by Jane Smiley
1942
IN LILLIAN’S OPINION, Pearl Harbor wasn’t the worst thing to happen that winter. When they started school after Christmas vacation, her history teacher, Mr. Lassiter, had them skip the Civil War for two weeks in order to learn about the attack, and the geography of the Pacific, and the history of Japanese aggression all over Asia since the Russian-Japanese War of 1904. Lillian was surprised by all of that—but, on the other hand, they didn’t know any Japs or Russkies, as Mr. Lassiter called them. At home, there was more talk of what was going on in Europe, especially since Eloise came home fairly often now, and had some news of Julius, who was in France, or maybe not France, but England or somewhere like that. They listened to the radio, and it was always something. Frankie was at a fort in Missouri. It was a new fort—that was all Lillian had heard about it.
The worst thing to happen was that Mrs. Frederick had a stroke one day in January, and now all she did was sit in a chair, and everything had to be done for her. In the morning, Mr. Frederick and Minnie got her up (they had moved a bed into the dining room, and that’s where she slept); at night, they put her back to bed; in between, Minnie did everything. She had to give up her teacher’s job at the school.
Mrs. Frederick could move one of her arms a little bit, and that hand shook up and down almost all the time. She could turn her head, but her mouth stretched off to the left side, and though she opened it and closed it, only sounds came out, not words. Tears seemed to pour down her face. Minnie wiped them away with a handkerchief. Mr. Frederick stayed out in the barn, fixing things, or milking the cows, or getting ready for plowing and planting. Minnie said that he couldn’t stand to come in the house, and Mama said that of course he felt guilty about that, which made him stay away all the more.
Lillian did not tell anyone that she thought this was worse than Pearl Harbor, even Minnie—Minnie would have been dismayed to hear that. No one was dead, after all, buried at the bottom of the sea, no one wounded. Around Denby, all was still and cold, and peaceful. Sometimes, Minnie asked about Frank—she would plop down on the sofa after feeding her mother some oatmeal mush, or making sandwiches for Lois, or putting clothes through the wringer, and ask about Frankie. Since Frank had only written home twice, Lillian decided to make things up—he had a friend from Arkansas now, named Isaiah Furman, and they had to get up at 4:00 a.m. and tiptoe through the forests in long, silent lines, carrying packs that weighed eighty pounds, with their rifles above their heads. They had to shout “Hut two tree faw” and salute and wash their own underwear in buckets of water they got from the river, and they also had to eat and drink from their helmets. Minnie listened with interest and seemed to believe Lillian. Frank had written to say, “I got here. The trip wasn’t bad. The barracks are pretty primitive, but warmer than my tent, more later.” The second time, he wrote, “Don’t mind the drilling, it is easy. Lots of complainers around, though. I guess we are headed east. Will let you know, Love, your son, Frank.”
Lois stopped going to school altogether—there was too much to do around the house. Minnie gave her reading and writing to work on. Henry had to go with Lucy to the school on the other side of Denby. It was not far from Joey’s farm, so Joey drove them there every day in his new car. Since it was winter, Joey was not working in the fields, but he had decided to fix up Uncle Rolf’s old house and move in there. Uncle John and the new wife, Sheila, didn’t want that house—too small and primitive. It only had four rooms, but Joey said that was enough. He milked the six cows first thing, drove the kids to school, worked all day, fixing the roof and replacing the windows, until the kids were finished for the day, then drove home and milked the cows again.
Lillian was a very shallow person, because the thing that made her saddest of all was how the Fredericks’ house, which was still, underneath all the mess, the nicest house she had ever seen, was now a place that looked bad and smelled bad. Minnie could not keep ahead of the mess, because she would always have to stop and do something for Mrs. Frederick. She put some things away as best she could, but she washed the dishes in the sink as she needed them, and the same with the pots and pans. She herself did not seem to eat anything, only to drink tea (“My one luxury,” she said, with cream in it that she kept back from sending to Dan Crest). She was thin, and her hair was always hanging down in a tangle. She didn’t say much about it, but Lillian knew that she was up and down all night, because Lois told Lillian that Mrs. Frederick cried out a lot and someone had to get up and quiet her, and it wasn’t Mr. Frederick (“He’s never been a patient man,” said Mama). Anyway, when they discussed it over their knitting and sewing, Granny Mary, Granny Elizabeth, and Mama all agreed that the sorts of things that Minnie had to do were not a man’s work. Granny Mary said, “Nun, man weiß nie, was eine gute Sache ist und was nicht. Gott muss einen Plan haben.” Mama said, “But it’s not a plan I like very much.” Granny Mary said, “Ja, well …,” and shrugged, then crossed herself. Then they talked about worse things that had happened to people over the years.
