Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Huh. Guess you’ll know not to eject a shell right off next time.”

  Henry wanted to tell him he knew better this time, but he’d clearly been stupid and talking hurt too bad.

  “I reckon you’ll live,” Clint said and put an arm under Henry’s shoulders to hoist him up to a sitting position. As soon as his head was up, he wanted to lay it back down, but instead he gritted his teeth and looked at his left hand. It was bleeding, and there was a bit of shrapnel stuck in the back of it. He felt the world begin to close in and fought to stay upright. He would not pass out in front of Clint and Harold.

  Clint chuckled. “Reckon you might not be as pretty as you once was, though.” He pulled a mostly clean bandana out of his back pocket and handed it to Henry. “That cut on your jaw is bleeding pretty good. Reckon it might just about match the one your daddy had.”

  Henry clenched his sore jaw. He’d forgotten his father’s scar. Dad had worn a beard off and on, and he was kind of surprised Clint knew about it. He wondered how his dad got that cut. He wondered what else he’d never have a chance to ask Dad about, and a sudden, deep longing for his father sliced through him sharper than any bullet. He bit his tongue to keep from crying.

  “Well, get on up. Guess you ain’t fit to hunt anymore today. Might get us a squirrel or a rabbit on the way back.” He helped Henry to his feet none too gently. “You sure have ruined my chances for getting venison for supper.”

  Henry shot him a dark look but was just as glad Clint turned the other way. Harold took the Winchester from Henry with a sympathetic glance and led the way back to the house. Henry staggered along behind the pair, hoping he could avoid the ministrations of Clint’s woman. He wasn’t quite ready to say so out loud, but he wanted his mother.

  Perla seemed surprised when she opened the door to Margaret and Mayfair, but she invited them in with a warm smile.

  “Emily wanted us to bring you some milk and eggs after Mayfair got home from school,” Margaret said, handing the items over.

  “I hardly know what to do with all this,” Perla said. “I remember how my Aunt Delilah used to make angel cake when she had too many eggs. Of course, that was before she and Robert moved to South Carolina. Maybe I’ll hunt up her recipe.”

  Margaret stood near the door, Mayfair behind her shoulder, thinking to leave right away. She was eager to get back in time to make supper and return to the gray house with her sister to spend their first night.

  “Won’t you visit a minute?” Perla asked.

  It was on Margaret’s lips to say no, but Perla looked lonely, and Margaret knew about lonely, so she forced a smile and stepped inside.

  “Come on into the kitchen. I was boiling water for a cup of tea.” Perla smiled as she led the way.

  The girls slid out of their coats and followed her into the kitchen. The kettle whistled, and Perla fussed about, filling mugs and dunking tea bags. She placed a mug in front of each of them and then uncovered a plate of brownies. Mayfair brightened and helped herself. Margaret swallowed the urge to caution her sister about eating sweets.

  Margaret wanted to ask how Perla was doing since Casewell died, but couldn’t think how to phrase such a question. Finally she settled on simply asking, “How are you?”

  Perla’s smile slipped a notch, and she fiddled with her tea bag, finally lifting it from the water and squeezing it against a spoon. “Oh, I’m all right. It’s just different with Casewell gone. I never considered that he might . . .”

  Margaret filled the gap as Perla trailed off. “I don’t guess it’s the sort of thing anyone likes to think about.” She removed her teabag and stirred some sugar into her mug. “I’ve never really lost anyone.” Now why had she shared that? “My grandparents died when I was a baby, and there really hasn’t been anyone else I’m close to.” She smiled at her sister. “Except Mayfair.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Perla said.

  Margaret wrinkled her brow and took a sip of tea. “Sorry? Why?”

  “It’s hard to lose someone you love, but I guess it’s even harder if you don’t have anyone to lose. I miss Casewell every day, but I wouldn’t trade a moment of the time I had with him, even if it meant missing the pain.”

  The conversation made Margaret a little uncomfortable. “But loving someone like that, it just, well, gives them access to . . . to . . .” Margaret wasn’t sure what she was trying to say.

  “To your heart,” Mayfair chimed in, then bit into her brownie with a look of utter contentment.

