Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  Mayfair smiled and slid into the chair Margaret vacated. “I wanted to help Beulah Simmons, but I don’t think I did.” She sighed. “And I am hungry.”

  “Who’s Beulah Simmons?” Margaret asked as she readied Mayfair’s shot and administered it.

  Emily jumped in before Henry or Mayfair could speak. “She’s the wife of Clint Simmons and a saint if there ever was one. Clint’s a bit of a character. Some folks say he keeps a moonshine still out there in the woods somewhere back of his house, but I wouldn’t know about that.” She gave Henry a look Margaret couldn’t decipher. “He hasn’t always lived on the right side of the law, but he would never hurt a child, and like I said, Beulah’s practically an angel.”

  Margaret fired up the gas stove and began laying strips of bacon in a pan. “Why did you go to see her? And why wouldn’t you just ask me to take you?”

  “She’s sick,” Mayfair said. “And you wouldn’t take me to see a family that runs moonshine.”

  Margaret froze. “No, I guess I wouldn’t. But you still should have told me.” She dropped bread in the toaster. “It could have been dangerous. Clint sounds shady. He could have hurt you.”

  Emily took Margaret’s hand and led her to a chair before moving to the stove and taking over breakfast. “Oh, Clint has a heart buried under all those layers of ornery. When he was a young man, he turned his life around for Esther Holt.” Emily looked sad. “But then she passed, and I don’t think he’s over it yet.”

  “Hey,” Henry said, just remembering something. “I told Clint you’d be glad to come see if you could help his wife, but he got mad and said I should ask you about helping once before. What was that about?”

  Emily closed her eyes and pressed her hands together like a child praying. “I was there when Esther died.”

  Everyone stilled and looked at Emily as bacon popped in the silence. She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Esther was Charlie’s mother. She had it in mind to give birth right there at the house, so Clint called me when she went into labor.”

  Emily blinked her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “I’d helped with births a few times over the years, but I was no midwife, and I told them so. Still, Esther and I always doted on each other, and she said I was the closest thing she had to a mother since her own died when she was ten. And I was too foolish to consider how horribly wrong things could go with a home birth.”

  Toast popped up and Emily buttered it absently. Margaret thought maybe the story was finished, but the older woman resumed speaking. “She died while I tried to stop her bleeding and Clint held her in his arms. She insisted I hand her Charlie to hold while I worked on her. I can still see them when I close my eyes. Clint Simmons with his arms wrapped around a dying woman and their child.”

  Emily braced herself against the cabinet and then straightened up and filled the percolator with water and coffee. “It’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Worse than losing John or Casewell. At least I didn’t feel responsible for their deaths.”

  “But it wasn’t your fault,” Margaret cried.

  “Oh, honey, it probably wasn’t, but I can’t help feeling I should have done something different, all the same. I don’t blame Clint for holding a grudge.”

  “But he remarried,” Henry said. “He must have gotten over it.”

  Emily gave a hollow laugh. “You don’t get over a thing like that. Ever.” She walked over and wrapped an arm around Perla’s shoulders. “When you lose a spouse, you carry that pain with you forever, even if you do find someone else to love.”

  Perla squeezed Emily’s arm and took up the story. “I didn’t know about Esther, but I can fill you in on Beulah,” she said. “She was a couple of years ahead of me in school before we moved to Comstock, and she was, well, not very popular. I guess she was kind of a big girl and quiet, and her father was a bully. When I moved back, she was generally thought of as an old maid. So when Clint Simmons, who was a rapscallion but had been as good as gold to Esther, turned up a widower with a new baby, I think Beulah saw her chance.”

  Perla stood to fetch down coffee mugs and opened the refrigerator to get out the milk.

  “Anyway, she always managed to be where Clint was, and she did everything she could to take care of that baby. I guess Clint finally figured it wouldn’t hurt to have a mama for little Charlie.” She grasped the coffeepot and looked a question at the three at the table. They all nodded, but no one spoke. Margaret figured they all wanted to hear the rest of the story.

