Until the Harvest (29 page)

Margaret recoiled and felt Emily slide an arm around her. She wanted to defend herself but knew better than to speak. There was no reasoning with Lenore Hoffman when she got like this. Margaret noticed that her father had receded into the corner, where he gazed at his youngest child with something like sorrow on his face. Margaret felt a moment’s vindication. He should feel bad.

“Why can’t anyone give me answers?”

Margaret turned back to her mother, who apparently felt she’d fallen out of the spotlight for a moment. Emily stepped forward and took Mom’s hand.

“You poor thing. This must be so hard on you. I hate to see you like this. It must be upsetting to be here watching your child suffer. Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll get a cup of coffee.” Emily tugged Lenore to a standing position. “The doctor should be around soon, and perhaps he’ll have news to share with Margaret. Then she can tell you.”

Mom sniffled and clutched her handkerchief. “I truly can’t bear to see her like this. You’re right. I doubt I can swallow anything, but perhaps we could try a cup of coffee.”

Margaret watched the two women move toward the door as though her mother were infirm. Emily turned just before they disappeared and winked at Margaret. As the two turned into the hallway her mom called back.

“Wallace, get out here. I need you.”

Dad closed his eyes and stood still for a moment, like a rabbit trying to avoid its prey by not moving. But when Mom hollered again, he sighed and moved toward the door. As he
passed Margaret, he reached out and patted her shoulder. Then he was gone, too.

Henry looked at Margaret with a slightly stunned expression. “Holy cow,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, I can go get you something to eat and bring it back.”

“Honestly, I don’t much want to eat. And the nurses were nice enough to bring me a sandwich last night. Maybe they’ll think to bring me a biscuit or some cereal this morning.”

Henry stepped over and touched Mayfair’s hand gently. “Has she moved at all?”

“No. Sometimes I see her eyes moving behind the lids—like she’s dreaming. I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”

“It seems funny . . .” Henry trailed off and cocked his head to one side.

“What does?”

“Well, not funny, maybe strange. It seems she might have made other people better, but now she’s sick. Seems she can heal everyone but herself.”

“Or that she absorbed their sickness,” Margaret said. She wanted to clamp a hand over her mouth. That was ridiculous.

“Yeah, something like that. I mean, why would God let other people get well but not Mayfair? He’s supposed to love everyone. Why would He help mean old Clint Simmons’ wife and not someone as sweet as Mayfair? I don’t get it.”

“Maybe it’s not God. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe God doesn’t care, and it’s all just chance.” Margaret flopped back down in her chair and rested her head on the edge of the mattress.

“Like Dad dying,” Henry said. “I wish Mayfair had been there for him.”

Margaret looked up at Henry. “You think she could have healed him? What did he die of?”

“They think his heart gave out. He was born with some kind of defect. It kept him out of the war, and I guess his heart just couldn’t keep going.”

Margaret smiled even though she felt sad. “Well, Mayfair has certainly touched a lot of hearts.” She reached across the bed and grasped Henry’s wrist. “I’m sorry she wasn’t there for your dad.”

Henry slid his fingers around Margaret’s and held her hand. “Me too. I guess it could all just be coincidence—Angie’s mind getting better, my hand healing so fast, the little girl with the bee sting—but somehow I think it’s more than that.”

He squeezed Margaret’s hand, and she felt her pulse race, her heart flutter. Why, oh why, was he being so sweet? She wanted to be mad at him and the rest of the world. He cleared his throat.

“I’ve been thinking, though.”

Margaret looked at him expectantly, afraid if she spoke he might release her hand.

“Your parents.” He nodded toward the door. “Well, I’m just really lucky to have the family I do. I’ve got great memories of my dad. I can’t count how many times he told me he loved me or that he was proud of me.”

Margaret felt tears prickling her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was crying over Henry’s losing his father or her never really having much of one.

“Anyhow, I’ve just been thinking that your parents aren’t like mine.” He gripped her hand a little tighter and looked right at her. “And I wish it could be different for you.”

