Until the Harvest by Sarah Loudin Thomas

“I heard the sheriff pulled you over and you talked your way out of it.”
    Henry puffed his chest out. “Yup. Wasn’t nothin’ to it.”
    “Reckon you could do it again? I hear the sheriff’s been watching that stretch of road regular.”
    Henry felt a tingle of warning, but there was no way he could back down in front of these guys. He decided to hedge his bets. “Might be hard to slip through there again this soon. Sheriff might wonder why I was headed out that way again.”
    “What if you was in a different car?”
    Henry’s eyebrows rose. “All I have is the truck.”
    “Might let you drive the Barracuda if you think you’ve got the guts for it.”
    Henry swallowed hard and tried to think. The only thing that might be worse than getting caught with Simmonses’ moonshine would be doing damage to Clint’s 1968 Plymouth Barracuda. He shrugged. “That might work. Wouldn’t want to risk your car, though.”
    “Charlie’ll ride along. He can’t drive, but he can keep an eye on you.” Clint pulled out a cigarette and lit it with a silver Zippo. He clicked the lighter shut. “I reckon you know enough to make sure nothing happens to the car or the ’shine.”
    Henry swallowed and nodded once. He wondered if Clint would care if anything happened to Charlie. He sure as heck didn’t care if anything happened to him.
    “I’m even thinking to give you a raise in spite of your not providing your own transportation. Guess you could say it’s one of those perks of employment.” Clint smiled, as though he liked the sound of that. “I’m gonna give you a hundred fifty if you get back here with the car and my boy all in one piece. How long you reckon it’d take you to make that much using your college education?” He pronounced the last word “ed-u-kay-shun.”
    Henry didn’t think Clint expected an answer, but he pondered the question, anyway. Farming cost money before you ever made anything at it. Of course, if he started out working for his grandmother and gradually took things over . . . He shook his head. Nope, this was easy money. He was in.
    “You got the keys?” he asked Clint.
    “Whoa there. Harold’s loading the car. Remember, the back will ride low with all that liquor in there. Take ’er easy over the rough spots.”
    Henry wanted to roll his eyes. He’d take her however he could get her.
    “Come on in here and eat a bite while you wait. Tough to run ’shine on an empty stomach.”
    Henry followed the older man into the kitchen, where a woman in a stained housedress stood at the stove. He pictured his own mother in her spotless slacks and blouse. She typically wore an apron in the kitchen, but Clint’s woman wiped her hands on her skirt.
    “You ’bout ready over there, woman?”
    “Hang on. I’m taking the last of it out of the skillet now.”
    Henry wondered if she was the only one who got away with talking back to Clint. He wanted to ask her name and if she was Clint’s wife and mother to Harold and Charlie, but he didn’t think conversation—or curiosity—would be welcome.
    She slid a platter piled high with fried meat and boiled potatoes onto the table, then opened a bag of Wonder Bread and set it down next to the platter. Clint gestured toward the table where Charlie was already seated and heaping his plate.
    “Sit. Eat. You’ve got work to do.”
    Henry took a seat, and the woman plopped a mostly clean plate down in front of him, along with a fork. He figured he’d better eat or else he’d offend Clint and maybe his woman, too. Henry eyed her as she stirred something in the skillet—gravy, he guessed. Then again, maybe she didn’t care. She looked kind of pale and gaunt, sickly. If she was, he hoped it wasn’t catching. He stuck his fork in a piece of meat, since there didn’t seem to be any serving utensils. After adding a couple of potatoes and a slice of bread, the woman offered him a bowl of gravy, along with a weary smile.
    Henry added gravy and took a bite.