28

MAYFAIR WAS WITH HENRY, planting the garden, when Barbara knocked on Margaret’s door. When she saw who it was, Margaret wished she could hide, but she was pretty sure Barbara had seen her through the window. Being nice was one thing, but forming a friendship with someone carrying Henry’s child wasn’t at the top of her list of things to do.

“Hey there, Barbara.” Margaret opened the door and positioned herself in the opening with a bright smile pasted on her face. “What can I do for you?”

Barbara glanced over her shoulder at a car Margaret didn’t recognize. “There’s something you ought to know, if you haven’t heard already.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Can I come in a minute?”

Margaret forced a smile and motioned Barbara inside. She’d hear her out, but she wasn’t going to offer her anything.

Barbara waddled in and looked uncertain. Margaret pulled a chair out from the table and invited her to sit.

“Oh, thank you.” She patted her belly. “This is getting to be quite a load.”

Margaret felt her smile slide. “I imagine it is.”

“This,” she patted her belly again, “is actually what I want to tell you about.”

Margaret couldn’t imagine what the baby had to do with her.

“It’s not Henry’s.”

“What? What’s not Henry’s?”

“This baby.” Barbara glanced toward the door. “It’s Charlie’s. He’s out there waiting on me. We’re going to get married down to the courthouse, and then we’re headed north.” She creased the oversized blouse she was wearing, folding the fabric between her fingers. “Only I seen how Henry’s been looking at you, and I wanted you to know he and I . . .” She blushed. “Well, what happened between us was all my doing. I tricked him, but now folks know the truth, and Charlie and me are gonna make a go of it.”

“But why?”

“Charlie thought Henry might give me some money or maybe even keep the baby once it was born.” She hung her head. “’Cept I don’t want that. This baby is mine.”

There was a fierceness in Barbara’s voice that Margaret found herself admiring. “What changed?”

“Charlie did.” She smiled and looked up. “Maybe God ain’t turned His back on me, after all. Anyhow, we’re getting hitched, and just in case you had any feelings for Henry, I wanted you to know the truth.”

“I appreciate that, although I don’t think there’ll ever be anything other than friendship between Henry and me.”

Barbara heaved herself up out of the chair. “Oh, I don’t know. I’d say that boy’s sweet on you. Guess all you have to decide is do you want him.”

Margaret watched Barbara walk toward the car. Charlie leapt from the driver’s side to open the passenger door and help her ease her bulk inside. He laid his hand on her belly and kissed her slow and soft. She watched them drive away and was surprised when it occurred to her to say a prayer for their future. And for the baby. Even a month ago she wouldn’t have given the couple much of a chance, but after today—well, stranger things had happened. At least they seemed to like each other. That was more than her own parents had going for them.

She slid into the chair Barbara vacated. Could there be a future for her and Henry? Even if he hadn’t fathered the child, he’d put himself in a situation where he thought it a possibility. Did she want a man like that? Then again, she might’ve made a mistake or two herself along the way. Of course, just because Barbara said Henry liked her didn’t mean he did.

She reached in a pocket and pulled a hair band out, securing her hair in a ponytail. What she needed to do was wash windows. She’d put it off when it was colder, but the weather was fine now, and some spring cleaning was in order. Her mind might not be clear, but her windows soon would be.

Perla brought word when she heard at the grocery store that Beulah died. Margaret was surprised at the stab of pain she felt at the news. She’d grown fond of Beulah and their visits out to the Simmonses’ place. Even Clint had seemed, if not friendly, at least tolerant of them. She wondered if he’d be mad that Mayfair hadn’t healed his wife.

“They don’t have a church, so we’re going to make sure they get plenty of food,” Perla said. “The funeral’s in the morning. We’ll carry food to the house for everyone to eat afterwards.”

Emily added, “And we’ll make sure there are plenty of people to eat it. Clint might’ve had a limiting effect on Beulah’s social life, but I know people loved her. We’ll get up a good turnout.”

