Some Luck: A Novel

by Jane Smiley

  The boys’ mouths had opened a little bit.

  Walter said, “In the winter, the horses take their own manure out and spread it on the oat field. What does that do?”

  “Fertilize!” shouted Frankie.

  “So where do the horses go to get food?”

  “Out to the barn,” said Joey.

  “Right where they put it,” said Walter. “Where does Mr. Frederick go to get gas for the tractor?”

  This was a stumper.

  Neither boy knew the answer.

  Walter ate a bite of meatloaf and some potato, and said, “Texas. And, boys, if you have to go to Texas for something, you don’t need it.”

  He of course spoke with a good deal of self-satisfaction. But he knew anyway that that tractor was going to buzz around his head like a pesky fly, and it did, all night long, in and out of all sorts of dreams that otherwise had nothing in common with one another.

  ROSANNA KNEW that not only Walter, but Granny Elizabeth and all of the Langdons would be upset when they heard the news, so she didn’t exactly tell them. Instead, she got up early that Sunday morning and had breakfast all made by six—a good breakfast, too, pancakes and some raspberries she went out and picked off the bushes, bacon, and oatmeal with sprinklings of brown sugar, because Walter couldn’t start his day without oatmeal. Then, while they were eating, she laid out the boys’ Sunday best, which she had spent an hour the previous afternoon ironing, and of course they all thought they were heading off to their own Methodist church in town, where all the Langdons had gone forever, the same church that Rosanna had once considered radically Protestant and fearsome. But no, she said, after she had Lillian dressed in a beautiful green dress with a white pinafore (she herself was dressed very plainly, in a flat sort of blue dress, with her hair in a secure bun), they were going a bit farther afield, just to try it out, to the Assemblies of God church in Usherton.

  “Usherton!” Walter scowled. “That’s—”

  “Eleven miles door to door,” said Rosanna. “Twenty minutes, and right on the north end of Second Street. We passed it two weeks ago, when we went to the picture show.” Walter had wanted to go to the picture show and see Buster Keaton in Steamboat Bill, Jr. Rosanna, knowing this was an opportunity to look for the church, had gone along, not said a word about missing their Bible reading for that night. Even so, she wasn’t quite sure about the right way to think of pictures.

  “Well, I—”

  “We need to try it,” said Rosanna. “We need to.” And she spoke with such a tremor in her voice (not intended) that Walter didn’t even finish his sentence.

  From the moment Walter started organizing the boys, and then Ragnar, around the prospect of being gone for almost three hours rather than just over one, like most Sundays, Rosanna could feel herself relaxing. The fact was, Rosanna had been feeling in danger lately—more and more every day and week—and her own avid Bible reading did not ease her feeling. She had tried several methods—starting at the beginning and reading, opening at random, looking for familiar stories and starting with the passage Pastor Gordon used in his Sunday sermon. But she always foundered sooner or later. When she began at the beginning, she could not get past the shoals of names and genealogies, because she didn’t know if there was more there than met the eye. Opening at random could be enlightening, but more often than not it was confusing—what was she to make of opening somewhere in Leviticus and reading all those rules she couldn’t understand? But, then, Jesus did some unaccountable things, too—not miracles, like the loaves and the fishes, but denouncing that tree because it wouldn’t give him fruit. Catholics did not read the Bible, were not even allowed to read the Bible, and surely this was the reason. In the Catholic Church, it was all laid out for you in the missal and the progression from one holy day to the next, and everything made sense, but, then again, you were not saved in the Catholic Church—she knew that—so mere intelligibility wasn’t enough. Pastor Gordon’s sermons were very dry, almost always about either brotherly love or service to the community, and never once about salvation, the feeling of salvation, as if Pastor Gordon hadn’t yet experienced that feeling. So—nothing there.

  What she needed was for Walter, and especially Frankie and Joey, to be saved, as she had been, and they were not going to get that from the First Methodist Church (never followed by a second one) of Denby, Iowa. But she had overheard Lucy Morgan and Dan Crest talking at the store about the Assembly of God, and the pastor there, Roger Elmore, a personal friend of someone named E. N. Bell, who was famous and important in some way that Rosanna didn’t understand but appreciated anyway. “And also a fiery preacher,” said Lucy. “Set ’em all alight, even the icy ones!” and Dan Crest laughed. Rosanna knew that that was what Walter needed. And the boys needed to do more in Sunday school than fill in the stripes of Joseph’s coat of many colors.

