Jane Smiley - Some Luck

Because of Eloise and Julius, Frank was the only one he knew who had any ideas about Stalin, but listening to Eloise and Julius argue all those months in Chicago had done its work — the argument had never been about whether Stalin would kill his friends, only about how close to Stalin you had to be to get it first. Julius always swore that Trotsky’s greatest mistake was leaving Stalin back in the Kremlin — he should never have trusted Stalin for a moment. Eloise always said, well, how could he have known, and things needed to be done, and when you were part of a unit, trust was essential. And then there were the trials. Maybe the ones who were executed had done something, said Eloise; no, they hadn’t, said Julius. It went on and on. So Frank was pretty sure that Stalin was waiting to get organized, and then he would push to the west, and the next war would begin. But Ruben and Cornhill didn’t agree. Cornhill thought that Stalin couldn’t care less about Europe, that he would concentrate on rebuilding all those towns — Stalingrad, Leningrad, Kharkov — that the Germans had destroyed. “We can worry about him in ten years,” said Cornhill. Ruben didn’t care. He thought France and Germany, not to mention Italy, were such a mess that Stalin was welcome to them. “They ain’t spending my money to fix up this dump” was what he said.

Frank said, “I didn’t think you paid taxes.”

Ruben shrugged. “You get my meaning, though. We done our bit. I knew some commies in Jersey City.” He rolled his eyes.

JOE LIKED TO THINK of Lillian’s birthday as the first day of the harvest — if they were lucky. He kept this to himself, but enjoyed the meals Rosanna always cooked for the birthday. Harvesting was hard work, and he needed a little extra sustenance in the form of, say, a seven-layer cake, to keep him going, especially if the remainder of the cake got sent home with him because Lillian was watching her weight. This year, though, he, Walter, and John got stuck in the fence line in a wet spot at Grandpa Wilmer’s, and it took Grandpa Wilmer, who was all the way at the other corner of the farm, two hours to bring his own tractor over and pull them out. Joe knew this was his fault — he should have walked that part of the field. Papa wasn’t mad, though, because he hadn’t bothered to walk it, either. On the way home, Walter said, “Someday, I will give you a list of all the mistakes I’ve made, and then another list of all the mistakes my father has made that I thought I would never make. You can compare the two.”

Everyone was there when they came in, and it turned out they weren’t going to miss anything — not the rib roast or the scalloped potatoes or the crescent rolls. Lois was there — Joe could see her through the screen door, sitting by the table, watching something intently. It didn’t matter what, Joe knew; Lois was a watcher — it could be flies on the ceiling. Lillian was up in her room, reading and, Joe knew, pretending that this was a surprise party. Walter blew out some air, threw his cap onto the hook, and started washing up. Joe kicked off a boot, and then heard his mom say, “That is just like him, I swear, saying we ought to hand over how to build an atomic bomb like a doughnut recipe, just to be nice.”

Minnie, whom Joe couldn’t see, said, “All the scientists say it’s easy to figure out. The more we say it’s our secret, the more they are going to want it.” Minnie sounded rather unlike herself — confident and a little argumentative.

Walter opened the door, saying, “Who are you talking about?”

“Well, who do you think?” said Rosanna. “Henry Wallace. It said on the radio that he told the Senate that we should hand over the bomb to the Russians.”

“What do you care?” said Walter.

“Oh, he just gets my goat,” said Rosanna. “Always has.”

Walter glanced at Joe, made the briefest face, then said, “Why is that, since, as far as we know, you aren’t related and he was never a friend of the family?”

“Better for him if he had been. Might not have been telling people how to run their lives since the day he was born.” Rosanna scowled. Joe went over and kissed her on the forehead. The argument subsided. Minnie, who had left Mrs. Frederick napping and only come by for a minute, took her plate of food and ran home. Lois and Claire set the dining-room table.

Maybe if Walter hadn’t been tired and irritated from the tractor mishap, the argument would have been over, but just at the wrong time, that time when they had all finished their first helpings and were thinking about seconds, when Rosanna stood up, lifted the carving knife and fork, and directed her gaze at the roast, Walter said, “I think Wallace should have been president instead of vice-president. I like him better than Truman. He knows some things, he’s thought about things. Truman is a hothead.”

“Yes, and if he was from Independence, Iowa, rather than Independence, Missouri, he would be fine with you.”

Joe wasn’t sure he had ever heard his parents argue about politics, especially with slightly raised voices. He and Lillian exchanged a glance. Henry said, “My science teacher said that they didn’t find any radiation at Hiroshima, and that the Japanese lied about it.”

“What are you talking about that at school for?” said Rosanna.

“We’ve talked about it Friday and today. Two girls were crying, so he told them that. He said that there were five buildings left standing and a hundred thousand people died. There was one building pretty far away, and the blast was so hot that the chairs inside the house were scorched through the closed windows. It was five thousand degrees.”

“And Henry Wallace wants to let the Russians do that very thing!” exclaimed Rosanna.

Lillian said, “I can’t believe telling the girls those things made them feel better. I don’t want to think about it, and I’m glad it’s not my business.”

Henry said, “He said that, even at our age, it’s better to know about something than to imagine it all the time.”

Joe said, “Happy birthday, Lillian.” Everyone shut up, and after a short silence, Claire told about the rabbit Miss Rohrbaugh had at school. It was gray, not white, but it had white tips on its ears. Its name was Paul, not Peter, and each of the nine children at school would have a turn feeding it — in alphabetical order. “I am ‘L,’ ” said Claire.

When he was walking to his place that evening, carrying the remains of the cake, Joe didn’t know what to think. His main feeling about the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been surprise mixed with a sense of relief. His main feeling about Henry Wallace was more like his dad’s than his mom’s — someone in Washington had to be a nice guy, and Wallace had that Iowa way of doing it, draft horse rather than Thoroughbred. He looked around. The sky was clear; the corn was certainly drying in the fields, and maybe, if he paused and stood still, he could hear it. But he had seen the picture of the mushroom cloud, and in spite of what Henry’s teacher had said, he could imagine it rising above Usherton — a mile high, was it? — achingly bright and loud. Would that be the last thing you would see? Was that the last thing someone like himself on a street in Hiroshima did see? Joe prayed a little prayer — may he not have known what he was looking at, may he have vanished from this earth the very moment he turned his head and said, “What in the world is that?”

LILLIAN WAS WORKING late. It was just about time for the soda fountain to close — she was wiping down the counter — and here he came, in the door, stepping aside for Charlie, who was picking up one of the displays, and then over to her. He had on a camel-hair coat and was carrying a brown leather briefcase. His hat was pushed back a little, as if he were ready for anything. He set the briefcase and his hat on one stool and sat down on another one. His smile was quick. He said, “Where am I?”