Until the Harvest

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Really? How early?”

  “Oh, I was thinking no later than the thirtieth.”

  “But I thought classes didn’t start until January sixth?”

  “They don’t. I just feel like I need to get back there.”

  Margaret saw Emily watching them through the bay window in the dining room. Never a moment alone.

  “But we’ve hardly had any time together. I thought we’d—I don’t know—do something.”

  It sounded so very lame. What did she expect? A fancy dinner out? Long walks in the snow with the stars sparkling above and Henry’s kisses to keep her from feeling the cold? Yeah, maybe she was expecting something like that. Margaret felt a spark of annoyance.

  “Like what?”

  Margaret was glad Henry held the milk bucket because she might dump it all over him given the chance. “Never mind. You do what you think is best.” She picked up her pace, ignoring the confused look on Henry’s face.

  As the end of the year loomed, Henry didn’t think he could stand to be home for the anniversary of his father’s death. He’d been trying to make excuses for leaving early, but everyone seemed to be annoyed with him about it. He wanted to tell Margaret how hard this was—the thought of being in the house with his mom just like the night Dad died. The thought of waking up on New Year’s Day 1977 knowing he’d been without his father for a whole year and making a mess of things more often than not. Maybe he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to anyone yet. Not even to Margaret.

  He was going back to school, and that was that. Funny, a year ago they’d all been so eager for him to go, and now they acted like he should stay. Fickle. That’s what they were.

  Henry told everyone he was leaving on the thirtieth, but he had the feeling they didn’t believe him. He slipped out of the house early that morning, his breath making clouds in the air. Tossing everything in the truck, he climbed in and started it up, grimacing at the noise. He thought he saw Mom’s face in the window as he coasted down the driveway, but he told himself she’d understand his leaving like this. She probably wanted to be alone as much as he did. Maybe not alone, but maybe with people who could offer her some comfort. He wished he could, but Dad’s death had left too big a hole in the world and in his heart. He pulled into the gas station in Wise to fill up before heading on to Morgantown.

  “Thought you’d be sticking around for your ma’s cabbage come New Year’s.”

  Henry looked over his shoulder and saw Clint Simmons lounging against the wall of the small service station, a cigarette clenched between his lips.

  “I need to get on back to school. One more semester, and I’ll be done. Might even make some money on New Year’s Eve playing down at the Screen Door.” Henry didn’t know why he was explaining himself to Clint.

  The older man stepped closer, and Henry could see his normally wild beard was neatly trimmed, and his eyes looked clear. Cigarette smoke made Henry want to sneeze. “Your pa ever tell you how he got that scar on his jaw?”

  Henry startled. That was the last thing he expected Clint to bring up. He ran a finger around the scar on his own chin. “No.” He didn’t mention that Frank told him.

  “I give it to him. He stole moonshine and fouled up the still so bad we had to start over. Passed out drunk a stone’s throw away, and I aimed to do him in. If it hadn’t been for Frank Post interfering, you wouldn’t have been even a twinkle in Casewell Phillips’s eye. I always hated anyone with the name Phillips after that.” Something sinister shone in Clint’s face, then faded like a dying ember. “Guess I might’ve got over it, though. Seems hate works like poison from the inside out.” He cleared his throat. “I never said so, but I’m real sorry about you losing your pa. Guess he made up for any youthful foolishness once he was growed. Guess you might take after him like that, if you learn to keep shy of folks like me.”

  Clint thumped Henry on the back once, flicked his cigarette butt on the ground, and then turned and went inside the station. The bell on the door clanged in his wake.

  Henry swallowed hot tears and squared his shoulders. He rarely thought about Dad making mistakes—doing something as foolhardy as stealing from the Simmonses and getting fall-down drunk. He told himself that if he was making a mistake going back early, at least it wasn’t one that could get him killed. He told himself he could save the money he earned playing music so he’d have more than his dreams to offer Margaret. He told himself maybe he could be like his father. He kept trying to convince himself all the way back to campus. When he arrived, he was as tired as he’d ever been.