  “So they got married, though I don’t think there was much love between them. Eventually they had Harold, and I heard Beulah lost some babies—some early on, and at least one was a stillbirth. Clint never did treat her right to my way of thinking, although I haven’t seen Beulah in a good ten years, so maybe it got better.”

  “I reckon not.” Henry seemed to speak without thinking. “Well, it doesn’t look that way to me, anyhow.”

  Perla handed around the coffee and milk. A sugar bowl already sat on the table, and Margaret added two heaping teaspoons to her mug and then as much milk as she could without spilling over. Mayfair did the same. She slurped the concoction and thought about Beulah Simmons in a loveless marriage. She glanced at Henry. If you couldn’t have what you wanted, she guessed you’d have to settle for what you could get. Still, it seemed like someone’s story should have a little happiness in it.

  That evening, Henry stopped by to check on Margaret and Mayfair. The girls were in the living room, watching the sunset out the window. Henry settled into an overstuffed chair Grandma insisted she didn’t want or need anymore. Silence reigned for a moment, and Henry felt more at peace than he had in a long time. He’d helped return Mayfair home, and Margaret was glad. And strangely enough, he was glad Margaret was glad. He glanced at her. He guessed she really was a lot prettier than he’d thought in the beginning. Her freckles made her kind of special—unique. He started to speak, but Mayfair beat him to it.

  “I can’t keep her from dying,” she said.

  “What?” Margaret wrinkled her forehead and took her sister’s hand.

  “Beulah. She told me to call her that. I can’t keep her from dying.”

  “Of course you can’t. A doctor might be able to do something, but it’s ridiculous for people to think you can do anything.”

  “Sometimes I can,” Mayfair said with a sigh. “I’m hungry again. Will you make me a grilled cheese sandwich?”

  “Sure. Go wash your face and test your sugar level. I’ll have it ready in a jiff.”

  Margaret headed for the kitchen and gave Henry a look he failed to interpret. He followed her and propped himself in a corner to watch her work.

  “Are you just going to stand there?” she said none too gently.

  “Can’t think of anything else that needs doing.”

  Margaret clattered a skillet onto a burner. “How is it you know those people, anyway?”

  “The Simmonses?” Henry shifted. “Well, I went to school with Charlie.”

  “They don’t seem like the kind of people you’d want to associate with.” Her shoulders slumped. “Well, except Beulah might be nice. Maybe it’s all too much for her since she’s sick.”

  “What’s too much for her?”

  “Keeping up the house. Keeping those boys in line. The way I look at it, if there’s a strong woman running the house, it keeps the whole family strong. Kind of a foundation.” She held her hands out as though she were supporting something.

  “I never thought of it that way.”

  “That’s what I want.” Margaret seemed chattier so long as she focused on preparing food and didn’t look at him. “I want to be the rock for my family, the port in the storm, the solid foundation. I like it when people depend on me. Maybe that’s why I’m so upset with Mayfair. She’s always depended on me, and then she goes off like that, and I don’t even understand why.”

  She ran out of steam. Henry wanted her to keep going. She was interesting to him.

  �
�Go on,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m just rambling.” She melted butter in the skillet and added two sandwiches. “I’m probably too tired to even make sense.”

  “No, I like what you’re saying. I like the idea of the wife and mother being the cornerstone of the family. It sounds right to me.” He thought about his own mother. “Maybe I haven’t given Mom enough credit. She—” He swallowed hard. “She’s handled losing Dad really well. Better than I have. I guess I’ve kind of taken her for granted.”

  Margaret flipped the sandwiches and got two more ready to go into the pan. Henry could feel her looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She seemed to get her second wind.

  “Guess that’s the kind of woman you’ll be looking for in life, then.” He saw her close her eyes. Was she flirting with him? She put the finished sandwiches on a plate without looking at him.

  “You know, I think that’s exactly the kind of woman I’m looking for.” Henry stepped closer and squeezed Margaret’s arm before picking up the plate and carrying it over to share with Mayfair, who appeared from the bathroom as if on cue.

