Laughter turned to tears.
Pam came out, asked had I been crying? I said no, just got dust in eyes from cleaning garage. Pam not buying. Pam gave me little side hug + hip nudge, to say, You were crying, is okay, is difficult time, I know.
Pam: Come on inside. Let’s get things back to normal. We’ll get through this. The kids are dying in there, they feel so bad.
Went inside.
Kids at kitchen table.
Opened arms. Thomas and Lilly rushed over.
Eva stayed sitting.
When Eva tiny, had big head of black curls. Would stand on couch, eating cereal from coffee mug, dancing to song in head, flicking around cord from window blinds.
Now this: Eva sitting w/head in hands like heartbroken old lady mourning loss of vigorous flower of youth, etc., etc.
Went over, scooped Eva up.
Poor thing shaking in my arms.
Eva (in whisper): I didn’t know we would lose the house.
Me: We’re not—we’re not going to lose the house. Mommy and I are going to figure this out.
Sent kids off to watch TV.
Pam: So. You want me to call Dad?
Did not want Pam calling Pam’s dad.
Pam’s dad’s first name = Rich. Actually calls self “Farmer Rich.” Is funny because he is rich farmer. In terms of me, does not like me. Has said at various times that I (1) am not hard worker, and (2) had better watch self in terms of weight, and (3) had better watch self in terms of credit cards.
Farmer Rich in very good shape, with no credit cards.
Farmer Rich not fan of SGs. Feels having SGs = “showoffy move.” Thinks anything fun = showoffy move. Even going to movie = showoffy move. Going to car wash, i.e., not doing self, in driveway = showoffy move. Once, when visiting, looked dubiously at me when I said I had to get root canal. What, I was thinking, root canal = showoffy move? But no: just disapproved of dentist I had chosen, due to he had seen dentist’s TV ad, felt dentist having TV ad = showoffy move.
So did not want Pam calling Farmer Rich.
Told Pam we must try our best to handle this ourselves.
Got out bills, did mock payment exercise: If we pay mortgage, heat bill, AmEx, plus $200 in bills we deferred last time, would be down near zero ($12.78 remaining). If we defer AmEx + Visa, that would free up $880. If, in addition, we skip mortgage payment, heat bill, life-insurance premium, that would still only free up measly total of $3,100.
Me: Shit.
Pam: Maybe I’ll e-mail him. You know. Just see what he says.
Pam upstairs e-mailing Farmer Rich as I write.
September 26th
When I got home, Pam standing in doorway w/e-mail from Farmer Rich.
Farmer Rich = bastard.
Will quote in part:
Let us now speak of what you intend to do with the requested money. Will you be putting it aside for a college fund? You will not. Investing in real estate? No. Given a chance to plant some seeds, you flushed those valuable seeds (dollars) away. And for what? A display some find pretty. Well, I do not find it pretty. Since when are people on display a desirable sight? Do-gooders in our church cite conditions of poverty. Okay, that is fine. But it appears you will soon have a situation of poverty within your own walls. And physician heal thyself is a motto I have oft remembered when tempted to put my oar in relative to some social cause or another. So am going to say no. You people have walked yourselves into some deep water and must now walk yourselves out, teaching your kids (and selves) a valuable lesson from which, in the long term, you and yours will benefit.
Long silence.
Pam: Jesus. Isn’t this just like us?
Do not know what she means. Or, rather, do know but do not agree. Or, rather, agree but wish she would not say. Why say? Saying is negative, makes us feel bad about selves.
I say maybe we should just confess what Eva did, hope for mercy from Greenway.
Pam says no, no: Went online today. Releasing SGs = felony (!). Does not feel they would prosecute eight-year-old, but still. If we confess, this goes on Eva’s record? Eva required to get counseling? Eva feels: I am bad kid? Starts erring on side of bad, hanging out with rough crowd, looking askance at whole notion of achievement? Fails to live up to full potential, all because of one mistake she made when little girl?
