A Thousand Acres: A Novel (42 page)

In the mornings I wouldn’t think about it for a while—after all, I was still busy seeking perfect order and cleanliness—but then Rose
would call or Jess would drop off a half dozen doughnuts, and their voices and their bodies expressed such barely contained voluptuous lust for their future together that I knew I had to do something to rid myself of the sight and sense of their nearness.

It was not entirely lost on me that Ty was himself in a crisis. Elsewhere in the state, and even in the county, intermittent dry spells had lowered production, but we had had perfect weather, and the corn and the beans were both healthy and thriving. It was clear that without Pete and without Daddy, Ty would be hard put to harvest almost a thousand acres by himself. Rose and I could both drive the combine in a pinch, and I had driven a few loaded grain trucks to the elevator almost every year, but the fact was, we always got pressed into service at the height of the harvest; there was no way that we could fill in for Pete and Daddy. There was Jess, of course, who had driven one of the tractors when we hired six high school kids to ride the bean-bar to spot-spray weeds and volunteer corn in the bean rows. He’d worn coveralls, boots, and a face mask in 93-degree weather, and let Ty handle all the chemicals, which Ty found excessively squeamish. Every time Ty worried aloud about what we were going to do, he avoided mentioning Jess, leading me to know that he didn’t want to work with Jess again, whatever Jess’s talents and skills were. I didn’t ask if these suspicions were simply based on differing ideas about farming. I would have been the first to admit that they were well founded, whatever the source. He asked around town, put ads on various bulletin boards and in the Pike paper. His tenant agreed to work for five days in exchange for two days’ work at his place. There were no answers to the ads. There seemed to be some reluctance around town to having anything to do with us. Ty widened his campaign, advertising for help in Zebulon Center, Henry Grove, Columbus, and even Mason City. He said we would put people up and pay good wages. It was a problem that did not solve itself. The fact was, the kind of men who were around when my grandfather was farming, men who worked but did not own, were gone from the country by 1979. He began calling around to see if he could get some custom combining done.

When he engaged me in conversation about this problem, I tried to sound concerned and helpful, but all the time I was imagining
them naked somewhere, relieved to be alone, giddy and giggling and utterly sufficient to themselves. If they thought about me, it would be to plan some little kindness that they thought I needed, that would remind me yet again of who was who and what was what. If even the most clandestine love affair yearns for an audience, then of course I was theirs.

I saw Rose every day. We made pickles and canned tomatoes and I drove the girls places for her. I noticed her fleeting little smiles. We talked, in a way. She alluded to Jess only tactfully, and gave me little hugs from time to time, or compliments. I don’t remember any of what she said. It was as if she were just moving her lips.

Ty decided to sell the last hundred piglets as feeder pigs, instead of finishing them. At the last minute, after we’d loaded the pigs, but before he’d taken down the loading chute, he said, “I’m going to load some of the sows, too. Prices are up enough. I could get something for them.”

I snapped to. I was covered with muck from loading a hundred fifty-pound hogs and ready to get into the shower, but what I was hearing amazed me. I said, “Ty, prices aren’t up at all. You’ll be lucky to get three-fourths of what those sows are worth. They’re prime breeding stock. You can’t just cart them off to market on impulse!”

“That’s exactly what I can do. That’s the only way I can make myself do it, as a matter of fact.”

“Even if the new buildings don’t get built, we can keep on with what we were doing.”

“My heart’s not in it.” He spat in the dirt. “Anyway, I gotta think about the payment on that loan. It’s not going to take care of itself.”

“What about the rent for your place? I thought we earmarked that for the payment.”

“That’s going to get eaten up if he works for me at harvest as much as I’m going to need him. Selling off these sows will tide us over till after harvest. That’s what we’ve got to think of now.”

A farm abounds with poisons, though not many of them are fast-acting. Every farmer knows a chemical dealer’s representative who has taken a demonstration drink of some insecticide—safe as mother’s milk, etc. Once, when Verna Clark was still alive and everyone was
still using chlordane for corn rootworm, Harold dropped his instructions into the tank and reached in with his hand and picked them out. Arsenic is around, in the form of old rat poison. There were plenty of insecticides we used in the hog houses. There was kerosene and diesel fuel and paint thinner and Raid. There were aerosol de-greasers and used motor oil. There were atrazine and Treflan and Lasso and Dual. I knew to wear a mask and gloves if I was handling any of these chemicals. I knew never to eat without getting all traces of chemicals off me, especially the odor. But I didn’t know what would kill Rose.