WALTER WASN’T QUITE SURE how to think of anything anymore. You didn’t think that war was good for anyone, and when you went to church, you prayed for soldiers in the army, and civilians in the battle zones, and the cities being bombed to smithereens, and yet in the fall he had made three times his income of the previous year, and he was supposed to give thanks for that—surely it was bad luck not to. And then there was Frank. Rosanna was livid about Frank’s quitting college two quarters before graduating (and with an A average)—he hadn’t been drafted by the lottery, so why not hope for the best?—but Walter thought Frank fit the army like “stink on shit,” as the expression had gone when he himself was in the army, and Walter hoped Frank got more out of the experience than he had. Didn’t he miss him? Well, what was there to miss? Ames or the Ozarks or North Carolina or Europe? For all they heard from him, it was about the same. And then there was Joe—Joe had gotten a 2-A farm deferment from the draft board, but maybe, for his own sake, he’d be better off in the army, seeing the world. However, there was plenty of work to do. As Walter sat with Claire on his knee, holding her hands in his and saying, “This is the way the lady rides, clop-clop-clop,” he sorted in his mind how many fields he, Joey, and John were going to have to plant this year. “This is the way the gentleman rides, trot-trot-trot.” Claire began to giggle. There was really no reason to plant much in the way of oats—only some for the family, the pigs, and the cows, one field—but that was a lot of work for some hay and grain. “And this is the way the …” He paused until Claire cried, “Farmer!”
“Yes! This is the way the farmer rides!” She rocked back and forth, laughing, and Walter laughed, too. She was three now, and this was her favorite game. The Fredericks had gotten rid of Lois’s old hobby horse, so often she sat astride that, held a curl in the wooden mane, and yelled with pleasure.
From the kitchen, Rosanna shouted, “You about ready for supper?”
Walter got up and carried Claire into the kitchen. Henry was setting the table, and Lillian was mashing potatoes. She poured in a little milk. Walter said, “What are we having?”
“Fricassee,” said Rosanna, “but no dumplings. You’ve had enough dumplings, and so have I. I’ve got new peas from the garden, though, and the last of the asparagus. And these are the last of the potatoes until the new potatoes are ready, so let’s enjoy them.”
“Always do,” said Walter.
He set Claire in her seat on her cushion, and Henry set the water pitcher on the table. The door opened, and Joe came in, stepping out of his boots as he did so. There was a blast of spring air through the doorway, right in Walter’s face, moist and fragrant of mud and manure as well as apple blossoms and new grass. Walter took a deep breath. When Joe sat down, he said, “So how many acres we got to plant this year?”
“Eighty for me, a hundred and forty for you, two hundred for Grandpa Otto, and I guess Grandpa Wilmer is putting a hundred and eighty in corn and letting ninety lie fallow. We can seed that with clo
ver when we get the chance.” He paused and looked at Walter. “Mr. Frederick asked if we would plant his back fifty, along our fence line. He’s had it in oats, and he manured it a year and a half ago. It should produce pretty good.”
“Why doesn’t he plant it himself?”
“He doesn’t feel up to it.”
“We’ll see,” said Walter. “I’ll go talk to him about it. Six hundred and fifty acres is a lot. The tractor has thousands of hours on it now, and my father’s tractor is older than that.”
They let the unspoken question of a new tractor lie unmentioned on the table.
Joe said, “I can do it. The days are getting longer. Mr. Frederick’s field is flat and has no fence to watch out for. Should be pretty easy.”