  Henry avoided the Simmonses over the next few days. He wasn’t sure how Clint would feel about the part he played in recovering Mayfair, and he knew he didn’t want to run moonshine anymore. Although it had been profitable, he didn’t feel good about the money he earned. And, truth be told, Clint seemed kind of volatile lately.

  The morning after Mayfair’s return, Henry woke to the smell of pancakes and bacon. He shuffled into the kitchen where his mother was busy at the stove.

  “Somehow it seemed like a pancakes morning,” she said.

  “Suits me.” Henry poured himself a cup of coffee and slid into his seat at the table.

  “Did you have any plans for today?” His mother’s tone was light, but Henry thought she might be getting at something.

  “Not really. Did you have anything in mind?”

  “I was hoping you’d help me sort through the rest of your father’s things. I haven’t had the heart, well, more like the courage, to do it, and I thought there might be some things that would be important to you.”

  She set a plate heaping with buttered pancakes and bacon in front of Henry, and he waited for the topic of conversation to rob him of his appetite. But it didn’t. He picked up the syrup bottle and poured.

  “Sure, we can do that.”

  Fortunately, Dad didn’t have too much stuff. They set most of his clothes and shoes aside to give to charity. Henry already had his dad’s good navy blue suit and a pair of work boots that were a little loose. There was also a watch and two belt buckles that Henry decided to keep.

  “I don’t know what to do with his mandolin.” Henry’s mom cradled the instrument in her arms. “He hadn’t played in a while, but it was his treasure.”

  Henry took the instrument and plucked a string. He regretted not playing with his dad on New Year’s Eve. He guessed a lot of people would do things differently if they thought it was their last chance. “Can I have it?”

  “Of course you can. I didn’t know if you would want it since you play the fiddle.”

  “Who knows? Maybe I’ll learn to play it. Lots of musicians can play more than one instrument. Might even take a music elective at school.”

  “So you’re going back?” Mom looked hopeful.

  “Maybe.” Henry didn’t want to crush her hopes entirely. “Eventually I might.”

  “That would be good.” She reached out and ran a hand over the glossy body of the mandolin. “I can just picture your father looking down from heaven and smiling to see this in your hands.”

  Henry stiffened. He didn’t like it when Mom talked that way. Dad was gone. It wasn’t like he was going to catch him peering over the edge of a cloud so he could wave hello. He tried to remind himself that thinking about heaven was comforting to his mother. He wrapped his fingers around the neck of the instrument in the same worn spot he imagined his father’s hand had rested. Now this was tangible. This was something he could hold onto and remember, way better than a vague notion of heaven. He guessed it wasn’t much, but it was surely better than nothing.

  The first night Mayfair was home again Margaret had been tempted to nail the bedroom window shut. But now she was beginning to relax. They were getting back into the rhythm of things, school, going to Emily’s, milking the cow, fixing up the house. Then, on the third morning after her return, Mayfair said it was time to go see Beulah.

  Margaret wrinkled her nose. “You want to go back there?”

  “I told Beulah we’d come back. She needs us.”

  “Needs us to do what?” Margaret was annoyed. This was not how she wanted to spend the day.

  “To care,” Mayfair said.

  Margaret rolled her eyes. Didn’t the woman have family? Surely she had parents, siblings, somebody. Then she thought about her own parents and how the most important people in her life besides Mayfair—Emily, Perla, Henry—were someone else’s family.

  “Oh, fine. When do you want to go?”

  “As soon as I get home from school,” Mayfair said, skipping into her bedroom to trade her pajamas for a smock and turtleneck.

  That afternoon, Margaret met Mayfair as she stepped off the school bus and bundled her into the car. She tried to work up some enthusiasm for their visit as she drove to the Simmonses’. She couldn’t believe she was taking her sister back to what she couldn’t help but think of as the lion’s den.

  18

  BEULAH’S EYES LIT UP when Margaret and Mayfair slipped into the front room. She sat propped on the sofa with a worn quilt tucked around her knees. Charlie sat with his feet propped on an ottoman watching television. Beulah had a Bible open in her lap.

