Early Warning (34 page)

The habit of worrying was a hard one to break. His corn yield had been as high as he'd ever seen it—a hundred bushels an acre, with the soybeans almost forty-five—that was almost thirty thousand bushels of corn and about eighteen thousand bushels of beans he had carted to the grain elevator. And somehow, against all probability and history, there had been a market. Minnie had said to him, “Well, if land is up to fifteen hundred an acre”—and it seemed to be, according to all the farmers sitting around the café in Denby—“there must be a reason.” Walter would have shaken his head and said, “No, no reason. Never made sense and never will,” but Joe was beginning to believe that there was a reason and there was a market. Maybe it was true, as many farmers said, that the middlemen—the grain companies and the traders on the exchanges—were getting the longer end of the stick, but the stick was getting fatter, too. What was the world population now? More than three and a half billion, and no sign of slowing down—some book Lois had seen called
The Population Bomb
or
The Population Explosion
predicted widespread famine. Or, Joe thought, the arrival of an era when farmers might get paid for what they produced.

Oh well, four lambs was a good start. And a dog, maybe. When Nat died, and then Poppy, he hadn't replaced them. The wind picked up as he headed back toward the barn. He hunched his head into his shoulders. Not much hair to keep him warm anymore, and his feed cap was worthless. He stopped, though, just to watch a goshawk dive straight down at the bare field, walk about for a minute, peck quickly
at something, and then rise into the air with a snake in its talons, long and slender. Joe had never seen that before—in fact, it was maybe two or three years since he'd seen any hawk, longer than that since he'd seen a goshawk. He stood and watched as it rose higher, the snake writhing at first and then drooping. Soon, they disappeared into the clouds, and Joe headed back to the barn. What he would do there, he didn't know—one thing a long cold spring was good for was making sure that every gear was greased, every joint was oiled, every belt on every piece of farm machinery was tight.

Standing in the doorway of the barn, looking at the four lambs and the rest of the empty, chilly landscape, a bright sky (though not sunny) arching over the spreading dark and waiting fields, Joe didn't see a soul. The earth, in his experience, was a bigger place than most people could imagine. Sheep made him think of breeding, how the strain of Walter and the strain of Rosanna mixed with the strain of Roland and the strain of Lorena (a little inbreeding there, he knew). He shook his head—breeding was about profit, not love. He fiddled around the barn until late morning, so idle that he began to contemplate dogs. A pointer. A pointer arrowing across the fields after a pheasant or even a rabbit would be a beautiful sight, a luxury, and a friend. And, after all, a man whose land was now worth almost a million and a half dollars maybe deserved a pointer.

—

ON MONDAY
, which was a nice day, Rosanna put on her socks and boots and a sweater over her housedress and walked out to the newly painted barn, where she knew she would find Joe. The corn ran in a long towering barrier on the south side of the barn, and the Osage-orange hedge, hardy as ever, hid everything to the east (though Rosanna could hear the ewe Joe had decided to keep and breed—Hasta her name was, for
hasta la vista
, Joe's idea of a joke). The puppy was cute, too, a purebred golden retriever named Dory, or D'Ory, which meant “golden” somehow. When she opened the door, the puppy ran over and sat right down, because Joe had taught her that she only got petted if she sat. Rosanna leaned down and scratched her ears, thinking she had turned into a softy for sure, then straightened up and declared, “I want to learn to drive a car.”

Joe stared at her.

She said, “I mean it. I've been sitting inside my house for forty-five years. I can't even remember why I didn't want to go out. Something to do with looks, I'm sure—I was a very vain young woman.”

“Where would you go?”

Rosanna put her hands on her hips. “Wherever I feel like.” That must have been the right answer, because Joe smiled. “You could drive Lois's car to start with—that's an automatic.” Then he said, “Want to try it right now? She hasn't left for work yet.”

Rosanna took the dare and followed him to his house, where he told Lois, “My mother wants to borrow your car,” and Lois, who was deep into making something complicated and French, must not have heard, because she only waved her hand. “The keys are in it.” They walked out the front door before Lois could come to and stop them.

Rosanna had been in Lois's car a few times. It was a new Volkswagen, a small blue station wagon. Joe backed it around, drove it out onto the road, and parked it. Rosanna got behind the wheel, and Joe got into the passenger's seat. He pointed to the ignition, the brake, and the accelerator. He showed her where drive was, where park was, and where reverse was, then said, “Still want to do this?”

