A Thousand Acres_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [166]
“Which things are Rose’s and which things are Mother’s?”
“At this point, they’re all Rose’s, I guess.”
“But some things—these Christmas napkins, for instance. You must remember—”
“I remember the cups and saucers.” I gestured toward the glass coffee things on the counter. “I remember because I thought it must be a sign of festivity to have the coffee visible like that.”
“Well, we’ll set those aside then.” She carried the set carefully to the table.
I said, “I don’t know anything about the napkins. They seem more like Mommy than Rose, but they’re new to me.”
She left them where they were.
She said, “What about the dishes? What dishes did Daddy eat off of?”
“Some white with a turquoise rim. I don’t see them. Maybe Rose put them away.”
“Or sold them.”
“Or gave them to the church.”
She said, “I remember those. I’d like to have them.”
“They were just glass. From the fifties. They weren’t valuable.”
“From that point of view, what is valuable here?” She had her hands on her hips and her tone was rising. I said, “I don’t know, Caroline,” and I could feel my own eagerness gearing up to match hers. She said, “Those Corningware plates must have been Rose’s. You can have those.”
I spoke with conscious coolness. “You don’t want anything of Rose’s?”
She was taking some mugs off cup hooks. The one in her hand said “Pete’s Joe” on it. I held out my hand for it, and she gave it to me. Then she said, “Not really, no.”
I was about to challenge her. I thought I could make my “why not” feel like a slap, but I suddenly wasn’t as ready as I thought. I was disoriented by the array of unfamiliar goods arrayed about. I said, “You finish this. Set aside what you want. I’ll go upstairs.”
The girls and I had cleared their bedrooms, so I left those doors closed. The bathroom, on the north side of the house, was freezing cold and inhospitable. I opened the medicine chest. Some generic aspirin, of which I took four, Gaviscon and Pepto-Bismol, an unfinished course of Amoxicillin, hydrogen peroxide, syrup of ipecac, Bactine, iodine, Band-Aids and gauze patches. I closed the medicine chest. Towels still hung over the towel racks. I began to fold them over my arm. I stopped after two and put them down on the toilet seat. The cold seemed to play over my skin like a fever. I walked out of the bathroom, looked around. There would be more towels in the towel closet, sheets in the drawers beneath it. I stared at those drawers, beautiful dark oak that you could order from Sears in 1910 that you couldn’t even get any more. The floors. The door frames. The tiny hexagonal white tile in the bathroom that as a child I used to try and fit my toes into. It seemed to me that if I only knew the trick—just a small trick—I could look around this familiar hallway with Rose’s eyes, and if I could do that, then I could sense everything she had sensed in the last few years. That, it seemed, would be one way to stop missing her. The cold beat against me in rhythmic blows. A headache pushed up from beneath the aspirin and swelled to fill my skull. I went back down the stairs.
Caroline’s face met mine as soon as I entered the kitchen. I said, “You must think you’re going to take all of Mommy’s and Daddy’s things, and I’m going to take all of Rose’s.”
“I’m sure there’s more that was Rose’s—”
“That’s not the point.” I realized I was gasping. She looked at me, and I saw that for once she was a little afraid.
Her eyes widened, but she didn’t speak.
I said, “Let’s hear it.”
“What?”
“Let’s hear what you’re thinking?”
“Why do you want to?” Her momentary fear hardened. “I think it’s better if we just divide up the stuff and go home.”
“How can we divide up the stuff without knowing what it means?”
She smiled at this.
I turned and ran back upstairs. I opened the door to what had been Daddy’s room, after that Rose’s room. The pictures were gone, leaving vivid squares