Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Tough day?”

  Mayfair nodded and heaved a stilted sigh. “I don’t think Mommy is very happy with me.”

  Margaret bit her tongue against ugly words. “There’s a lot in this world Mom isn’t happy with. You can’t let that worry you.”

  “But she could be happy.” Mayfair spoke like it was the simplest thing.

  “Maybe. Maybe she doesn’t want to be.”

  Mayfair sat up and grabbed Margaret’s hand. “Yes, that’s it exactly. Why would someone want to be unhappy?”

  Margaret squeezed her sister’s hand. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s easier. Maybe happiness seems like something that could disappear at any moment. Maybe it seems safer to say no to happiness than to have happiness say no to you.”

  She released Mayfair’s hand and moved to her dresser. She began to brush her hair with vigorous strokes. One hundred times each night. If she kept it up, maybe her hair would get smoother, fuller, more lustrous. That’s what her mother said she needed to do. She figured it was worth a shot. Maybe then boys would give her and her freckles a second look. Maybe then one boy in particular . . . she stopped and hung her head.

  Mayfair reached for the brush and began to run it through Margaret’s hair, slow and easy. Margaret felt frustration she didn’t even realize she carried slide away. The rhythm of the brush across her scalp soothed her and sent tingles over her skin. Almost like Henry’s touch had. She let herself remember how his hand felt over hers.

  After a few moments, Margaret took the brush and invited Mayfair to sit on the bench. Mayfair not only didn’t mind having her hair brushed, she seemed to really enjoy it. The younger girl smiled and slid onto the seat. Margaret ran the brush through the silken strands. Mayfair’s hair wasn’t just pretty, it never seemed to tangle.

  “Shall I braid it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Margaret parted her sister’s hair and wove braids over each ear. She tied them off with pink ribbons.

  “There, now wash your face, get into your pajamas, and we’ll read out loud until time for bed.”

  Mayfair stood, the sorrow Margaret had seen when she turned on the light dissipated now. Her sister smiled, grabbed Margaret in the briefest hug, and tiptoed down the stairs to the bathroom.

  Yes, thought Margaret, watching her go, best not to wake Mother.

  8

  HENRY HADN’T MEANT TO END UP at the Simmonses’ place again this evening. Sadie called from Ohio, and after she talked to Mom, she asked for him and lectured him about going back to school and not shaming their father. He felt heat rise in him just remembering. She’d always been kind of bossy, and while he’d mostly ignored her when it suited him, today she’d gotten under his skin. Dad hadn’t even been her real father. He felt guilty as soon as that thought crossed his mind. He grabbed his fiddle and got into the truck, meaning to drive around but found his way to the Simmonses almost without thinking.

  Charlie was still supposed to be laid up, but someone had made him a crutch, and he was hobbling around the house, dropping ashes from his cigarette. Henry remembered being in school with him before he dropped out. Seems like he’d been really good in science. Henry started to ask him about it and then thought better.

  “You did a fine job there the other night,” Clint said. “I heard the sheriff pulled you over and you talked your way out of it.”

  Henry puffed his chest out. “Yup. Wasn’t nothin’ to it.”

  “Reckon you could do it again? I hear the sheriff’s been watching that stretch of road regular.”

  Henry felt a tingle of warning, but there was no way he could back down in front of these guys. He decided to hedge his bets. “Might be hard to slip through there again this soon. Sheriff might wonder why I was headed out that way again.”

  “What if you was in a different car?”

  Henry’s eyebrows rose. “All I have is the truck.”

  “Might let you drive the Barracuda if you think you’ve got the guts for it.”

  Henry swallowed hard and tried to think. The only thing that might be worse than getting caught with Simmonses’ moonshine would be doing damage to Clint’s 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. He shrugged. “That might work. Wouldn’t want to risk your car, though.”

  “Charlie’ll ride along. He can’t drive, but he can keep an eye on you.” Clint pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a silver Zippo. He clicked the lighter shut. “I reckon you know enough to make sure nothing happens to the car or the ’shine.”

