Jane Smiley: Early Warning

Henry’s own letters left something to be desired, he thought. They were detailed and earnest, and quite often he found himself going on too long about things that excited him, like how the system of Roman roads in England dictated subsequent linguistic boundaries, even a thousand years after the end of the Roman Empire (another difficulty with carbon copies — no erasing). But she wrote faithfully; her letters were as long as his and as frequent, and though she often talked about meeting various guys at coffee shops or poetry readings (everything free — no Hollywood trash movies), she never mentioned any name in more than two letters.

Henry knew that Rosa knew that Henry loved her. He signed his letters, “Love, Henry.” She signed her letters, “Yours, Rosa.” For six weeks, he dreaded Thanksgiving, when she and Aunt Eloise would be coming to the farm and he would have to see her.

On the Wednesday he left for Denby, he spent the whole morning deciding what clothes to take, aware all the while of his roommate’s bag beside the door, full of dirty undershorts heading back to Dubuque for their once-a-semester laundering.

Rosa was wearing what she always did — black shoes, black pants, black sweater — though her dark hair was cut in a different style, shorter than Henry’s now, showing the nape of her neck. Her neck was long — he hadn’t noticed that before. Or the mole on her cheekbone, or that her fingernails were bitten, or that her eyes were brown. They had exchanged 160 letters, counting both hers and his, and he might not have recognized her on the street. She hugged him and kissed him on both cheeks, and he stood stiffly. I’m such an Iowan, he thought miserably.

Thanksgiving Day itself was like the funeral had been — everyone on their best behavior, sitting at the dining-room table for a long time, and lots of talk about his father. Papa was in every room, every sentence, every holiday dish. In an odd way, he was in everyone’s face, even the faces of those who had never been said to look like him. Every face except Rosa’s. Maybe that was why Henry kept staring at her.

Henry hadn’t expected to hold Rosa’s hand, or to sit next to her; he’d imagined a conversation about Waiting for Godot , which Rosa was reading, or Paradise Lost , which Henry was reading. That hadn’t happened by Friday morning, which was maybe why Henry was still lolling in bed when Aunt Eloise came over from Granny Mary’s by herself for breakfast. Since his supremely orderly, book-filled room was off the kitchen, he could hear them quite well. Almost the first thing his mom said was “How does she expect to find a husband, dressed like that? And with that hair. Look at it, it is so short.” His aunt Eloise was seven years younger than his mother, but it could have been twenty, given Rosanna’s bossy tone. Henry covered his mouth with his hand so as not to make any noise.

Aunt Eloise said, “Come on, Rosanna. She’s twenty. I’m not worried. And anyway, you know who Audrey Hepburn is, don’t you? That look is all the rage.”

“I’d had Frank by the time I was twenty.”

“Look how that turned out.” Eloise coughed. Henry knew she was joking, and could imagine his mother waving her hand. “Anyway, I was almost twenty-five when I met Julius. You don’t take the first one who comes along anymore.” Point to Eloise, thought Henry.

Now there was a silence, and Henry eased himself upward on his bed to hear better. Eloise went on. “In a big city, you have to…well, you can, pick and choose.”

“You picked and chose Julius?” Point to Rosanna. Henry bit his lip. He didn’t remember his uncle Julius very well, except as having that delightful English accent and imposing, articulate English manner. Henry would have picked him, too, he thought. But Julius had died in the war, early, in the failed invasion of Dieppe, when Henry wasn’t quite ten.

“I did,” said Eloise. “If you want to know, yes, I pursued Julius, not the other way around. You thought Julius was strange, but I thought he was elegant. From the first time I saw him.”

Their voices were still good-natured, or at least level.

“Well,” said Rosanna, after a moment, “he was argumentative.”

“I know that,” said Eloise. “But, then, that was what I was used to — growing up with Mama and Papa, and living here.”

Point to Eloise, thought Henry.

A chair got pushed back, and then, a moment later, the spigot turned on, so it was his mother who’d gone to the sink. Henry picked up his book, and then Eloise said, “Ma knew I had another friend. I’m surprised she never told you.”

The sound of the water stopped. Rosanna said, “No, she didn’t. What happened to him?”

And Eloise said, “He went back to his wife.”

Henry thought he might really have to wander into the kitchen just to see the looks on their faces.

“Did Ma know about that?”

“She knew everything. She gave me advice.”

After a moment, Rosanna said, “What in the world was Ma’s advice?”

“Did I know where to find some Queen Anne’s lace? And did I know the difference between that and poison hemlock?”

“Everyone knows the difference who was raised on a farm.”

Now there was a silence, and Henry thought about the fact that maybe he did not know the difference. Finally, Rosanna said, “Did you ever have to act on Ma’s advice?”

Eloise said nothing; maybe she shook her head, or nodded, but her answer was not for Henry to know.

In the end, Henry had to settle for mostly admiring Rosa from afar. Every so often she gave him a look or a smile. She laughed when he laughed, and teased him once or twice. To Eloise, she said, “Don’t you like Henry’s sweater? It’s so classic.” She called him “Cousin Henry” a few times, as a joke, and then it turned out she was reading a book of that name, by Anthony Trollope, so they did have one tête-à-tête, though the only Trollope Henry had read was Orley Farm , extra-credit for his Victorian-literature class. The best thing was that, the day after he got back to Iowa City, there was a letter in his mailbox, postmarked Denby, from Rosa. She wrote, “Dear Henry, I’m sitting at the dining-room table, here at Uncle Joe’s. Baby crying. You think I am doing calculus problems but really, I’m watching you. You are reading something with gold lettering on the spine. Every so often you look at Heloise. I wonder what you’re thinking….” It went on for three pages, and it was signed, “Love, Rosa.”

TINA MANNING WAS HAVING her first-birthday party. Debbie Manning had drawn the invitations with crayons on cards, and then she and Timmy walked all over the neighborhood by themselves to deliver them. Timmy was a good boy, for once. He stood while they looked both ways when they crossed the street, and did not pretend to run in front of cars. He had never actually run in front of a car, but sometimes he would stand on the curb, jumping up and down, and then jerk his body like he was going to do it. In the summer, a lady who was passing screamed when she saw him, and then Debbie herself screamed, and then Timmy fell down laughing. Debbie hoped that the lady would stop the car and get out and smack him, but she just shook her head and drove on.

Fifteen invitations had taken Debbie three days of hard work. Mommy had had to give her Oreos to “keep up her strength,” but Debbie was happy to do it, because Tina was a wonderful child. She had walked at ten months, could already say “Debbie,” and would stick out her foot and let Debbie put her sock on or take it off again and again. Very soon, Debbie thought, she and Tina were going to have a horse, which they would keep in a silver spring. Debbie had a picture of this silver spring hanging above her bed — she’d used almost her entire gold crayon for the horse and her entire silver crayon for the spring. Debbie made sure that the gates at the top and the bottom of the stairs were always closed, so that Tina would never tumble down them.