  Finding a good example of two people in love was proving a challenge for Margaret. It seemed that everyone she knew with a good marriage was now alone. Emily lost John years ago, Perla still grieved for Casewell. Even Clint Simmons had lost Beulah, although they certainly hadn’t seemed happy together until the very end.

  Maybe she could write to Barbara, who seemed much happier with Charlie than any of them ever imagined. They’d gotten a note saying the couple were doing well. Charlie had found a good job in a factory that let Barbara stay home and take care of little Lisa, who was proving to be an easygoing baby. Margaret wondered what it said about her that those two seemed to have their relationship figured out better than she and Henry did.

  “Margaret, would you run this pot of soup over to Frank and Angie? He’s had a cold for a week now, and chicken soup might help.” Emily stood in the kitchen holding a kettle with the corners of her apron. “I know you planned to deep clean the back bedroom, but that can wait.”

  “Sure. I don’t mind.”

  Actually, Margaret was glad to get out and about. The winter had been cold and harsh, keeping them indoors more often than not, and she was feeling restless. Mayfair was at school at the moment, and when she was home, she spent most of her time writing letters to orphans in China or someplace. She’d been doing that more and more lately. Margaret was glad her sister had found something to be passionate about, although she kind of missed having her around all the time.

  Ice crunched under her tires as Margaret pulled into the side yard of Frank and Angie’s house. She wrapped her scarf more tightly under her chin and ducked her head to dart through the gusty wind into the warm house. Frank and Angie sat near the gas heater looking pleased to see her. Frank’s nose was red, and he kept sniffling. Angie watched him, a look of concern painted across her face. Margaret realized she had just walked into an example of love in full bloom.

  “Emily sent you some chicken soup.”

  “That’s thoughtful of her,” Angie said. She got up and tucked an afghan over Frank’s legs in a little tighter.

  “Stop fussing, woman.” Frank made a shooing motion, but his eyes said he liked the fussing.

  Angie kissed him on the cheek and resettled herself, waving Margaret to a chair as she did so. “It’s too cold to be out on such a day as this, so you might as well sit and visit a spell. Get your mettle up before you go out again.”

  Margaret smiled her thanks. “Angie, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Humph. You can, but I may not answer it.”

  “Why did it take you so long to get married?” She was surprised at her own boldness.

  Angie looked at Frank and then the floor. “Sometimes there are more important things than being married.”

  “More important people, you mean,” Frank said.

  Angie fluttered a hand at him. “Marrying the right person at the right time can be one of God’s best gifts. But if the time’s not right, it can ruin your life.”

  “But if you love someone . . . Didn’t you love Frank for a long time?”

  “Oh, honey, I loved him and I hated him, and when he went away, I missed him so bad I wasn’t sure I’d live.” Frank grinned, and Angie glared at him. “Don’t go getting the big head over there.”

  “So why did you wait so long?”

  Angie straightened her shoulders and smoothed her skirt over her bony knees. “I loved my sister and the good Lord
more.” She shot Frank another look. “Take that, you old coot.” Frank grinned and blew his nose in a red bandana. “Honey, God wants you to be happy, but His idea of what should please you and your own idea aren’t always the same. And while the love between a man and a woman is pleasing, it surely isn’t the be all, end all. I guess God wanted to make sure we had our priorities straight before He let us get together.”

  Frank honked his nose again. “And it was surely worth the wait,” he said with a wink. Angie rolled her eyes.

  Margaret visited a little longer and then drove back home through the biting cold pondering what Angie said. She’d been thinking that if only Henry would love her, she would know she was worth loving. But she was already loved by quite a few people—Mayfair, Emily, Perla—even Frank and Angie. And maybe, just maybe, God loved her, too. She tried to think if she had any proof that He did.