I went to the Earl May Garden Center in Mason City and to the vet’s office and to the Farmers’ Co-op in Zebulon Center, and I scoped out what was on the shelves and how the shelves were arranged. At Earl May, the clerk watched me because the store was empty and he didn’t have anything else to do, so I left without buying anything. At the vet’s office, Alice, the receptionist, kept trying to engage me in conversation about some puppies her dog had given birth to, and whether I wanted one. At the Farmers’ Co-op, everything except seed, cement, and animal feed was behind one counter or another, and three or four farmers were sitting around, gossiping and watching me. Buying, I realized, would be harder than I thought.

I went to the Pike library, and found a pamphlet, “Twenty-five Poisonous Common Plants to Beware Of,” put out by the Ohio State University Extension Service. It was clear that the fields abounded with plenty of poisons, too, and not only jimsonweed and bittersweet and common nightshade, deadly amanita and green death caps and common locoweed, with which I had a passing familiarity. Lilies of the valley were poisonous, and daffodils, and horse nettles and ground-cherries, rhubarb leaves, of course, garden foxgloves, English ivy. Lamb’s lettuce berries and roots, what the pamphlet called pokeweed. Mistletoe berries. The most poisonous, mentioned in passing but not pictured, was water hemlock. I went back to the shelf and got out a wildflower guide.

Water hemlock was a member of the carrot and parsley family. “Its roots,” the book stated, “can be and have been mistaken for parsnips, with fatal results. Livestock may die from grazing on it.” I looked at the picture. It looked familiar. I memorized the description,
noted that it was to be found in freshwater swampy areas, put the book back on the shelf, and went home. Certainly, I thought, this is what they meant by “premeditated”—this deliberate savoring of each step, the assembly of each element, the contemplation of how death would be created, how a path of intentional circumstances paralleling and mimicking accidental circumstances would be set out upon. One thing, I have to say, that I especially relished was the secrecy of it. In that way, I saw, I had been practicing for just such an event as this all my life.

It took me about two weeks, the greatest part of that time (which wasn’t all that much, since there was perfect order and cleanliness to maintain) spent in learning to distinguish between various members of the parsley family, then scouting wet areas for the hemlock. There was none to be found at the quarry, nor was there any in a boggy spot at the southern edge of Harold Clark’s farm. Mel’s corner had long since been too well drained. On a hunch, one day, I stopped along the Scenic, just where the Zebulon River opened out into a little slough, and where, in the spring, I had seen that flock of pelicans and thought they portended something good. I wore yellow dishwashing gloves, and I picked a tall, erect plant with white flowers, a magenta-streaked stem, and pointed leaves with veins ending at notches between the teeth. The roots were pleasantly fragrant, not quite carrotlike.

The cabbages in Rose’s garden were solid and heavy. I picked two. Rose and the girls were out. I thawed a pork liver and some loins in the microwave. I had bought sausage casings at the Supervalu in Pike the day before. All operations as familiar as my own kitchen, as any cooking project I had ever engaged in before, except more meaningful. The hemlock root I had minced finely with a paring knife. I decided to use it all. The leaves and stems I had left at the river. The root now sat on a piece of paper on the counter. I washed the knife and the fork I’d used to hold the root while I chopped it. I ran water down the sink until I was sure the diluted traces of juice had gone into the septic tank. I doubted whether they would tear up the ground to investigate the septic system. After grinding the mince into the meat along with pepper, garlic, onion, cumin, red pepper, cinnamon, allspice, a dash of cloves, and plenty of salt, I filled the sausage casings and tied them off every six inches. They
were about as thick as a man’s thumb. No telling which of them were lethal and which weren’t. I carefully washed the meat grinder and the sausage stuffer, using plenty of water, then I packed the canning jars with sausage, shredded cabbage, and brine. It was not unlike the feeling you get when you are baking a birthday cake for someone. That person inhabits your mind. So I thought continuously of Rose.

