ever seen. We hate to let Bertie go, but we don’t need two cows, and we do need the cash.” He patted the cow on her haunch. “It’d set my mind at ease if I knew she was going to some good folks.”

“Oh, we’d take good care of her,” Grandma said.

“Mind if I take a closer look?” Henry asked.

The man unhooked the gate, and Henry stepped inside the pen. Bertie shifted slightly to make room and looked at him over her shoulder.

“She ever kick or step in the bucket?”

“Nary a time.” The man grinned. “She’s practically a pet.”

Henry ran his hands over the cow’s sides, feeling the swell of the calf. He crouched down and felt her udder—no lumps, cuts, or scars.

“See that? She’ll let you handle her even without feed. Gentle as can be.”

“Seems like a good ’un,” Henry agreed. “How’s her production?”

“More than enough for my family of five plus some to sell to the neighbors. Good butterfat, too.”

Emily clapped her hands. “I’m so looking forward to making butter again.”

“Well, calves from Guernseys don’t sell like Holsteins, but then again, Holsteins can be a little more difficult, and they produce way more milk than we could ever use.” Henry smiled at the man and child. “If we can afford her, I think Bertie may have just found a new home.”

An hour later Emily completed the purchase of Bertie and arranged to have her delivered Monday morning.

“You think you can have the cowshed fit for her by then?” she asked Henry.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Henry tried not to let his enthusiasm show too much, but he was itching to get back to the farm and make a few adjustments to the shed. It was little more than a roof held up by three walls with the fourth side open. There was a manger with a stanchion in one corner for holding the cow while she was milked, though it seemed like Bertie wouldn’t need it. Henry wanted to put up a partial wall on the fourth side of the shed to give the
cow—and whoever was milking her—added protection from the elements. A corner of the tin roof also needed to be tacked down, and he would spread fresh straw on the dirt floor. And they’d need supplies. . . .

“Henry?” His grandmother tugged at his sleeve as they walked toward his truck. “Henry, are you listening?”

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I said we need to swing by Southern States to pick up some supplies.” She ticked items off on her fingers. “I’d like a new bucket—one with a lid, some sweet feed, better get a tin of bag balm, and whatever medicines we might need. Have you learned that sort of thing yet at college?”

“Sure thing. Plus I helped in the dairy once a week, so I have a pretty good idea.”

“Excellent.” Emily beamed. “I’m so lucky to have you along.” She hugged Henry tight, and even though he felt self-conscious about the men at the stockyards seeing such a show of affection, he allowed it.

7

M
ARGARET
GAVE
M
AYFAIR
HER
MORNING
SHOT
before they sat down to breakfast Saturday. They were both looking forward to heading out to Emily’s and hurried to finish eating. Lenore entered the room as Mayfair spooned up her last bite of oatmeal.

“Mayfair, you need to stay at home today. It’s enough that Margaret hires herself out to do menial labor. I want something better for one of you.”

Mayfair hung her head but didn’t protest. Margaret shifted slightly so that she was between her mother and sister. A week earlier their mother claimed Mayfair wasn’t fit for anything better than cleaning. What wild idea did she have today?

“She likes to come. Emily doesn’t expect her to work and neither do I. She’s just good company.”