World And Town Part 32

"This is so like high school," Belle said. "Except that it ain't."

He laughed then-the first laugh he'd laughed in a while. "Nope," he said. "You got that right, now. It ain't."

"Maybe I'll write a note," she said. "Get some nice stationery. You know, with flowers in it. Think so? Think I should write a note?"

"That'd be safer," he said.

And two days later, here comes Belle's note in the general delivery. It's on stationery with flower petals, sure enough. The address was in purple ink and all around it there were designs. Scrolls and leaves. A parrot. He handed the thing to Ginny.

"A note for you," he said. "I think it's from Belle."

He did think Ginny would at least read it, now. He thought she'd read it and go blasting. But she did not read it and she did not blast. Instead she stabbed it with a steak knife and held it up over the kitchen sink. Then she took a lighter and lit it. Held it careful so the ashes wouldn't mess up the magazine look.

"I saw Belle the other day," he said. "She told me to tell you she's sorry."

"Oh, yeah? Well, if you see her again, tell her I'm fixing to jab out her eyes with a pitchfork," Ginny said.

One night, Rex woke up shouting, "They're out! They're out!" and leapt out of bed to go rescue the cows-thought they'd broke out of the barn. Ginny took off after him only to hear him fall clear down the stairs.

"Pa!" she shouted. "Pa!"

Ginny and Everett shot down to the stairwell and then half stumbled, half fell down the stairs themselves. Those stairs being genuine old farmhouse stairs, and steep, see. They were steep. 'Course, in all their years on the farm, no one had ever fallen down them before. But in their panic and the pitch black, Ginny slipped and then Everett did, too. His heel slipped, then his tailbone hit. And next thing he knew, they were all in a pileup at the bottom.

"Pa! Pa!"

Rex was still alive by the time they got the light turned on. Sitting there holding his chest, but the calmest of the three of them. Kingly. He was kingly. His eyes glowing this weird color in the lamplight-like he wasn't a person anymore, but something else. A king.

"Now, I know you know CPR," he said. Clear and calm. "But I want you to let me die. Hear me? I want you to let me die."

"Pa," said Ginny.

"I can't," said Everett.

"You can," said Rex, his eyes glowing. "You can. You're a poor man's son who's made quite a mess here. But this much I think you can manage."

"Pa," said Ginny. "You can't mean that. Pa."

But his eyes had stopped glowing and he was going pale.

Excepting the commune members, the whole town turned up for the funeral. They had a beautiful day for it, too, cool. Autumnal. The leaves falling down like even the trees were crying. 'Course, the people cried louder. Said what a good man he was. Said how he'd be missed. Said how he was a style of farmer you didn't see much anymore. An old-timer. The real thing. Said how what happened was a crying shame. They were outraged that he died before a cancel came in. Outraged by medical care in general. How impersonal it was. They didn't say why they stopped coming to him for real estate, though, and that made Ginny mad, see. She did try not to show it. She tried. But in the end she started blasting about how they killed him. How they weren't good enough to lick the soles of his dead feet. What hypocrites they was.

Blasting. She was blasting.

She slept hard that night.

The farm didn't sell for anything like what it was worth. Time was, when Rex could have gotten a whole lot more. Time was, when they wouldn't have had to pay commission, either. Instead it was six percent to sell the farm to the commune. Belle and Paxton tried to get other folks to explain. How they wished they weren't buying the thing. How they didn't even want it. How they were just worried about the runoff. And folks did tell Ginny. How this move might even be dangerous for the commune. Risky. How it might be risky.

Ginny hoped it ruined them.

"How can they so much as step into that barn?" she said. "How can they step into the house? Where is their conscience?"

Ginny and Everett rented themselves a place to live in. Everett found himself a job.

Ginny smoked.

Who found what first? It was hard to say. But one spring day, Ginny came home a little lighter, and he did, too.

"I found this land," he said.

"I found this church."

Now, he knew she'd been looking for a church. Knew she'd been shopping around, looking for something closer in. But mostly she'd been fixed on what she didn't like. The prayer bands, for instance. She didn't like the prayer bands, didn't like the whole electronic thing. Whoring, she called it. Whoring after seekers. And she didn't like the preaching that went with it. That was whoring, too. The preachers being wh.o.r.ers, a lot of them. Sleazy, she said. Corporate.

