Early Warning (4 page)

Henry's own letters left something to be desired, he thought. They were detailed and earnest, and quite often he found himself going on too long about things that excited him, like how the system of Roman roads in England dictated subsequent linguistic boundaries, even a thousand years after the end of the Roman Empire (another difficulty with carbon copies—no erasing). But she wrote faithfully; her letters were as long as his and as frequent, and though she often talked about meeting various guys at coffee shops or poetry readings (everything free—no Hollywood trash movies), she never mentioned any name in more than two letters.

Henry knew that Rosa knew that Henry loved her. He signed his letters, “Love, Henry.” She signed her letters, “Yours, Rosa.” For six weeks, he dreaded Thanksgiving, when she and Aunt Eloise would be coming to the farm and he would have to see her.

On the Wednesday he left for Denby, he spent the whole morning deciding what clothes to take, aware all the while of his roommate's bag beside the door, full of dirty undershorts heading back to Dubuque for their once-a-semester laundering.

Rosa was wearing what she always did—black shoes, black pants, black sweater—though her dark hair was cut in a different style, shorter than Henry's now, showing the nape of her neck. Her neck was long—he hadn't noticed that before. Or the mole on her cheekbone, or that her fingernails were bitten, or that her eyes were brown. They had exchanged 160 letters, counting both hers and his, and he might not have recognized her on the street. She hugged him and
kissed him on both cheeks, and he stood stiffly. I'm such an Iowan, he thought miserably.

Thanksgiving Day itself was like the funeral had been—everyone on their best behavior, sitting at the dining-room table for a long time, and lots of talk about his father. Papa was in every room, every sentence, every holiday dish. In an odd way, he was in everyone's face, even the faces of those who had never been said to look like him. Every face except Rosa's. Maybe that was why Henry kept staring at her.

Henry hadn't expected to hold Rosa's hand, or to sit next to her; he'd imagined a conversation about
Waiting for Godot
, which Rosa was reading, or
Paradise Lost
, which Henry was reading. That hadn't happened by Friday morning, which was maybe why Henry was still lolling in bed when Aunt Eloise came over from Granny Mary's by herself for breakfast. Since his supremely orderly, book-filled room was off the kitchen, he could hear them quite well. Almost the first thing his mom said was “How does she expect to find a husband, dressed like that? And with that hair. Look at it, it is so short.” His aunt Eloise was seven years younger than his mother, but it could have been twenty, given Rosanna's bossy tone. Henry covered his mouth with his hand so as not to make any noise.

Aunt Eloise said, “Come on, Rosanna. She's twenty. I'm not worried. And anyway, you know who Audrey Hepburn is, don't you? That look is all the rage.”

“I'd had Frank by the time I was twenty.”

“Look how that turned out.” Eloise coughed. Henry knew she was joking, and could imagine his mother waving her hand. “Anyway, I was almost twenty-five when I met Julius. You don't take the first one who comes along anymore.” Point to Eloise, thought Henry.

Now there was a silence, and Henry eased himself upward on his bed to hear better. Eloise went on. “In a big city, you have to…well, you can, pick and choose.”

“You picked and chose Julius?” Point to Rosanna. Henry bit his lip. He didn't remember his uncle Julius very well, except as having that delightful English accent and imposing, articulate English manner. Henry would have picked him, too, he thought. But Julius had died in the war, early, in the failed invasion of Dieppe, when Henry wasn't quite ten.

“I did,” said Eloise. “If you want to know, yes, I pursued Julius, not the other way around. You thought Julius was strange, but I thought he was elegant. From the first time I saw him.”

Their voices were still good-natured, or at least level.

“Well,” said Rosanna, after a moment, “he was argumentative.”

“I know that,” said Eloise. “But, then, that was what I was used to—growing up with Mama and Papa, and living here.”

Point to Eloise, thought Henry.

A chair got pushed back, and then, a moment later, the spigot turned on, so it was his mother who'd gone to the sink. Henry picked up his book, and then Eloise said, “Ma knew I had another friend. I'm surprised she never told you.”