In the meantime, Henry was picking the meat off his chicken bones, and Lillian was helping Claire get her peas onto her spoon so she could put them in her mouth. Rosanna was getting up for the pepper, and then peppering her potatoes. It was a family supper; Walter was forty-six years old. Then he looked over at Rosanna, and said, “What day is it?”
Lillian said, “March twe—”
“Oh my goodness, Walter,” said Rosanna. “It’s your birthday! I’m sorry I forgot!”
“I forgot,” said Walter. “Wish it had stayed forgotten.”
“How old are you?” said Henry, and then, when Walter said, “Forty-seven,” Henry looked horrified. Walter said, “Well, Grandpa Wilmer is seventy-four, and Grandpa Otto is seventy-two.”
“Don’t tell them that,” said Rosanna, and Walter laughed. “And they say time passes so slowly on a farm.”
Lillian said, “We don’t have any presents for you, Papa!”
Walter said, “Now’s the time for me to give you presents on my birthday, not the other way around. Let me think.” Walter savored his last bite of mashed potatoes, then said, “I’ll be right back.”
Upstairs, in the cupboard, he had a box of things he had saved as a boy and a young man. He hadn’t looked into it in twenty years or more. Nothing fancy or valuable, but things that had meant something to him at one time. He found it, and found the key, and carried it downstairs without opening it. “I always wondered what was in that,” said Rosanna.
Walter inserted the key in the lock, turned it with some difficulty, and then pulled it out. He lifted the lid. He had forgotten there were so few things in it, but there were enough. He gently tilted the box and let them fall out on the table. Henry got up on his knees, and everyone else leaned forward. With his forefinger, Walter moved the objects apart so that they all could be seen.
The first one he touched was a feather, still surprisingly golden. He said, “This is an oriole feather. Orioles in France were different from orioles in America—brighter. They had a beautiful song. This feather was just lying on the stone railing of a bridge I walked across, and I picked it up.”
He touched a coin. “This is an Indian-head gold dollar. Grandpa Wilmer got it for his twenty-first birthday, and gave it to me when I was born.”
He touched and picked up a tiny withered stem, then brought it to his nose and inhaled the faint but delicious fragrance. He said, “This is a sprig of lavender. I bought it in a market in France.” He held it out to Joey, who took a whiff.
He picked up an envelope and lifted the flap, then pulled out a photograph and handed it to Lillian. As she peered at it, he said, “That’s me at twenty-two, with my buddies in the army. I’m in the middle, with all the hair, and next to me on the left is Herb Andronico, who was killed about two months later, and on the right is Norm Ansgar, who died in the flu epidemic.”
Lillian said, “You were the only one who lived?”
“Of the three of us, yes. That’s why I saved the picture.”
Lillian passed the picture to Rosanna, who held it up in the light from the window. She said, “You never talked about these two.”
“What was there to say?”
The last thing was a tiny handkerchief, clearly not for nose blowing—mostly lace, now yellowed. Walter opened it out. He said, “My great-grandmother Etta Cheek made that, back in England, when she was a girl. Oh, that would have been around 1830.”
Now they all looked at the five objects for a few moments, and Walter said, “Joey?” He thought Joey would take the dollar, but Joey took the sprig of lavender. “Lillian?” He thought Lillian would take the handkerchief, but she took the feather. “Henry?” Henry took the gold coin and rubbed it on his shirt. Walter picked up the photograph, and Rosanna said, “I would like to save that for Frank.” Walter handed it to her. Then he set Claire on his knee, pointed to the handkerchief, and said, “There’s a present for you on the table, Claire. It’s very old. I am going to write a note to you all about it, and keep it for you. Would you like that?”
Claire nodded and laid her head against the base of his neck. Rosanna said, “I’ll bake you a cake tomorrow, Walter.”
Walter didn’t care about that. But he felt Claire in his lap, pressed against his side, and he looked at the two dark heads and the two bright heads, and then at Rosanna. He sensed the knowledge pass between them that the years represented by these lost objects did not have to end as they had. If he’d fallen in the well, for example, Rosanna would have found the box, wondered what all of these things meant, and never known. A shiver passed over him, and then he saw the same shiver pass over Rosanna. They smiled to one another—a rare occurrence these days.
