Bleeding Kansas
Page 7
She caught her mother’s headshake before she brought out the word retarded and changed it to, “They don’t always, well, catch on as fast as most people. Especially Eddie. He was at Kaw Valley Eagle when I was, even though he’s a whole lot older, and his whole lesson, every morning, was saying the alphabet, which he never could remember past the letter f, and then he’d get a nosebleed and have to—”
“But does he climb trees and spy on people?” Gina interrupted.
“Oh! That’s the first I ever heard of him doing that, but he used to crawl under the bathroom doors to look up our skirts, me and Kimberly’s, and now he likes to set fires—”
“Lara,” Susan cut her off. “You have to get into town for basketball practice.”
She turned to Gina. “If you wouldn’t mind bringing the pie pan back when you’re done—I used one of our real ones. They make better pies than the throwaway pans. And, please, people out here are friendly. Don’t get the wrong impression just because of one little incident.”
“Yes, indeed,” Gina said. “They might burn down your house if you’re an abolitionist, but perhaps since it was winter they just wanted to be helpful, heat the place up for you. So they climb the tree outside your bathroom to make sure you haven’t frozen during the night. That sounds very friendly indeed.”
Lara giggled, but her mother shepherded her from the room. As they walked down the back stairs to the kitchen, Lara heard Autumn Minsky say, “Honestly, Gina, when I told you Lawrence was a center for the arts in the Midwest I wasn’t expecting people to reenact In Cold Blood for you. Maybe you should rethink staying here. It smells and it’s cold—”
“And it’s cheap,” Gina said. “My uncle isn’t charging me anything but utilities and taxes to stay here. Nowhere in New York could I find a place that cheap, let alone a gothic horror like this. Maybe I’ll write a novel about it while I’m out here, Cold Comfort Farm meets In Cold Blood—I’ll call it something like Cold-Blooded Farm.”
Eight
UNDERGROUND WARS
ON THE WAY to Lara’s basketball practice, mother and daughter talked over their morning with Gina Haring.
“She can’t really be poor, the way she says she is, can she?” Lara said. “Did you see her cappuccino machine? Or her clothes! Did you notice that sweater? It must have cost a hundred dollars, easy.”
“Easily,” Susan corrected automatically. “I can’t imagine what it cost—your aunt Mimi sometimes spends a thousand dollars on an outfit, but even her clothes aren’t that fine. I think Gina’s husband was very wealthy—she probably has the wardrobe she bought while she was married.”
“And then he divorced her because she was sleeping with women, and he didn’t give her any alimony or anything.”
“Lara! How can you say such a thing? We don’t know anything about her marriage or why it ended.”
“Melanie Derwint told me. She goes to Full Salvation Bible with the Schapens, and she says Myra told Mrs. Derwint.”
“And if Myra Schapen says something, it must be the gospel?” Susan demanded. “Until Gina chooses to confide in us, we won’t make any assumptions about her private life. All Mr. Fremantle told your dad was that she’d gone through a difficult divorce, and we don’t have any right to ask her questions or guess what that means.”
“Oh, all right,” Lara agreed sullenly, all the while planning to talk over what she’d seen with Kimberly Ropes at basketball practice.
Her mother’s mind wandered into a different place. “Did you hear what Gina was saying to Autumn as we were going down the stairs? That she would try to write a novel about the house? It would be wonderful to have that kind of creative gift.”
Susan’s voice trailed away, trying to imagine the special light that must flood the mind of someone with a poem or a novel coming to life inside them. Different from having a baby, which anyone could do. An artistic vision would sustain you in hard times, the way Abigail Grellier’s vision had sustained her. Susan would have to share some of those old diaries with Gina.
“She talked in such a funny way,” Lara said. “I don’t think she’s serious about writing a novel—she just likes to say things. Why would she do that, say things like ‘living in a palace,’ when you know she was probably thinking it was the worst dump she ever saw.”
“Artistic irony,” Susan murmured, bathing Gina’s rudeness in an inspirational glow. “If she really has a vision, she may not realize how she sounds to other people.”