No.
Cannot take chance.
When kids born, Pam and I dropped everything (youthful dreams of travel, adventure, etc.) to be good parents. Has not been exciting life. Has been much drudgery. Many nights, tasks undone, have stayed up late, exhausted, doing tasks. On many occasions, disheveled + tired, baby poop and/or vomit on our shirt or blouse, one of us has stood smiling wearily/angrily at camera being held by other, hair shaggy because haircuts expensive, unfashionable glasses slipping down noses because never was time to get glasses tightened.
And now, after all that, our youngest to start out life w/potential black mark on record?
That not happening.
Pam and I discuss, agree: must be like sin-eaters who, in ancient times, ate sin. Or bodies of sinners? Ate meals off bodies of sinners who had died? Cannot exactly recall what sin-eaters did. But Pam and I agree: are going to be like sin-eaters in sense of, will err on side of protecting Eva, keep cops in dark at all cost, break law as req’d (!).
Just now went down hall to check on kids. Thomas sleeping w/Ferber. This not allowed. Eva in bed w/Lilly. This not allowed. Eva, source of all mayhem, sleeping like baby.
Felt like waking Eva, giving Eva hug, telling Eva that, though we do not approve of what she did, she will always be our girl, will always be apple of our eye(s).
Did not do.
Eva needs rest.
On Lilly’s desk: poster Lilly was working on for “Favorite Things Day” at school. Poster = photo of each SG, plus map of home country, plus stories Lilly apparently got during interview (!) with each. Gwen (Moldova) = very tough, due to Moldovan youth: used bloody sheets found in trash + duct tape to make soccer ball, then, after much practice with bloody-sheet ball, nearly made Olympic team (!). Betty (Philippines) has daughter, who, when swimming, will sometimes hitch ride on shell of sea turtle. Lisa (Somalia) once saw lion on roof of her uncle’s “mini-lorry.” Tami (Laos) had pet water buffalo, water buffalo stepped on her foot, now Tami must wear special shoe. “Fun Fact”: their names (Betty, Tami, et al.) not their real names. These = SG names, given by Greenway at time of arrival. “Tami” = Januka = “happy ray of sun.” “Betty” = Nenita = “blessed-beloved.” “Gwen” = Evgenia. (Does not know what her name means.) “Lisa” = Ayan = “happy traveler.”
SGs very much on my mind tonight, future reader.
Where are they now? Why did they leave?
Just do not get.
Letter comes, family celebrates, girl sheds tears, stoically packs bag, thinks, Must go, am family’s only hope. Puts on brave face, promises she will return as soon as contract complete. Her mother feels, father feels: We cannot let her go. But they do. They must.
Whole town walks girl to train station/bus station/ferry stop? More tears, more vows. As train/bus/ferry pulls away, she takes last fond look at surrounding hills/river/quarry/shacks, whatever, i.e., all she has ever known of world, saying to self, Be not afraid, you will return, + return in victory, w/big bag of gifts, etc., etc.
And now?
No money, no papers. Who will remove microline? Who will give her job? When going for job, must fix hair so as to hide scars at Insertion Points. When will she ever see her home + family again? Why would she do this? Why would she ruin all, leave our yard? Could have had nice long run w/us. What in the world was she seeking? What could she want so much that would make her pull such desperate stunt?
Just now went to window.
Empty rack in yard, looking strange in moonlight.
Note to self: Call Greenway, have them take ugly thing away.
JIM SHEPARD
The World to Come
FROM One Story
/> Sunday 1 January
FAIR AND VERY cold. This morning, ice in our bedroom for the first time all winter, and in the kitchen, the water froze on the potatoes as soon as they were washed. Landscapes of frost on the windowpanes.
With little pride and less hope and only occasional and uncertain intervals of happiness, we begin the new year. Let me at least learn to be uncomplaining and unselfish. Let me feel gratitude for what I have: some strength, some sense of purpose, some capacity for progress. Some esteem, some respect, and some affection. Yet I cannot say I am improved in any manner, unless it be preferable to be wider in sensation and experience.
