Part 11 (1/2)
Tom said it didn't matter.
Nick said he supposed it didn't. What mattered, now that he thought of it, was how much cash Tom planned on putting up. Tom said no cash, and Nick glared at him. Tom said hey wait a minute. Hadn't it occurred to Nick that this high-quality locally grown weed would sell for twice as much as Henri's did and was therefore tons better than cash? Plus he was throwing in the aforementioned transportation and warehousing. They'd keep careful records and split everything fair and square. He'd taken a bookkeeping course in college.
Nick nodded and looked either bewildered or thoughtful. After a while he said maybe Tom was right but he'd have to advise Henri when he came down with a carload next month, let him know who was who and what was what and who was doing what to whom, and Tom said maybe it would be better if they just kept it between themselves for right now.
Donna.
HE DID NOT HAVE even that little bit of blood work done. Nothing his sister could say would change his mind. He came home and told his brothers that after a complete going over from top to bottom Dr. Franklin had decided that he had cancer and that he would need the same blood treatment their mother had endured through all those terrible years. ”It didn't do her no good and I ain't going to let him try it on me,” he said. ”I ain't going to let him get started.” He sat in the overstuffed chair on the front porch and he sucked on a h.o.r.ehound drop and he plucked cotton batting and he said that he believed he would do better against the cancer by holding on to his blood than by dribbling it out a little bit at a time, and his brothers thought that he just might be onto something. even that little bit of blood work done. Nothing his sister could say would change his mind. He came home and told his brothers that after a complete going over from top to bottom Dr. Franklin had decided that he had cancer and that he would need the same blood treatment their mother had endured through all those terrible years. ”It didn't do her no good and I ain't going to let him try it on me,” he said. ”I ain't going to let him get started.” He sat in the overstuffed chair on the front porch and he sucked on a h.o.r.ehound drop and he plucked cotton batting and he said that he believed he would do better against the cancer by holding on to his blood than by dribbling it out a little bit at a time, and his brothers thought that he just might be onto something.
There was a commercial on television for some kind of health-food diet, and each time it aired he dropped whatever he was doing. He had it memorized from front to back, all sixty seconds of it right down to the music (which he whistled through his teeth while he was at the milking) and the rapid-fire legal disclaimers (which echoed in his mind as he lay awake in bed trying to swallow around that lump). He dreamed without ceasing of how his life would improve if only he could afford to buy the products advertised during that hectic televised minute-some kind of natural supplements and supercharged vitamin pills-and one day he spied Preston sitting on his screen porch and he went to him.
Preston had retired from his father's business but he still went in most days. The fellow he sold it to didn't mind, although sometimes he wished that he and the old-timers who came in to chew the fat with him would adjourn to someplace other than his service desk. The seasonal area, maybe, where he'd put in a line of picnic tables and lawn furniture that they could test out. Or McDonald's, where the rest of the geriatric crowd went. But then they'd have had to pay for their coffee instead of drinking his for free all morning long. Nonetheless he knew there was a world of experience floating around in those old gray heads, a regular encyclopedia of homegrown construction, and if a person was working through a knotty bit of plumbing repair or framing work or whatever, he could do worse than to show up here and seek their wisdom. If he were in really deep trouble, he should make sure to bring doughnuts.
Preston was home from the lumberyard now, and napping on the couch when Vernon came over. Vernon stood on the ground alongside the screen porch and said his neighbor's name, not going up the two steps or even knocking from down where he was. Preston opened his eyes just a slit and saw him there outside the screen, deferential as ever, one of those famous Three Chevaliers of old. Vernon coughed and cleared his throat and coughed again, and Preston came fully awake. Sitting up and telling him to come on in.
The farmer sat on a hard chair just inside the door. Margaret kept a pair of them there and although the reason was never made plain-she hated to think of the Proctor boys' s.h.i.+t-stained coveralls coming in contact with her upholstered furniture, even though the stuff out here had pa.s.sed through the house and would be on its way to the Salvation Army soon enough-he seemed to prefer the hard chair anyway. He settled into it with his boots squared before him on the board floor. He may as well have been at the milking. ”I been to the doctor,” he began.
”I heard.” Preston rubbed the back of his neck.
”I guess I can't keep nothing a secret.”
”Your sister told Margaret,” said Preston.
Vernon nodded and pinched his lips between what teeth remained in his head.
”She also told her you won't have your tests done.”
”I guess that'd be my business,” said Vernon.
”Tell you the truth, what she actually said is you're a stubborn old mule. That's your whole family's business.”
Vernon explained his belief that the medical community would fail him as surely as it had failed his mother. He said further that he couldn't exactly afford the latest in medical care anyhow and Preston said he understood from Donna that there might be fewer problems in that department than he'd think, with Medicaid and all. Vernon grunted. He sat for a minute. Margaret was running the vacuum cleaner in the house and both men listened to her work.
After a while Vernon brought it up: ”I been considering them supplements.”
Preston had heard everything, but not this. ”Supplements.”
”All-natural vitamin supplements.”
”All-natural.”
Vernon nodded. ”All-natural. They come in a powder. You mix a little in with your water or your coffee. Your Tang.”
”For Christ's sake,” said Preston. ”If you want to go all-natural, you'd better quit drinking Tang. A gla.s.s of orange juice'll do you more good than a gla.s.s of that Tang with a spoonful of some all-natural whatever mixed up in it.”