  Henry swallowed and nodded once. He wondered if Clint would care if anything happened to Charlie. He sure as heck didn’t care if anything happened to him.

  “I’m even thinking to give you a raise in spite of your not providing your own transportation. Guess you could say it’s one of those perks of employment.” Clint smiled, as though he liked the sound of that. “I’m gonna give you a hundred fifty if you get back here with the car and my boy all in one piece. How long you reckon it’d take you to make that much using your college education?” He pronounced the last word “ed-u-kay-shun.”

  Henry didn’t think Clint expected an answer, but he pondered the question, anyway. Farming cost money before you ever made anything at it. Of course, if he started out working for his grandmother and gradually took things over . . . He shook his head. Nope, this was easy money. He was in.

  “You got the keys?” he asked Clint.

  “Whoa there. Harold’s loading the car. Remember, the back will ride low with all that liquor in there. Take ’er easy over the rough spots.”

  Henry wanted to roll his eyes. He’d take her however he could get her.

  “Come on in here and eat a bite while you wait. Tough to run ’shine on an empty stomach.”

  Henry followed the older man into the kitchen, where a woman in a stained housedress stood at the stove. He pictured his own mother in her spotless slacks and blouse. She typically wore an apron in the kitchen, but Clint’s woman wiped her hands on her skirt.

  “You ’bout ready over there, woman?”

  “Hang on. I’m taking the last of it out of the skillet now.”

  Henry wondered if she was the only one who got away with talking back to Clint. He wanted to ask her name and if she was Clint’s wife and mother to Harold and Charlie, but he didn’t think conversation—or curiosity—would be welcome.

  She slid a platter piled high with fried meat and boiled potatoes onto the table, then opened a bag of Wonder Bread and set it down next to the platter. Clint gestured toward the table where Charlie was already seated and heaping his plate.

  “Sit. Eat. You’ve got work to do.”

  Henry took a seat, and the woman plopped a mostly clean plate down in front of him, along with a fork. He figured he’d better eat or else he’d offend Clint and maybe his woman, too. Henry eyed her as she stirred something in the skillet—gravy, he guessed. Then again, maybe she didn’t care. She looked kind of pale and gaunt, sickly. If she was, he hoped it wasn’t catching. He stuck his fork in a piece of meat, since there didn’t seem to be any serving utensils. After adding a couple of potatoes and a slice of bread, the woman offered him a bowl of gravy, along with a weary smile.

  Henry added gravy and took a bite. Squirrel. Well, he’d eaten most every squirrel he ever shot, and this wasn’t half bad. A little tough. Probably Clint’s woman didn’t parboil her squirrel like Grandma did. But still it was tasty. He finished what was on his plate and hoped that would satisfy his host.

  “Got your fill?” Clint spoke as Harold banged open the back door.

  “Aw, did you save me any?” he whined.

  “Son, I ain’t left you to starve yet. Your ma made aplenty. Now sit down and shut up.”

  Harold grabbed a squirrel leg and was eating before his rear hit the chair. Henry figured manners weren’t a priority for the Simmons clan.

  Clint turned his attention back to Henry as he fished a key out of his pocket. He dangled it in front of Henry but didn’t offer it to him. “Boy, you su
re you don’t want to back out?”

  Henry could see a glimmer in the old man’s eyes that he didn’t like. Might be Clint would like it if he chickened out. Might be there were worse things than risking his life and freedom to deliver some moonshine.

  “My dad raised me to do what I say.” He grabbed the key. “And so I will.”

  Clint laughed and tilted his chair back on two legs. “Well, then get to it.”

  Charlie jammed his crutch in the back along with his guitar and flopped into the passenger seat. “Bring your fiddle?”

  “It’s in the truck.”

  “Get it. There’s some decent pickers out there at Jack’s place, and it’ll give us an excuse if the sheriff gets aholt of us.”

  Henry grabbed his fiddle and slid in behind the wheel. The engine started with a low rumble that stirred Henry’s blood. This was a fine piece of machinery.

