Jane Smiley - Some Luck

It was dim in the big barn, but arrows and sparkles of light pierced the dark walls here and there. Frank knew what the beings were in their separate enclosures—“cows” going in and out over there, white “sheep” with black faces (one two three four five six), a “rooster” perched on a beam above them, and this greatest of beings, Jake the “horse,” pale gray, almost white, who now turned his nose and eyes toward Frank and made noise. Frank laughed.

Eloise said, “I have a dress on.”

“You’re wearing your long johns, aren’t you? He’s clean. I brushed him before you came out.”

They all walked with Jake across some of the dark earth to a place, and then Eloise climbed, and then Papa helped her, and soon she was sitting on the back of Jake, holding his hair, and then Papa put his hands around Frank and lifted him high in the air, and he kicked his legs, and then he was set upon Jake’s back, just in front of Eloise, and Eloise put her arm tight around him.

“Oh, goodness,” said Mama. “Well, that is cute, in spite of everything.”

“I was riding my father’s Percherons out to the pasture when I was three,” said Walter. “Now, he did not let me ride Uncle Leon’s Clydesdales, but the Percherons …”

Underneath Frank, the warm, rounded gray surface rippled and moved, and Eloise took both of his hands in hers and put them into the hair, and said, “Hold on, Frankie,” and so he gripped that hair. He could feel her through his suit, hard against his back and shoulders. In front of him rose a monumental gray shape that ended in two points, and then the gray shape shifted and they were moving forward. Frank loved moving forward — didn’t matter, wagon, buggy, cultivator. He threw his arms into the air, but Eloise was still holding him. Papa’s head stayed right there in front of him as the horse moved, but when he turned to look at her, he saw that Mama was smaller, her hands on her hips. All the animals stared — the sheep and the cows and the other horse. The rooster flew down from his perch, lifting his wings and making a squawk. “Good boy,” said Papa.

AT THE SUPPER TABLE, Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa sat up straight, and Frank sat up straight, too. Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa never got up from the table during supper, and Frank stayed in his seat, too. Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa never wiggled in their chairs. Frank wiggled in his chair. Ragnar, Eloise, and Papa picked up their forks and knives and cut their sausage. Frank pressed the back of his spoon into his sweet potato, lifted it out, and pressed it in again. “Eat some, Frankie,” said Eloise, and Frank inserted the tip of his spoon into the orange mound and lifted it. A bit adhered to the spoon, and Frank brought it to his mouth. “Good boy,” said Papa.

“Ja, jeg elske søt poteter, når det er alt det er,” said Ragnar.

“Ragnar may not like the rabbit sausage,” said Papa, “but I do. Always have. One thing, Eloise, that you should remember is that a farmer doesn’t have to grow and sell everything he eats. There’s a whole world out there.”

“I like pheasant,” said Eloise.

“Me, too,” said Papa. “You go out into the cornfield after the harvest, and the pheasants are there pecking at the dropped kernels. When I was a boy, we got them with our slingshots, just for fun. And for supper.”

Frank put his finger on the bit of sausage and then picked it up and put it in his mouth. It was bitter, not like the sweet potatoes. He made a face, but then he picked up another bit.

“He’ll eat about anything,” said Papa. “That’s a good quality in a farmer. When I was in France, that was a place where they eat anything that moves or grows. I admired that.”

“Did you eat a snail?” said Eloise.

“Lucky to eat a snail,” said Papa. “Little fish with the heads on, fried up hard. Didn’t like that so much. Their animals eat about anything, too. Pumpkins. Turnips. Beer. Saw a man give his horse a beer.”

“Do they have beer in France?” said Eloise.

“Up north, where we were, they do,” said Papa.

“How long were you there?” said Eloise.

“Less than a year; wished I’d stayed longer and seen some different parts.”

Where was Mama? Frank’s thoughts returned to this. He thought maybe she was upstairs. Although Frank could climb the stairs and come back down without falling, Papa had blocked them off. He hadn’t seen Mama in a long time, though sometimes he heard her voice floating in the air.

Frank said, “Mama!”

“Can’t go to Mama yet,” said Papa. “But Granny’ll be down in a bit.”

“Mama,” said Frank.

Eloise, who was sitting closest to him, pointed with her fork to his sausage. She said, “It’s good for you. Make you big and strong.”

Frank gripped the spoon more tightly in his hand, raised his arm, and brought the spoon down on the mound of sweet potatoes. The mound jumped.

“No,” said Papa.

“No,” said Frank.

“Eat your food,” said Papa. “You’re old enough to eat what’s on there.”

Ragnar and Eloise looked at each other. Ragnar cleared his throat. “Jeg skjønner en tantrum komme.”

“Nonsense,” barked Papa. “Frankie, you be a big boy now, and eat your supper.”

Eloise looked up the stairs, and then back at Frank. She said, “Frankie, no …”

He knew what “no” meant — it was an irritating word, “no.” He placed his palms on the edge of the table, both of them, and he took a deep, deep breath, preliminary to a loud, loud noise. He could feel the noise rising from his chair, even from his feet, since his feet were kicking, and as the noise came out, he pushed as hard as he could against the edge of the table, and there he went — the chair arced backward, and he saw the ceiling and the corner of the dining room, and then the back of the chair hit, and Frank rolled out to the side, away from Eloise, and ran for the stairs. Papa’s big hand caught him by the collar of his overalls and then grabbed his shoulder, and spun him around. He didn’t know where he was, the room was going so fast, though he kept his eye on the stairs the best he could, and there was Granny Mary at the top, or just her feet, he couldn’t see the rest, and then there was the floor, and he was sprawled across Papa’s knee with his pants down, and every blow included a word: “Don’t. Run. Away. From. Me. Young. Man.”

Now Papa stood him on his feet and leaned close to his face, and there was that sharp smell again, and the heat and the redness, and the loudness, and Frank closed his eyes and screamed until Papa’s hand knocked him down and he was quiet. Everyone was quiet. Frank lay on his back, and he could just see Eloise with her mouth open at the table, and Ragnar next to her. Granny’s footsteps came closer and closer, and she sat him up. She said, “I don’t know what gets into two-year-olds. It’s like your own child has been taken away and this other being left in his place.”

Papa said, “Put him back in his chair. He’s got some food to eat.”

Granny stood up and then picked Frank up and carried him to his chair, which Eloise had set back in place. Frank sat quietly. They were back where they started, everyone straight and tall, no wiggling. Frank was hungry. It had never been about not being hungry. Granny Mary put his spoon in his hand. Frank used it the best he could, but he ate the sausage with his fingers. Papa didn’t seem to mind that.

After Frank had eaten three bites, Papa said, “How’s Rosanna?”

“Tired,” said Granny. “So tired. I wish this child would come. I do.”