He did think she was being picky. Persnickety, even. She was being persnickety. But well, now, finally she'd found one she liked. A welcoming church, she called it. Small. She liked it that someone greeted her as soon as she walked in. She liked it that someone helped her find a seat. She liked it that people remembered her name right off. Personal, it was. This church was personal. The preacher didn't just stand up front like a stiff. He came down and talked to folks. Gave his sermon with his knee up on a front-row chair. 'Course, he had to hold his hands on top of the chair for balance. But he was about reaching out, see. He was about reaching people where they lived, and she got that, she said. Spirit. He had spirit. And the congregation had spirit, too. They'd even built the church themselves. Made it out of a house. 'Course, it wasn't nothing fancy, now. Nothing like what J. H. Moses would've done. But it was real, she said. It was like their beliefs, which were about keeping to the real word of G.o.d. Honoring it. Preserving it. They were about the real Bible. That's why they were called the Heritage Bible Church. And that's why they weren't Lutheran or Presbyterian or anything like that. Why they were independent. An independent church. Everett'd never heard of an independent church. But what the heck. He was just glad she had someplace to go. People to talk to. Glad she'd be getting out of the house.

"Great," he said. "You're coming out of it. Feeling better. Great."

'Course, she wanted him to come with her. Keep her company, see. And he did, once. Promised her he'd come again, too.

"When you're ready?" she said.

"When I'm ready."

"Promise?" "Promise."

"Because they understand," she said. "They understand."

"Understand what?"

"That an evil has been done to us."

"Great," he said.

Today she'd probably claim she felt the same about the land as he did about the church. Today she'd probably claim it was mostly something the other person was keen on. But he remembers different, now. He remembers she loved it. And, to be frank, it was some land. It wasn't big. Five acres. A hoofprint. It wasn't what they were used to, at all. But it was closer in to things. And high, it was high. Faced southeast. Had a drop-dead view. You could even see their old farm, if you looked. You had to squint, but you could see it. He thought the thing priced reasonable for what it was.

"We can put up a little house," he said. "Can't you just see your sunroom? I'm going to put it right facing the view. Gla.s.s it in so you can use it all year round, and you mark my words. All winter long, you're going to sit in there like a cat."

"Is the money really enough?" she asked. "For the land and a house, too?"

"If we build smart."

"Think my pa would approve? Of us building a house instead of starting a new farm?"

"You thinking about a farm?"

"No."

"Then I guess he'd approve."

They were starting over. Drawing plans. They were thinking through the kitchen. The bathrooms. The flow. That being what they used to talk about over at J. H. Moses, the flow. They weren't building fancy, now. But it was going to be homey, with a great big front porch. They were going to have the mudroom they'd needed so bad on the farm. And instead of a parlor, they were going to have a great room like the hippies had, only smaller, with a red woodstove. The woodstove was sort of like the hippies, too, but he didn't remind her of it.

'Course, the hard talk was the kids' rooms. Should they have kids' rooms at all. But finally they decided on two, with a bathroom in between. If nothing happened, they could adopt, they decided. In fact, they were more or less planning to adopt-what the heck. If nothing happened.

And now, wasn't it a happy day when she said that. Just a happy day. He took her out to the inn to celebrate. Walked home holding hands, as if they were in high school.

They were happy.

They shot their levels, got their septic in. Dug for the bas.e.m.e.nt, got in their drainage. Their water lines, their electric.

Ginny quit smoking. She was wearing a patch and dieting and walking with the town walk group. Looking one last time for a teaching job, in case that was G.o.d's will. But if not, well, she was thinking to open a cafe, she said. She still liked that idea and was wondering if there might not be a reason she still liked it. If it was G.o.d's will.

"We could call it the Good News Cafe," she said. "It could be one part cafe, one part reading room." She'd heard of a place where they had a room in back for a prayer band, but she thought a reading room would be better.

"Reading room?"

"For Bible study."

"You mean, Watch out, Come 'n' Eat, here comes the Come 'n' Read?" he said.

"Christians like to get together with Christians," she said. "It's how we stir up love."

She was wearing a silver chain like Belle Tollman's now, except with a cross instead of a skate. And she was talking more and more about folks at church. About how they thought. 'Course, to Everett they sounded a lot like folks at the commune, only with a stress on the divine. The divine instead of the organic.

But what the heck. He tried to listen. He did. He tried.

"They understand me at church," Ginny said. "They get me. What the farm meant to me-they get that. That our family had lived on that land for centuries. That it was important. But that I was the only one who saw that. They get it that Jarvis didn't see it, and that Bob didn't, either. That I was the only one who saw, and that that was a burden in a way. A gift and a burden."