  “We’re gonna make a quick stop along the way,” Charlie said. “Pa thinks you can still make a living running moonshine, but the real money’s not in liquor anymore.”

  Henry glanced at his friend, at least he wanted to think of Charlie as his friend. He didn’t feel good about this extra stop, but he pushed down any misgivings, put the car into gear, and eased out onto the dirt road. He was itching to see what the car could do but knew better than to push it while Clint was watching. Once he hit the paved road, he slanted a look at his passenger. “Want to see what she’s got?”

  Charlie grinned. “Open her up.”

  Henry did. He didn’t see the deputy’s car tucked into a side road until after they shot past it. But just that glimpse made everything in him go tight, and he sent up an almost involuntary prayer that the deputy would let them go. His prayer went unanswered.

  The flash of red and blue lights filled Henry’s vision. He pressed the accelerator and shifted, pushing the car along the pavement, squealing the tires in the curves. The black and white kept coming, but there was no siren. Henry almost wished the deputy would make some noise; the silence seemed to press against his skull. He had a vague impression of Charlie bracing himself against the door and grinning like a crazy man, but he didn’t have time to look.

  Henry knew there was a side road up ahead that curved through property owned by the Prentices. It had been the main thoroughfare once upon a time, but when the county paved the roads, they straightened them out, and what was generally known as Prentice Road had been abandoned. It was probably grown over by now, but Henry had to get shut of the police car behind him.

  “Hang on,” he said and opened the Barracuda up as far as he dared.

  Charlie gave a Rebel yell, and Henry was grateful to finally have the silence shattered. He downshifted into a turn, and when he whirled out of it braked just enough to take Prentice Road way faster than could be good for either him or the car. Charlie hollered, this time most likely because the rough ride was hard on his leg.

  Henry kept the car flying over the rutted, overgrown excuse for a road. He could hear branches scraping down the sides and wondered which would be worse, getting arrested and losing Clint’s load of moonshine or wrecking his car.

  The road suddenly opened up into pasture on either side and Henry eased the car to a stop. He was panting, though why driving should wind him he didn’t know. Charlie held his injured leg and grimaced but didn’t speak.

  The purr of the idling motor seemed overloud to Henry, but he didn’t hear anything else. There was no sign of an approaching car, no flash of lights. He realized his hands were shaking, and he gripped the steering wheel so Charlie wouldn’t notice.

  “Reckon you outrun him,” Charlie said. “It was a doozy of a ride, but it shore did bang my leg around.”

  “Sorry about that. How mad is your pa gonna be about the scratches?”

  “Aw, maybe it ain’t too bad. We’ll look it over good once we get to Blanding.” He pointed at a dilapidated barn just up ahead among some overgrown trees. “And ain’t you the lucky one, anyway. You headed straight for the spot we needed to stop. Pull on up there and see if there ain’t a sack under that old drum behind the house.”

  Henry nodded and eased the car down the dirt track, stopping to check under the rusted drum. Sure enough, there was a sack of something under there. He started to look inside, but Charlie hollered at him, and he decided he might be better off not knowing. When they finally eased back out onto pavement, Henry felt like a chicken in the middle of a wide open field with a hawk circling somewhere above.

  “What if that deputy’s up ahead?”

  “Guess you’ll have to outrun him again,” Charlie said.

  Henry didn’t ease his grip on the wheel until they pulled into the barn in Blanding where Jack Barnett stored the bootleg liquor he sold out the back door of a rundown dive. Jack himself walked over and knocked on Henry’s window with one knuckle. Henry rolled the window down.

  “I wasn’t sure you boys would make it through. I hear the sheriff’s been patrolling every road between here and Wise on the lookout for certain folks known to make questionable deliveries out here.”

  Charlie opened his door and pulled himself up so he could lean against the car while favoring his bad leg. “Henry, here, outran that fool deputy. Lost him on Prentice Road.”

  Jack whistled. “Guess this car is as tough as it looks.” He glanced at Henry. “And you must be a whole lot tougher than you look.”

  Henry shoved his door open, forcing Jack to step back, and then walked around the car and unlocked the trunk. Jugs of moonshine nestled there.

