A Thousand Acres_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [118]
Eventually, every hog in every building would reside in an aluminum alloy pen with hot water heat in the floors, automatic feeders and nipple waterers for the shoats. There would be, as the brochure said, “several comfort zones to accommodate varying sizes of hogs.” Supposedly, it would take six months at the least and eight or nine at the most to complete all the buildings, but the plan was to move the first ten sows into gestation stalls by the beginning of August. Ty had written two checks so far—a $20,000 check to the Harvestore builder and a down payment check to the confinement system builder for $27,500. By the first of August, he would write another check to the Harvestore builder for $20,000 and another check to the confinement system manufacturer for 20 percent of the remaining building cost, or $49,300. If hog prices remained steady, and the sows weren’t stressed by the new buildings or the noise from construction, and he managed to finish an average of six hogs from each litter to an average of two hundred thirty pounds each, he could expect his first check in late winter, for almost $20,000. But by then he would have written two more checks for $49,300, as work on the other buildings progressed. In a quieter time, these numbers would have made me gasp, lie awake at night, comb the books for savings here and there. With everything else that was happening, their effect was to make me merely giddy.
Their effect on Ty was as strong—he had rigged lights around the gestation floor, and he and the crew worked out there until almost eleven. They were back the next day, although it was Saturday, and the next, Sunday. Each day they put in twelve or fourteen hours, and after the crew had gone home, Ty and Pete continued to work until it was dark. From time to time, I wandered out there and looked at the work for a few minutes, but Ty and I did not speak about it. Nor would he talk about the suit, even whether he had known it was coming. I was certain he had. When I said so, he just kept hammering nails into the forms he was setting as if I hadn’t spoken.
Over the weekend, they finished the Slurrystore, set the footings for the grower building, and carted away the innards of the old dairy barn. I served two big meals Friday, two Saturday, and three Sunday, because the café in town wasn’t open for breakfast. No one went to church. Rose came by each day and helped cook. They had been served with their own set of papers, but we didn’t talk about it, either; there was too much to do and, maybe, too much to say. Anyway, the kitchen was like a steambath, too hot for getting worked up.
Sunday afternoon, I was basting a turkey for supper and washing dinner dishes when Ty came in the back door and threw some dirty rags on the floor. I said, “What’s that?”
He said, “You tell me.”
I looked closer. Pink stripes. My nightgown, some underwear. I didn’t have to look again to know what the rusty stains were. I hadn’t actually forgotten them; it was more like I hadn’t had the occasion to dig them up, and, as busy as we were, I had forgotten that they might be excavating that floor so quickly. I said, “Where was that?”
“Where do you think?”
Our gazes locked, and I wondered if I could bluff him, simply deny knowledge, and then I wondered if it was worth it. I dried my hands on a dish towel, wiped the counter with the dishrag for a moment. Finally, I said, “Floor of the dairy barn?”
“I didn’t think you would admit it.”
“Well, I did.”
“Then I guess we have something to talk about tonight.”
“I guess I don’t think so.”
But by that time he was out the door. Though he certainly heard me, he could pretend he hadn’t. I picked up the nightgown and threw it in the trash can. If he had found it six months before, it would have been an innocent thing, a testament to undying hope, evidence of