The sound of the water stopped. Rosanna said, “No, she didn't. What happened to him?”

And Eloise said, “He went back to his wife.”

Henry thought he might really have to wander into the kitchen just to see the looks on their faces.

“Did Ma know about that?”

“She knew everything. She gave me advice.”

After a moment, Rosanna said, “What in the world was Ma's advice?”

“Did I know where to find some Queen Anne's lace? And did I know the difference between that and poison hemlock?”

“Everyone knows the difference who was raised on a farm.”

Now there was a silence, and Henry thought about the fact that maybe he did not know the difference. Finally, Rosanna said, “Did you ever have to act on Ma's advice?”

Eloise said nothing; maybe she shook her head, or nodded, but her answer was not for Henry to know.

In the end, Henry had to settle for mostly admiring Rosa from afar. Every so often she gave him a look or a smile. She laughed when he laughed, and teased him once or twice. To Eloise, she said, “Don't you like Henry's sweater? It's so classic.” She called him “Cousin Henry” a few times, as a joke, and then it turned out she was reading a book of that name, by Anthony Trollope, so they did have one tête-à-tête, though the only Trollope Henry had read was
Orley Farm
, extra-credit for his Victorian-literature class. The best thing was that, the day after he got back to Iowa City, there was a letter in his mailbox,
postmarked Denby, from Rosa. She wrote, “Dear Henry, I'm sitting at the dining-room table, here at Uncle Joe's. Baby crying. You think I am doing calculus problems but really, I'm watching you. You are reading something with gold lettering on the spine. Every so often you look at Heloise. I wonder what you're thinking….” It went on for three pages, and it was signed, “Love, Rosa.”

T
INA MANNING WAS HAVING
her first-birthday party. Debbie Manning had drawn the invitations with crayons on cards, and then she and Timmy walked all over the neighborhood by themselves to deliver them. Timmy was a good boy, for once. He stood while they looked both ways when they crossed the street, and did not pretend to run in front of cars. He had never actually run in front of a car, but sometimes he would stand on the curb, jumping up and down, and then jerk his body like he was going to do it. In the summer, a lady who was passing screamed when she saw him, and then Debbie herself screamed, and then Timmy fell down laughing. Debbie hoped that the lady would stop the car and get out and smack him, but she just shook her head and drove on.

Fifteen invitations had taken Debbie three days of hard work. Mommy had had to give her Oreos to “keep up her strength,” but Debbie was happy to do it, because Tina was a wonderful child. She had walked at ten months, could already say “Debbie,” and would stick out her foot and let Debbie put her sock on or take it off again and again. Very soon, Debbie thought, she and Tina were going to have a horse, which they would keep in a silver spring. Debbie had a picture of this silver spring hanging above her bed—she'd used almost her entire gold crayon for the horse and her entire silver crayon for the spring. Debbie made sure that the gates at the top and the bottom
of the stairs were always closed, so that Tina would never tumble down them.

Debbie put on her red velvet Christmas dress for the party and zipped it up the side all by herself. Then she put on her white socks with the lace around the tops, and her black Mary Janes. She looked in the mirror. She looked very good. She opened the stair gate and closed it and locked it, then went down, holding the railing just in case Timmy came along and pushed her. At the bottom of the stairs, she opened the gate and closed it. The clock on the mantel said six o'clock. She was the only girl in her kindergarten who could tell the time every time the teacher asked. Even though he was a year and a half older than Debbie, Timmy said that he could not tell the time or recite the alphabet, but Debbie knew that he could.

When the doorbell rang, Daddy came in from the dining room, called out, “Just a minute,” then kissed her on the forehead. She gave him her hand, and they went to the door. Daddy opened it. Outside, in the cold, the Meyers were standing on the step, the two boys behind them, their mom and dad. Their mom said, “Oh, Arthur! You look ready to have a good time!”