  “You want these? Or should I take ’em on back to Clint?”

  Jack laughed and slapped his leg. “Son, you take those back and your hide won’t be worth a plugged nickel.” He moved to the rear of the car and grabbed a jug in each hand. “Good show, though.”

  Henry started grabbing jugs and handing them off to Jack. All he wanted to do was get the car back to Clint and go home.

  “You boys got the other, ah, merchandise?” Jack asked.

  “You know it,” Charlie said, dragging the sack out of the backseat.

  Jack rubbed his hands together. “Now we’re talking. Hey, I’m headed over to the bar after this. First one’s on the house.”

  “Shoot fire, we ain’t going to pass that up,” Charlie said. “We aim to play a little, too.”

  Henry had no desire for a drink, but didn’t see a way out of it. And it might be better to let some time pass before heading back the direction they’d just come. “Sure, whatever,” he said.

  Jack slapped him on the back. “Try not to get too excited, son. Might even be some girls out there this evening.”

  Girls, thought Henry. Well now, that might not be a bad thing.

  Margaret put a plate of scrambled eggs with toast in front of her mother and added some coffee to the china cup she always used. Lenore made a face and nudged the plate away.

  “I don’t see how I could possibly eat anything this morning.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. Without opening her eyes she told Margaret to add some sugar to her coffee, then picked up the toast and nibbled one edge. “Your father and I have come to a decision.”

  Margaret stiffened. Her father had left the driveway of their cookie-cutter, two-story an hour earlier without mentioning anything. But then, he probably wouldn’t.

  “Oh?” She tried to sound noncommittal.

  “Yes, it’s simply ridiculous that you hire yourself out to do the common work of a maid. You should either be going to school or seriously considering marriage.” Lenore’s eyes were open now, and Margaret could see how bloodshot they were. “And since marriage doesn’t seem likely at this point—especially with your complexion—you have a choice. Quit working for that Phillips woman and start courses at the community college, or find your own living situation.”

  Margaret stood as though turned to stone. She thought of the woman who turned into a pillar of salt in the Bible. What did she do? Look back at something terrible? Maybe some
thing as terrible as her mother.

  “But what about Mayfair?”

  Lenore made a face as though her coffee were too bitter. “You’ve been babying her long enough. It’s time she learned to stand on her own. With you at school I’ll be able to give her my full attention.”

  “Have you told her?”

  “I don’t need to explain myself to my daughter.” She placed both hands on the table and pushed to stand. She leaned there a moment, as though finding her equilibrium. “To either of my daughters. I’ll expect your answer by the end of the week.” She took her coffee cup and toast, leaving the room and her dirty plate behind.

  Henry woke with a throbbing head and a mouth that felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He rolled over and realized he was lying in a pile of hay. It had crept under his collar and his neck itched something fierce. He scratched, but it only made things worse.

  Moaning softly, he tried to sit up, though his head clearly weighed about twenty pounds. He opened his eyes as though he was afraid of what he might see. And once he got them open he did experience something between fear and dismay.

  Sunlight filtered in through cracks in the walls of Jack Barnett’s barn. It would have been pretty if it hadn’t been shining on the Barracuda sitting in the middle of the barn with long scratches down the sides. Leaves were stuck under one windshield wiper, and mud spattered the car from front to back. Probably hiding more scratches.

  Henry groaned and rubbed his temples. The noise he made must have been louder than he realized because there was an answering sound. Not a groan or a moan, more of a sigh—a distinctly feminine sigh. He turned slowly to his left and saw a woman nestled in the hay with a wool blanket pulled up around her. She shifted and stretched and opened her eyes. When she saw Henry, a slow smile spread across her face.

  “Morning, lover.”

  Henry felt rooted to the spot. He remembered drinking too much and playing his fiddle like a man possessed. He remembered girls without near enough on for the late January weather. He remembered dancing—not something he’d ever thought he was any good at, but last night . . . Oh no. He remembered singing along with “My Eyes Adored You” while clinging to the woman in the hay beside him.