A Thousand Acres

by Jane Smiley

  This was the first swim of the year for the girls, and they should have been excited, but after we had gotten our suits and were in the car headed toward Pike, they grew quiet. I said, "Do you wish your mom were going?"

  Pammy shook her head.

  "We'll have fun, you know. Anyway, it's awfully hot to stay home."

  Linda sat forward and put her head over the back of the seat. She said, "Aunt Ginny, we don't have any friends there any more.

  "Sure you do. All those kids will be glad to see you. You'll be the new faces now.

  "I don't see why we have to go to boarding school. Nobody else does."

  "Your mom has good reasons. Anyway, I thought you liked it there."

  Pammy said, "It isn't bad. The teachers are nice.

  "But the kids are all city kids. They're all rich."

  "I can't believe they're all rich."

  "They pretend like it," said Linda. "We have nicknames."

  I felt a tiny pain in my throat, like the pressure of a knife point.

  I said, "Well, let's hear them."

  Pammy spoke up reluctantly, and I suspected that the nicknames had been something she intended to keep from us. She said, "Well, mine was Lambie, because I gave this oral report about having lambs for 4-H, and Linda's was Mac, for Old MacDonald."

  "We wanted them to just call us Pam and Linda."

  "Do other kids have nicknames?"

  "Some of them." Now came the hardest question. "Just the unpopular kids?"

  Pammy rode silently, and Linda sat back in her seat. After a few moments, she said, "No, not really. But mostly it's the boys with nicknames. Not too many girls."

  "Well," I said, "nicknames are a sign of affection."

  Linda looked at me. "Not with kids, Aunt Ginny."

  Pammy said, "Anyway, none of those kids are around here. We don't have any friends around here any more.

  "Did anyone write you?"

  Linda leaned forward and said with wise condescension, "Aunt Ginny, kids don't write!"

  I had to laugh.

  After we passed through Cabot, I said, "I don't think it will take long to make friends again. You'll feel uncomfortable for a while, but that's all you'll have to worry about. If you're friendly, they will be friendly."

  It sounded good, but the fact was that I really didn't believe it myself. There was a way in which I could look at my life as an unending battle to make friends, and the girls' worries resonated with my own, worries that came in waves, sometimes pricking me and goading me until all I could think was that there were parties all over the county that I wasn't being invited to, and tempting me to drive around to the farms of all our friends, just to see the truth at last. When I complained of this as a teenager, after my mother died, Daddy used to say, "You ought to stay home, anyway. People ought to stay home." I didn't complain very often. it wasn't the boys that I longed to be with, it was the girls. I would have traded any dance at school for any slumber party. It didn't matter that slumber parties weren't allowed for Rose and me; I wanted to be invited.

  Rose went out anyway. She didn't even bother to climb out her window and onto the front porch, which she could have done. She walked right out the front door and climbed into the car with whoever was picking her up. She didn't have to reciprocate in order to get invitations, either. She did no driving, no party giving, no inviting to our house of any kind. She was a prize, and her repeated escapes part of her legend. When Daddy confronted her, she talked back, as always. The confrontations weren't as regular as the sneaking out, but there were some terrific battles that I anxiously ignored.

  The Pike swimming pool, somewhat past the town on the west side of Pike's Creek, was almost new, and the red maples and beeches planted around it were about ten feet tall and narrow as baseball bats.

  The glaring white gravel parking lot was full of big American cars and pickups. It was so windy you had to shade your eyes against the grit.

  Flat land ranged on every side, punctuated only by the bluepainted concrete-block bathhouse. There were plans to turn the acreage along the creek into a park, of which the pool would be the centerpiece, but pool revenues hadn't yet generated those funds, so the land was still planted, this year in beans.

  Even when my father was a young man, there were so many lakes and pothole ponds in Zebulon County that the idea of building a swimming pool would have been ludicrous, but now every town of any size either had built one or wanted to, and the county newspapers cited these and the three table-flat nine-hole golf courses as "some of Zebulon County's numerous recreational facilities."

  We changed, passed through the showers, and spread our towels with self-conscious care about a third of the way down from the shallow end.

  Pammy opened her swimming bag, pulled out a pair of black and white polka-dotted sunglasses, and put them on. Linda said, "Where did you get those?"

  "When we were in Iowa City. I bought them with my own money.

  "Can I wear them?"

  I said, "May I wear them."

  "May I wear them?"

  "No." The sunglasses glanced toward me. "Well, maybe. We'll see."

  Pammy leaned back, arranged herself on her elbows, and surveyed the assembled crowd. Just in that moment, it was easy to believe she was twelve, almost thirteen, though her ligure was still wiry and thin.

  Not even that first layer of softness underneath the skin had begun to develop. Linda reached into her bag and pulled out a Teen magazine, which she spread open on her towel and began to peruse with concentration. I looked over. The article she was reading was entitled "How Much Makeup Is Too Much?" and began, "Every morning before school, Freshman Tina Smith spends fortyfive minutes on her face."