She gazed back into those eyes the color of rich brown soil ready for planting, and it was like something electric passed between them. Something powerful, something that felt like . . .

Mayfair moaned softly, and her eyelids fluttered.

24

H
ENRY
HATED
TO
LEAVE
THE
HOSPITAL
, but he needed to tend the animals. Grandma opted to stay in hopes that Mayfair would fully awaken. She seemed to be more responsive but still wasn’t really aware. When Margaret gripped her sister’s hand, Mayfair squeezed it back, and they all thought she turned her head toward Margaret’s voice, but it could have been involuntary. The hospital staff acted as if they didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up, but Henry knew Margaret’s hopes were high.

Bertie met him at the cowshed, clearly eager for her milking. Henry rubbed her neck and led her into the stall where he tucked his head into her side and fell into the rhythm of milk striking metal. It was lonesome on the farm, knowing that everyone was at the hospital. No grandmother in the main house. No Margaret and Mayfair in the little gray house. Just Bertie chewing her cud.

Henry thought about that moment before Mayfair’s eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t sure why he’d taken Margaret’s hand, only that it had felt right. It wasn’t like sparks flew or anything. And yet there had been an attraction. He guessed maybe he found Margaret’s devotion to her sister and her sensible way
of looking at the world appealing when his own world felt so upside down. He liked her willingness to work hard and take care of his grandmother. He admired the way she had stepped away from her awful family but not from Mayfair. And although he still wouldn’t call her beautiful the way some of the girls at school were, with their perfect hair and short skirts, he guessed she was prettier than he’d realized. Even her freckles had grown on him. He couldn’t quite remember what he’d admired about porcelain skin.

Bertie mooed and looked at him over her shoulder. Henry realized although he’d finished milking, he was still leaning into the cow’s warm flank. He gave himself a shake and stood, patting Bertie and talking to her as he let her back out into the pasture. She ambled off a few feet and stopped to crop grass as though she liked his company as much as he did hers.

An image of life on the farm with Margaret flashed through Henry’s mind. He’d carry the brimming bucket to the house. She would take it from him, strain it, and leave it for the cream to rise. They’d sit down to supper together and talk about the farm and their plans for adding livestock and maybe some field crops, now that it was early spring. She’d wash the dishes while he listened to farming updates on the radio. Maybe they’d talk over what they heard. And then it would be bedtime.

Henry flushed and hurried for the house. He was an idiot to even entertain such thoughts. If he married anyone, it would probably be Barbara. He slowed and tried to picture her the way he had Margaret. No good. All he saw was a flustered young woman trying to care for a baby while burning the biscuits. He didn’t have high hopes for Barbara’s domestic skills. He guessed for now he’d just pin his hopes on Mayfair getting better and pray that maybe God would take care of everything else, too.

Mayfair kept opening her eyes, though she seemed to be having a hard time following movement. She’d try to watch Margaret as she walked around the room, but her eyelids would hang, and she’d have to blink and try again. She still hadn’t spoken, but she was getting more consistent when Margaret asked her to squeeze her hand.

Mom and Dad had gone home so Mom could lie down. She’d left strict instructions to call if there was any change, but Margaret took that to mean she should only call if there was an opportunity for Lenore to come back and be the center of attention. She thought Mayfair’s improved responses would likely offer just such an opportunity, so she didn’t call.

Perla had come to join Emily, and both women went to pick up supper at a nearby diner. The consensus was that Margaret needed to eat something other than hospital food. Margaret didn’t much care but was glad for a moment alone with her sister. She pulled one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs over to the bed and twined her arm with Mayfair’s. Her sister turned her head but seemed to struggle to focus. She closed her eyes and squeezed Margaret’s hand. It felt like a hug.

