Read Online A Thousand Acres: A Novel by Jane Smiley - Free Book Online
Authors: Jane Smiley
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tomorrow.”
Daddy said, “Do what you want.”
Ty and I exchanged a glance. Ty said, “The carburetor on the tractor is acting up, though. I hate to spend time on it at this point, but I’m a little nervous about it.”
“Do what you want, I said.”
I licked my lips. Ty pushed his plate toward me. I got up, put it in the sink, and set a piece of pie in front of him. I turned off the heat under the coffee, which had begun to boil, and poured Daddy a cup.
Ty said to Daddy, “Okay. Okay. I guess I’ll take my chances and plant.”
I said, “You want to stay and watch some TV, Daddy?”
“Nah.”
“There might be something good on.”
“Nah. I got some things to do.” It was always the same thing. I glanced at Ty and he gave a minuscule shrug.
We sat silently while Daddy drank his coffee then pushed back his chair and got up to go. I followed him to the door. I said, “Call me if you need anything. It’d be nice if you’d stay.” I always said this,and he never actually answered but I was given to believe that he might stay next time. I watched him climb into his truck and back out, then drive down toward his place. Behind me, Ty said, “Well, that was pretty much the same as usual.”
“I was thinking that, too.”
“He’s said that before, about me doing what I want. Not very often, but once in a while.”
“He’s probably glad of a little vacation, especially right now, since corn planting was so quick.”
“No doubt.”
I was putting in tomato plants the next day, a hundred tomato plants, mostly Better Boys, Gurney Girls, and Romas that Rose had grown in her cold frame. I had a knack with tomatoes that I had developed into a fairly ritualized procedure, planting deep in a mixture of peat, bonemeal, and alfalfa meal, then setting an old tin can around each plant to hold water and repel cutworms. Around that, leaves of the Des Moines
Register
, then mounds of half-decayed grass cuttings on top of those. Every year, we said we would take tomatoes to Fort Dodge and Ames and sell them at farmers markets, but every year we canned them all instead—sometimes five hundred quarts of tomato juice that we drank like orange juice all winter.
I pushed my hair back, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and sat up, only to discover Jess Clark sitting across the corner of the garden from me, smiling. He had on a pair of shorts and those expensive sneakers with soles like inverted soup plates. I remember how automatically I thought of him as a younger man, somehow relatively unformed, and that gave me a kind of ease with him that I don’t often feel with strange men. I said, “So, tell me more,” just as if no time had passed since we talked Sunday. He looked at me carefully, I thought, then said, “Loren keeps saying, ‘No wife or kids, huh? I heard they have nice-looking girls out west. Nice-looking girls.’ ”
We laughed.
Jess watched me for a moment, then said, “I did have a fiancée. She was killed in a car accident.”
“When was that?”
“Six years ago. She was twenty-three, and her name was Alison.”
“That’s a pity. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I drank myself silly about it for two years. If you want to drink in Canada, you can find a lot of company.”
“That’s true anywhere.”
“In Canada there’s no undercurrent of shame. You just drink.”
“I saw at the pig roast that you didn’t seem to be drinking anything.”
“On the second anniversary of Alison’s accident, I drank two bottles of rye whiskey and nearly died of alcohol poisoning, so I haven’t had a drink or a beer since.”
“Oh, Jess.” I felt sorry for him. Everything he said about himself revealed the sort of life that I had always been afraid of.
I picked up the second box of tomato plants and moved down the row. I troweled up a big hole and dumped in the bonemeal mixture, then stripped off the tomato plant’s lower leaves and coiled it gently in the hole—with tomatoes, roots grow out of any part of
Daddy said, “Do what you want.”
Ty and I exchanged a glance. Ty said, “The carburetor on the tractor is acting up, though. I hate to spend time on it at this point, but I’m a little nervous about it.”
“Do what you want, I said.”
I licked my lips. Ty pushed his plate toward me. I got up, put it in the sink, and set a piece of pie in front of him. I turned off the heat under the coffee, which had begun to boil, and poured Daddy a cup.
Ty said to Daddy, “Okay. Okay. I guess I’ll take my chances and plant.”
I said, “You want to stay and watch some TV, Daddy?”
“Nah.”
“There might be something good on.”
“Nah. I got some things to do.” It was always the same thing. I glanced at Ty and he gave a minuscule shrug.
We sat silently while Daddy drank his coffee then pushed back his chair and got up to go. I followed him to the door. I said, “Call me if you need anything. It’d be nice if you’d stay.” I always said this,and he never actually answered but I was given to believe that he might stay next time. I watched him climb into his truck and back out, then drive down toward his place. Behind me, Ty said, “Well, that was pretty much the same as usual.”
“I was thinking that, too.”
“He’s said that before, about me doing what I want. Not very often, but once in a while.”
“He’s probably glad of a little vacation, especially right now, since corn planting was so quick.”
“No doubt.”
I was putting in tomato plants the next day, a hundred tomato plants, mostly Better Boys, Gurney Girls, and Romas that Rose had grown in her cold frame. I had a knack with tomatoes that I had developed into a fairly ritualized procedure, planting deep in a mixture of peat, bonemeal, and alfalfa meal, then setting an old tin can around each plant to hold water and repel cutworms. Around that, leaves of the Des Moines
Register
, then mounds of half-decayed grass cuttings on top of those. Every year, we said we would take tomatoes to Fort Dodge and Ames and sell them at farmers markets, but every year we canned them all instead—sometimes five hundred quarts of tomato juice that we drank like orange juice all winter.
I pushed my hair back, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and sat up, only to discover Jess Clark sitting across the corner of the garden from me, smiling. He had on a pair of shorts and those expensive sneakers with soles like inverted soup plates. I remember how automatically I thought of him as a younger man, somehow relatively unformed, and that gave me a kind of ease with him that I don’t often feel with strange men. I said, “So, tell me more,” just as if no time had passed since we talked Sunday. He looked at me carefully, I thought, then said, “Loren keeps saying, ‘No wife or kids, huh? I heard they have nice-looking girls out west. Nice-looking girls.’ ”
We laughed.
Jess watched me for a moment, then said, “I did have a fiancée. She was killed in a car accident.”
“When was that?”
“Six years ago. She was twenty-three, and her name was Alison.”
“That’s a pity. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I drank myself silly about it for two years. If you want to drink in Canada, you can find a lot of company.”
“That’s true anywhere.”
“In Canada there’s no undercurrent of shame. You just drink.”
“I saw at the pig roast that you didn’t seem to be drinking anything.”
“On the second anniversary of Alison’s accident, I drank two bottles of rye whiskey and nearly died of alcohol poisoning, so I haven’t had a drink or a beer since.”
“Oh, Jess.” I felt sorry for him. Everything he said about himself revealed the sort of life that I had always been afraid of.
I picked up the second box of tomato plants and moved down the row. I troweled up a big hole and dumped in the bonemeal mixture, then stripped off the tomato plant’s lower leaves and coiled it gently in the hole—with tomatoes, roots grow out of any part of
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