Some Luck: A Novel Page 17

  It took about an hour, weaving and winding down the streets of Usherton, some a little busy and some nice and empty. He even waved—to Pastor Elmore as he passed their church. He heard Pastor Elmore’s shout following him. Back at the shop, he saw the sign on the window—“Closed for Lunch”—and he hurriedly opened the passenger door and slid the bike in, in front of the back seat, lifting the wheel a bit and twisting it so the thing would fit. Then he got in and drove home, which took a little longer because he was so excited that he kind of forgot how to shift and stalled out a couple of times. He did remember to buy some gas—he’d brought along a dollar for that. He got almost six gallons, which was pretty good, he thought, and would go some way toward pleasing Papa in spite of himself. He also put some air in the tires of the bicycle.

  Well, they were waiting for him when he got home—turned out that Papa was only at Grandpa Otto’s for an hour or so, and Mama did remember seeing the car drive away, and Papa went over to the school to see if Frank was there. Maybe they were all sitting on the porch because it was a nice day, and maybe they were waiting to see what was going to happen. As he drove in, Papa stood up, came down the steps—he looked pretty mad, though he wasn’t undoing his belt. Without glancing at him, Frank went smartly around the back of the car, opened the door, and eased the bicycle out. He heard Joey say, “Oh boy!”

  Papa met him and the bicycle at the edge of the grass. He snapped, “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Columbia Cruiser. I think it’s about a year old, not much more.…”

  “How did you get it?”

  “Well, I took some of my rabbit-skin money, and I bought it for riding to the high school. I estimate I can get there in a half-hour or less, faster than the hack.…” His voice was getting too quick. He glanced at Papa.

  “Who gave you permission to take the car?”

  “No one.”

  Mama had Henry on her hip, standing on the top step of the porch, and Frank knew what to do—he smiled at her. And then she said, “You’re always talking about enterprising, Walter. That’s enterprising.”

  He made his voice level and businesslike. “I can start high school in the fall and graduate when I’m seventeen.” Then, “I put a dollar’s worth of gas in the car.”

  Walter said, “Oh, good Lord. Well, your punishment is to wash the car, inside and out—got me?”

  Frank knew he could get Joey to help.

  “Thank the Lord you’re back safe,” said Rosanna. “My heart was in my throat.” But she couldn’t hide that she was pleased.

  ONE DAY at the end of August, Papa came home from the county agent’s office in Usherton and said, “I guess we’re going to buy a tractor.” Joe hadn’t seen a smile on Papa’s face in a long time—not even during the oat harvest, even though the crop looked pretty good—and Joe had heard him say to Mama, “Five years ago, I knew I could sell the oats for a bit more than I put into growing them, but if I fed them to the hogs and the cattle, the animals turned those oats into real money, and I have to say, I thought I knew what I was doing. But now I can’t get six cents on the dollar for what I put into them, and hog and cattle prices are so low that, the more oats that pass through the animals, the less they are worth. I don’t know which end is up anymore.”

  And Mama said, “Did you hear that the Larsens are heading to California?”

  “Up past Denby there?”

  “They shouldn’t have bought that tractor. I don’t know what got into their heads.”

  But then there was a law—Roosevelt got it passed—Papa got money for not planting half the corn crop. “And why should I plant it?” said Papa. “Forty-two bushels per acre, but only seventeen cents a bushel—what’s the difference between that and nine bushels an acre at eighty-five cents a bushel? Exactly none, except that those forty-two bushels cost the soil something. So, next year, I’m planting clover on half of it and then plowing it under.”

  The day when Papa and Frank went off to get the tractor was the day when Eloise came for a visit with her husband and her new baby. Joe was carrying water to the sheep (down to four now) when he saw the car drive in, a Plymouth with a rumble seat. It was a beautiful car, and when Eloise got out of the passenger side with the baby in her arms, and a tall, thin man got out of the driver’s side, Joe ran to the well and washed his hands and face under the pump. By the time he got inside, Eloise and the man were sitting on the sofa and Mama was in her rocking chair with Henry on her knee. Lillian was cooing over the baby, who looked just like the man, Joe thought, if that was possible in a baby.