  It was a beautiful day, especially for late June, not very hot and with a little breeze. Walter never minded a drive once you got him off the farm—he liked to see that he was further along in his work, or at least that it was done more properly, than at the farms along the way. They skirted their own town, so it was all farms and fields until they got to the Iowa River. It was shady right around there, and a minute or two later, they came to the church. Only then, as they were driving down that street, did Rosanna remember that she knew no one in the church—not even Lucy Morgan, if it came to that, because her mother knew Lucy Morgan, but Rosanna had only ever spoken to her one time. It occurred to Rosanna that she should have told Lucy Morgan that she would like to visit her church.

  They parked down the street, and walked back toward the church building, which wasn’t terribly big. Lillian insisted on walking and not being carried, but she put her hand in Rosanna’s very obediently and asked no questions—she was such a good child. It was as if she knew where they were going, and that she would be welcomed there. Semiconsciously, Rosanna slowed her steps so that Lillian preceded her just a tiny bit, so that Lillian’s beautiful and shining face would be the first one someone might see.

  Walter caught up with her and said, “Joey, stay with Mama.” To Rosanna, he said, “Got a handful back here,” and Rosanna could hear that he did—“Where are we going? Is Granny Elizabeth here? I told Granny Elizabeth—Don’t hold me, I can walk by myself!” Rosanna looked down and said, “Joseph, take your thumb out of your mouth.” He did, but his thumb was pink and wet. An embarrassment. Now they were right in front of the church.

  It was so hard to go in. It was a small church—there were only two steps up to the porch, and the double doors were closed, which meant that the service had probably commenced. Besides hardly ever knowing what time it was, Rosanna always underestimated how long it would take to get ready and then go somewhere.

  Walter said, “This is it, right?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, it says right here that it is.” He pointed to a small plaque beside the double doors.

  “I’m sure we’re late.”

  “Not that late. Maybe a minute or two late, if the service starts on the hour.” He and Frankie went up the two steps, and he put his hand on the door pull. Rosanna felt herself step back. It was like magic, like something about the church was pushing her away. The doors looked terribly closed and forbidding, and as hard as she had tried, the five of them looked like rubes, especially her, dowdy, and as homemade as cornmeal mush. She shook her head and said, “We’re too late.”

  Walter muttered something that she couldn’t quite make out, but then she heard Frankie say “Damn it” and was sure he was echoing his father’s words.

  She exclaimed, “Frankie! What a naughty thing!” Frankie looked up at Walter. Walter stayed still for a moment, then said, “Well, are we going in? We’re dressed to the eyeballs here.”

  Rosanna felt as if something terrifying was about to happen, but she couldn’t imagine what—a warm Sunday morning on a quiet street in Usherton, hardly an automobile going by, the maples planted along the sidewalk
s just trembling slightly in the breeze, leaves rattling the way they did when they got a little dry. Rosanna removed her hand from Joey’s and lifted it toward her face; Joey grabbed her skirt. Was her fear zinging to him, or was his fear zinging to her? As a side thought, was this what Joey felt like all the time? That had never occurred to her before. She glanced down at him.

  And then both of the doors flew open, and two men in nice clothes stepped out and wedged them. After that, the congregation started emerging in small groups. The first four or five people paused and waited, and then the pastor, Rosanna suspected, came, stood by the door, and held out his hand for people to shake as they wished him a good day. It was then that Lillian dropped her hand and climbed the steps, and the group of people stepped aside and made way for her. She held herself straight. One woman said, “Oh, isn’t she cute?” and a man said, “What’s your name, little girl?” and Lillian said, “I am Lillian, how are you?” Several people chuckled, and another woman said, “Lovely child,” and at that point, Walter stepped forward and held out his hand to the pastor. “Don’t mean to get in the way, sir. We were hoping to attend the service,” and that first lady said, “And a little child shall lead them,” and pretty soon, Walter had ascertained that the next service would begin in half an hour, and they were certainly welcome. Rosanna walked out of her fear as if it were a booth set beside the curb, and her skin tingled with pleasure as she followed Lillian and Walter up the steps.