Rosanna said, “Since we're heading down the road toward Usherton, more than ever.”

“Well, wait until tomorrow to go there.”

“You're not letting me do this because you want to get rid of me, are you?”

Joe laughed. “I have no hope on that score.”

She thought she might get to the corner, but in the end, she got them all the way around the section (admittedly, only four turns, but all left turns). She sat up, stared through the windshield, and drove past the boarded-up old school, past the road to John's farm, past Rolf's old farm with the house gone, past her own driveway, over the creek, left again. She was careful about the deep ditches to either side of the road (maybe she did stick too close to the center, but no one came along), and she eased slowly up to the stop signs, using her left-turn signal (no putting your arm out the window these days). Joe seemed relaxed—at least, he didn't startle or gasp at anything she did. The panorama through the windshield was a strange new perspective
for someone who usually rode in the backseat. When she stopped in front of Joe's house, she said, “That's not so different from driving old Jake to town.”

“I always wanted to do that.”

“I know you did. I wish I'd let you.”

It had taken half an hour. She left the keys swaying back and forth in the ignition (lovely word!), gave Joe a hug, and got out. Without daring to encounter Lois, she went around their house, then clomped through the corn back to her place, where she straightened the living room, did the breakfast dishes, and headed upstairs to look in her closet. If she was going to start driving into town, she realized, she would have to do something about her hair and her wardrobe.

L
ILLIAN THOUGHT
it was funny that, after forty years or so, what pushed her aunt Eloise out of the Communist Party was Chairman Mao shaking hands with Richard Nixon. Janet told her about it when she came back to Virginia from her spring break in California. She was sitting at the table in the breakfast room. Lillian, who wasn't at all hungry, set the scrambled eggs and toast on the table in front of her niece, then pulled the shades. It was a bright morning for the end of March, and Janet had flown into Dulles late the night before. Lillian had promised to take her down to Sweet Briar, and the weather was perfect for it—there would be magnolias all the way, she thought. Janet said, “I was there for five days, and we spent all of one of them taking boxes and boxes of literature to the dump. I suggested a used-book store, but Eloise didn't want anyone falling for all the crap. As she said.” She picked up her fork.

“Otherwise, she seems fine?” Lillian could not imagine walking away from one's entire life in that way—Eloise's version of divorce.

“As in, does she have a brain tumor or has she lost her mind? I don't think so, she seems great. She took me to a wonderful rose garden not far from her house. You can't believe she's only seven years younger than Grandma, or that she ever lived on a farm. She's so lean and muscly, she dyes her hair faithfully, she walks or jogs several
miles every day. I was impressed. And I think there might be some kind of boyfriend. He called her, but I didn't meet him.”

They laughed together.

Lillian said, “What is she doing for money?”

Janet shrugged. “Who knows? I mean, when did she buy her house? She told me it's paid for. She works at a cheese collective in Berkeley. She's maybe thirty years older than everyone else, but she wears her sandals and her braid down her back, and she fits right in. She said to me, ‘Spender left, and I stayed. Koestler left, and I stayed. Mitford left, and I stayed. Then Sartre left, and I stayed, but I am leaving now. Did you see the look on Mao's face? He might as well have been giving Tricky Dick a big kiss on the lips!' She sounded personally insulted.”

Lillian didn't mention that Arthur, too, had reacted strongly to the picture of Nixon and Mao. They'd been watching the news, and he said, “I'm amazed he hasn't been shot.” Lillian was well trained not to ask questions, but she knew he meant Nixon, not Mao. Now she said, “Is Rosa still married to the gambler? Gosh.” Lillian shook her head. “Little Rosa will be forty next year.”

“I guess Rosa and Lacey live with some new boyfriend so far back into the Big Sur mountains that it takes Lacey an hour or more each way to school on the bus, but they have enough money. Rosa sells glycerin soap she makes with herbs she grows, like lavender or tarragon, and the boyfriend makes violin bows that violinists all over the world are waiting to buy for sky-high prices. They don't have a television or a radio. Eloise gave me some of the soap—it's in my suitcase. I brought some for you. It smells delicious. You can take your pick, except for the lemon.” She pushed her plate away and said, “That was good.”