  Mama said, “Joey, look who’s here! Eloise has a baby girl named—”

  “Rosa!” cried Lillian. “She’s five months old. Guess what! She was born on your birthday!”

  “Yup,” said Eloise. “March 13.”

  The man had his hands on his knees, and he was looking around.

  Eloise said, “Rosa Sylvia Silber. I plan for her to be a heroine of the people. Joey, this is Mr. Silber. He’s my husband. Your uncle Julius.”

  Joe did what he had been told to do, which was to look Mr. Silber straight in the eye and hold out his right hand to be shaken, then say, “How do you do, Mr. Silber?”

  The man said, “Pleased to meet you, Joe.” His accent was musical, his hand enormous, but long and thin. He had nice fingernails.

  Mama said, “Mr. Silber is a writer. He writes things for a living.”

  “I do, too,” said Eloise.

  “Well, I—” began Mama.

  Lillian held her arms out for the baby, and the baby held her arms out for Lillian. Rosanna gave her first good smile that Joe had seen. Eloise hesitated for a moment, then let Lillian take the baby. Lillian, as always, did a good job and was stronger than she looked. She put one arm under Rosa’s backside and another around her waist and held her close. Mama said, “Lillian is a real little mother. Must come from Walter’s side.”

  Eloise laughed.

  Joe said, “Papa’s buying a tractor today.”

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Silber. He looked around.

  “Yes,” said Mama. “He got a check from the Agricultural Adjustment Act. And then there was a family who went to California. He got it much more cheaply than he might have.”

  Mr. Silber said, “We read about the Farmers’ Holiday Association.”

  “Oh,” said Mama, “Walter can’t stand them. They torpedoed a train.”

  “That’s just a rumor,” said Mr. Silber. “But they’ve accomplished a few things that needed to get done. Farmers need to understand that they are workers, too. They have more in common with other laborers than with great landowners.”

  Joe liked hearing Mr. Silber speak.

  “Maybe so,” said Mama. “Maybe so. Maybe so. Care for some lemonade? Hot day.”

  Mr. Silber leaned forward. “Solidarity is the most important thing. The bosses and the bankers have it. We have to have it, too.”

  Mama’s face hardened. She said, brightly, “I’m sorry. I would have to disagree. The most important thing is getting right with the Lord, and then he will provide.” She cleared her throat. “As with the new tractor, for example.”

  “Well,” said Eloise, “perhaps it would have been better if you and the Larsens, is it, had shared the tractor. Possessions often possess us. I was reared on a farm. I know what that means, don’t I, Julius?” She turned back to Rosanna. “I remember full well, when we were children, how nobody had all the right equipment, and so, at harvest time and butchering time, people went around to other farms and helped. That’s all I mean. That’s the basis of a cooperative movement.”

  “We still do that. Make big suppers and all. Mama was here with all her friends for the oat harvest two weeks ago. It’s enjoyable.”

  Everyone seemed relieved.

  Eloise turned to Mr. Silber and said, “In fact, Rosanna always served the best ice cream. I made the kids turn the crank.”

  Eloise and Uncle Julius were gone by the time Frank and Papa got back. The tract
or was a black Farmall with red wheels. You started the engine in the front with gas, that was called the pony engine, and then that started the real engine, which ran on diesel. Frankie thought the tractor was the greatest thing since his bicycle, but Joe thought it was noisy and ugly, and he didn’t like the idea of Jake and Elsa never doing anything again—that might be a step toward Papa’s deciding that they had no use anymore and sending them to the slaughterhouse on the other side of Usherton. Joe knew perfectly well that it was one thing for Papa to say that Jake and Elsa had been good horses and would always have a home, and quite another for one of them to step in a hole and break a leg and Papa to decide that it wasn’t worth calling the vet to save him or her. When he grew up, Joe thought, he was going to have a dog, and no one would stop him.