Daddy said, “Mary! Darling girl! Step right in! Hi, boys! Lillian and Tina are holding court in the dining room so that you warriors can use the living room for your battles.” Debbie mouthed the name “Mary.” Four girls in her first-grade class were called Mary.

This was how it went for a long time. The doorbell rang and they went to the door, and people came in, and most of the time they handed Daddy a bottle and handed Debbie a wrapped present, and said, “So—where's the birthday girl?”

The birthday girl was standing in her playpen, and as each set of guests brought in their present, Debbie arranged the stack in front of her.

Soon, all the parents were laughing and talking very loudly, and the other kids were running from room to room, playing tag. Timmy loved tag—he was always It. If he tagged you, you had to sit down in the nearest chair and pretend you were dead. The last child to get tagged would get a prize, but the prize was just an old toy cowboy or something like that.

Finally, Mommy came over and said, “Deb, I need your help with the cake.” Debbie followed her to the back hall, and then Mommy told
her to hold out her hands, and into them she placed the yellow cake with pink frosting they had made the night before. “Happy Birthday Tina” was written across the cake in green letters. The cake was only one layer, and not heavy. Debbie carried it carefully on its silver platter into the dining room, and all the children and parents started clapping.

Daddy had gotten Tina out of the playpen and stood her on a chair at the head of the table. She had a big white napkin tied around her neck, and her hair was sticking out all over her head. Debbie set the cake in front of her on the table. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” and Tina stared all around for a moment, and then, right when they got to “dear Tina,” she flopped forward like a rag doll and put her face in the cake. When she stood up again, she had cake in her hair and on her chin. Mommy said, “What a clown!” and everybody laughed much more than Debbie thought they should.

At that very moment, Debbie decided that she did not want any of the pigs-in-a-blanket she had helped make, or the carrot-raisin salad, or the other cake, the two-layer one meant for eating. She backed away, slipped through the living room, unlocked the gate, locked it again, and tiptoed up the stairs. In her room, her dolls were quiet on her bed. She got out of her red velvet dress and put on her Minnie Mouse pajamas.

In the morning, the whole downstairs was a mess—all of the ashtrays were full of cigarette butts, and where the glasses were not tipped over, they, too, had butts dropped into them. Tina's presents had been unwrapped and piled in a stack in the playpen. Mommy and Daddy were at the kitchen table with Tina, who was eating zwieback. Daddy said, “Here she is!”

Mommy said, “Oh, my head hurts. How did so many people get here?”

Debbie said, “I didn't like that party.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” said Daddy.

“I'm surprised there are any secrets at all,” said Mommy, “given the level of the drinking.”

“There aren't any secrets,” said Daddy, “but, thankfully, no one can remember what they heard once they're sober again.”

Debbie went to the refrigerator and found an egg in the door. Mommy groaned, but she did get up and find a pot. Poached were Debbie's favorite.

—

ROSANNA
, who was watching Annie while Joe was out plowing and Lois was in town, saw him sitting on the front porch railing. His stoop and his sidelong glance told her it was Roland Frederick, looking about a hundred years old. She opened the door and said, “Roland! We thought you were dead!” His eyes bloodshot the way they always got when a man had given himself over to drink.

He said, “Well, I ain't.”

How long had he been gone? Years, anyway. He was Minnie and Lois's father. Maybe they had all assumed he was dead. But this was his house, wasn't it? Annie was upstairs, napping. Rosanna picked up the sock she was knitting. Four needles, eight points; she grasped them tightly and kept her hand beside her waist. You never knew with a drunk. An angry drunk especially, of course. She said, “So you must have some travels to tell about.”

“Could be,” said Roland.

His mouth dropped open a little as he looked around, and there were plenty of teeth missing. Roland Frederick had been a handsome man and a handsomer boy—he and his father, Grafton, had driven around town with a matched pair of grays when Rosanna was—what?—twelve or fourteen, and they sat up square every moment—never rolled about on the seat, laughing and making fools of themselves, like her own Augsberger uncles. Roland had disappeared during the war—too overwhelmed by his wife, Lorene's, terrible stroke to stick around and do his job. No one had been surprised, maybe least of all Minnie, though she hadn't talked about it. Rosanna said, “Would you like a glass of water, Roland, or a cup of tea?”

