Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that sometimes I feel . . .” Tears clogged his throat, and he cleared it. “I feel like he left me, left us, I guess. And it makes me mad.”

  Mom stepped closer and slipped an arm around his waist. “I know. Sometimes I feel the same way, that it was selfish of him to up and die. He should have loved me more than heaven.” She smiled and a tear trickled down to fall on the pants she held. “But one of the things that made your father such a wonderful man was that he didn’t love anyone or anything more than he loved God. He’s probably having a good laugh over something with Jesus right now.” She squeezed Henry. “And picturing that helps me let go. Maybe you need to find a way to let go, too.”

  Henry nodded, squeezed his mom back, and headed for his room, where he dressed before walking out to Dad’s workshop. The stool he’d damaged the day of the funeral still sat on the bench, a layer of dust coating it. He ran a hand over the marred surface, then grabbed a hammer and knocked it to pieces. He shoved the bits of wood into the stove, found some old newspaper, shoved that in, and struck a match.

  As the flames began to lick the pieces of wood, he felt a moment of satisfaction. He was taking charge, taking over, letting go, like his mother suggested. But as a leg began to blacken, regret pierced him, and he grabbed a dowel off the workbench to try to fish the leg out. He finally snagged it and flipped it onto the floor. Then he stomped on it until the embers died. Breathing heavily, he stooped to pick up the leg and yelped when it was still hot enough to burn him. He juggled it onto the workbench.

  Henry stood looking at the stick of wood charred on one end. Why did he do that? Why did he do anything? Suggesting a bachelor’s party for a ninety-year-old and destroying his dad’s handiwork? He felt like there was something buried deep inside that was worming its way out. He was a little bit afraid of what it might be.

  The hammer and chisel Henry used sat on the workbench. He picked them up, found a soft rag, and wiped them down. He returned them to their places and then began dusting the workbench and taking stock of what supplies were on hand. He found a pretty piece of birds-eye maple and turned it over and over in his hands. Dad was probably saving this for something special. Maybe he’d make a new stool out of it. Maybe he’d use the charred leg and rebuild something—a wedding gift. He ran a hand over his father’s tools and began to work.

  The wedding didn’t take long. Angie had said she didn’t want a bunch of hoorah, just a chance to speak the words that had been on her heart most of her life. Henry stood next to Frank, feeling small inside his father’s suit, and his mother stood next to Angie, looking perfect.

  Henry glanced over at Margaret, who sat with hands clasped looking happy—a good look for her. She had on some burgundy-colored dress with puffy sleeves and a neckline that showed off her, well, Henry turned his attention elsewhere.

  After the brief ceremony, Reverend Ashworth said a prayer and invited them all to join in the reception. Henry had asked Charlie to come play guitar along with his fiddle, and they offered up some lively entertainment for the guests. Charlie had been uneasy at first, saying he didn’t expect that crowd would be excited to see him, but once the music got going, he relaxed and fit right in, even if he was sober.

  Eventually they took a break, and Henry spotted Margaret standing with Mayfair in a corner of the kitchen. He guessed Mayfair wouldn’t much like this crowd. He grabbed two cups of punch and headed their way.

  “You two thirsty?” He stood so he blocked most of the crowd, and he could see Mayfair relax. She took the cup and smiled, which was all the reward he needed.

  “It was a nice ceremony,” Margaret said.

  “Yeah. You, uh, look nice.” He wanted to say more, to tell Margaret that he’d come to admire her in a lot of ways but couldn’t quite think how to put it into words without sounding corny.

  Margaret blushed under his gaze and lifted her drink too quickly, spilling a little on the front of her dress. Henry grabbed his handkerchief and dabbed at it before he thought about what he was doing. Margaret went from pink to scarlet and grabbed the cloth from him.

  “I can do it.”

  “Sorry.” Henry felt heat climbing up his neck, too. He couldn’t think what to do or say when a child cried out in the other room.

  Conversation stopped except for one old woman who clearly couldn’t hear anything but her own voice. Henry stepped away from the girls to investigate, pushing into the sitting room. A little girl sobbed, holding her hand while her mother tried to look at it.

