Jane Smiley - Some Luck

Frank had been in Ames for six weeks, and he was sleeping not in the dorm but on the banks of the Skunk River, in a tent he’d gotten at the Salvation Army. He had kept back the dormitory money that Mama had given him, because he wasn’t all that sure he wanted to continue at Iowa State, and he didn’t want to waste a penny if he didn’t have to. Maybe it would be better in Iowa City, but Chicago had wrecked him for Ames. Everyone in Ames was just like the landscape — open, bright, friendly, dull. In Chicago, if you didn’t smile all the time, people thought you were normal. Here, they thought you were unhappy and hostile, and maybe he was.

However, he liked his classes. If the students were a uniform breed — say, Herefords, contentedly chewing their cud as they kept to the paths and filed mindlessly to their classes (now he was sounding like a communist) — then the professors were animals of every stripe, caged in their classrooms, making their tweets and roars and whinnies. He listened to their lectures, asked his questions, made his contributions, was getting high marks on tests. The cattle scratched their heads and kept turning the papers over, wondering where the clues were, but Frank did fine. Except he didn’t have a friend, and for the first time in his life, he wanted one.

Even here, as he cleaned his plate, he was the only person sitting by himself. Every table was full of kids — Irma was a good cook — and everyone was gabbing and laughing. Frank felt awkward and out of place. Somehow, he’d thought there would be someone from Chicago here, someone who was a little like Bob and Mort or even Lew. If he’d taken those guys back to his tent, they would have been inspired by the daring of it. These kids were so clean that Frank thought they would just find it dirty. So he was a farm kid. But the farm kids here were all like Joey.

He pushed away his empty plate and reached for the apple pie. The crust was good, like Mama’s. He thought he remembered Mama showing Irma how to make a crust. The apples were good, too. Sometimes, by the river, Frank shot himself a rabbit, skinned it, and cooked it. He had also caught a couple of catfish and cooked those himself, over a fire. When he caught a fish or bagged a rabbit, he thought maybe his year hunting in Wisconsin might have been a better idea than this — he could have chosen a different college or a different life. He savored the crust of the pie. It was crispy and delicious. He estimated that he had about a month left in the tent. He was sure he would think of something, but he didn’t know what.

He left Ragnar a tip and walked out of the café. Then he crossed Lincoln Way and entered the campus. It was dark. The gymnasium was up to the left, and the student union was just to the right. Usually when he was looking for a bike, he walked along the road in front of the union, but this time he decided to try the gymnasium. The key was to remember where he’d found it, and then return it early in the morning. That way, he made use of the bike and also put one over on the hapless twit who had left it there in the first place. He was fond of his old bicycle, the cruiser he’d left on the farm, but this method had its attractions, only one of which was that he got to try out various models.

It took him about twenty minutes to head east on Lincoln Way to Duff, then south to 16th Street, where his very small and easily disguised tent was pitched in some bushes. He had stored other things in two trunks, also purchased at the Salvation Army, and they were pushed even deeper into the thickets (he had checked for snakes and poison ivy). The hoboes weren’t down here — they were east of downtown, in a wooded area not far from the Chicago and Northwestern tracks; a few younger ones hid out on campus. He was therefore extremely taken aback when he knelt down, opened the flap of his tent, and discovered someone in there. The person lit a match under his own chin as soon as Frank stuck his head in, and then lit the kerosene lantern Frank used for light. It was a guy about his own age, and someone he had never seen before. He was wearing nice clothes. Frank then remembered having seen a car, a REO Flying Cloud, maybe a 1936, on the bridge.

The person said, “So someone is living here.”

“Maybe,” said Frank.

The person laughed. He said, “Where do you shower?”

“There’s the pool at State Gym. Don’t you have curfew?” said Frank.

“Maybe,” said the person. “I’m Lawrence Field. Shenandoah.”

“Frank Langdon, Denby. I’m not in the seed business.” The Fields were famous nursery-and-seed purveyors, and that explained the car.

Lawrence grinned. “Are you in furs?”

“You must have come by before dark if you saw the rabbit skins.”

“That’s what I first saw — rabbit skins tacked to trees.”

“And you decided to snoop.”

“Wouldn’t you have?”

Frank had to admit that he would have.

Ten minutes later, they were in the car, and fifteen minutes after that, they were passing through Nevada, which was dark on both sides of the street. Frank said, “Nice car,” and it was — as smooth as advertised, sleek, cushioned, fast, and quiet.

“REO is out of the automobile business now — that’s what I hear. But my dad wanted one of the last ones.”

“Where are we going?”

“How about Chicago?”

Frank was a little startled, but he said, “I like Chicago. I lived there last year.”

“There’s a Cubs home game tomorrow. Against the Cards. The season’s about over. They aren’t going to get out of second place, but I’d like to see it.”

Frank shrugged. They shot out of the east end of Nevada, and the flat road stretched before them, as pale and straight as a string between the dark cornfields. Frank had never been in a car driven by another kid before. He said, “Let’s go.”

FRANK HAD KNOWN GUYS who did whatever they wanted to, but Lawrence Field was the first he’d met who had the money and imagination to broaden his horizons beyond smoking cigarettes, drinking rotgut, skipping school, trying to feel up girls, and stealing things. Lawrence Field never stole anything — he had class — and was the reason Frank lingered around Iowa State through the first quarter and went back after three weeks on the farm for the second quarter. Frank didn’t see Lawrence much of the time, and Lawrence didn’t solve all his problems, but he did solve one of them — he found Frank a job, working in the horticulture lab, and so Frank could get himself a room, at least for a few months, until the snow stopped.

Lawrence turned out to be twenty, but he looked younger than Frank. Even though his father had put him to work around the nursery and on the family farm from an early age, he was still “waiting for his growth.”

“It’ll come,” he said. “Everyone in our family lives forever.” Frank had been back at school after Christmas for a week when Lawrence showed up. Outside, the Flying Cloud accelerated up the street — its motor had a distinct sound — and then stopped below his window. Frank looked out, put up the sash. Lawrence called, “Wear something nice. I’m feeling restless.”

Frank didn’t mind hurrying when Lawrence was feeling restless — he was down the stairs in five minutes, dressed in a suit and a camel-hair coat that he’d found in a pawnshop in Des Moines. Lawrence loved pawnshops. Frank got in the passenger’s side, noted that there was no one else in the car, and said, “Back to Chicago?” They’d been to Chicago three times since the Cubs game (a win, 5–1).

“Better,” said Lawrence. “Rock Island.”