He stared at her, then said, “Your Frank married into this house here?”

Rosanna laughed. “Heavens, no. Frank's off making a million somewhere. Joe is married to Lois. They have a little girl. Let me get you something. Lois made some biscuits just this morning, and there are shortbread cookies, too. Come on into the kitchen, and tell me what you've been up to.”

He allowed himself to be led, but kept looking around, as if he found the place strange. He said, “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I come over. My house is a little lonely now. Since Walter died.” She didn't think it was a good idea to mention Annie.

“When was that?” He spoke abruptly, as if insulted.

“Just over a year ago. Heart.”

She set a plate in front of him on the table, a biscuit with some butter and cherry jam, two little square cookies. She had left her knitting on the dining-room table, but she knew where the knives were. However, inside the house, Roland seemed harmless.

“Walter always thought he knew everything.”

Rosanna felt herself prickle. “Well, I don't know about that, but he always admired this farm you had, Roland.”

“Wanted to get his hands on it, I'll be bound.”

“I think Walter knew his hands were full.”

“Who planted that north field out there?”

“My son Joe, and also my brother John.” She made her voice clear and bright. You never knew what a drunk could remember. She went into the pantry to find the tea.

She hadn't thought of Roland Frederick as having a point of view. He was an efficient farmer with a beautiful farm, and then he wasn't. He had the most beautiful house and the most admirable wife; everyone in the neighborhood had thought of them as Mr. and Mrs. Frederick, never Roland and Lorene. When Mrs. Frederick had her stroke it had been an impersonal drama, tragic but wordless, the sort of drama that farm country abounded in. Now, looking at Roland, Rosanna knew that he had a story, too, something howling and painful that could make a claim on her, on Joe, on Lois, on Minnie. On Annie. Whatever Minnie said, this was his farm. Rosanna poured out a cup of tea and pushed it toward him, but he stopped it with his hand, so she took it back and folded her own hands around it. She said, “Well, I wish you'd tell me some of the places you've visited.”

He ate one cookie and half the biscuit, rolling bits around in his mouth and then swallowing them.

Finally, she said, “Are you working now?”

“At the stockyards. Omaha.”

“That's steady work.”

“I shoulda left this place when I first had the chance.”

“When was that, Roland?”

“Was all set up I was going to Chicago to work for a man my father knew in the shoe business. Before the first war. Start by doing the books, then go on the road, selling shoes. Well, my dad died right then, and my uncles hated to see me go, so they made it real easy to get going on the farm. Lorene was my second cousin, you know. From over around Grundy Center, where three of the uncles lived. Oh, they suckered me. Everyone was just scared to death of the sins of the world. Lorene was a good girl—she would watch over my spirit.” And then he put his head down on the table, his old, dirty gray hair right on the little plate, and he started bawling. Rosanna moved the plate. She said, “I'm sure they thought they were acting for the best.”

“They never had any doubt about it. Or about anything else.”

“You were a good farmer. Walter respected you. And Minnie and Lois are both such good girls. There's more to everyone than meets the eye. But there is what meets the eye, too.”

Roland took a deep snort and sat up, then pulled a dirty bandanna out of his pocket and wiped his nose. Rosanna picked up the plate, carried that and the teapot to the sink. He was out of the room just like that, and she skittered after him, not quite knowing what she would do if he headed up the stairs, but he didn't. He went straight to the front door and left without another word. Rosanna closed the door behind him.

Through the window, she saw him go down the steps, look around, and make his way to the car parked there—a Ford, maybe a '48. He sat in it for a long while, and then drove away. The car was gray. She wrote that down on a scrap of paper.

It took her two days to tell Minnie. Really, it was that she didn't want to see the very thing she saw when she related the incident—Minnie's nostrils flaring and her eyes hardening.

Minnie said, “He'd better not come back.”

“He might not.”