Read Online A Thousand Acres by Jane Smiley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jane Smiley
Tags: Fiction, Family Life
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mornings; Rose missed two hours in the afternoons. If there is anything more difficult or more real than the death of one's mother, I don't know what it is. We all thought Jess Clark should have come, no matter what sort ofjail sentence might have been awaiting him for crossing back into the US. It was something Harold had said all the time, and I still agreed. I licked my lips, which were dry from the sudden heat of my angry thoughts. After a moment, I said, "No psychic communication, huh?"
"She died in November of '7I?"
"Two days after Thanksgiving."
"Not a ripple. I was living on a pretty remote island that winter.
I didn't even have a phone."
He spoke in a flat voice, but he had a terrible look on his face, full of pain and anger. Finally he said, "That's the trouble with telepathy, you know. Most of the time, the lines are down." He laughed with a kind of mirthless bark. He breathed heavily, almost panting, and arched his head back. I stared at him. His face was marvelously expressive, more expressive than the face of any man I knew. The lines around his nose and eyes deepened and the corners of his mouth curled downward. His eyes seemed to darken and disappear beneath his eyebrows. He muttered, "Oh, Jesus." I said, "Jess? Are you okay?
It's been nearly eight years."
He exclaimed, "I was so furious at her. I wrote her twice, you know, that first year. I told her I didn't believe in the war and I knew she didn't either. I just wanted a single letter, or a postcard from her saying that she understood, or at least that she was thinking about me.
There were all sorts of draft refusers in Vancouver, and refugees from the army, and lots of their families treated them like heroes, or at least accepted what they did, and sent letters and presents. I didn't expect anything from Harold-I knew how he felt-but I thought she would send me something on her own, anything. I was fucking eighteen when I left here! I look at kids now, and I can't believe how young I was! I still had an inch and a half of growing to do, and twenty pounds! I wasn't even filled out! She knew where I was in I 971, or she could have found out, if she'd called the addresses on those letters. She was forty-three, for God's sake!"
He stood up, then came close to me, into the garden row where I was working, and squatted down right next to me. When I began to say something to defend his mother-she was lighting breast cancer at some point, after all-he interrupted me, staring me down.
But he spoke softly, as if telling me a secret. "Can you believe how they've fucked us over, Ginny? Living and dying! I was her child!
What ideal did she sacrifice me to? Patriotism? Keeping up appearances in the neighborhood? Peace with Harold? Maybe to you it looked like I just vanished, but I was out there, this ignorant farm kid! I'd never seen a fucking checkbook, never owned anything in my own name, never touched a stove or washed my own clothes! I met kids in training camp. One of them had a heart attack on the drilling grounds. The last night of training camp, there was this kid who persuaded our sergeant that he had a blinding headache. He kind of staggered down the aisle between the bunks and went into the bathroom and collapsed. The sergeant started yelling at him that he was faking it, and the guy was moaning and groaning. Some of us crept out of bed and were watching. Anyway, the sergeant was trying to kick him a little, to get him up, and he just rared back and started beating his head against the wall as hard as he could. He must have hit the tiles about six times. The sergeant was struck dumb, just like the rest of us. Then we got to him, and stopped him, and pretty soon they came with a stretcher and carried him off, and all I could think of was that that guy didn't have to go to Vietnam with the rest of us. I was sure that was why he did it. He didn't even have any fucking hair on his chest!" He put his hands on my shoulders and lowered his voice
"She died in November of '7I?"
"Two days after Thanksgiving."
"Not a ripple. I was living on a pretty remote island that winter.
I didn't even have a phone."
He spoke in a flat voice, but he had a terrible look on his face, full of pain and anger. Finally he said, "That's the trouble with telepathy, you know. Most of the time, the lines are down." He laughed with a kind of mirthless bark. He breathed heavily, almost panting, and arched his head back. I stared at him. His face was marvelously expressive, more expressive than the face of any man I knew. The lines around his nose and eyes deepened and the corners of his mouth curled downward. His eyes seemed to darken and disappear beneath his eyebrows. He muttered, "Oh, Jesus." I said, "Jess? Are you okay?
It's been nearly eight years."
He exclaimed, "I was so furious at her. I wrote her twice, you know, that first year. I told her I didn't believe in the war and I knew she didn't either. I just wanted a single letter, or a postcard from her saying that she understood, or at least that she was thinking about me.
There were all sorts of draft refusers in Vancouver, and refugees from the army, and lots of their families treated them like heroes, or at least accepted what they did, and sent letters and presents. I didn't expect anything from Harold-I knew how he felt-but I thought she would send me something on her own, anything. I was fucking eighteen when I left here! I look at kids now, and I can't believe how young I was! I still had an inch and a half of growing to do, and twenty pounds! I wasn't even filled out! She knew where I was in I 971, or she could have found out, if she'd called the addresses on those letters. She was forty-three, for God's sake!"
He stood up, then came close to me, into the garden row where I was working, and squatted down right next to me. When I began to say something to defend his mother-she was lighting breast cancer at some point, after all-he interrupted me, staring me down.
But he spoke softly, as if telling me a secret. "Can you believe how they've fucked us over, Ginny? Living and dying! I was her child!
What ideal did she sacrifice me to? Patriotism? Keeping up appearances in the neighborhood? Peace with Harold? Maybe to you it looked like I just vanished, but I was out there, this ignorant farm kid! I'd never seen a fucking checkbook, never owned anything in my own name, never touched a stove or washed my own clothes! I met kids in training camp. One of them had a heart attack on the drilling grounds. The last night of training camp, there was this kid who persuaded our sergeant that he had a blinding headache. He kind of staggered down the aisle between the bunks and went into the bathroom and collapsed. The sergeant started yelling at him that he was faking it, and the guy was moaning and groaning. Some of us crept out of bed and were watching. Anyway, the sergeant was trying to kick him a little, to get him up, and he just rared back and started beating his head against the wall as hard as he could. He must have hit the tiles about six times. The sergeant was struck dumb, just like the rest of us. Then we got to him, and stopped him, and pretty soon they came with a stretcher and carried him off, and all I could think of was that that guy didn't have to go to Vietnam with the rest of us. I was sure that was why he did it. He didn't even have any fucking hair on his chest!" He put his hands on my shoulders and lowered his voice
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