I also felt a sense of pleasure and pride in my planning. Liver sausage and sauerkraut couldn’t possibly appeal to Jess, and was something both girls had detested the thought of all their lives. It was too strong-tasting even for Ty, who could eat venison and rabbit and lutefisk with the best of them. The perfection of my plan was the way Rose’s own appetite would select her death. It would come as a genuine surprise even to me.

I burned the paper that had contained the minced hemlock, careful to imagine as completely as possible the potential scrutiny of the sheriff. I burned it to ashes, then swept the ashes onto another piece of paper and burned that. Then I buried the ashes in the heap of leaves and grass clippings beside the garden. I sterilized the jars in the pressure canner, reflecting that poisoning by botulism was theoretically possible, but probably not with someone as sophisticated about that sort of danger as Rose. These sausages and kraut would be cooked at a temperature above 212 degrees for more than fifteen minutes for sure. The orderly progress of cooking something put me in the usual serene mood. I was finished and cleaned up by two. At five-thirty, I carried a box of twelve full jars down the road to Rose’s. It was hot and dusty. Rose was in the kitchen frying hamburgers.

“Look at this,” I said. “There’s a surprise.” She smiled as she took the jars out of the box and saw what I had brought. Pickled peaches. Tomato chutney. Dill pickles. The stalks of dill in the jar looked just like poison. She grinned as she pulled out the jars of sausage and kraut. She said, “What a sweetie you are. You did all this today?”

“Just the kraut.”

“I guess the others won’t eat this, huh?”

“Not on your life. Blech. I wouldn’t, either. I hate sauerkraut. And doesn’t it make you incredibly flatulent?”

“Not really. Thanks.” She kissed me on the cheek. I could see the
girls and Jess in the living room, watching the evening news. Jess caught my eye, smiled, waved to me, went back to the news. One of the jars of sausage was close to the edge of the table. I pushed it back and looked at Jess again. For the first time in weeks what was unbearable felt bearable.

A cooling breeze came up as I was walking home. I was calm now, interested to see what would happen.

T
HE KEY TO A GOOD HARVEST
is dry weather, because the corn and beans won’t store well if they are carrying much moisture; 15 percent is ideal for corn, 13 percent for beans. Corn in the field, ripe and dented, will have over 20 percent. The difference can be exactly measured in the money it costs, and the propane it takes, to drive the excess moisture out of it. Long dry sunny September days are equivalent to money in the bank. Rainy days mean difficult choices, machinery stuck in the mud, long hours as the weather gets colder, complaints at the elevator about moisture content and poor quality, and smaller checks when you decide to sell.

There is always too much of everything at harvest.

Starting about the fifteenth of September, and every day after that, Ty took the portable moisture tester out into the fields, hoping against hope that with good weather he could start harvesting early. When he came back, he and Jess, with whom he’d made up his mind he had to work, drove the two combines, the big three-year-old six-row picker and the old two-row picker that Daddy had bought used five years earlier, already with four thousand hours on it. There was also the old cornpicker, still sitting in Daddy’s barn, that took whole ears instead of shelled grain like the combines. Using the cornpicker would mean more storage, since there were two slatted corncribs at the east edge of Mel’s corner, right on Cabot Street Road, but Ty didn’t like to use it because it wasn’t designed for long modern ears, and tended to shell the biggest ears and leave the corn in the field.
“Nice for the birds,” said Ty. I didn’t like to use it because it seemed to me, the way things were going, there was bound to be an accident. Accidents were more frequent with cornpickers than combines, and more horrible, too. One day, I saw them hitch it to the tractor and pull it out into the sunshine to have a look at it. Even from that distance (I was standing at the window in our room and looking down the road), it looked menacing.

We heard people did turn out to help Loren and Harold, including Lyman Livingstone, who put off his departure for Florida by two weeks, and two of the Stanley boys, but we were so busy it was easy not to think about that, and even easier not to mention it. Dollie asked Rose one day in Casey’s how Daddy liked it in Des Moines. Rose said, “Better than he thought he would,” and smiled her cheeriest smile.