  Well, Mayfair seemed to be getting better. She hadn’t had any episodes in a long time. She didn’t think her parents much cared about her, but she did have a family in Emily, Perla, and Henry that made her feel welcome and cared for. And her dream of spending her days living simply on a farm seemed more possible than ever. She was practically running Emily’s farm, and so what if Henry never came home? She could keep going as she was and maybe buy the gray house and a few acres one day.

  Margaret began to feel good about her life. Angie had gone nine decades without a husband and seemed utterly content. What if a woman’s worth wasn’t defined by a man? That’s what the feminists claimed, but Margaret wondered if those women were taking the idea far enough. A man didn’t define your worth. God did. And supposedly, God thought highly of her.

  The previous Sunday Margaret and Mayfair had sat in their now usual spot in the Phillipses’ pew at Laurel Mountain Church. The preacher said something that stuck with her. “We love because He first loved us.” Maybe she couldn’t really love Henry or anyone else until she better understood how much God loved her.

  Pulling into the driveway, Margaret sat for a moment listening to the ping of the cooling engine as the wind rocked the car. It would be nice if God would give her a sign, like a sudden stilling of the wind, or a rainbow, or a dove, or something. She saw Mayfair, home from school, move past a window in the gray house that had become so very much home for the two of them. The kitchen door opened, and Pie ran out to greet her as though she’d been gone a year. Then again, maybe the signs were all around her.

  32

  HE PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE let Mom make a bigger deal out of his graduation. Henry took his spot with the band mere hours after receiving his diploma. Mom, Grandma, Margaret, and Mayfair had all driven up to watch him that morning. They must have gotten up really early to make it in time. When he told them he wasn’t coming home right away, it was clear they were disappointed. Or maybe mad, if the look on his mother’s face was any indication. Grandma patted him and told him not to stay away too long. Mayfair sighed. And Margaret looked at him as if he’d kicked that spotted dog of hers.

  But seriously. How could he bail on the guys in the band? They’d come to count on him, and he was making decent money. He told them all he’d call every day—well, at least every other—and he’d be home in a week or so. He didn’t add that he wasn’t sure he’d stay even then. If Mort offered him a permanent position, he’d be a fool to pass up a chance like that. The women in his life hadn’t liked him running moonshine, but playing music—that was so respectable his own father had done it. Well, not for money, but still.

  Of course, it would be hard to date Margaret. And he did want to date her. He was surprised by how much he’d missed having her around the last few months. Henry groaned and started tuning his fiddle. Why wasn’t anything ever easy?

  Henry poured his frustration and confusion into the music, and by the first break he felt wrung out. And not nearly as much better as he wanted to. He settled his fiddle into its case and stretched his arms. That’s when he saw her. Margaret. Sitting at a table off to the side with a soda in front of her. She was watching him intently, and it gave him a start. Like he’d somehow conjured her up with his wishing. He ambled over to the table and slid into a chair, trying to act like he wasn’t shocked.

  “Well, hey, pretty lady.”

  Margaret gave him a sharp look. “You’re not making fun of me, are you?”

  Henry shifted. “No. Why would you think that?”

  “It’s not often I’m accused of being pretty.”

  Henry laughed, then saw she was serious. “Are you kidding? Of course you’re pretty.” He reached out to touch her cheek. “I can’t get enough of your freckles, and you’ve got the cutest nose.” His eyes drifted downward. “Plus, you—uh—well, trust me, you’re pretty.”

  Margaret sighed. “Then why don’t you want to come home?”

  Henry wrinkled his brow. “What’s one got to do with the other?”

  “If I’m pretty enough, and you want to keep seeing me—which I kind of thought you did—then I’d expect you’d want to be where I am.” Her cheeks burned scarlet, and she stared at her hands gripping the sweating soda glass.

  “Hey.” Henry reached out and tilted her face toward him. “I do want to be where you are, but this is where I can make money with my fiddle. And if I’m going to, you know, plan for the future, I need to make some money. We can still see each other.” He tried a crooked grin. “Just maybe not as often as we’d like.”