  I smiled to myself and looked around. There were two women I knew, both my father's age, with their grandchildren. One of them, Mary Livingstone, waved to me. She had been a friend of my mother's, and they had served on some church committees together. I took out my Family Circle. If you lay flat and gripped the edges of the magazine tightly, the wind wasn't as bothersome.

  Pammy said, "There's Doreen Patrick." She pushed her polka dots up the bridge of her nose. "She has a cute suit on." She turned to me and said, "If she comes over here, Aunt Ginny, may I go lie with them?"

  "Sure. But you don't have to wait till she comes over here. You could just go up and say hi."

  "I don't know those other kids. It doesn't matter."

  I watched her watching them. A few minutes later, Doreen Patrick and another girl walked past us toward the snack bar. Doreen glanced at Pammy but didn't say anything. I said, "Pam, nobody's going to recognize you with those sunglasses on." She didn't respond.

  Mary Livingstone came over with her two grandsons, who looked to be about four and live. "Well, Ginny!" she said. "How's your dad?" She lowered herself to the edge of my towel, no mean task.

  "Remember Todd and Toby? Margaret's boys? This must be Pammy and Linda. Weren't you girls away for school this year?"

  Linda murmured, "Yes, ma'am."

  "Didja like it?"

  Again, "Yes, ma'am."

  "Well, Linda, you take the boys and play with them. They've got some toys over by the ladder there." Linda got to her feet. "Go with Linda, boys. She'll play some nice games with you. Granny's tired."

  Mary was like my father in her assumption that children were born to serve their elders, and that their service was to be directed rather than requested. I glanced over at Pammy. She seemed to have shrunk into herself a little. Mary let out a long "Hoooohah," then pinned me with her gaze. "You heard we're selling the farm, didn't you, Ginny?"

  "I guess I didn't."

  "Selling it to the Stanleys, the boy and the two nephews. We're gonna live there through harvest, but they bought the crops in the field, too."

  "The house?"

  "House and everything. We got a trailer down in Bradenton, Florida, for the winter, and then next spring, Dad's gonna buy us a place up near Hayward, Wisconsin, for the fishing. A nice little t
wo-bedroom cabin on a lake, or something like that. They got some places up there with two or three little cottages for when the grandkids come." She stretched out her legs and stared at them for a moment. Nothing big or fancy. There's just the two of us."

  "We'll be sorry to see you go.

  "I'll miss some people."

  One of the Livingstone sons had been killed in Vietnam, the other in a car accident between Pike and Zebulon Center. I wondered why neither of the daughters wanted the farm, with land prices going so high, but that could be a touchy subject, so I didn't say anything.

  Mary looked at me. "It was Marv Carson who told us what a good time it is to sell. We've got more than a million dollars now. Can you believe that? I never thought I'd see that. We kept some out for new places to live, and a new car, but we put the rest in these treasury bills." My gaze followed hers over to Linda and the boys. Linda was laughing, and the boys were, too. Mary said, "We never had savings before. One time in the Depression, all we had was a dollar to last us a week. That was right after we got married, before Annabeth was born.

  You know Annabeth's girl is going to Grinnell, now?

  Smart girl."

  "Sounds like you have a lot of good news, Mary."

  "Oh, I don't know. We'll see if it's good. How's your dad?" She gave me a piercing look, and I wondered if she had seen him on one of his odysseys. I said he was fine.

  "How about Rose? I heard Rose got cancer. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pammy wince. I said, "She's fine. She's really made a good recovery. ' Pammy took off her sunglasses, folded them, wrapped them in her towel, and tucked them inside her swimming bag. Then she said, in an even voice, "Aunt Ginny, I'm going to go swim now." She went over to a spot along the edge of the pool about ten feet from Doreen Patrick and her group, and dove in.

  Mary said, "These girls know about Rose's cancer, don't they? I didn't mean-" "Of course they knew about it, but Rose has kept it very quiet.

  I'm sure she wants them to know it's there, but not to think about it."

  "I always thought-I always thought kids on farms should be made to face facts early on. That's their only hope, seems to me.

  We watched the swimmers and sunbathers and I thought about this. Had I faced all the facts? It seemed like I had, but actually, you never know, just by remembering, how many facts there were to have faced.

  Your own endurance might be a pleasant fiction allowed you by others who've really faced the facts. The eerie feeling this thought gave me made me shiver in the hot wind.

  Mary said, "We might not see you before we leave. Dad isn't much for going around and saying good-bye, and I'm not, either."

  "It isn't for months yet. I'm sure"Well, I want to tell you something."

  "Oh."

  "This thing with Rose reminds me. You girls were about this age when your mom was sick, and your mom used to call me. She was afraid she would die, so afraid."

  I didn't know what to say. It was a remark that shouldn't have shocked me-aren't we all afraid to die-but did, because I remembered her illness and death as very sober, almost muffled. When Rose and I cried, we did it under the covers in her bed or mine, with the corners of our pillows stuffed into our mouths. We did most of our crying during the sickness, and what we told each other was that if our mother saw us cry, it would scare her and disturb her.