My husband has since our acquisition of this farm kept a diary to help him see the year whole, and plan and space his work. In his memorandum book he numbers each field and charges to each the manure, labor, seed &c and then credits each with each crop. This way he knows what each crop and field pays from year to year. He asked me as of last spring once we lost our Nellie to keep in addition a list in a notebook of matters that might otherwise go overlooked, from tools lent out to bills outstanding. But there is no record in these dull and simple pages of the most passionate circumstances of our seasons past, no record of our emotions or fears, our greatest joys or most piercing sorrows.
When I think of our old farm I think of rocks. My father hauled rocks for our driveway and rocks for our dooryard and rocks for the base on which our chimney was set. There were rock piles in every fence corner, miles of stone walls separating our fields, and stone bridges so that we might cross dry-shod over our numerous little water courses. Piles of rocks were always appearing and growing and every time we plowed we would have a new crop. As a toddler, my first tasks were filling the wood box and picking rocks out of new-plowed ground. My father before his day began would say to me, “While I’m gone, you can pick up the rocks on this or that piece, and when you get that done, you can play.” And when he returned that sundown I’d still be in that field to which he’d pointed, on my hands and knees, in tears, the job always less than half done.
My sister’s features were so fine that my mother liked to sketch them by lamplight, and her spirit was equally engaging, but when it came to others’ affections, circumstances doomed me to striving and anxiety. I grew like a pot-bound root all curled in upon itself.
I resolve to strive even more fully for some of my former patience. And to remember that it was got at by practice. What most of us really need is simply to make habitual what we already know.
“Welcome, sweet day of rest” says the hymn and Sunday is most welcome for its few hours of quiet ease. A series of phaetons on the road despite the cold. Were it not for worship all of the ladies hereabouts would be in danger of becoming perfect recluses. As for me, I no longer attend. After the calamity of Nellie’s loss, what calm I enjoy does not derive from the notion of a better world to come. In the far field, foxes at play on their hind legs, wrestling like boys. The wind heavy at intervals. The snow is falling from the trees about the house so that the liberated limbs straighten up like a man released from debt.
Old Mr. Manning who’s been very low for several weeks died this morning.
The ink stopper has rolled on me and ruined a whole half-entry. Why is ink like a fire? Because it is a good servant and a hard master.
Sunday 8 January
A strong cold wind blowing all day from the west. Fried two chickens and made biscuits for breakfast. I want to purchase a dictionary. I have two dollars to spare and can’t imagine I could expend it better to my own satisfaction. My self-education seems the only way to keep my unhappiness from overwhelming me. I will recommence as well with my long-neglected algebra. Some time not working during the week is always wise. The bow forever bent loses its power.
An hour spent this morning chopping and spreading old turnips on the snow for the sheep. Dyer has culled the wisest of the rams to be set aside for sale in the spring, to let someone else have the pleasure of matching wits with them.
Nothing stirring outside except Tallie’s dog, who makes the rounds of the neighboring farms after woodchucks the way a doctor might visit his patients. Lurid clouds are rolling up against the wind. Dyer holds that the first twelve days of January portend the weather for the next twelve months. So that our fine day on the 4th promises good weather for the spring planting in April, the fourth month, and a storm tomorrow will guarantee trouble for the September harvest. He has spent the time I’ve been writing this reading an article in the Rural New Yorker, “The Inutility of Sporadic Reform.” He seems pained at my skepticism as to his weather acumen and smiles at me every so often. My heart to him is like a pond to a crane: he wades round it, going in as far as he dares, and then attempts to snatch up what little fish come shoreward from the center.
He has a severe cut through the thumbnail.
