step downward or backward on the other. To bring Ruthie to my house, no matter how we ended up occupying ourselves, was to do her character development a favor that it was nevertheless impolite to mention.
IT DID OCCUR to me that we wouldn’t want the problem with Caroline to affect our usual routine, so when it was my turn to have Daddy over for supper, the Tuesday night after the property transfer, I cooked what I always did for him—pork chops baked with tomatoes (my third-to-last quart from the year before), fried potatoes, a salad, and two or three different kinds of pickles. Part of a sweet potato pie was left from a few nights before.
Daddy ate at our house on Tuesdays, Rose’s on Fridays. Even that made him impatient. He expected to come in at five and sit rightdown to the table. When he was finished, he drank a cup of coffee and went home. Maybe twice a year we persuaded him to watch something on television with us, but if it didn’t come right on after supper, he paced around the house as if he couldn’t find a place to sit.
He had never visited Caroline’s apartment in Des Moines, never gone, for pleasure, anywhere but the State Fair, and then he’d rather make two round trips in two days than spend the night in a hotel. In my memory, there was never a visit to a restaurant other than the café in town, and he never went there later than dinnertime. He didn’t mind a picnic or a pig roast, if someone else gave it, but supper he wanted to eat in his own house, at the kitchen table, with the radio on. Ty said he was less self-sufficient than he seemed, but that opinion was more based on the idea that anybody had to be less self-sufficient than Daddy seemed, than it was based on any evidence. He resisted efforts to change his habits—chicken on Tuesdays, or a slice of cake instead of pie, or an absence of pickles meant dissatisfaction, and even resentment.
Rose said our mother had made him like this, catering to whims and inflexible demands, but really, we couldn’t remember, didn’t know. In my recollections, Daddy’s presence in any scene had the effect of dimming the surroundings, and I didn’t have many recollections at all of our life with him before her death.
Over supper, Ty spoke enthusiastically about the hog operation. He had, he said, already called a confinement buildings company, one in Kansas. They were sending brochures that could get to us as soon as tomorrow or the next day.
Daddy helped himself to the bread and butter pickles.
Ty said, “You got these automatic flush systems with these slatted floors. One man can keep the place clean, no trouble.”
Daddy didn’t say anything.
“A thousand hogs farrow to finish would be easy. Marv Carson says hogs are going to make the difference between turning a good profit and just getting by in the eighties.”
Daddy chewed on his meat.
I said, “Rose wants to launder the curtains upstairs. It’s been two years. That’s what she says. I don’t remember.” Daddy hated thatkind of disruption. “See these? I got out some of these broccoli and cauliflower pickles we made. You liked these.”
Daddy ate his potatoes.
I said to Ty, “You eaten with Marv Carson lately? Everything has to be eaten in a special order, with Tabasco sauce last. He says he’s shedding toxins.”
Ty rolled his eyes. “Shedding brain cells is more likely. He’s always on some fad.”
Daddy said, “Owns us now.”
I said, “What?”
“Marv Carson’s your landlord now, girl. Best be respectful.”
Ty said, “Between you and me, Marv Carson is a fool. I like him fine, and he’s from this area and treats farmers around here pretty fair, but you can see why no one would ever marry the guy.”
“He’s got money in his bank, too,” said Daddy. “Not all of them do. We’ll see,” said Daddy. He wiped his mouth and looked around. I removed his plate, and took a piece of pie off the counter.
Ty said, “I could plant beans at Mel’s corner
IT DID OCCUR to me that we wouldn’t want the problem with Caroline to affect our usual routine, so when it was my turn to have Daddy over for supper, the Tuesday night after the property transfer, I cooked what I always did for him—pork chops baked with tomatoes (my third-to-last quart from the year before), fried potatoes, a salad, and two or three different kinds of pickles. Part of a sweet potato pie was left from a few nights before.
Daddy ate at our house on Tuesdays, Rose’s on Fridays. Even that made him impatient. He expected to come in at five and sit rightdown to the table. When he was finished, he drank a cup of coffee and went home. Maybe twice a year we persuaded him to watch something on television with us, but if it didn’t come right on after supper, he paced around the house as if he couldn’t find a place to sit.
He had never visited Caroline’s apartment in Des Moines, never gone, for pleasure, anywhere but the State Fair, and then he’d rather make two round trips in two days than spend the night in a hotel. In my memory, there was never a visit to a restaurant other than the café in town, and he never went there later than dinnertime. He didn’t mind a picnic or a pig roast, if someone else gave it, but supper he wanted to eat in his own house, at the kitchen table, with the radio on. Ty said he was less self-sufficient than he seemed, but that opinion was more based on the idea that anybody had to be less self-sufficient than Daddy seemed, than it was based on any evidence. He resisted efforts to change his habits—chicken on Tuesdays, or a slice of cake instead of pie, or an absence of pickles meant dissatisfaction, and even resentment.
Rose said our mother had made him like this, catering to whims and inflexible demands, but really, we couldn’t remember, didn’t know. In my recollections, Daddy’s presence in any scene had the effect of dimming the surroundings, and I didn’t have many recollections at all of our life with him before her death.
Over supper, Ty spoke enthusiastically about the hog operation. He had, he said, already called a confinement buildings company, one in Kansas. They were sending brochures that could get to us as soon as tomorrow or the next day.
Daddy helped himself to the bread and butter pickles.
Ty said, “You got these automatic flush systems with these slatted floors. One man can keep the place clean, no trouble.”
Daddy didn’t say anything.
“A thousand hogs farrow to finish would be easy. Marv Carson says hogs are going to make the difference between turning a good profit and just getting by in the eighties.”
Daddy chewed on his meat.
I said, “Rose wants to launder the curtains upstairs. It’s been two years. That’s what she says. I don’t remember.” Daddy hated thatkind of disruption. “See these? I got out some of these broccoli and cauliflower pickles we made. You liked these.”
Daddy ate his potatoes.
I said to Ty, “You eaten with Marv Carson lately? Everything has to be eaten in a special order, with Tabasco sauce last. He says he’s shedding toxins.”
Ty rolled his eyes. “Shedding brain cells is more likely. He’s always on some fad.”
Daddy said, “Owns us now.”
I said, “What?”
“Marv Carson’s your landlord now, girl. Best be respectful.”
Ty said, “Between you and me, Marv Carson is a fool. I like him fine, and he’s from this area and treats farmers around here pretty fair, but you can see why no one would ever marry the guy.”
“He’s got money in his bank, too,” said Daddy. “Not all of them do. We’ll see,” said Daddy. He wiped his mouth and looked around. I removed his plate, and took a piece of pie off the counter.
Ty said, “I could plant beans at Mel’s corner
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