FRANK WAS SUPPOSED to be in the Corps of Engineers—that’s what most of the other soldiers did at Fort Leonard Wood, which was in a forested, closed-in, hilly area that was not like Illinois and certainly not like Iowa. It was green and hot, and there was hardly ever a breeze. Frank’s drill sergeant, a man from Texas, had some different ideas from the others, and he got the recruits to play a little game. The game started simply—he took a mess kit, opened it up, and then threw a handful of coins into the dish. After giving the soldiers a minute to look at the coins, he closed the mess kit and asked what was in there. It was easy. Frank knew the first time—four pennies, a nickel, two dimes, and a quarter—and he knew the second time—six pennies, four dimes, two nickels, and two quarters. The second time, he had thirty seconds. After that, the sergeant used other bits and pieces, not coins: Six pebbles, four leaves, and three acorns. Eight kernels of corn, three dried beans, the two acorns again, and four maple seeds. Five .22 shells and three .30 shells. This was not something that Frank had to learn, it was something that he already knew how to do. From what? From counting cows and sheep? From scouting for rabbits? From shooting squirrels? From leaving a trail of corn kernels for the pheasants?
The next thing was that Frank and another kid—Lyman Hill, from Oklahoma—were given better rifles, new semiautomatic MK 1s. Frank had heard of them, but never seen one. They were nice—well balanced, solid in the hand, with very long barrels. With the rifles, which belonged not to them but to the U.S. Army, they were given target practice. Frank was good—he hit the bull’s-eyes every time out to five hundred yards, so far that he could really only see the corners of the target, until they were given better sights, sights so finely ground that he could see the bull’s-eyes again. But Lyman was better. Lyman could estimate the wind speed and direction, and adjust his shot accordingly. He hit the bull’s-eye at seven hundred yards every time.
After a week of target practice, the sergeant was excited, and took them to the lieutenant. The lieutenant was new on the job—he had graduated early from West Point after Pearl Harbor was bombed, and he was just four months older than Frank (though Lyman was nineteen and looked sixteen—he had never in his whole life eaten as well as he ate in the army, and after two months, he had already grown an inch). The sergeant wanted to send Frank and Lyman to Ohio, to Camp Perry, for sniper training, and then ship them to Africa—the Seventh Army was headed for Africa, to fight Rommel, and snipers were going. The lieutenant wasn’t sure. But, then, the lieutenant wasn’t terribly sure of anything, except what the sergeant, who’d been in the
army for nineteen years and would have retired if it hadn’t been for the declaration of war, told him to be sure of. They were standing in the lieutenant’s office, and the sergeant stepped up to Frank and spun him around so that he was facing out the window. Then he said, “Private Langdon. Did you get a look at Lieutenant Jorgenson’s desk?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Name the objects on the desk, Private.”
“Yes, Sergeant. Sergeant, three pencils, two short and one long. One fountain pen in a holder. One pad of army-issued writing paper. One holster and one Colt pistol. Two quarters and a half-dollar. One lamp. One Basic Field Manual. One piece of paper, wadded up. Two sets of ID tags.” He paused, then said, “One letter, address side up, and one letter, address side down. One cup of coffee, half full.”
“Private. Turn around.”
Frank turned around.
The sergeant said, “Private. Look at the desk. Anything you missed?”
Frank said, “Yes, Sergeant. The fly crawling around the rim of the lampshade.” He said this with a straight face. The fly dropped over the edge, toward the bulb, and the sergeant’s eyes twinkled.
Lieutenant Jorgenson said, “What does this prove to me, Sergeant?”
“Sir, it proves to you that if the army is going to have a few sharpshooters—or snipers, as our English cousins like to call them—we need to comb the ranks for men suitable to the job. Any man can learn to shoot, given enough time and ammunition, but not every man can learn to observe his surroundings.”
“I’m not sure, Sergeant, that the army has a use for these tactics.”
“Sir, you may be correct, but there is a group training at Camp Perry, and they are being sent to Africa, and we do hear that the marines are for it, sir. And so I don’t think we need to waste Private Langdon’s and Private Hill’s abilities on setting up latrines, sir. Private Hill is a somewhat better shot, but Private Langdon has a better eye for a likely target.”