“You're welcome.”

“You're thanked.”

Lillian carried the plate to the sink, where she rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. Janet rose from the table and did what she always did, which was to walk over to the bank of Tim's pictures—Tim as a newborn, cross-eyed; Tim walking the back of the couch, laughing, with Debbie off to the side, furious; Tim smiling in front of a broken window, the offending tennis ball in his hand (Arthur had labeled that one
“Bull's-eye!”); Tim walking on his hands; Tim dressed as Elvis Presley for Halloween; a picture Steve Sloan had sent her, of Tim onstage at a dance, flicking his cigarette ash into the nest of some unsuspecting older boy's duck tail—grinning, fourteen, already smoking with expertise; Tim playing his guitar; Tim's senior portrait, so smooth and innocent-looking. Janet surveyed them for the hundredth, the thousandth time. Since the big argument with Frank that Lillian had heard no details about, Janet was more scarce than she had been, though she still came around every so often to look at pictures of Tim. Debbie said only that Janet swore she would never speak to Frank again. Debbie also said that Janet had never had a boyfriend; Lillian hoped that her devotion to these pictures wasn't the reason.

She said, “I think maybe your grandmother isn't quite the old lady she used to be. You heard that Joe taught Rosanna to drive and then bought her a car after she passed the test. She had to take the vision test twice, because they thought she was cheating the first time.”

Janet turned toward her. She looked sad, but she sounded normal: “You're kidding!”

“Well, they didn't say that, but they did say that her results were unusual for a woman of her age. Twenty/twenty or just about.”

“What did Joe buy her?”

“She learned in Lois's car, so I guess they decided that the safest thing was to get her the same model. Two thousand dollars. Minnie told me that Lois was fit to be tied, in her way.”

“What way is that?”

“She wrote a thousand-dollar check to the Methodist church for the new roof. So what was Joe going to say?”

“Uncle Joe is always nice.”

Lillian heard a step behind her, and before she even registered that it was Arthur, Janet's face hardened, and then went blank. Arthur put his arm around Lillian's waist and kissed her on the side of the head, then said, “Janny! I didn't know you were here!” He moved to give her his customary hug, and she stiffened, then backed away, but she did eventually smile and say, “Hi, Uncle Arthur. How are you?”

“Upside down and backwards.” But he didn't get a laugh.

Lillian said, “I think she prefers ‘Janet,' darling.”

“I don't care,” said Janet.

Arthur stared into the toaster at his muffin. When it popped up, he pushed it down again, and then, when it was just right, he popped it and juggled it to the counter, where he buttered it. All of this made Lillian strangely self-conscious, but she had no idea why.

Arthur said, “How do your brothers like Cornell?”

“I guess they're pretty busy. Cornell still has ROTC, so they joined that.”

Lillian said, “Your dad made gunpowder all through college. They were trying to make it out of cornstalks for the war effort. I guess one time it worked, but only once. Did he tell you that he lived in a tent?”

“I didn't believe that. You really think it's true? He also told me he didn't graduate,” said Janet.

“Pearl Harbor,” said Lillian.

Janet was staring at Arthur, who seemed not to notice. Suddenly she tossed her head and said, “I have to go. I have to turn in my senior thesis in a week, and I'm supposed to be typing all day today.”

“What's your subject?” said Arthur.

It was then that Janet finally met his gaze completely. “The CIA,” she said.

But Arthur said only, “I thought you were a French major.”

Janet said, “I was going to do it on Violette Lecoq, but there wasn't enough material, so I am doing it on André Malraux.”

There was a long silence; then Lillian said, “Well, it's almost noon. I guess we'd better go. Arthur, I'll be home for dinner. With dinner.”

—

IN THE CAR
, Janet felt more comfortable. She had given Aunt Lillian the lavender bar, which was her second favorite. She thought of it as the last piece of herself that she was leaving behind in a place she had loved but was finished with. She no longer yearned to have the snapshot of Tim on his bike squinting into the sun that had been taken the summer she spent with them. She was almost in that picture—just as Uncle Arthur lifted the camera, a bee buzzed by, and Janet ducked to the left. If you looked closely, her shadow was there in the bottom corner. Whenever any of her teachers at Sweet Briar had used the word “paradox,” Janet thought of that picture—her shadow in his picture, his shadow in her life.