  Perla smiled. “Exactly. I meant to keep Casewell at a distance when we first met. I wasn’t . . . well, I wasn’t the sort of woman he should have fallen in love with, but I couldn’t help myself.” She smiled, and her face almost glowed. “And neither could he.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “In church. The first time I ever saw him was in church.” Perla’s cheeks pinked. “I saw him look at me, and then my aunt and uncle invited him home to dinner with us, and I hardly knew what to do with myself.”

  “So it was love at first sight?”

  “Was it? Maybe. I don’t think I was capable of love just then, but it was something I craved down deep in my soul. I think we all crave that at some point. Maybe that’s when we’re ripe for meeting someone who can fill us up the way Casewell filled me.” Her eyes glistened. She swallowed some tea. “What about you? Is there anyone special in your life?”

  Margaret rolled her eyes. “No. And I don’t anticipate meeting anyone anytime soon. Seems like romance is for . . .” She started to say fools, but changed her mind. “For other people.”

  “Oh, I hope not. You’re a lovely, competent young woman. You’ll be a fine catch for the right man.”

  Margaret took a brownie and bit into it. Competent, yeah, that’s what boys looked for. She swallowed. “Well, he’ll have to come after me, because I don’t have time for that kind of nonsense. I have Mayfair to take care of. I guess she’s enough.”

  Perla gave Margaret a look that might have been pity. Which annoyed Margaret. She’d come in here to offer comfort, not receive it.

  “Can I go outside?” Mayfair asked.

  Margaret glanced at the sun streaming through the windows. It was a gorgeous afternoon, warm with hints of spring coming.

  “Sure, I’ll be out soon. It’s almost time to start supper.”

  Mayfair grinned, grabbed her coat, and darted out the door like she expected to find a puppy or a playmate.

  Perla watched the younger girl go. “You two are good for my mother-in-law. I’m glad she has you.”

  Margaret sighed. It was nice to know someone appreciated her.

  Henry fell out of the truck at the end of the dirt drive leading to his parents’ house, landing on his hands and knees. He could swear he’d seen a man disappear up a trail in the woods—a trail he’d walked with Dad a hundred times. It looked like Dad. He knew it wasn’t, but he had to stop, had to check. A white rock caught his eye—quartz—rough and square, unlike the water-worn stone he found in the stream. Dad once said something about how sometimes you could find gold mixed in with quartz—never much, but where there was quartz you should keep an eye out for something even more valuable. He managed to pick up the rock and slip it in his pocket. For some reason it felt important that he take it with him.

  “Hey, Henry.”

  He looked toward the voice, squinting when blood ran into his eye. He staggered to his feet and reapplied Clint’s handkerchief to the cut.

  “Dad?”

  “It’s just me. Mayfair.”

  He saw her then as she stepped away from the shadow of an oak tree. She reached out and almost touched his bloodied hand, her fingers hovering over his battered flesh.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Henry tried to speak but heard himself whimper instead. He clenched his jaw. He needed to act like a man no matter how bad it hurt.

  “Some,” he gritted out.

  He realized Mayfair was humming—some old hymn, he thought, though he
couldn’t place it. She looked him in the eye, which surprised him, shy as she was. He noticed gold flecks amongst the brown, and it occurred to him that he didn’t hurt near as bad anymore. Probably going into shock, he thought.

  Mayfair lightly touched the back of his injured hand, and the bit of metal lodged there fell out. He sighed. It was like finally getting to sit down at the end of a long day. He closed his eyes and didn’t open them even when he felt Mayfair brush against the cuts on his face. It reminded him of how it felt when his mother used to lean down to tuck him in at night, her hair tickling his cheek. And then words to the hymn Mayfair was humming began to roll through his mind. “. . . When nothing else could help, love lifted me.”

  Henry opened his eyes. “What did you do?”

  Mayfair shrugged. “Sometimes I can help. Sometimes the hurt on the outside is easy to fix.” She peered at him. “Perla and Margaret can clean you up better than I can. Let’s go back to the house. Besides, I’m hungry.”

