A Thousand Acres_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [101]
“He looks so, sort of, weakened.”
“Weakened is not enough. Destroyed isn’t enough. He’s got to repent and feel humiliation and regret. I won’t be satisfied until he knows what he is.”
“Do we know what we are?”
“We know we aren’t him. We know that to that degree we don’t yet deserve the lowest circle of Hell.”
It was incredible to me to hear Rose speak like this, but it was intoxicating, too, as sweet and forbidden as anything I had ever done. I couldn’t resist her. I said, “Rosie, I understand. I’m with you.” She planted a kiss on my cheek and let go of my shirt. I saw that some people were looking at us, including Ty, suspicious, and Pete, amused, from different parts of the room.
Some of the church ladies began calling out that it was time to eat, and everyone should line up. Just then, Jess Clark walked in. Harold saw him at once and waved him over. Pretty soon, Jess came toward Rose and me with a smile that I felt myself hook onto, the way you would hook a rope ladder over a windowsill and lower yourself out of a burning house.
He said, “Harold’s got this plan now, that we’re all going to sit together with your dad.”
Rose said, “Let me get everyone.”
Jess said, “I’m skeptical of this. I want to register that.”
“Why?”
“Harold’s not a peacemaker. I think he’s got something up his sleeve.” He shrugged. “But I always suspect Harold, and he’s perfectly innocent often enough.”
I said, “Shouldn’t we wait for Loren?”
“He went to Mason City for something. I don’t know what. He left while I was over by Sac City.” He turned to me. “Ginny, I went to see that guy, the organic guy. I just got back. It was amazing. He hasn’t used chemicals on his land since 1964. He’s seventy-two years old and looks fifty. They’ve got dairy cattle and horses and chickens for eggs, but his wife only cooks vegetarian meals. They get great yields! Just with green manures and animal manure. The vegetable garden is like a museum of nonhybrid varieties. We had carrot bread and oatmeal from their own oats for breakfast, and carrot juice, too, and he had twenty different apple varieties in his orchard. I mean it was like meeting Buddha. They were so happy! I wish you’d come.”
I didn’t say that I’d had plenty to occupy me here.
“I feel right now like Harold’s got to come around. If he doesn’t come around, it’s like looking paradise in the face and turning away from it. It doesn’t seem possible to do that.”
“People do it all the time.”
“Do they? Do you really think they do?”
I didn’t answer. We got into the line. He went on, “Yes, I guess I did, back in the drinking days. Hmm.” But his whole demeanor said those days were gone now, nothing. I laughed to see him so joyful.
Carrot bread and oatmeal might have been welcome at that buffet table. It was barbecued ribs, scalloped potatoes with ham, three kinds of potato salad, four meat casseroles, green beans with cream sauce three ways, two varieties of sweet corn salad, lime Jell-O with bananas, lime Jell-O with maraschino cherries, somebody’s big beautiful green salad, but with a sweet dressing. Jess took baked beans and some leaves of salad, then fell upon the carrot-raisin slaw and helped himself to half of it. He skipped the desserts.
Daddy was already sitting at the table. His plate looked like mine—ribs, potato salad, corn, macaroni and hamburger, more ribs. I said, in a friendly voice, “Well, Daddy, it looks like we picked all the same things.” He ignored me.
I sat between Pammy and Jess,