They drove along. Aunt Lillian always held the wheel as though the car could leap out of her hands at any moment—Tim had said that once.

Aunt Lillian asked, “What are you doing after graduation?”

“I'm moving to California.” It was the first time Janet had uttered this aloud. She spoke with confidence, she thought. “I met some kids who have a house in Oakland. One guy is a mailman and one works for Safeway, and two of the girls are at Berkeley. I met them all.” The one who worked at Safeway was a black guy. The mailman lived in the attic, where, he said, it was easier to dematerialize and evaporate through the roof, especially since there was no insulation. The third girl (also black) worked as a nude model for local artists, who paid twenty-five dollars an hour, or more. You didn't have to look like Marisa Berenson to be an artist's model—better not to, in fact.

“Must be a big house,” said Lillian.

“Three stories. The rent is forty dollars a month per person, plus a little more in the winter for heat. Someone is moving to Hawaii, so I get that room. One of the girls is going to help me find a job. All I need is a hundred dollars, so I've been saving from my allowance every month. I should have it.”

“How are you getting out there?” Aunt Lillian made this sound easygoing, as if she weren't prying. Janet said, “A bus ticket is fifty-two dollars.” She did not say that a guy she knew from U.Va. had suggested they hitchhike. It all depended on the next two months, and how much she could save from the last two allowances her mother was ever going to give her. There might be a graduation present, too. If her father gave her anything, she would view it as ransom money. And take it, she thought.

She glanced over at Aunt Lillian, thinking, “I am twenty-one years old,” but saying only, “It's a bad time to get a job. And a good time to try stuff out.”

Then Aunt Lillian surprised her; she said, “I think you'll have fun.” Of course, Aunt Lillian was thinking that she would be seeing Janet again; Janet wasn't so sure about that. Even Aunt Eloise didn't know she was coming back to California—Aunt Eloise thought she was taking a job in Chicago.

—

ON THE DAY
after the end of second grade, Charlie put a dollar and one of the Rice Krispie treats that Mom had made for him on Sunday in his pocket, and set out for the swimming pool. Charlie knew north, south, east, and west, and he knew that the swimming pool was south, but he also knew that he could catch the bus right by his school, which was now out for the summer, although in a week Charlie was going to go to summer school to learn some more about writing. Charlie was left-handed—he knew this because the pointing finger on one hand was longer than it was on the other hand; the longer finger was on his left hand, and to tell right from left, he had to look at his fingers.

Mom had said that he would go to summer school from ten-thirty until noon. Today was a hot day, and Charlie needed a swim. He had taken lessons all last summer and all winter at the Y, and he could do crawl and breast stroke. He had gotten his trunks out of his drawer, and a towel from the hall closet, and rolled it around his trunks. Now he opened the front door and closed it quietly behind himself. Mom was taking a shower.

All through second grade, he had walked to school, at first with Mom, then with Barry Clayton, who was in third grade, and, a few times when Barry was sick, by himself. He went out the front walk to Tuxedo, then walked north on Glen Road. There were six dogs on the way to school. Only one of them was scary, a large brown dog with black on his face who was inside a fence, but as Charlie walked along, the dog ran beside him behind the fence, with his nose to the ground, growling and barking. Charlie said, in his bossiest voice, “Shh, shh, shh, shh,” as he walked along, and he didn't run. If you ran, that made the dog more ready to jump the fence. Glen Road went along the railroad tracks, and he was not allowed to climb the hill to the railroad tracks, though sometimes he did. He passed Clark, where Ricky Horner lived on the corner (Mom always laughed at this rhyme), then passed Atalanta, and came to Marshall. No cars. It was a quiet morning. He had no idea what time it was. If you walked all the way to Marshall and turned right, you could get penny candy at that store. Charlie liked Mary Janes, Pixy Stix, and candy buttons. If you turned left and crossed Glen Road (which he was not allowed to do), you could walk under the tracks and down to Deer Creek, which was deep and had steep sides, but
Ricky Horner said there were fossils in the banks if you looked hard enough. He had shown Charlie two he'd found. Several kids in his class lived on the other side of the tracks, and they walked to school every day, so Charlie didn't understand why he wasn't allowed to go there.