  “I thought today would be the day,” Beulah said. “I counted three days and just knew you’d come.”

  Mayfair fluttered onto the sofa next to the woman who looked older than she probably was. Margaret watched her sister take this strange woman’s hand, and something seemed to pass between the two that sent a pang of jealousy through Margaret.

  “How are you feeling?” Margaret wanted to take charge, but she wasn’t sure how to do it.

  “Oh, much better,” Beulah said and patted Mayfair’s hand. She got a faraway look on her face and echoed herself. “Much better.”

  Margaret laced her fingers together, released them, and crossed her arms. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Oh, well, no. I don’t suppose so. I put in a load of laundry a while ago, and I ought to hang it out. But that can wait.” A smile creased her lined face. “Just sit and visit with me for the time being.”

  Margaret shifted from foot to foot. She had nothing to say to this woman. “How about Mayfair visits with you while I hang out that laundry, then I’ll come join you?”

  Beulah half rose then sank back down. “Oh, I can’t let you do that.” Her eyes pled with Margaret, but she couldn’t tell if the plea was to help or to let it go. She opted to help since sitting in the dingy room while Charlie watched an episode of Sanford and Son turned up too loud didn’t hold much appeal.

  “I’ll be done in no time,” she said, looking around for the laundry room.

  “On the back porch,” Beulah said, nodding toward a doorway. “I surely do appreciate it.”

  “Glad to help.” Margaret wound her way through the unkempt house until she found a dented washing machine, emptied its contents into a wicker basket missing one handle, and headed out the back door, where she found a clothesline.

  It was a cold morning, but the sun shone bright, and Margaret found she didn’t mind hanging out the family’s faded sheets and towels. She was glad there weren’t any personal items to handle. Touching Clint Simmons’s underwear—clean or otherwise—might have been too much.

  Pegging the last washcloth, Margaret stood back and admired the linens billowing in a slight breeze. If they stayed long enough, she’d bring them in. She tucked her numb fingers under her arms and went back inside. She had to p
ass through the kitchen to rejoin Mayfair and Beulah, but the stacks of dirty dishes begged to be washed. And then she thought she might as well wipe down the counters and table. She wished she had a mop for the floor, but settled for wiping up the worst of the sticky spots with an old rag she found under the sink. Then she dried the dishes and tidied the cupboards as she put the dishes away.

  “Margaret? Are you in the kitchen?” Beulah sounded worried.

  “Yes, ma’am. Just tidying up a bit.”

  “Come sit with us. There’s no call for you to do my housework.”

  Margaret sighed, hung the dingy dish towel on the stove handle and went into the living room. Beulah motioned toward a rocking chair near the sofa, and Margaret sank into it. Charlie had disappeared, leaving the room blessedly quiet.

  “I ought to scold you for cleaning my house, but I guess I’ll thank you instead. Heaven knows I wasn’t going to get it done, and those boys . . .” She shook her head. “Well, I didn’t raise them like I should have.”

  “I don’t mind—honest. Actually, I kind of like setting a place to rights.” Margaret blushed. “Not that your place needs—”

  “Oh, but it does.” Beulah cut her off. “I may be feeling poorly, but I can see fine. Now leave my sorry mess for a minute and tell me about yourself.”

  She looked so expectant, Margaret wished she had something to tell. “There’s not much. I work for Emily Phillips. Mayfair and I just moved into that little gray house on her property. We’re pretty happy there, I guess.”

  Beulah waved a hand in front of her face as though fanning away a fly. “No, no. Tell me about you. What are your dreams, ambitions? Do you have a young man? What will you do with your life?”

  The hungry look in Beulah’s eyes made Margaret want to take stock of her life and find something interesting to tell the older woman. “Mostly I just want to live on a farm and raise a family.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Too many young women these days are all caught up in their rights.” She said the word rights like it was dirty. “All I ever wanted was a home and a family.” She sighed. “But then, nothing ever turns out quite the way you think.” Beulah examined Margaret closely. “Do you have a young man in mind to help you make this dream come true?”