  "I said I would help."

  "Pardon me?"

  "She was so afraid for you girls, and I said I would help. I said I would be a real friend to you.

  "No one can help a dying personShe looked at me. After a moment, she said, "Ginny, your mother wasn't afraid for herself. She was never afraid for herself. She had true faith. She was afraid for you. For the life you would live after she died."

  In the long silence after this, Linda and the boys got out of the pool and headed for us. By the rope, Pammy was at last talking to Doreen Patrick. As I watched, Doreen smiled at something Pammy said, and Pammy smiled, too, with good humor but also with relief.

  Her fears were not being realized, and she appreciated that. When Linda reached us, before Mary could say anything, I handed her a couple of dollars and said, "They have Popsicles at the snack bar.

  Would you boys like a Popsicle? Take them for Popsicles, sweetie, and then we'll talk about what's next. And don't forget, you have to stay in the snack area with food."

  When they were out of earshot, Mary went on, She knew what your father was like, even though I think she loved him." Her gaze traveled over my face. After a moment, she went on, "For one thing, she wanted you to have more choices. I know she wanted you to go to college. She never wanted you to marry so young, before seeing some other places and trying some other things. She used to say, 'The Twin Cities aren't such a big deal. The Twin Cities aren't the New Jerusalem!" Then she would throw her head back and laugh.

  She had a great laugh when she let it out." Mary looked at me then, and I'm sure she could see the tears standing in my eyes. She said, "Lord, Ginny, I shouldn't have brought this up, but I did promise to be a friend to you, and to try and give you some of the things your mom wanted you to have, but then Jimmy had his accident, and I could hardly move myself, I was so, uh, so, well, it almost killed me. So I let it go. I have to say that before I leave here, even though it must hurt you. I've just thought about it every day for years and years."

  I said, "It's okay, Mary. I was just wondering what facts there were that I haven't faced. Anyway, I don't know that I would have had a different life if Mom had lived. Daddy didn't make me marry Ty. I wanted to. And he's very nice."

  "Well, his father was a nice man, though I never knew Ty at all.

  There was another thing, too-" She eyed me. I said, "What was that?"

  Our gazes locked. Finally, she said, "Oh, I don't know. Nothing really."

  I found myself a touch disconcerted, so I said, "Rose went to college.

  She had the choices Mom wanted, and she chose the farm.

  Caroline chose the city, and she's been everywhere now, New York, Washington. So, in a way, Mom really got what she wanted."

  Mary smiled. "Maybe so, dear. She was most worried about you.

  She used to say, 'Ginny won't stand up to him," but if you're happy, then it's all worked out. I'll say one thing, and that is that you're a good girl, and unselfish, and you will be rewarded. I believe that."

  "Thanks, Mary." I picked up Pammy's towel and scrubbed my face with it. Linda returned with the boys, both of them streaked with red Popsicle drippings. Mary heaved to her feet, saying, "Come on, you two. You need to be dipped in the pool." Then she smiled at Linda, a genuine approving smile, and said, "You're a sweet child, Linda. You tell your mom that Mary said so." She walked away.

  "Toby's cute," said Linda, almost regretfully.

  I said, "You were nice to watch them."

  "It was okay. I wish Mom would let me baby-sit, but nobody nearby has any babies, and she said if she had to drive me, she would charge me mileage."

  "That sounds like a joke to me.

  She rolled her eyes. "Maybe. You can't really tell with Mom.

  Anyway, she thinks I'm too young.

  I realized that I was almost panting, and I consciously steadied my breath. Linda scanned the pool, then went back to her Teen magazine.

  I said, "I'm going for a dip." She nodded without looking up.

  The water was chilly and refreshing, and I felt the pressure of my mother and her fears for me like a ballooning, impinging presence.

  My mother died before I knew her, before I liked her, before I was old enough for her to be herself with me. As a mother, her manner was matter-of-fact and brisk. I used to watch her feeding Caroline and changing her diapers, lifting her out of messes and trouble. She did everything quickly and never lingered affectionately over these operations, though she could be gently teasing or humorous, joking with even the youngest and most oblivious infant. She bottle-fed Caroline and I'm sure she bottle-fed us, in spite of the fact that farmwives never willingly
take on extra work, and her demeanor during the feedings was rather impersonal as I later recalled it. There was no melding with the child into symbiotic fleshy warmth. Her dresses, even her housedresses, were structured and public-seeming, with tucks and darts, decorative buttons and applique work. The span of her motherhood was a short one, just over a decade, only a moment, really, no time for evolution. I have noticed that a mother left eternally young through death comes to seem as remote as your own young self.

  It's as easy to judge her misapprehensions and mistakes as it is to judge your own, and to fall into a habit of disrespect, as if all her feelings must have been as shallow and jejeune as you think yours used to be.