  1934

  FRANK WAS FOURTEEN, but he looked sixteen and acted eighteen. He got up every morning and did his work around the farm first, then he cleaned up, got on his bike, and was out of the house before Mama had even come down. He could get to the high school in fifteen minutes, depending on the condition of the road and the strength of the tailwind. This year there wasn’t much snow, and what there was was light and dry and blew away almost as soon as it fell. When he got there, Frank parked his bike and cleaned himself up again. The high school was fairly new, a big brick building with white-framed windows and high ceilings. It had been in session for three years, but already there was a social divide between the farm boys and the town boys—even if they were from the “town” of Denby, or the “town” of Randolph, which was five miles north of Denby, and even smaller. The nicer part of Usherton was south of Main Street, and kids from down there went to another high school, but the Usherton kids at North High were happy to put on airs around the farm kids. Though not around Frank.

  Frank had never enjoyed anything in his life as much as he enjoyed the high school. He enjoyed the Roman Empire, he enjoyed pistils and stamens, he enjoyed a(b + c) = x, he enjoyed Treasure Island, he enjoyed shop class, he enjoyed chorus, he enjoyed sauntering down the hall as if he had all the time in the world, he enjoyed smiling at the girls and laughing at the guys (or with the guys—the key was that they would never be able to tell the difference). He enjoyed being tall, he enjoyed being broad-shouldered, and he enjoyed the looks he got as he made his way. Yes, everyone knew he was a farm kid—he didn’t lie about that—but he made sure that he never had any shit on his shoes and that he always looked smooth and relaxed. His smile (he worked on it) was slow, and he never said yes or no, he always said “Maybe,” as in “Did you do that assignment?” “Maybe.” “Have you seen Broadway Bill?” “Maybe.” “Are you going to Freddie Haywood’s Christmas party?” “Maybe.” There was a lot you could do with “maybe”—yes, no, I don’t care, I’m not telling you, I haven’t made up my mind. It was exactly the sort of word that Walter and Rosanna hated most. And the very best thing about being at the high school was that Minnie and Joey hadn’t come with him. He rode his bike three miles, and he got away from everyone he knew, just about. It could not be said that he had friends at high school. But he didn’t want friends—he wanted pals and associates, the sort of teachers and kids who didn’t ask questions and let you do what you wanted. Of course, there was a price to pay, and he paid it every day—pedaling home with the afternoon wind in his face, blinding him with tears even if his muffler was wrapped up to his eyes. Fifteen minutes to school was thirty minutes home. But he just gritted his teeth and pedaled harder, rain or snow. Mama worried and Papa was impressed; best of all, they left him alone.

  ROSANNA FOUND Henry to be a mysterious child. One morning in March, not yet a year and a half old, he refused the breast. There was a look on his face that she had seen before on him—skeptical. If you handed him a toy he didn’t care for or showed him a book he wasn’t interested in, he got the same look. Now it was her breast. She closed the front of her dress with some sense of embarrassment, as if it were she who had gone too far. Downstairs, she had the distinct feeling, as she set him in the high chair and scrambled him an egg, that he had come to a decision—enough of that—and he would never look back. It was not as though he were universally hard to please—he ate up his egg and some oatmeal and a spoonful of applesauce that Granny Elizabeth had made in the fall; he loved Lillian (as who did not?), and he laughed readily at games and antics—but he was discriminating. Rosanna had never had a discriminating child before—whiny, yes; picky (Granny Mary had said Lillian was picky when the girl wouldn’t wear that hideous green sweater Oma had knitted for her), yes; hard to understand, yes—but there was something rather impersonal about Henry. He was built in a certain way, that was all. Rosanna was both intimidated and intrigued. When she was away from him, she didn’t imagine him the proper baby size—always bigger. The other thing was that, even though he looked just like Lillian, she never thought he was beautiful or alluring in the same way that Lillian was, and that, she thought, was because he was so self-contained.

  All day long that day, Rosanna kept her eye on him, followed him, handed him a toy or two. He played quietly, looked out the window, ate his dinner, went down for his nap, made no trouble.