“And the woman from Between Two Worlds,” Lara went on. “Did you see that bumper sticker? ‘Witches Heal.’ Is she a witch? Do you think Gina might be one, too? She said she went into the shop for ‘supplies.’ I should have gone into some of the other rooms to see if she has a witch’s altar set up. Maybe she can conjure the spirits of the dead—she could set up a séance for you with Great-Great-Grandmother Abigail!”
“Lara, no. I’ve seen Autumn Minsky at the farmers’ market in town. I’m sure she doesn’t believe in anything so superstitious.”
“But, Mom, Ms. Haring said she’d gone into the store for ‘supplies.’ What could that mean, unless it was for some kind of witch ceremony?”
Susan cast around in her mind. “Incense,” she decided. “To cover up the smell of cat.”
“Even though we didn’t smell any when we walked in? That was lame, Mom!”
“No one burns incense in the morning,” Susan said firmly. “Not even confirmed witches.”
They had pulled up in front of the high school. Lara grinned and said, “Good try. Me and Kimberly will be at the library at one, okay?”
“Kimberly and I,” Susan corrected, but Lara was already halfway up the walk.
When Susan and Lara reported on the visit to Jim that night at supper, he looked narrowly at his daughter. “Your mother is wound up about the mold and the Fremantle house, but it’s hard to believe you are, Lulu. I’d like to know what’s in that bedroom you care about so much.”
“Nothing, Dad,” Lara said earnestly. “Mom was telling Gina all the stuff I’ve heard a million times, about the fire extinguishers and the marble in the fireplace and everything. I just wanted to—”
Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t think of any reason that made sense for why she had gone up to the main bedroom. No matter what she said, it was snooping, exactly as Autumn Minsky from Between Two Worlds had said. Lara was as bad as Eddie Burton, or almost. The thought made her squirm, but also suggested a diversion.
“Dad, those women, they said Eddie Burton had climbed that old evergreen on the south side of the house and was peeping in at the bathroom window.”
“Lara!” Susan exclaimed. “We don’t know it was Eddie.”
“But, Mom, who else could it have been?” Lara was aggrieved.
“Maybe Myra Schapen,” Chip suggested. “Getting ready to add a little paragraph to ‘News and Notes.’”
It was the first night Chip had joined them for supper since his blowup with Jim over the marijuana at Fremantles’. The rest of the family was so relieved to see him that they laughed loudly, especially Lara, who was happy to have the spotlight turn away from her.
“Yes, Myra has a periscope into every house around here; it’s the only way I can figure how she knows everybody’s private lives.” Jim said. “She and Gram had some real fights about it when your uncle Doug and I were boys.”
“Maybe Arnie was her spy when you were boys together,” Lara said, “and now she has Junior and Robbie doing it for her. It could have been Junior up that tree, because the lady from the witch store, she said whoever it was grinned like he was the cleverest guy on the planet, and whenever Junior gets away with something slimy he does grin like that.”
“Junior would break the tree,” Chip objected. “Maybe it was Robbie.”
“Oh, yeah, like Robbie would do anything for Junior. You know Junior bullied Robbie even more’n me when we were at Kaw Valley.”
“So he bullied Robbie into spying for him,” Chip said.
“And please remember that you two aren’t to call Arnie and his mother by their first names. They don’t like it, and we don’t need to go out of our way to stir them up,” Jim added.
“I bet Lulu’s right, though,” Chip said, “that it was Eddie Burton peeping in through the bathroom window.”
“But why?” Susan demanded.
“Because he’s a creep,” Chip said. “Also, because he’s been Junior’s gofer since we were eight. People have been wild to know what Autumn Minsky is doing with Gina Haring ever since her car first showed up last week, so it figures that Myra—Nanny Schapen—would want to be the first to know. Curly will find out all about it and tell me.”
“Chip, don’t. I don’t like the way Curly spreads news all over the place—he’s like a wind blowing stalk rot to every farm in the valley. Don’t encourage him to blow up Ms. Haring’s troubles bigger than they already are. Leave Ms. Haring alone.”
“Oh, Dad! Anyway, we don’t need Curly to tell us what Autumn Minsky is doing out at Fremantles’—everyone knows.”
