A Thousand Acres_ A Novel - Jane Smiley [55]
In college, a psych major for a while, she burbled with plausible theories about why he drank, what his personality structure was, how we ought to administer “the Luscher Color Test,” or what we could do to break down “the barriers in his whole oral structure” (he couldn’t cry, and therefore express pain, because in fact he couldn’t bite because no doubt he had been breast-fed and forbidden, probably harshly, to bite the nipple), or he had been potty trained too early, which made him retentive of everything. It went on and on. We were never able to bring things to the conclusion she aimed for, though, because changing him ultimately demanded his own involvement, which would have been impossible. One time she did get him to draw a human figure, and then told us the result was “purely and simply a blueprint of his view of himself,” but once he had drawn it, there was nothing to do with it, and anyway, when he found out she was majoring in psychology he stopped payment on her tuition check.
Rose would just say, “He’s a farmer, Caroline. That is a personality structure that supersedes every childhood influence.”
That’s exactly what my father himself would have said.
The fact was, she’d been away from him for almost ten years, long enough so that, to her, his problems seemed only his, their solutions seemed pretty obvious, and the consequences of “managing” him in a new way seemed easily borne. Rose and I had gotten into the habit of ignoring Caroline’s point of view.
But she had never expressed herself quite as she had in this phone call. I was fully able to explain it to myself—she was worried, she was kind of crazy where Daddy was concerned anyway, she wasn’t on the scene.
Even so, I was shaking when I hung up the phone, just shivering from head to toe as if I were standing in a frigid wind. It felt like a fury, but it also felt like a panic, as if her criticisms were simultaneously unjust and just, and the sequence of events that I remembered perfectly was only a theory, a case made in my own defense that a jury might or might not believe. It wouldn’t do any good to exclaim sincerely that it had actually happened the way it had actually happened. The guilty always did that. Rose! I thought, I’ll tell Rose, and we will exclaim together, or Ty. But that was a bad idea, confiding in someone. After you’ve confided long enough in someone, he or she assumes the antagonism you might have just been trying out. It was better for now to keep this conversation to myself.
17
I SPENT THE MORNING shampooing the carpet in the living room and the dining room. On a farm, no matter how careful you are about taking off boots and overalls, the dirt just drifts through anyway. Dirt is the least of it. There’s oil and blood and muck, too. I knew women with linoleum in every room, and proud of the way it looked “just like parquet.” Harold’s tinted concrete idea wasn’t much more than a step beyond that, after all. But mostly, farm women are proud of the fact that they can keep the house looking as though the farm stays outside, that the curtains are white and sparkling and starched, that the carpet is clean and the windowsills dusted and the furniture in good shape, or at least neatly slipcovered (by the wife). Just as the farmers cast measuring glances at each other’s buildings, judging states of repair and ages of paint jobs, their wives never fail to give the house a close inspection for dustballs, cobwebs, dirty windows. And just as farmers love new, more efficient equipment, farmwives are real connoisseurs of household appliances: whole-house vacuum cleaners mounted in the walls, microwave ovens and Crock-Pots, chest freezers, through-the-door icemakers on refrigerators, heavy duty washers and dryers, pot-scrubbing dishwashers and electric deep fat fryers. None of us had everything we could wish for. Rose had always wanted a mangle, for instance, because she liked things, including dish towels and bed sheets, neatly ironed.
At any rate, I had rented the Rug Doctor from the Supervalu in Cabot, and by dinnertime I had worked up