“Were you listening to Henry and me?” Margaret asked. “When we were talking about you? It’s the funniest thing, the way people seem to get better when you’re around. And then you get worse. Could you tell Henry held my hand?” Margaret stroked Mayfair’s arm. “I don’t know why he did it, but it was nice. I can’t decide if I like him or not. I mean, I like him—even when he’s an idiot—but sometimes I feel there could be more. Like we could . . . Well, that’s probably silly. But when he held my hand like that, it seemed as though I could see a future with him in it. And maybe children—a girl and a boy, I think.”

Margaret laid her head down on the cool sheet. It smelled perfectly clean. Mayfair sighed. It was a sweet, contented sound. A single tear rolled down Margaret’s nose, much to her surprise.
Where had that come from? She heard a sound at the door and sat up. Clint Simmons pushed a wheelchair into the room. Beulah sat in it, all smiles.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet friends. I’m so glad to see you. How is she?” Beulah reached toward Mayfair as though she could hurry Clint closer to the bed.

Margaret swiped at the dampness on her face and smiled. “She’s better but not quite well yet. I’m hopeful she’ll be her old self soon.”

Clint wedged the chair in as close to the bed as it would go. Margaret placed Mayfair’s hand in Beulah’s and watched tears rise in the older woman’s eyes.

“She squeezed my hand. Oh, and her eyes are sneaking open.” She waved at Mayfair. “Don’t you put yourself out, sweetheart. I don’t need to look into your eyes to feel your love. You rest.”

Something like pain passed over Beulah’s face. Margaret laid a hand on her knee. “Are you all right?”

Beulah brushed her concern away. “I’m better than I’ve been since I can’t remember when.” She glanced back at Clint and smiled. “There’s more to being all right than feeling up to dancing a jig.”

Margaret snuck a glance at Clint, who was looking at Mayfair with an expression she might call concern. When he realized he had Margaret’s attention, he averted his gaze, quickly looking out the window instead. His hand slipped from the handle of the wheelchair to his wife’s shoulder. She placed her fingers over his.

An inner light seemed to come on inside Beulah. “Yes, indeedy, I’m finer than frog hair. Now, what does the doctor say about this precious child?”

“He says it may take some time, and there could be some lasting effects, but now that she’s awake, he’s hopeful she’ll have a full recovery.”

Margaret didn’t dare share the whole truth in front of Mayfair. The doctor said there could be some long-term impact on her sister’s speech and motor skills, but she wanted Mayfair to think all would be well. She turned the conversation back toward Beulah.

“But what about you? How are you feeling?”

Beulah smiled even wider. “I’m feeling like the Lord has blessed me enough for two lifetimes.”

Clint whipped out a handkerchief and blew his nose, a great honking sound that made Margaret cringe. Beulah looked up at him like he hung the moon.

Margaret wasn’t sure how to respond. She’d been to the Simmonses’ house, seen how they lived and how they acted. How could Beulah feel blessed?

Perla and Emily returned, and Margaret felt a strange tension fill the room. When Beulah saw Emily, she held her arms out, and the two women hugged like sisters reunited after years apart. Clint took a step back, though he kept one hand on the wheelchair. When Emily straightened from greeting Beulah, she looked him in the eye.

“It’s good to see you, Clint. I’m so glad the two of you came to visit Mayfair.”

He cleared his throat with a great racket and nodded. “Child like that—she makes you think about what’s true and what ain’t. Guess maybe it’s time for some of us to move on.”

Emily nodded. “I’m glad.”

Margaret wondered if they were talking about Clint’s first wife dying in childbirth. Had Clint just let a couple of decades’ worth of anger slide away? She looked at him more closely as he gazed out the window again. Maybe there was a softening there around his thin lips. Maybe the light in his eye wasn’t the fire of anger anymore. Maybe miracles did happen.

“Marrrr . . .”

Margaret whirled toward her sister, who was trying to speak.
Her face contorted, and she scrunched her nose. “Luuuuuff.” She took a breath and closed her eyes. “Luuuff alllll.” She lifted one hand and waved it back and forth.