“They do?” Susan said sweetly. “And exactly what is that, Etienne? And exactly how do they know it?”
Chip reddened and didn’t answer, but Lara said, “You mean, because she was in Ms. Haring’s bed, Chip? But I thought you said women can’t be sodo—”
“Lara, you’re displaying your ignorance, not how cool you are, so put a lid on it.”
Lara subsided into a glower. She found relief in kicking Chip under the table for raising the subject to begin with. Chip kicked back and hit her chair leg.
“I’m worried about the Burtons, anyway,” Susan said to change the subject. “Ardis is coming into the food pantry once a month now, they told me at the church board meeting. That fine Clem got for going over to Arnie’s with his shotgun is really taking a toll on them.”
“Mom,” Chip chided mockingly, “that’s gossip, you know.”
Susan bit her lip. “You’re right. It’s just—I feel for Ardis, with five children all living at home, plus Clem’s great hulking father, who has to have his diapers changed every few hours. How are they ever going to pay off that fine on what she makes clerking at By-Smart?”
“They could if Clem would get off his butt and work his land, or even find a job himself,” Jim said shortly.
Lara stopped foot fighting her brother to say, “The lady from Between Two Worlds said someone from the sheriff’s office came around checking on her car, you know, that red hybrid. Maybe that was Mr. Schapen.”
Jim made a face. “I guess I could give Hank Drysdale a call, just ask him if he sent someone out there. I don’t want Gina Haring being bothered, not when she’s taken that house off our shoulders. Which reminds me, Lulu, whatever you were doing there this morning, don’t. Even if you left your own stash of dope in the master-bedroom fireplace.”
“Dad! That’s unfair. I told you last week I don’t do drugs, and I’m not a liar.”
“I don’t like to think of you spying on the neighbors. Whatever you were doing in Gina Haring’s room, I don’t want you snooping around like Myra Schapen. You’ve got enough going on in your own life not to add the neighbors’ activities to your list.”
“I wasn’t snooping, Dad, at least not like that. Besides, it’s so unfair to compare me to Myra Schapen. I don’t go around threatening people with hellfire and damnation, or put stories about them on the Web!” Lara’s eyes were swimming with hurt tears.
“But, sugar, gossiping is as bad as putting it on the Web,” Jim said.
“I know you don’t like gossip, Dad, but the Schapens are such jerks, and Eddie Burton is creepy. If I can’t talk about them, it will all fester inside me.”
“And give you a terrible complex?” he suggested. “And a farmer’s daughter can’t afford a fancy psychiatrist to sort out her problems so it’s my duty to let you gossip so you don’t build up weird complexes?”
Lara laughed reluctantly, unwilling to give up completely on her grievance. “Something like that, Dad. Of course, maybe Mom and I will make the X-Farm into such a huge success that we can all afford therapy.”
He pulled her over and ruffled her hair. “I’m spending my share on a fancy trip. When you and your mom are organic-sunflower millionaires, talking to your shrinks about how hard it is to have all that money, I’m going to be hanging out in Argentina all winter with the bobolinks.”
FROM ABIGAIL COMFORT GRELLIER’S JOURNAL
July 23, 1855
The sum of money my dear mother gave to me on our parting is fast depleted by the exorbitant price the Missouri ruffians charge for the basic needs of living. With a sack of wheat $6, we make a baking of bread do for a week. I must store it in my tin trunk to keep the greedy mice from it! We have apples a plenty, for there were trees on the land that M. Grellier staked out, and they are a great gift and mercy to us.
I used some of my precious hoard to buy a cow, and “Mrs. Blossom,” as I christened her, has some days been my dearest friend, for M. Grellier is very busy in the town with the militia that will try to protect us from the ruffians. She stands near me while I tend my vegetable garden, dug for me with great kindness by Mr. Schapen, who has a team of oxen. One acre of this prairie sod is now under cultivation! And my radishes, peas, and corn are all rising well.
Nine
THE MILKMAN
“YEAH, SOAPWEED, it all sucks.”