  And then Lillian got home. Rosanna was in her own room, folding laundry, when she heard Joe’s and Lillian’s steps on the front porch, and it wasn’t more than a moment after that, before Lillian even called out or opened the door, that Henry shouted, “Mama! Up!” Normally, she would have finished what she was doing before going in, but, just to see with her new eyes, she dropped the socks she was balling together, went to the hallway, and peeped into Henry’s room. He was staring at the door, a big smile on his face. So she went in. His face fell. She said, “Want to see Lillian, Henry? She’s home from school.” His face lit up again. Well, she thought as she carried him down the stairs, things could not be clearer than that. But she was oddly unmoved—or, at least, she recognized repayment when she saw it. She, who had always had a favorite, no matter how hard she tried to love them equally and for themselves, as Jesus loved all the little children, was now not the favorite. She thought of a phrase from the Bible—where, she did not know—“In all that has happened to us, you have been just; you have acted faithfully, while we did wrong.”

  At the bottom of the steps, Lillian was looking up at them. She said, “Mama, Mama! Guess what! Jane has a new sister! They named her Gloria.”

  Rosanna stepped off the bottom step and set Henry on his feet. He put his hand in Lillian’s. Rosanna said, “How wonderful. ‘Gloria’ is a good name.”

  “Can we make up a box of clothes and toys for her?”

  “Goodness, child, everything we have is for boys, and old and patched. If Frankie didn’t wear it first, then Joey did, then you, then Henry.”

  Lillian kissed Henry and then gave her mother a serious look. She said, “I don’t know if they have anything, Mama.”

  It was true that Jane was a ragged child, though loving and sweet. The Morrises went to some tiny church somewhere, the sort of church where there wouldn’t be any old clothes or hand-me-down dolls. She said, “We can ask Granny Mary to look for some nice things at the Catholic church. But when we wrap them up, don’t you say where they came from, all right?”

  “A secret?”

  “Your secret and my secret.”

  Lillian nodded. Then she said, “Oh, my goodness, Henry, I have a whole new story to tell you! About a cat this time, named Petie. He wears boots!” They walked over to the sofa, and Lillian helped him crawl up onto the cushion.

  THIS YEAR, because of the tractor, Walter had planted the corn in a new way—not drilling in a grid, but in long rows. And he only planted twenty acres, enough for seed for next year and for their own animals. The government was paying them not to plant, but, as Walter pointed out to Rosanna, it wasn’t paying them enough to buy someone else’s corn. He did buy a lister—a Go-Dig lister, and it cost him ten dollars, which seemed like a little but was actually a lot. He had thought that maybe he could make some of the machinery he h
ad used with the horses work with the tractor, if he modified it a bit, and that had worked with the oat seeder, and he thought it might work with the oat threshing. But he couldn’t resist the lister. The fact was that, if the rain was going to hold off, then he had to plant the corn deeper—not two or three inches, but five or six, down where the soil was still moist. And the fact was that he was going to know that that plume of dust was lifting behind him and swirling into the sky, and he was not going to turn his head to look at it.

  The lister did a thing for corn that Walter had never seen before—you set the disks one way the first time you cultivated the field, and they turned the dirt toward the middle, between the rows, making a little mound there, and letting the corn shoots, planted so deep, make their way to the surface. And then, a few weeks later, when the cornstalks were taller and thicker, and in danger of falling over, you set the disks of the lister the other way, and they piled the soil against the row of stalks, supported them, and protected the ground moisture (as if there were ground moisture). Walter couldn’t help liking it. And the whole operation took a couple of days each time—none of that struggle, especially on hot days with the horses to get a few rows done, bringing buckets of water for them, swatting the flies, worrying about them when you saw their flanks heaving and their nostrils flaring, just from the sun and the humidity. Walter hadn’t realized how taxing it was to worry about Jake and Elsa. He had said they were work animals and prided himself on knowing that their value lay in their productivity, no different from a pig or a chicken, but, unlike the pigs and the chickens, they had names. The tractor had no name, except “Farmall.” It was a relief.