  A young man showed them to a pew about halfway down the aisle, and they sat there—even Frankie was quiet enough—looking around as the congregation entered for the next service. Rosanna had Lillian beside her, between herself and Walter, and Rosanna stared at her blond hair sparkling in the light that poured through the windows. It shook her a little—just a little—to have given birth to this being. She glanced at Walter. He was looking around as if he didn’t know what was happening. But Rosanna did know. She did know, even if she had to keep it to herself.

  LILLIAN WAS SITTING in her very own chair, and her dolls were sitting in front of her. Each had a teacup, and two of them, Lolly and Lizzie, had saucers. Lillian gave Lolly a cookie in her saucer, and then gave Lizzie a cookie in her saucer. After pausing a moment, and saying, “Thank you, you’re welcome,” twice, Lillian picked up the two cookies and took a small bite out of each one. Then she set them down again and said, “Oh, deshilus thank you.” Now she picked up her teapot and very carefully poured make-believe tea into each teacup, one for Lolly, one for Lizzie, one for Mamie, one for Dula, one for Frances, and one for Jewel. Jewel and Mamie had tiny little hands, so she leaned forward and pushed one of their hands through the handles of the teacups in front of them. Jewel’s dangled, but Mamie held her cup pretty well. Lillian thought a moment, then said, “And how are you, I am fine. A pig got in the house, but then it jumped out the window!”

  Lillian laughed.

  Dula, who couldn’t sit up very well, fell over. Lillian sat her up again, propped against Lizzie, who was the biggest of the dolls and had shoes. As she propped Dula up, she said, “Don’t be sick, Dula.” She made a gagging noise and said, “Oh dear, oh dear, you will feel better in a minute.” She slid her toe out very slowly and gently knocked Dula over. She said, “Oh, Dula could be worse.” Then she leaned forward and picked the doll up and cradled her in her arms. She began to sing her a song—“Laalalala Babybaby.” Then she stood up and carried Dula over to the cradle, laid her in it, and covered her up.

  She went back to the tea party and resumed her seat. She said, “More tea, oh, thank you, thank you. Have another cookie.” She leaned forward and took careful, small bites out of Lizzie’s cookie, then Lolly’s. “Mmmm, yes, thank you. You won’t believe what the pig did.”

  1929

  ONE DAY in February, Irma and Ragnar asked to have three days off in a row. Rosanna suspected that something was up, but Irma was not showing, so the only thing she said to Walter was that she could manage—the cows weren’t producing much milk at this time of year, so making the butter wasn’t hard, and Joey could gather the eggs—he was good at it, and didn’t ever startle the hens. They left on a Wednesday and returned Saturday night, so that Walter and Rosanna would be free to go to church on Sunday. On Monday, Ragnar came to Walter and said that he had found a job at the veterinary school at Iowa State College, and he and Irma would be leaving in two weeks.

  Walter attempted to conceal his irritation. Ragnar was—what?—thirty-two now, and his English was pretty good. Walter had gotten used to treating him like a relation, which meant giving him lots of work and little free time. Rosanna had been whispering for a year that Irma was unhappy on the farm, and so none of this was surprising. He said, “What’s your job?”

  “Cleaning up the pens, for now.”

  “You can do that here.”

  “Ja, but Irma, she got job, too. Cooking at the Delta Delta Delta house there. I will also be having gardening chores there.”

  Walter said what he felt, which was “Sounds like the life of Riley.”

  “Ja,” said Ragnar. He shrugged. Walter didn’t ask what he and Irma were going to be paid. It was certainly more than he paid them. Two weeks later, they were gone.