And they did. Most of the town of Wise turned out for Beulah’s funeral. Clint sat stiff in the front pew with Harold beside him. Charlie was already in Detroit, and with Barbara having some issues, they didn’t dare travel. Margaret felt a little bit bad for him. It must be hard to miss your own mother’s funeral, especially if you actually liked her.

Henry couldn’t believe he was going to this much trouble for the Simmons family. He did feel bad for them. He knew what it was like to lose a parent if not a wife, but still, they were moonshiners and had caused him more than a little grief. Of course, he’d asked for a fair amount of it.

He carried the last cardboard box loaded with food out to the car and set it in the trunk. It wouldn’t slide around. There were too many other boxes filled with dishes in there. Whatever his mother was cooking, it seemed never-ending.

The minute the preacher said “Amen” at the funeral, Mom rushed him out of the funeral home and back to the house to load up the car. Now they were flying over dirt roads to the Simmonses’ place. Henry thought of all the other times he’d made this trip. He never imagined his mother would make it with him.

Grandma was already there. Margaret had driven her and Mayfair over while Clint was still shaking hands and trying to get away from the crush of people who turned out. Henry guessed Beulah was more popular than her husband.

As soon as he put the car in Park, the women began unloading the food. He could swear they took out more than he loaded, but he guessed it was just his imagination. He caught Margaret’s eye, and she smiled at him. It was kind of a shy smile, as though she was a little bit embarrassed. He guessed she still felt funny about Barbara. He wished he could tell her how things were, but maybe she’d heard by now. Of course, even if she had, he still didn’t come off as the hero of that story. He grabbed the last box and toted it inside. Maybe time was what he needed. Maybe he should go back to college and write her those long letters he’d been imagining. She’d probably like that.

He watched Margaret move around the Simmonses’ kitchen with his mother and grandmother. They were like dancers performing an intricate choreography that would ultimately feed most of Wise. Mayfair sat at the table and watched, clearly delighted with all the goings-on. He wondered why she looked so happy at a funeral, especially since she’d gotten so close to Beulah.

When Clint and Harold came in the front door, the old man looked bewildered by the house full of food and women. Henry suspected it was the cleanest the place had been in at least a decade. He felt a moment of panic when it occurred to him that someone might stumble on the still out in the woods. He sidled over to Clint.

“Do I need to make sure folks steer clear of the, ah, works out back?”

Clint ran his fingers through his slicked-back hair. “Naw. Took it down about a month ago. I closed up shop when Charlie left. Been meaning to give it up for a long time, and it—” He coughed and blew his nose in a handkerchief. “It seemed to make Beulah awful happy.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.” Henry couldn’t have been more surprised if Clint had said he was taking up disco dancing. “Guess I’ll get a bite to eat, then.”

“But who are all these people?” Clint asked. “And where’d all that food come from?”

“Mom and Grandma decided Beulah needed a proper send-off. I guess when they decide something like that, it’s going to happen.”

Clint grunted. “Guess I can stand it for a little while.”

He pulled a flask out of his coat pocket, sloshed whatever was in it into a mug, and topped it off with coffee. His look let Henry know in no uncertain terms that he should keep his mouth shut. Henry eased away as others stepped in to offer their condolences. He wondered how long Clint could stand all the socializing. He’d probably pull out a shotgun and run them all off before the day was out.

He snagged a fried peach pie and stepped out back for a breath of fresh air. The spring sunshine warmed the dirt-packed yard, where Clint’s hunting dogs had worn the grass away. A woman sat in an old chair with missing slats. A hound had his head in her lap, looking blissful as she caressed his ears. Henry felt his heart leap when he realized it was Margaret.

“Hey, there,” he said, swallowing his last bite of pie.

Margaret turned, and he saw that her freckled cheeks were tracked with tears.

“Oh, hey, what’s wrong?” he asked.

