Thankful Thomas's Arc

Chapter 12 of 13

Thomas woke before dawn to a white world. Frost coated the window glass. He threw on his coat and stepped into the yard. The grass crunched under his boots. In the garden, the last of his crops stood stiff and glittering. Apples hung heavy on the tree, their skins dusted with ice. Rows of squash and greens bowed under the cold. He needed these for tomorrow's feast. By noon the frost would turn them to mush. Thomas pulled an apple from the branch. It was cold but still firm. He had maybe an hour before the sun hit and the thaw rotted everything. He could not pick it all alone. He gripped the fence rail and thought of who could come fast. A truck rattled up the lane before he could decide. Clay Barlow climbed out, pulling on worn gloves. Thomas had hired the traveling field hand twice before for hard harvest days. The man never wasted a morning. Clay looked at the white garden and spat on the ground. "Frost don't wait, Thomas," he said. "Neither do we. Where's your baskets?" Thomas grinned despite the cold. "Shed. I'll grab them." They worked fast. Clay stripped the apple tree, filling a wide bushel until the fruit heaped over the rim. Thomas cut squash from the vine and pulled greens by the root. Their breath fogged the air. The sky turned gray, then pink. Thomas felt the first warmth touch his neck. He worked faster. "Thaw's starting," Clay called. "Soft crops first. They go quick." Thomas carried armloads of greens to the pantry shed. The little building stood tidy and dry, its shelves lined with jars. Inside it stayed cool but safe from the hard frost. He laid the greens flat on a low shelf. Clay hauled the apple bushel up the steps and set it by the door. They ran the squash in next, row after row, until the garden stood bare. The sun cleared the trees. Thomas looked back at the empty beds. A few leaves had gone limp and black on the ground. But the shed was full. The apples gleamed in the bushel. The greens lay crisp. The squash sat in neat piles. He had saved the harvest. Clay pulled off his gloves and leaned against the door. "Good crop," he said. "Should feed a crowd." Thomas shook his hand hard. "You saved my feast. I couldn't have done it alone." "That's the work," Clay said. He climbed back in his truck and rattled off down the lane. Thomas stood in the shed doorway. The crops were safe. But raw apples and squash were not a meal. He had no turkey. He had bushels of cold fruit and roots and one day to turn them into a feast for new guests. The frost was beaten. The kitchen was not.