  Henry felt different, though he couldn’t put his finger on why. He got into the truck as Mayfair clambered in the other side. He flexed his hand and was surprised that it seemed better. The cuts were still there and plenty of dried blood, but somehow it didn’t look as bad as he thought. Maybe Mayfair’s getting that bit of metal out had done the trick. Maybe he’d been more scared than hurt. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that his face was much the same—a mess, but not quite the mess he’d thought.

  Pulling up to the house, Henry considered dropping Mayfair off and heading back to his grandmother’s. No need to get his mother worked up over his injuries. But even as he thought about leaving, a desire to let his mother care for him rose up and wouldn’t let go. It was silly for someone his age, but he really did want the comfort only his mother could provide.

  Mom pushed open the door and waved. Margaret followed and seemed to be getting ready to leave. She called out for Mayfair to come on. Henry was embarrassed for Margaret to see him like this but guessed there wasn’t much he could do about it. He stepped out of the truck.

  “Why, Henry, what in the world?” His mother hurried over and laid her warm hand against his cold cheek.

  “Misfire,” he said. “I was hunting.”

  “Come into the house, I’ll get you cleaned up.”

  Mom hurried inside, but Henry stopped where Margaret stood on the porch.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  The concern in her brown eyes touched a place Henry thought he’d buried when Dad died. He swallowed and nodded. “Yeah. I thought maybe I was hurt pretty bad, but I guess it was just panic or something.” He touched the cut along his jaw that now seemed shallower.

  Margaret reached out, then withdrew her hand. “I’m glad you’re okay.” She turned to shoo Mayfair into her Volkswagen and climbed in after her. Henry watched her drive away and felt something stir when she turned to look back and wave one more time. If he didn’t know better, he would call it hope.

  13

  BACK AT EMILY’S, Margaret shared what happened to Henry. Emily called to check on her grandson, and Margaret could tell that whatever Perla told her was reassuring.

  “Well,” Emily said, dropping the handset into place. “Sounds like he’s going to sleep it off and be just fine.” She pulled Mayfair into a side hug and gave her a brief squeeze. “So how is it that you came riding in with him?”

  Mayfair shrugged one shoulder. “I felt like going for a walk. And then Henry came, and he needed help. Sometimes I can help people.” She looked at Margaret. “But now I’m really hungry. I ate that brownie, but it wasn’t enough.”

  Margaret looked hard at her sister. She was shaky and sweat dotted her forehead.

  “Let me get you some juice.”

  She hurried into the kitchen and sloshed orange juice into a glass. Mayfair’s hand shook as she accepted it. She seemed to have a hard time swallowing, but as the juice disappeared, she steadied, and Margaret felt the panic that always rose up during one of Mayfair’s episodes begin to recede.

  She wanted to ask Mayfair what she meant about being able to help, but her sister looked so worn out, she decided to leave it till another time.

  ————

  That evening, Margaret walked in the door of their new home and felt tension slip from her shoulders. The house was quiet. There was no muffled sound of a television in her father’s study. No tapping of her mother’s heels on the linoleum. Only silence. Only peace. And no worries about what the evening might bring.

  Margaret felt like doing something—playing gin rummy or working a puzzle—but it was clear Mayfair could barely keep her eyes open. Margaret tucked her sister in the twin bed in the bedroom and made up the sofa for herself. It was a dark, Naugahyde monstrosity that creaked and squeaked as she settled against the cushions. Maybe she could make a cover for it. It would take a lot of fabric, but might be worth it. There was a slightly musty smell, and she buried her face in the freshly laundered sheet that she’d dried outside in spite of the cold weather. Her mother preferred to use the electric dryer, claiming a clothesline looked trashy, but Margaret preferred to hang sheets out to dry unless it was raining or snowing.

  Lying there, staring at the ceiling in the dark, Margaret thought about Perla meeting Casewell for the first time in church. Did they know right away? Or did they have to figure out how much they loved each other? Seemed like love should be obvious. She thought about Henry being injured and Mayfair—what did Mayfair say? That she helped Henry? Margaret wondered if being more social, more hands on like that had somehow triggered low blood sugar. Like the day they visited Angie Talbot.