  “Can I help?” Henry asked.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter. She was over there near the window when she suddenly screamed bloody murder. Now she won’t let me look at her hand.” The mother was clearly embarrassed and exasperated.

  Henry knelt down and wiped the child’s tears with his thumb. “Can I take a look?”

  Lower lip quivering, the little girl slowly extended her hand. There was a red welt that looked like a bee sting to Henry.

  “She must have run up on a leftover wasp or something. They get warm inside and think it’s spring.”

  “We can put baking soda on it.” Margaret stood behind Henry, leaning forward to see the child’s hand better. He turned his head at the sound of her voice and found himself looking right at the neckline he’d noticed earlier. He whipped his head back around.

  “Sounds like a good idea. How’s that sound to you?” he asked the child.

  She shook her head and jerked away from Henry. He thought she looked really flushed and seemed to be sweating all of a sudden. Her cries became whimpers, and she coughed, then gasped. She seemed to be choking, but that didn’t make sense.

  Margaret appeared with a bowl in her hand, which she shoved at Henry. He took it as Margaret grabbed the little girl and looked at her closely. The fingers on her injured hand were already swollen, and the welt looked vicious.

  “Is she allergic to bees?”

  The mother’s eyes widened. “I don’t think so. But then again, I don’t know that she’s been stung before. What should we do?”

  “We need to get her to the hospital. Henry, you drive.” Margaret’s mouth was set in a grim line and fear shot through Henry. “What’s her name?”

  “Amanda.”

  He handed the bowl back to Margaret and scooped the child into his arms, but she stiffened and seemed to fight for air. He started for the door and found Mayfair was there ahead of him. She held out her hand, and he skidded to a stop almost against his will.

  Margaret nearly bumped into Henry when he stopped near the front door. She peered around him and saw Mayfair put her hand on the little girl’s chest. Amanda relaxed, then took a deep breath and resumed crying, though more softly. She buried her face in Henry’s shoulder and began hiccupping.

  “Is she okay?” The mother was at Henry’s shoulder, tugging at his arm.

  “I think maybe she is.” He let the child slip into her mother’s arms.

  “Dab some of that baking soda on there. I think that’s all we’ll need,” the woman said.

  Margaret obeyed, but the child’s hand was no longer swollen, and the site of the sting was just a raised red spot.

  “I think it was a false alarm, folks.” Henry kind of waved at everyone who had gathered around. “She seems to be okay now.”

  People began moving away, resuming conversations and nibbling on the food Emily and Margaret had prepared. Frank stepped up to the little group gathered around Amanda. He started to put a hand on Mayfair’s shoulder, then withdrew it.

  “That was mighty interesting. Seems I’ve seen miracles like that once or twice before.”

  “What are you talking about?” Margaret felt protectiveness swell in her breast. What was Frank suggesting?

  “That child was in trouble, and then Mayfair there, well, she seemed to take the trouble away.”

  “Nonsense,” said Margaret, moving to stand as close to her sister as possible.

  “She needed help,” Mayfair wh
ispered, then added, “I’m tired.”

  “I guess it’s about time we went home, anyhow. It was nice being part of your wedding day, Mr. Post.”

  Margaret asked Henry if he’d get their coats. She was afraid to leave Mayfair for even a moment. She laid a hand on her sister’s shoulder and watched Henry as he went to the bedroom to dig jackets out of the pile on the bed. He’d been remarkably levelheaded with the child, and she appreciated the way he seemed to want to look after Mayfair. Plus, he looked downright dashing in a suit and tie.

  “I smell popcorn.”

  Mayfair’s voice was so small and soft Margaret barely heard it. She leaned in close. “What’s that, sweetie?”

  “Popcorn,” Mayfair said. Then her eyes rolled, and she collapsed onto the floor like a puppet with its string severed.

  Margaret dropped to her knees next to her sister as she jerked and her whole body seemed to clench. Henry was suddenly there stuffing a jacket under Mayfair’s head. He shoved a chair back out of the way and grabbed Margaret’s hand. She felt herself squeezing hard and supposed she should be self-conscious, but was too grateful to worry.