Vernon chewed his lip, abashed.
”There's nothing all-natural about Tang. You think they drink that s.h.i.+t in outer s.p.a.ce because it's natural? They drink it because it lasts forever without benefit of refrigeration.” Margaret was drawing nearer with the vacuum cleaner, and he raised his voice over the whine of it. ”Have you been watching the television?”
”I seen this show all about vitamins.”
”You turn it right off. You forget about it. They just want your money.”
”It's what they call an all-natural supplement,” said Vernon.
”It's pure snake oil,” said Preston. ”There's nothing in the world more natural than leaf tobacco, and look where that gets a person. If you don't mind my saying, look where it got your mother. If I were you I'd drink a little more orange juice and watch a little less television. And I'd keep my money in my pocket where it belongs.”
Which left Vernon without a dream in the world to trust.
1968.
DeAlton.
IF YOU THINK it's bad on a farm in the summertime, you should spend a little time there in the winter. Not the farm where I grew up but your uncles' farm. That's what I'm talking about. Where I grew up was the height of civilization compared to that. It was like the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Waldorf. Don't tell your mother I said that. She'd have a fit. it's bad on a farm in the summertime, you should spend a little time there in the winter. Not the farm where I grew up but your uncles' farm. That's what I'm talking about. Where I grew up was the height of civilization compared to that. It was like the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Waldorf. Don't tell your mother I said that. She'd have a fit.
I know. The whole winter's like one long vacation on account of she doesn't take you out there much and I don't blame her. I don't blame you either. I had my fill of that a long time ago.
No, we're not going to stay very long. We're just dropping off. Your grandma expects us for Thanksgiving over at the Waldorf.
I'm just kidding. Get in. Watch out. Mind that platter. That right there is the best meal your uncles are going to have all month. Maybe all year. I wouldn't mind a bite of it myself right about now. How about you?
Never mind that.
Ow. She put any napkins in there? Check around for me, huh? There might be something in the glove box.
Tom.
THE SKIES OF N NOVEMBER had been low and gray but until now the snow had mostly held off, leaving the landscape a barren and windblown waste. Such patches of white as there were, hidden in the deep woods and pushed up alongside the roadways, were withered and pockmarked and cancerous-looking. Gunshots of wind howled in hard gusts over the high fields, and the leafless trees offered no resistance. Now and then a black bird would shoot past the window of Tom's father's station wagon, crying, propelled by wind and by its own impulse to vacate this place of comfort withheld. had been low and gray but until now the snow had mostly held off, leaving the landscape a barren and windblown waste. Such patches of white as there were, hidden in the deep woods and pushed up alongside the roadways, were withered and pockmarked and cancerous-looking. Gunshots of wind howled in hard gusts over the high fields, and the leafless trees offered no resistance. Now and then a black bird would shoot past the window of Tom's father's station wagon, crying, propelled by wind and by its own impulse to vacate this place of comfort withheld.
The drive from town was one hill after another and the view from the top was always the same. Muted shades of brown and gray. Shorn fields encroaching on wind-ravaged farmhouses, not so much as a chained dog visible. A countryside full of that same old homegrown desolation. They saw no other cars. The wind tore wood smoke from farmhouse chimneys and sometimes Tom could smell it for a second as they went past. It smelled like his uncles' house. His father asked if he'd remembered his mittens and he reached into his pockets to produce them. It was warm in the car and it smelled like Thanksgiving and he didn't think he'd be needing mittens. He knew there was a shortcut from out here in Carversville to his grandmother's onion farm in Wampsville, but he wasn't sure where it was. His father knew all these back roads.
They climbed the last hill to the farm and saw smoke coming not just from the chimney but from a big fire in the yard. Wind yanked at the smoke, and they turned up the dirt lane and went toward the fire. His uncles' silhouettes were visible against the moving smoke and visible within it. Tom thought they were crazy to be outdoors, but then again he didn't blame them. Their house offered so little comfort. They were doing some kind of work in the barnyard, Audie throwing sc.r.a.p wood onto the bonfire and Vernon emptying a bucket of water into a vat already steaming over the coals and Creed yanking angrily at the block and tackle that hung from the beam over the hayloft door. Smoke and pale steam and the cry of metal gone rusty. They looked like devils, fiercely industrious.
Tom's father said he hadn't seen this coming but he guessed they'd arrived just about in time. ”You take this platter into the house and come right on back,” he said. ”This is going to be educational. You'll be able to write a school report on this. What I Did on My Thanksgiving Vacation.” What I Did on My Thanksgiving Vacation.”
Tom ran off and slipped into the house with the red rooster gleaming darkly on the stove and slid the platter onto the kitchen table and came running back. His father was leaning against the car and he leaned beside him, hugging himself against the cold. Thinking he was missing the Macy's Thanksgiving parade for this. They were supposed to have a giant Snoopy balloon this year and everything. The World War One Flying Ace, aloft on his doghouse.
Audie had given off stoking the fire and was just now disappearing behind the shed, dragging a rope. Vernon was spreading canvas tarpaulins on the cold ground. Creed had gotten the block and tackle unstuck and was arranging a big wooden worktable they'd moved out into the yard from the barn. There were knives laid out on it and shears and big bent sc.r.a.pers that looked like tools meant for performing dentistry on a race of giants.