Huckleberry Harvest by Jennifer Beckstrand Page B

frame.
    Noah tromped into his room and shut the door. He usually avoided being at home during the day, but he needed a change of clothes. His trousers and boots were still damp from the river, and Tyler and Beth wouldn’t appreciate his soggy feet on their new kitchen floor. Maybe he should do a batch of laundry before he left. Tyler didn’t expect him for another hour.
    He snatched the other pair of dirty work trousers from his basket and ventured into Dat’s room for more laundry. Dat lay in bed on his side, in the exact same position Noah had left him last night. It looked like he hadn’t moved a muscle. Noah picked up a pair of Dat’s trousers from the floor and a navy blue shirt from the foot of the bed.
    Dat stirred and rolled onto his back. Groaning, he laid his arm across his eyes to guard against the dim light filtering through the forest-green curtains in his bedroom.
    A sharp knife twisted in Noah’s gut. His dat was a mere scrap of the gute and strong man he once had been. Instead of letting Jesus take his pain, Dat had allowed his grief to bury him. When he could have opened his heart to the love of God and his family, he had instead turned to the bottom of a bottle for comfort.
    Noah hated seeing Dat like this, beaten down, broken, a slave to his addictions, a man with no strength left to fight. The pity gave way to momentary resentment. Why wouldn’t Dat stop? Because of him, Noah had lost everything important in his life.
    Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine own understanding.
    “How do you feel, Dat?” Noah asked.
    Dat lifted his arm long enough to take a good look at Noah, then he lowered it as if he’d lost the strength to hold it up any longer. “Like maybe I put up a fight last night?” he whispered.
    Noah sighed in resignation. “Jah.”
    Dat’s voice cracked. Because his arm rested over his eyes, Noah couldn’t see the tears in Dat’s eyes, but he knew they were there. “I’m sorry, son.”
    “Okay,” Noah said, with no desire to make Dat feel worse than he already did. Dat’s remorse overwhelmed him every morning but didn’t stop him from drowning his sorrows in another bottle almost every night. “Do you want me to make you something to eat?”
    “What time is it?” Dat said, moaning as if it hurt to blink.
    “Eleven.”
    “Felty’s coming at one.”
    Without fail, except when he was sick, Felty Helmuth came every Monday to eat lunch with Dat. By one o’clock, Dat was usually able to pull himself together and look almost normal. Dat looked forward to Felty’s visits all week. Felty’s concern hadn’t slacked off as the years had passed, and he was one of the few people Dat would even let in the house anymore. It baffled Noah that Felty and Mandy were even related. He supposed that every family tree had a bad apple or two.
    “Maybe a half a sandwich to tide you over?” Noah said.
    “Jah, okay.”
    Noah gathered up the rest of his dat’s clothes while his dat eased out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, cradling his head in his hands.
    The house was too tiny for a washroom, so Noah had set up the washer in his already small bedroom. While he filled the wringer washer, he could hear his dat through the thin walls heaving the poison out of his stomach. Noah turned on the machine to drown out the sound. He’d rigged up a compressor to run the washer and the wringer, so washing clothes was as simple and fast as turning on an oven. Mostly.
    He closed his eyes and let the loud and steady rhythm of the machine calm him. Nobody but the bishop knew how bad things had gotten with Dat. Lord willing, nobody else would ever find out. Even Felty seemed oblivious to the worst. As long as Dat didn’t show his face in the community, Noah could protect the secret.
    Except for the rare gatherings he had attended this summer and the times when he was out trying to earn enough money for him and Dat to live on, Noah stayed at home and did his best to keep his