Sunday 15 January
Deep snow. Cold. A shovel and broom necessary on the porch before light. Tallie called here after breakfast. She and Dyer chatted a few minutes in the sitting room before he left to see to the cows. Her husband is spending the day killing his hogs with a hired hand. She said after Dyer left that she hoped she wasn’t intruding, and that it was the dullest of all things to have an ignorant neighbor come by and spoil an entire Sunday afternoon. I assured her that she was welcome and that I knew the feeling of which she spoke, and that during the widow Weldon’s visits I always imagine I’ve been plunged up to my eyes in a vat of the prosaic. She took my hand as she laughed. She said she’d gotten the widow going on the county levy and that the woman’s few ideas were like marbles on a level floor: they had no power to move themselves but rolled equally well in whichever direction you pushed them.
There seems to be something going on between us that I cannot unravel. Her manner is calm and mild and gracious, and yet her spirits seem to quicken at the prospect of further conversation with me. In the winter sun through the window, her skin had an underflush of rose and violet that disconcerted me until I looked away. I told her how pleasant it was finally to be getting to know her, and she responded that the first few times she had spied me she had kept to herself and thought, “Oh, I wish to get acquainted with her.” And then, she said, she’d wondered what she would do if we were introduced.
She asked if Dyer was as sober when it came to the cows as he sounded and I told her that he deemed cows needed not only a uniform and plentiful diet but also perfect quiet, and warm and dry stabling in the winter. He was continually exhorting our neighbors to either enlarge their barns or diminish their stock. I admitted that at times if a cow was provokingly slow to drink I might push its head down into the bucket, and he would tell me that anyone who couldn’t school herself to patience had no business with cows. Tallie said that her father had scolded her the same way, having assigned her work in the dairy barn at a very early age, which had become an ongoing vexation for him, since she had not been in favor of the idea. We compared childhood beds, mine in which the straw was always breaking up and matting together and hers that was as hard, she claimed, as the pharoah’s heart. She asked if Dyer had also been raised Free Will Baptist and I told her he liked to say that he was indeed a member of the church but that he didn’t work very hard at the trade. She said she felt the same.
She described how restlessness had been her lot for as far back as she could conceive, and I told her how when I was young I would think, “What a wasted day! I have accomplished nothing, and have neither learned anything nor grown in any way.” She said her mother had always assured her that having children would resolve that dilemma, and I told her my mother had made the same claim. A short silence followed. Eventually we heard Dyer tromping about with his boots in the mudroom, and she exclaimed about the time, and said she must be getting on. I thanked her for coming and told her that I’d missed her. She answered that it was pleasant to be missed.
Sunday 22 January
Frigid night. Wintry morning. Dyer’s third day with the fever. At sunup he had a spasm but he was restored by an
enema of molasses, warm water, and lard. Also a drop of turpentine next to his nose. His feet are now soaking in a warm basin. After breakfast I was emptying the kitchen slops and heard, off by the canal, several discharges of guns or pistols.
Dyer brought me as his bride to his house five years after he had begun to farm. In the journal I kept for a few months back then, I noted the night to have been cloudy and cool. We had about thirty-six acres that was not muck swamp or bottomland. Of those thirty-six perhaps one-third was hillside covered with scattered timber from which all of the best woods had been culled. It was not the ideal situation, but we all wish we had land of none but the best quality and laid out just right in every respect for tillage.
My mother had married my father when she was very young, without much consideration and after a short acquaintance, and had had to learn in the bitter way of experience that there was no sympathy between them. She always felt that she had not the energy to avert an evil, but the fortitude to bear most that would be laid upon her. She always seemed possessed of a secret conviction that she had left much undone that she still ought to do.
Dyer, as the second son of my father’s closest neighbor, helped out with numberless tasks around our farm for many years. He admired what he viewed as my practical good sense, my efficient habits, and my handy ways. As a suitor he was generous but not just, and affectionate but not constant. I was appreciative of his virtues and unconvinced of his suitability, but reminded by my family that more improvement might be in the offing. Because, as they say, it’s a long lane that never turns. And so our hands were joined if our hearts not knitted together.