A Thousand Acres_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [50]
The uncharacteristic flaunting of his new tractor, at the pig roast, was quickly followed by complaints, which Jess faithfully relayed to us. They spent three days adjusting the idle and another three days fiddling with the power take-off. Harold didn’t like the placement of the radio—above on the left. He wished it was above on the right. For his final complaint, “a complaint to last a lifetime,” as Jess called it, he didn’t like the transmission. Ty said, “He’s right. Those IH transmissions are really old-fashioned. If he’d asked someone besides the IH dealer, he would have found out that shifting in a Deere is like silk now. Shifting those Harvesters takes three men and a fat boy.” He held out his hand, and Rose, who had just landed on North Carolina, two houses, counted out his rent.
“That’s not the point,” said Jess, kneading the dice in his palm, then throwing them. “Actually, this is perfect for him. He can stress what a fool he was for buying that tractor for the next twenty years now.”
“Daddy will help him,” said Rose.
“Harold will love that,” said Jess. “You know what comes out of their talks, don’t you?” He slapped his race car past Go and Ty gave him two hundred dollars. He bought a house for New York Avenue and placed it carefully in the orange strip. “They always end up agreeing that Harold has done something crazy, or that Larry was right in the first place. And then Harold lets drop some detail, about money, or bushels per acre, that shows that in spite of his foolishness, he outdid everybody. That he’s such a good farmer that he has a whole lot more leeway than the average guy.”
I said, “I never looked at it that way.”
“That’s because he’s tricked you, too,” said Jess. “Now that I’m back, after all those years away, I’m really amazed at how good Harold is at manipulating the way people think of him.”
“What’s the reward, though?” said Pete. “He doesn’t get the kind of respect other farmers do. People laugh at him. When you’re over at the feedstore, and someone sees his truck drive in, it’s, oh, there’s Harold Clark. And they’re grinning already.”
“And he comes in with some story, right? He’s going to do something crazy, and ugly, too, like surround the house with hay bales, foundation to roofline, then tack polyethylene sheets over them with laths.”
“Or he’s going to pour cement over the entire farmyard from the house to the barn. He did say that last year.” Pete grinned, and I landed on Luxury Tax. Pammy was reading an old Nancy Drew I had found in the attic. She sensed me watching her, and looked up, smiled, and nodded. It was The Ghost of Blackwood Hall, my old favorite. Linda had fallen asleep with her crocheting in her hand. For a week she had been laboriously crocheting a doll sweater.
“No,” said Jess. “That laughter is the point. If they respected him, then he’d have less privacy. All that foolishness is like a smokescreen. People let down their guard. They’re generous with him, too, because they feel a little superior. I mean, neighbor ladies bring Harold and Loren a hotdish once or twice a week. And I’m not saying that he laughs at people behind their backs, or is rubbing his hands with glee at duping them. That’s not what I’m getting at. It’s just that he’s cannier and smarter than he lets on, and in the slippage between what he looks like and what he is, there’s a lot of freedom.”
“Sounds good,” said Rose, “but meanwhile, I own Park Place, and it looks like you owe me a bundle.”
“I owe you everything, Rose.” He leered at her.
“Don’t push me.” She laughed.
I couldn’t help looking at Jess, a little surprised at his analysis of Harold. Maybe it wasn’t true, but truth wasn’t what attracted me. It was the plausibility of such a plan, the perfect way such a plan could deflect the neighbors’ knowledge of you. It was such a lovely word, that last word, “freedom,” a word that always startled and refreshed me when I heard it. I didn’t think of it as having much to do with my life, or the life of anyone I knew—and yet maybe Harold was having some, feeling