"It was tough."

"It was. It was a weight. But I took it up anyway, didn't I?"

"You did."

"That's what folks at church say. They say I didn't shirk away, or duck. And they respect that. They think that was a beautiful thing."

"That it was."

"Seeing," she said. "I was a seeing person."

"That you were."

"It was a lot like seeing the Truth about the Lord. That's why they understand. Why they get how hard it was to defend the farm against forces much stronger than me. How hard it was to defend my father."

"Harder'n h.e.l.l."

"It was. Fighting G.o.dless people out for themselves. Greedy people out to destroy everything good. Everything decent."

"It was tough."

"They stole from us, Everett. They cheated us and caused us to lose the farm so that they could help themselves to it. They dispossessed us. And you know why? Because they couldn't stand our goodness, that's why."

"I dunno, Gin," he said then, slow. Careful. "Were we that good? Like angels? You and me?" He didn't bring up Rex.

"The Bible says that all who live G.o.dly in Jesus will meet with persecution," she said. "And that's what we met with. Persecution."

"Gin," he said then. Slow. "Gin. We made some bad moves. We shouldn't have trusted Giles. We shouldn't have trusted Belle."

"They were out to destroy us, Everett. They hated Pa. They hated our farm. Hated it that we stood on our own two feet. Hated it that we stood for something. They hated the whole world where people believe in honor and don't sleep with everything that walks."

"They hated your pa, Gin. I'm with you there. His chemicals. They hated his chemicals. But we made some bad moves. We should have opened a cafe. We should have sold off some land."

"We were up against evil," insisted Ginny. "Don't you see?"

"Guess I don't," he said then, shaking his head. "Guess I don't see." He wished he had a field he could head to, seeing as how she was about to start blasting. She was going to blast.

But, well, see, she didn't, now. She didn't.

"At least you're honest," she said. "The sad fact is that this is the story more and more, these days. More and more." Her voice was patient. The teacher voice she would have used every day, if she had ever gotten another teaching job. "You don't see the pattern because you haven't talked to enough people, or on a deep enough level. But folks at church've heard people's real stories. Not just the chitchat. The real stories. And they recognize the pattern because they've faced it, too."

"You sure, Ginny? You sure this is right?"

"Don't you ever have things you just know?" She looked serious. "I just know."

The house was framed up, but Ginny thought they could still work in a cafe. All it took was a deck, she said. She wanted a big deck facing the view, so they could put out some tables and chairs. And a second fridge, she said. She was going to need a second fridge.

"Let's check zoning," he said. " 'Cause, to be frank, I don't know if you can have a business like that in your house. To be frank."

But down at Town Hall, Rhonda the clerk said that they could. Said people around here've always had to find ways to get by. Taken in sewing. Had themselves a repair shop. Sc.r.a.ppy, she said. They've always been sc.r.a.ppy.

"I'm just not crazy about this plan," he had to say then. "I want my home to be a home, Gin. I don't want it to be a restaurant full of strangers."

"They would not be strangers," she said. "They would be Christians."

"I don't want it full of Christians, neither."

"What's the matter with Christians?"

"Nothing the matter with Christians. I just don't want 'em in my house, Gin. I want peace."

'Course, that made Ginny mad. You could feel the rise. But she didn't blast-she didn't blast. Instead she just said, "I'm going to pray for you. I'm going to shower you with Christian love and kindness and use the power of that."

And, well, those were uncomfortable days, but happy days, too, now. They were happy. 'Cause Ginny was getting out cookbooks and trying new things. Sprouts. Avocado. Tofu. She was putting out bouquets and candles. Dyeing her hair what she called "real blond," on account of she'd always felt like a real blonde. And losing weight-she lost weight. Had her a special prayer program just for that, and what do you know, it worked. She wore pink now and walked with her walking group. Even took a ma.s.sage cla.s.s. Said she could see how hard Everett worked, and got him this pillow set for Valentine's Day. The pillow set had a place to put his face, and a wedge thing to lie on. A roll to put under his ankles. Went together with Velcro. He'd never seen anything like it and would not have recognized it as a path to heaven. But turned out, it was, now. It was. Led to activities they hoped would fill up those kids' bedrooms, too.

"You see?" Ginny would say later. "I knew but you didn't, did you?"

And, well, he'd have to admit, "Guess I didn't."

"You didn't see, did you?"