Jane Smiley - Some Luck

Frankie looked up at him and said, “Run away!” But he took his hand and stuck by him as they went through the door. Fortunately, just inside the door, a fat man with a handkerchief over his head and his hat on top of that saw Frankie start jumping up and down and said, “Boy, you better be quiet for Reverend Sunday, because he don’t like a lick of noise from the audience, and he’ll send you right out. I seen it happen.”

Frank’s mouth dropped open — more, Walter thought, at the man’s enormous girth than at the reprimand — but Walter took the opportunity to ask him how many revivals he had been to, and the man said, “This is twelve for me. I go to one each year or so. I went to the first one, up in Garner. First time he ever spoke to an audience. That was history in the making.” Suddenly he bent down and stuck his face into Frankie’s and said, “You mind, hear? I’m watching you!” To be perfectly honest, Walter was glad he did. Rosanna was staring at the stage and the choir and all the people. He said, “Rosanna?” one time, but she paid him no attention.

JOE COULDN’T STAND the noise. The giant room they were in was pounding with it, so the first thing he tried was to lay his head against Papa’s chest, just press his ear into his shirt there, put his hand over his other ear, and close his eyes. That was a little better, but then the noise revealed itself not to be just noise, but also shaking and stamping. It seemed like he could hear it through the top of his head and the seat of his pants. When Joe thought of the loudest noises he had ever heard (thunder, lots of cows mooing all at once, Frankie screaming right in his ear), this was still worse. He shifted around so that his other ear was against Papa, but that didn’t work, either. It was a terrible riddle, and it made him want to scream into the noise (he glanced up at Walter’s face, then at Rosanna’s), but he didn’t dare. At least Frank wasn’t bothering him. In the back seat of the car on the way down, as soon as Mama said, “Now, you boys settle down and try to be quiet for five minutes,” Frankie began with the nail he had, poking it into Joe’s side, right behind his arm. When Joe grunted, Frankie made it go back into his hand, so that when Mama turned around, there was no nail. Then, when Mama was looking out the windshield again, Joe would see out of the side of his eye Frankie sticking his tongue out. Joe knew that Frankie knew that Joe knew he was sticking his tongue out, so it was no use to pretend that nothing was happening. Never once did Mama or Papa think to check in Frankie’s pockets for his weapons. They just looked at him, and he smiled that smile he had, and one or the other of them said, “Joey, for goodness’ sake, quit whining.”

THE MAN ON THE STAGE looked a little like Grandpa Wilmer, Frank thought, except that he hopped around and shouted and threw his arms in the air like there was something really worrying him and he didn’t know what to do about it. Grandpa Wilmer wasn’t like that. Grandpa Wilmer never raised his voice, even when something bad happened, like that time last summer when the yearling bull put his horn through a knothole in the side of the barn and they couldn’t get him out and he broke his neck right there. That had been when they were up there for the threshing, and Frank didn’t think he would ever forget it. It was a Devon bull (Papa told him that), red all over with white horns, not like the browny shorthorns Papa had, a beautiful bull, hanging against the side of the barn by its horn, dead. Dead like May Liz was a month later.

The man on the stage stepped back, and other people in white robes, with books in their hands, sang a few songs. There wasn’t much sun in this place, and there were so many people that it made Frank feel like he wanted to jump up and down, just jump up and down, but that man, the giant who had told him absolutely to be quiet because he was watching, was watching — he was three rows behind and four or five people over, right at the end, so if Frank made noise that man could get up and come get him and drag him out. Frank grabbed the edge of the bench and held it tight, and that kept him from jumping up and down. Right next to him, Joey was crying. He wasn’t making any noise, but the tears were running down and his eyes were closed. Frank was glad that at least he himself wasn’t doing that.

IT WAS INDEED as Rosanna had expected it to be, crowded and a little frightening, but everyone was friendly, and Rosanna felt it — she felt herself disconnect from the irritations of the boys and, for that matter, Walter. She knew Walter hadn’t wanted to come — ninety-some miles and two nights leaving the farm in the charge of Ragnar and Irma. It made Walter nervous. But when Rosanna said, “Then I’ll go by myself,” even though she hadn’t yet learned to drive the car, that made him even more nervous, so he agreed to come for the two evenings and the one day, as long as they got up before five and came straight home Monday morning. What Rosanna said, in order to mask her hopes, had been “Well, it’ll be nice to get away for once. Even if it’s only to Mason City.” And it was. The country wasn’t terribly different from their own, but it was fun to go through the towns, if just for the names — Eldora, Steamboat Rock, Ackley — and the signs pointing to places like Swaledale that she knew she would never see. Yes, they were probably just like Denby, but the names were enlivening.

She had thought it would be harsh and scary, since Billy Sunday was known for his hellfire sermons. But most of the people she eavesdropped on had come more than once. Not only did they know what to expect, they were already saved. Coming again and again, Rosanna realized, was like having an account at the bank. Everyone said once was enough forever, but twice would be more secure, and so on. Hearing the hellfire sermon amounted to hearing about what would happen to others, not oneself. Rosanna thought that was what accounted for the crowd’s unexpected good mood. It was so simple, not at all the hard and empty road that Catholics would have you believe.

She was neatly dressed, with her hair netted in a bun and a plain hat. She had already made up her mind on her own to give up vanity. Considering the quiet life she now led, it wasn’t very difficult. Only this time, when she knew she was going out in public, did her resolution give her trouble. She had prettier dresses and nicer ways of doing her hair and more attractive hats, but that was over for her. And it was a small price to pay. So it was that no one looked at her in this big crowd. That had never happened before, but it was right.

She was grateful to Walter for doing her the favor of holding Joey and having Frankie on the other side of him, so that she could give her attention to Reverend Sunday, who was certainly a dynamic man. There was something reassuring about how he seemed to have seen it all, and these things he was saying were the things he had learned not from books, like Father Berger, but from his own experience. He seemed to be saying that you could do it the easy way or you could do it the hard way, but he was here to tell you that the hard way wasn’t worth it in the end. What was that old story, the Parable of the Vineyard? Rosanna had always thought how unfair that was, that the workers who showed up late got in just the same as the workers who showed up early, but she hadn’t reckoned with the hardships that the late workers had had to endure before they got to the vineyard. Clearly, a day in the vineyard wasn’t terribly easy, but a day outside the vineyard was probably terrifying. She did not exactly listen to Reverend Sunday. It was more that she sat quietly and let his words and actions spark her own thoughts.

It was a show, with singing and a big choir, and other people talking. But that made sense, too. Wasn’t Mass a kind of show? She had never thought of it like that. Except that the thing about Mass was that the show was in Latin. A show in English was better at holding her attention. She looked around. That time was starting that Walter’s mother had told her about, when Reverend Sunday called out to the audience and people stood up and went forward and presented themselves to be saved, and then the audience got more restive with rejoicing. Walter’s mother had said, “Honey, don’t get caught up in that. It’s not very nice. You can be saved perfectly well without making a spectacle of yourself,” and Rosanna had agreed. Now she watched the people moving forward and felt rather sorry for them — there were a couple on crutches, and a boy who was being led by his friend and looked blind. Not everyone was like that — plenty were just normal — but one thing Rosanna was never going to believe in was faith healing. She had to say, though, that Reverend Sunday didn’t talk about healing — he talked more about drinking. She sat quietly.