A Thousand Acres_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [136]
I have often thought that the death of a parent is the one misfortune for which there is no compensation. Even when circumstances don’t compound it. Even when others who love the child move quickly and smoothly to guard it and care for it. There is not any wisdom to be gained from the death of a parent. There are no memories of the parent that are not rendered painful by the death, no event surrounding the death that is redeemed by a single happy thought. However compromised and doomed I or others considered the arc of Pete’s life, to his daughters, it certainly appeared as fresh and full of possibilities as their own lives did. I realized I had nothing to give Pammy and Linda on the occasion of their father’s death, since I had learned nothing on the occasion of my mother’s death. I went into their rooms and made their beds, which aroused Linda’s suspicions even further—she stood in the doorway watching me, then turned and went back to the TV without a word.
By the time Rose returned, she was herself again, matter-of-fact, almost crisp. The girls were on her as soon as she came through the door. She put down her purse and poured a cup of the coffee I had warm on the stove. She sat at the table. She said, “Girls, I have some really bad news for you.” They sat down, covering every square inch of her face with their stares. I went out the door, slamming it to drown their cries. Across the road, Jess Clark was pacing back and forth in front of the big picture window. He waved, but when I didn’t respond, he didn’t come out.
By dinnertime, the marvelous engine of appearances had started up. George Drake, who owned the funeral home in Zebulon, drove by in his Cadillac. The girls walked down to my house, and Suzanne Patrick picked them up to take them swimming. Pammy wore her sunglasses every minute she was in the house. She asked if she could stay with me instead of going swimming, and I said that it would be easiest if she did everything her mother wanted for the next few days. Her eyes were red, but mostly she had that tormented look of someone striving to get through the next few minutes. They were picked up. Some women we knew from church brought hotdishes and salads. What they couldn’t fit in Rose’s refrigerator, they carried down and put in mine. They all said, “Oh, Ginny, it’s such a shame,” and “If there’s anything at all I can do, don’t hesitate to call.” Two said, “How could he be so stupid like that?” and Marlene Stanley said, “You just hate to see all that talent go to waste that way.”
A feature of this machine was a gate that allowed certain things to be known and spoken of, but not others. That Pete had been drunk and was also a known drinker had to have admittance. That he had slapped Rose around and broken her arm once upon a time could be alluded to, but only in the context that he seemed to have changed, when so many of them don’t. Rose’s feelings were not probed. She assumed the role of grieving widow, and people seemed glad that she did. Loren came to the funeral, though he sat in the back and left early. Caroline sent a small wreath with the note, “From Caroline and Frank.” Daddy did not come, and I realized that while I assumed he was still at Harold’s, he might easily be in Des Moines. I realized that I had accepted Pete’s threatening Harold without thinking much about it, as if something in Pete had to give, but no one had in fact said what really happened, except Harold, and his story was confused.
A lot of people cried, if not at Pete’s particular death, then at the idea of death or the sight of his daughters in their white dresses, looking bewildered and diminished. The gate proscribed the entry of other realities: our father, Ken LaSalle (though not Marv Carson, who came in his inquisitive way and said to me, “It’s just you and Ty now, I guess. This is a big place for one guy to farm”), the common knowledge that Pete would have been a reckless and unorthodox farmer without Daddy and Ty, his threats against