She swiped at her face and bowed her head over the dog. “I guess I miss Beulah more than I thought I would.” She sniffled. “She was always so glad to see us, and it made her happy when I helped put things to rights out here. Seems lonesome without her.”

Henry glanced back at the house overflowing with people. He guessed he knew what it felt like to be lonesome in the middle of a crowd. He squatted down next to her chair and scratched the hound’s shoulder. The dog began to pat the ground with a hind foot.

“I’m still awful lonesome for Dad. But I guess, maybe, it’s good that he went like he did—in his sleep in his bed in his own house. I’ve been talking to that preacher, Ray, and maybe when you’re a person of faith, dying isn’t such a bad thing. It’s just rough on whoever’s left behind. Beulah sure seemed to love the Lord.”

“Are you a person of faith?” Margaret asked. Her hand still rested on the dog’s head, and Henry saw that he could move his own hand a little and touch her.

“I’m trying to be one. Guess I have a ways to go.”

“Me too. When I thought Mayfair might die, I talked to God a lot and sometimes . . .” She raised her eyes to treetops unfurling their new spring leaves. “Sometimes I thought He was listening and maybe, just maybe keeping Mayfair alive not for her sake, but for mine. I guess I owe Him for that.”

“Mayfair’s pretty special. Guess we all owe Him one there.”

Henry swallowed and let his fingers slide over Margaret’s. He felt her stiffen and then relax. He snuck a peek at her face and thought he saw a smile. He tried to think of the words that would let her know how he felt, but before he could open his mouth, his mother hollered from the back door.

“Margaret, I think something’s not quite right with Mayfair. You’d better come.”

Margaret whirled from the chair and ran toward the house.

When Margaret pushed her way into the living room, she saw Mayfair sitting in the middle of the floor with a funny look on her face. Clint was crouched in front of her with a mug in his hand. He tipped it and whatever was inside ran down Mayfair’s chin. He spoke so softly Margaret couldn’t hear, but she instantly wondered if he’d been drinking, and it struck her that alcohol was about the worst thing anyone could give Mayfair.

“No,” she cried out, fighting her way forward.

Clint gave Mayfair another sip, and it looked like she swallowed most of it.

“What are you giving her?” Margaret towered over Clint, hands on her hips. “Someone bring me some punch or orange juice. Now.”

Mayfair blinked slowly and tilted her head up to look at her sister. “More,” she said.

Clint looked Margaret in the eye as he gave her sister another swallow. Margaret wanted to knock the cup from his hand but hated to make more of a scene than they already were.

“You’d better not be giving her moonshine,” she hissed as Perla pressed a cup of punch into her hand.

Clint rose to his full height and looked down at Margaret. “It’s grape juice,” he said. “Made it myself.” Then he walked out of the room.

Everyone stared at Margaret as she helped Mayfair to the sofa where she’d visited with Beulah so many times. She tried to ignore the looks. Everyone knew how sick her sister had been. Of course she was going to be cautious. Gradually, the hum of conversation resumed, and Margaret gave Mayfair her full attention.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. Clint seemed to know what was happening before I did.” She smiled. “He’s so nice. I’m glad he and Beulah got better before she died.”

“What are you talking about? Beulah didn’t get better.”

Mayfair smiled. “I’m sleepy. I don’t think Clint would mind if I took a nap in Beulah’s room.”

“Oh, I don’t know if—”

“Come get me when you’re ready to go.” Mayfair walked gingerly into the bedroom and settled into a rocking chair. She drew an afghan over her knees and closed her eyes.

“I think she’ll be fine, sweetheart.” Margaret hadn’t seen Emily approach. “Clint was there so quick, I don’t think it was much of an episode at all. I don’t know how he knew, but thank goodness he did.”

Margaret nodded and looked around, feeling lost. She wanted to thank Clint, maybe even apologize. But she didn’t see him anywhere.