Robbie Schapen leaned his head against the Guernsey-Jersey’s flank. The urge to curl up around her warm body and go back to sleep was so strong that he sat upright again. She hated—all the cows hated—automated milking. No matter how careful you were, the rubber tubes and vacuum pump moved milk through them too fast for comfort. If he fell asleep, she’d bellow in agony when her udders were stripped. That would be cruel to her, and would also bring his dad—or, worse yet, his grandmother—to see what new blunder he’d made.
He scooted over to Scurf-pea and attached the teat cups, moved on to Bittersweet, Daphne, and then Connie. Five cows on a side—his side—move them out, bring in the next five. A race of sorts that he won about once every three months.
Junior could outmilk both Arnie and Dale, but that was because he didn’t worry about hurting the cows. The ones he milked always had the highest rate of mastitis on the farm, so Robbie thought it was fucking unfair—Sorry, Jesus, but it really is—for Dad to hold Junior up to him as an example. A cow with mastitis has to be on antibiotics, and you can’t use her milk—you take it from her, but you have to throw it out until she’s well again. So the faster Junior milked, the more money they lost. But try telling Dad that.
Today, fortunately, Dale Bracken was on the other side of the drainage pit. He was a tired, quiet man who worked for Arnie, coming out to help with the early milking and doing odd jobs, like spraying the lagoon, which collected wastewater runoff from the grazing pastures and milking shed.
Robbie turned on the pump, watched the milk flow through the Lucite tubes, checked the udders, turned off the switch, and removed the hoses. “Okay, girls, out you go.” He slapped Cornflower’s flank. She was the lead cow in this lot, and once she moved out the other four would follow. As soon as Soapweed, last in this group, was in motion, Robbie trotted back to the yard and brought in his next five.
Naming the cows was his job. It was actually a punishment, something his grandmother thought up because he’d broken his leg, or maybe because he’d been crying when the broker showed up to buy the cows after his mother disappeared. Robbie couldn’t remember very clearly: he’d only been nine at the time.
First, Nanny had told him Mom was dead. But Junior, who was eleven back then, said, “She’s not dead. She ran off with some guy she met at the b
ank.” So then Nanny said Mom was a harlot who couldn’t take family responsibilities, and that was the main story she repeated so often it was like a routine part of daily conversation: “Hello, Nanny, how are you?” “Your mother was a harlot.”
She usually repeated it when Robbie did something to annoy her. With his olive skin and skinny frame, Robbie looked like his mother. Blond, broad Junior, he was a true Schapen. Nanny was also very fond of saying that.
Robbie didn’t remember his mother clearly. After she left, Dad, or maybe Nanny, had thrown out all her pictures. Robbie rescued three from the garbage when his grandmother was in the field and Junior and Dad were in the barn. He kept them taped under one of his bureau drawers where Nanny wouldn’t find them. She was always snooping through his things, looking for clues about whether he was queer, because Robbie liked to play the guitar and hated sports.
Junior was a defensive end. He was hoping for a football scholarship from Tonganoxie Bible College for next year, which meant he couldn’t flunk any more of his courses this year. He was flunking biology this fall, but the college didn’t care about that, because in Lawrence you had to study evolution to pass biology and Junior told the people at Tonganoxie he’d been flunked because he was the only student to take a stand against forcing students to disregard the sacred Word of God. Really, Junior had failed because he never did any work for the class. He hardly did any work for any classes, but most teachers passed him because he was on the football team. Only Mr. Biesterman, the biology teacher, and Ms. Carmody, in English, refused to give a free ride to the football players.
Of course if Tonganoxie found out what Junior and Eddie Burton had been up to, good-bye college, good-bye football. Robbie sometimes thought about telling, especially when Nanny was raving about Junior like he was one of the elect sitting at God’s right hand. The fact that he didn’t wasn’t out of loyalty—he and Junior had always sacrificed each other on the altar of Nanny’s anger—or even that he was afraid of Junior. He was a little afraid of him, of course, his brother being so big and so prone to use his fists. You’d be an idiot not to be somewhat afraid of him. But Robbie’s reasons for not telling were more complicated than just fear of Junior. For one thing, he only suspected, he didn’t know for sure. More than that, Robbie was afraid if he put his suspicions into words he’d make them real.