  She turned to face the window and tried not to fret about Mayfair. Instead, she wondered what Henry’s mother meant about not being the sort of woman Casewell should have fallen in love with. Did she have some dark secret in her past? Whatever it was, Casewell must have gotten over it. She wondered if it was really worth loving someone that much only to lose them.

  She considered Frank and Angie. It was weird, old people getting married when they probably wouldn’t even live much longer. Was that worth it? Why couldn’t they just live together? She’d heard people talking about “free love.” Although that hardly seemed to apply to two people in their nineties.

  She remembered the shiver Henry’s touch had sent through her when he was showing her how to milk. She thought about how he looked at her every once in a while, as though he saw something she didn’t even know was there. He’d looked at her like that today, and she’d almost reached out to touch him. But she didn’t care about Henry Phillips. Not like that.

  Margaret tossed and turned until she finally had to get up and readjust the sheets. She moved to the window and leaned against the frame. Moonlight silvered the frosty world outside. That’s how she felt—sharp and fragile, solid yet ready to shatter. She thought about how the sun would creep over the horizon in the morning and everything would soften. Maybe that’s what love did—soften you. Then again, maybe love was nothing more than the thrill of moonlight sparkling on ice.

  Henry woke on the sofa in his mother’s house. He smelled bacon and felt hunger rise up in him. His mother had never cooked all that much, often leaving it to Dad. It kind of embarrassed him when he was younger. Most of his friends’ mothers did all the cooking, but it was just the way it was, and he hadn’t thought about it in a long time. He guessed his mother had no choice but to do the cooking now.

  The memory of the accident in the tree stand came over him slowly. He still didn’t feel all that certain about the extent of his injuries. He looked at his hand. There were cuts and marks there, but they didn’t look fresh, and they hardly hurt at all. How long had he been sleeping?

  He remembered Mayfair touching his face and how the burning, aching fire smoldering there eased. He remembered how Margaret almost reached out to touch him—like she wanted to, but something held her back. Probably his fault. He needed to be nicer to her. He was actually beginning to look forward to seei
ng her.

  And then he remembered praying. He surely hadn’t prayed much lately. He couldn’t remember what he said, exactly, but he knew he closed his eyes and asked for something. Maybe help. Maybe healing. Maybe relief. Or had he just been wishing? Sometimes he didn’t really know the difference.

  He stood like an old man, expecting everything to hurt, only nothing did. He flexed his injured hand and decided there really wasn’t any serious damage there. He walked around the corner to the bathroom and leaned on the sink to examine his face in the mirror. The blood on his shirt was dried and stiff. He examined the left side of his face. It looked like he’d had some bad acne and maybe walked through a briar patch. But again, the cuts were closed over and well on their way to healed. He fingered the long cut along his jaw—still tender. That was the one so like his dad’s.

  “Henry?” Mom’s voice came from the living room, and then her head popped around the doorframe. “Oh, there you are. How are you feeling?”

  “Pretty good,” he said. “I thought I was hurt worse than this. Guess fear will do that to you, make you think you’re hurt bad when you’re just roughed up a little.”

  Mom opened her mouth and then closed it again as if she was going to say something but changed her mind. “You were sleeping so soundly I hated to bother you last night. I’m just glad you seem better this morning. Breakfast’s about ready if you feel up to it.”

  His stomach rumbled as though in answer. “I guess I am,” he said with a laugh. “Just let me wash up.”

  Mom headed back to the kitchen, and Henry ran the water until it got warm. He wet his hands and splashed water on his face. The cuts tingled a little, as though the water were antiseptic. He soaped up and rinsed off, patting his face and hands dry. He winced a little at the cut on his jaw, but nothing else hurt more than a little. He sure was lucky. And hungry. He tucked the towel back over the rod and went to the table.

  “Frank and Angie have set the date.”

  Emily was practically dancing when Margaret and Mayfair came in Sunday morning. They were all going to Emily’s church together. Margaret was kind of looking forward to it after too many Sundays in the big fancy church her mother felt suited their “station in life.” The idea of a small country church appealed to her immensely.