A Hopeful Harvest. Ruth Logan Herne

for the most part.”

      Cleve’s voice startled him.

      The printer clicked off right then, too.

      The old fellow looked that way, frowned and lifted his plate of food. “Mother never lets me eat out here, she must be gettin’ daft in her old age.” He giggled as if he was getting away with something and began taking small bites of food. “She said, ‘Cleveland O’Laughlin, we’ve got a child to raise and we need to set a good example.’”

      “She meant Libby, I expect?”

      The old man frowned. “Who?”

      Jax saw no sense in riling the old fellow up so he changed the subject. “How’s your breakfast?”

      “Good enough. Could use more salt.”

      Libby came in just then, Gert came along with her. When she spotted Libby’s grandfather, she crossed the room and gave the old fellow a quick hug. “Cleve, it’s me, Gert Johnson. I live over on East Third Street, remember?”

      “I don’t remember much, but I do recall that pretty face and a white wedding gown when you and B.J. Johnson got married a ways back.”

      “Do tell.” She crouched low and smiled at him. “That was a fine wedding, wasn’t it?”

      “It was.” He nodded, then tried to angle a bite of scrambled egg onto a piece of toast. One hand missed the other and the egg fell with a light plop onto the plate. “I was just tellin’ Mother that we haven’t seen you folks in a while. Got any kids yet?”

      Libby started to interrupt, but Gert rose to the challenge nicely. “Four, and they are my pride and joy. I’m just stoppin’ in with some of my bus drivin’ friends to do some apple pickin’ for you, so if you see any of us wanderin’ round, we’re supposed to be here. Okay?”

      “It’s picking time?” He peered toward the window as if checking the leaves and the weather for confirmation.

      “It sure is,” she told him, “and we’ve got the best crew on board to help Libby while you folks put things to rights.”

      “Libby.” He frowned, stared at Gert, then Jax and then Libby. “I don’t know a Libby. My wife’s name is Carolyn. She’ll be out here soon, I expect, especially when she sees me eating in the living room.”

      Unremembered. Unappreciated. Misunderstood.

      Jax remembered the drill like it was yesterday, not a dozen years before. How his brothers shied away from Grandma Molly’s sharp tongue and wild ramblings because it hurt to be forgotten. It hurt to be overlooked by someone who loved you enough to raise you to be fine young men. He looked at Libby.

      She’d wiped the frown from her face and moved forward. “I think Grandma would approve. She gave me her permission to let you eat out here when CeeCee and I moved in last year. She wanted you happy and healthy, Gramps.”

      He frowned, then slapped a hand to the chair arm. “Oh, Libby! Yep, I recall a Libby now, a little girl, real pretty curls and we had to straighten her teeth. Cost a fair penny, too, but in for a penny, in for a pound, I like to say.”

      “And very pretty teeth they are,” quipped Jax. He smiled at Libby to ease the moment, then raised the sheaf of papers in his hand. “I’m going to put a set of these in the truck, then I’ll take the pickers into the orchard. We’ll start filling sacks and bins. I saw a pile of apple sacks on the back porch.” Apple sacks were strong canvas bags draped around the neck, leaving both hands free to pick fruit.

      “I washed the dust out of them over the weekend, so they were spared the onslaught of the wind,” Libby told him. “There’s about fifteen there. Take what you need.”

      “Will do.” He reached over and touched Cleve on the shoulder. “I’ll be picking apples today, too. If you want to take a walk or give us a hand with the Galas, I’d be happy to have you by my side.”

      “I’m fast,” Cleve warned him, and he puffed up his chest when he said it. “Folks couldn’t believe how fast I was when it came to apples, but I don’t let anything keep me down. Persistence runs in my family, you know.”

      “I’m sure it does.” Jax stepped back.

      Libby took Cleve’s empty plate and moved back, too.

      She didn’t look pained by the old man’s pendulum swings of behavior and memory. She took the plate to the kitchen quietly, then rinsed it under a stream of water. He followed to use the side door but paused when he noticed three new crayon drawings of doglike creatures on the refrigerator. “CeeCee’s been planning her campaign, I see.”

      “Oh, she has.” Libby sent the new dog images a bemused look. “She wants a dog in the worst way, so her renditions of Dreamer keep appearing throughout the house. There was even one on the upstairs bathroom mirror this morning.”

      “I hear persistence runs in the family,” he teased.

      “And then some,” Libby replied. “But I can barely stay afloat with what I’ve got going now. How do I add a dog into the mix?” She shrugged. “Maybe next year. I need to know where I’ll be before I can commit to something that’s going to be around for a dozen years or more. Do you have a dog?” she asked. For some reason, the question caught him off guard. He almost stuttered his reply.

      “I did. Now I don’t.”

      She noticed the pain in his voice. He saw the recognition in her face. “It’s hard to say goodbye, isn’t it?”

      He’d never gotten a chance to say goodbye. Flint had died four weeks before he’d come home, killed by a hit-and-run driver.

      His friends gone because of a mechanical mistake.

      His dog gone when a careless driver had left him lying in a ditch along Route 2. He walked toward the back door. “I’m going to stow these, put my laptop away, then get to work.” Thoughts of Flint and the war put a vise grip on his temples.

      He stowed the computer and the barn plans, grabbed a stack of bags and gave one to each bus driver. While the earnest pickers began bringing in what might be Cleve O’Laughlin’s final harvest, he piled apple crates onto his truck, then unloaded them in strategic locations along the straight, trimmed rows of the old-style orchard.

      He’d made it through these last few years by keeping busy, holding thoughts at bay. As long as he was moving, he could make it through the days because if he stayed busy enough, there wasn’t time to consider the problems that plagued him at night.

      The doctor had prescribed sleeping pills.

      Jax refused to take them because being kept asleep artificially was almost as scary as being unable to sleep. What if the meds never wore off and he just stayed asleep forever?

      He shoved the thoughts aside, dropped off the crates, then joined the pickers, doing a job he’d been raised to do from the time he could walk. To pick Washington Perfect apples, like everyone in his family before him. For today it would be enough if the pain would just stop.