  “She needs sugar,” Margaret said.

  Mayfair stopped jerking, and Margaret released Henry’s hand so she could lift her sister’s shoulders and hold the cup of punch someone pressed into her hand. Mayfair turned her head, but Margaret followed and managed to get her to swallow some of the sweet liquid. Her eyelids fluttered, and her hazel eyes almost seemed to glow as she gazed up at her sister.

  “I’m so tired,” she said. “Can we go home?”

  Margaret scooped her sister into her arms, staggering a little under the weight. “Oh yes. We’re going home now.”

  “I’ll take you,” Henry said.

  Margaret thought to protest but realized she was shaking. It would be good to let someone else drive. “Thank you.”

  Guests gathered around, looking worried, so Margaret pasted a smile on her face. “I think she’s okay, just a little diabetic episode. Nothing to worry about.” She wondered if she was trying to reassure them or herself.

  Angie appeared at her elbow with a plate. “Take some cake home with you. I’m sure she’ll be fine and might like a bite later on.”

  Henry eased Mayfair from Margaret’s arms, much to her relief. Margaret took the plate from the old woman’s hand and tried to take comfort in her words. But the worried look on Angie’s face didn’t do much to set her mind at ease.

  Margaret scrambled into the backseat of the little car, and Henry settled Mayfair in the front. Margaret sat forward, her hand on her sister’s shoulder. Mayfair dozed off before they were halfway home.

  Henry pulled up at the gray house and shut off the engine. He looked at Mayfair, her long lashes resting against pale cheeks.

  “I hate to wake her.”

  “Me too. Let’s sit a minute,” Margaret said.

  They sat in silence for several beats as Mayfair slept peacefully.

  “Did she save that little girl?” Henry turned in the seat and whispered to Margaret. “Did she—heal her?”

  Margaret shook her head and squeezed her hands together. “I don’t know. There have been times . . .” She let her gaze drop to Mayfair’s dreaming face.

  “What?”

  Margaret looked him in the eye. “I think I had appendicitis. Mother said I was bellyaching and refused to take me to the doctor. It’s the sickest I’ve ever been in my life and the pain . . .” She laid a hand on her abdomen. “Well, I thought I was going to die. I kind of hoped I would and quick, too. Then Mayfair came to me where I was lying in bed and laid her head on my belly.” Margaret shifted her gaze so that she was staring out the windshield. “It was like butterfly wings brushing me inside and out. And then I was well.”

  “Just like that?” Henry sounded skeptical.

  “Just like that.” Margaret looked at him again. “And then there was Angie’s memory, and I’m thinking she might have had something to do with your hand, and now this child. Mayfair talks about how she can ‘help’ people.”

  Henry kneaded his hand like maybe it ached. “Butterfly wings . . . yeah.”

  “And each time she does whatever she does her blood sugar takes a nosedive. I’m wondering if that’s what caused the episode today. That was the worst ever.” Margaret brushed a strand of hair from her sister’s cheek, causing her to shift and sigh.

  “Let’s get her inside,” Henry said. “We can figure this out later.”

  Margaret agreed and gave silent thanks that she didn’t have to do this alone. At least not today. But who knew what tomorrow would bring?

  15

  MARGARET TUCKED MAYFAIR INTO BED, even though she was probably too old for it. But Mayfair seemed exhausted and didn’t protest changing into a nightgown and crawling between the sheets in the middle of the afternoon. Almost immediately her breathing evened out and her face relaxed. She looked to be utterly at peace, and Margaret almost envied her.

  Henry was clattering around making coffee in the kitchen when she came out. She was surprised for a moment and then realized that of course he’d know his way around the place. She slid into a kitchen chair and traced patterns across the Formica tabletop. Henry sat opposite her and looked like he wanted to say something. She had the strangest feeling he was about to take her hand when the door opened with a whoosh of cold air.

  “I came as soon as I could get away,” Emily said, removing a scarf from her head. “Oh, that coffee smells wonderful.”