  Unshed tears gleamed in Margaret’s eyes. “I thought you wanted to come back and run the farm. I thought you got a degree in agriculture so you could do that.”

  “That’s what I thought, too, but now that I have a spot in the band, well, it’s really cool to be able to earn a living doing something I love this much.”

  “Is it a living? Really and truly?”

  Henry slid back in his chair. “Well, maybe not yet, but if things keep going my way, it could be.” He sat up straighter. “And you could move here. You could get a job, easy. Maybe even waitressing here.”

  Margaret looked at him sideways. “And where would I live? And what about Mayfair?”

  It was on the tip of Henry’s tongue to suggest she live with him. He’d known lots of guys who shacked up with their girls through college. But he caught himself. Margaret wasn’t like that.

  “Yeah, I guess I hadn’t thought that one through.” He heard the guys messing around on the stage again. “Hey, I’ve got to get back to it. Will you still be here when we finish?”

  “No. I’m catching the late bus home. Your mom didn’t want to leave me behind, but Emily said she thought it would be all right.”

  Henry felt desperation rise in him, but he wasn’t sure why. He wanted to grab Margaret and insist she stay. He wanted to offer to drive her all those hours home after his set was done. He wanted . . . well, what he wanted was clearly more than he would get. He leaned over and gave her a lingering kiss. She started to pull away in the crowded room and then seemed to decide it didn’t matter who was watching. When Henry released her, Margaret kept her eyes closed for another beat. Then she opened them and looked straight at him.

  “I hope I’ll see you soon, Henry Phillips.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  And with that she was gone, just a half empty glass of soda to mark where she’d been. He wished he’d said something else, but he couldn’t think what it might have been.

  “What’s the matter, Margaret?” Mayfair slipped up beside her sister and took the basket of eggs from her hand. The chickens were still laying well, even as the summer days grew warm. Mayfair wiped the eggs down one by one with a damp cloth and slipped them into an empty carton.

  “Why do you think anything is wrong?”

  “You have that faraway look in your eyes, like you can see something that doesn’t fit.”

  Margaret sometimes found Mayfair’s insights unsettling, but at the moment, she was glad her sister was so sensitive. “I thought maybe Henry liked me—I mean, really liked me. He’s been writing and ca
lling, but he doesn’t seem to care whether or not he ever comes back to the farm. I’m beginning to think he likes that fiddle more than this place . . . or me.”

  Mayfair closed a full carton and reached for an empty one. “I don’t think he does.”

  “Well, he sure acts like it.”

  “Don’t you sometimes act one way when you feel another?”

  Margaret, busy wiping down the counter where she’d finished with the day’s milking, stilled her hands. Honestly, that’s how her life felt most of the time, that one thing was happening inside while she tried to show something else to the world. “I suppose,” she said slowly, turning to consider her sister. “So how do I know how Henry really feels?”

  “Ask him.” Mayfair took the empty basket and tucked it away in the closet near the front door. “I’m going to write some letters.”

  That girl and her letters to orphans. Margaret found herself staring vacantly into space again. Ask him. Well now, maybe she should.

  As soon as Margaret dropped the letter to Henry through the slot at the post office, she wished she could reach in and take it back. She was an idiot. What woman wrote to a man and asked him to declare his intentions? That’s not quite how she’d phrased it, but it was basically what she was asking him to do. She leaned her forehead against the cool metal of the box set into the wall and wondered if Jeanine would give her the letter back. The postmistress took her job very seriously, though, and anyway, Margaret was too embarrassed to ask.

  “You need some stamps or anything?”

  Margaret jumped and saw Jeanine watching her from behind a pair of half glasses. “No, ma’am. Thank you.”

  Jeanine blinked once and resumed sorting the letters in her hand. “All right, then.” She shot Margaret another look over the top of her glasses, and Margaret took it to mean she’d lingered long enough. She gave a halfhearted wave and walked out to her car. She had a few things to pick up for Emily before she headed home.