  A week after that, it was time to plant the oats. Walter had burned off the cornstalks from that field, and disked in the nicely charred remains. His father had always said that if you could manage to burn over a cornfield once it was harvested and the stalks were dried up, the boost you got for the soil was a measurable one—the oats would be plumper, and there would be more of them—but burning over the field depended so on the weather that he couldn’t do it every year. This year the weather had been right, and so that forty acres was perfect—flat and smooth, with no ridges. He hitched Jake and Elsa to the end-gate seeder, and as he drove from fence to fence, Frankie fed the oat seed into the hopper. Frankie at nine was big and strong. They did it on a Saturday, March 2, just about perfect. Then Frankie hayed the horses all by himself, climbing up the ladder into the loft and forking down bunches of the still-golden stalks. On the way into the house for supper, Walter said, “You did a good job today, Frankie. It’s going to be more work now that Ragnar’s gone.”

  “Who’s going to get that room?”

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  “Joey kicks all night, and he talks in his sleep, too.”

  “Maybe you need Ragnar and Irma’s bed. That would solve the kicking problem.”

  “Not the talking problem.”

  “We’ll see. But your mama needs someone to help. She’s always had either Irma or Eloise.”

  “Who would come?”

  “Maybe Cousin Berta.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Berta Augsberger, she was. Berta Haas. She’s a cousin in Nebraska. Second cousin. Her husband died.”

  “What of?”

  “Tick fever.”

  “Was he a farmer?”

  “Well, they lost the farm, but yes.”

  “If Cousin Berta helps Mama, who helps you?”

  Walter stopped and put his hand on Frankie’s shoulder. Then he said, “You do, Frankie.”

  In spite of himself, Walter pronounced this as if it were bad news. He spoke as if he expected Frankie to scowl and rebel, and maybe he did—not because Frankie seemed to dislike farming or the farm, but because Frankie was rebellious. Frankie looked up at him, then looked around, out past the barn to the fields. All Frankie said was “May I have some new boots?”

  Walter laughed and said, “I’ll order you some.”

  AFTER THEY PLANTED the oats, Frank helped Papa spade up Mama’s garden, and then he helped plant some good things in it: peas, cabbage, onions, potatoes, carrots; later, tomatoes, radishes, beans, and corn. Frank knew that Papa thought he should mind about all this work, but he didn’t. Everybody, including Frank, was well aware that he couldn’t sit still no matter how many times he was told to settle down, so being given stuff to fiddle with was better than looking for trouble on his
own. You want to get into the hayloft—well, get up there twice a day, or more, and throw down the hay. You want to mess with the horses? Well, learn how to help harness Jake and Elsa and drive them in a straight line across the field. You like to dig holes? Well, dig them the proper depth and put something in them, like seed. You like to shoot? Well, shoot a rabbit, and Mama will make rabbit stew, or shoot that coyote that’s trying to get into the chicken house. You don’t have anything to do before school, so you are sitting in your chair at the table, kicking the rungs? Get up an hour earlier and help milk the cows. You want fried chicken for supper? Go out and catch a chicken and wring its neck—you’ll have to learn sometime.

  It wasn’t easy, but Papa turned out to be not as remote and gruff as Frank had feared he would be. Now, when he was showing Frank the way to do things, he was patient, and good at explaining how things worked. He showed Frank how he hung up the harness for Jake and Elsa, and that if you hung it up properly, when you took it down the next time, it went over their heads and around their bodies without tangling, and all you had to do was buckle the straps. He showed him how, at milking time, if you took ten minutes to put the bags Mama had made over the cows’ tails, you not only didn’t get muck flicked into the milk pail, you didn’t get muck flicked into your eyes or your mouth. If you then didn’t loiter about before carrying the milk pails in to Mama, then no one, cow or boy, kicked a pail over by mistake. If you fixed the fence as soon as you noticed the break, then no hogs ran through it while you were looking for the tools you should have put away in the first place. Frank would not have called it “fun” to work around the place as he was now expected to, but it was less fun to sit around, no matter where you were sitting, whether it was in the schoolhouse or at the table or reading the Bible in the evening. He had to do something, didn’t he? And, too, Papa liked to explain things to him about the farm that made the farm an idea and not just a place. Why did Papa plant clover in with the corn? Papa told him about cover crops, and how clover kept the weeds down. Why did Papa let the hogs in with the cows and the horses? Because the hogs rooted through the cowpies and manure piles and found undigested grains to eat. Why did Papa plant oats in one field one year, and then corn, and then hay? Because different crops took different things out of the soil and put different things into it. Frank liked the term he used—“rotation.”