  “I’ll pour you a cup,” Henry said, jumping to his feet. “I’ll pour us all a cup.”

  Emily slid into his vacant chair with a sigh and grasped Margaret’s hand the way Henry didn’t. Margaret felt a stab of disappointment but quickly brushed it aside.

  “How’s Mayfair?”

  “Sleeping. Tired. I think she’s fine. I just wish I knew what happened.”

  “Has anything like this happened before?” Emily released Margaret’s hand and accepted a cup of coffee from Henry.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Well, it looked an awful lot like the seizures my cousin Freda used to have. She was an epileptic. I was terrified of her when I was a child and didn’t understand what was happening.”

  “But do people suddenly get epilepsy? Out of the blue like that?” Margaret tried not to wring her hands. “How serious is it?”

  “I don’t really know much about it, and I’m certainly not saying that’s what she has. But I think we should take her to a doctor just in case.”

  As they talked, Henry leaned against the counter, added milk to his coffee, walked to the window where he pushed the curtains back, then returned to the counter.

  “Henry, light somewhere,” Emily said.

  He looked startled and moved to take the third chair at the table. Then he stopped and seemed to rethink it.

  “You know, I think I’ll go check on Bertie, maybe gather the eggs if that needs doing.”

  Emily made a shooing motion with her hands. “Yes, yes. Go do the chores.”

  Henry shrugged into his jacket and headed out the door with a look of relief on his face.

  “Just like a man,” Emily laughed. “They can always find something to do outside when there are problems inside.”

  Margaret tried to smile, but she was scared for Mayfair. Emily patted her hand again. “Perla’s coming over in a little while. We’re going to watch over the two of you in shifts until we’re sure Mayfair’s all right. Unless your mother is coming over?” She raised an expectant eyebrow.

  Margaret was relieved to have help but wished Emily hadn’t brought up her mother. She had no intention of calling her parents. Her mother would either tell her to handle it herself or turn Mayfair’s illness into a personal crisis. She wanted someone to help her be responsible for her sister, and she’d much rather have the Phillipses’ family than her own.

  “I’ll be glad to see Perla,” she said, dodging Emily’s hint.

  Emily sighed and pa
tted Margaret’s hand, as though she understood. “All right then, let’s pass the time with a few hands of gin rummy.” Her eyes twinkled. “We don’t have to play for money, but we can if you want to.”

  Margaret smiled, in spite of herself. Emily was the last person to gamble.

  Henry finished mucking out Bertie’s stall and forked some fresh hay in. He wanted it all done before Margaret fetched the cow that evening. He liked the work, found it soothing after the strangeness of the day. He flexed the hand that had been injured when he misfired. Good as new. Had Mayfair healed it? Maybe. He guessed if she did, that was a good thing.

  A scuffing sound brought Henry around to the front of the shed. Clint leaned there, his beard looking wilder than usual. He spit tobacco juice on the ground, and Henry almost spoke up. He didn’t want the cow byre soiled like that.

  “Where’d you come from?” he asked.

  “Charlie come home from that wedding between the senior citizens. Said there was some sort of hoorah. Sounds to me like that girl’s been healing folks again. Like maybe she’s touched.” He scratched under one arm. “Old woman could use some help like that.”

  “That’s a load of bull.” Henry tossed the pitchfork in the corner where it clanked and fell over. He didn’t pick it up. “I got work to do.”

  Clint stood upright. “You got work to do for me is what I came for. Need another load hauled out to Jack in Blanding. His business is doing real good.” Clint rubbed his hands together. “I got a load in the car now. Switch it on over to your truck. I figure you go in the afternoon like this and no one will much be looking out.” He sneered at Henry. “Especially when they see a fine, upstanding boy like you out and about.”

  Henry picked up the pitchfork for something to do and looked at the wall as he spoke. “Can’t do it today. Too much going on around here. Maybe Charlie can take it for you.”

  He didn’t hear Clint move, just felt the older man grab a handful of shirt collar and jerk him back so that he fell hard in the middle of the shed. He sat, stunned, looking up at Clint, his tobacco-stained beard quivering.