Early Warning

SPUTNIK HAD BEEN DISCOVERED up there in the sky in early October. Now that Joe was beginning the corn harvest with his uncle John and John’s son Gary, he had plenty of time to stare west, imagining a just barely visible glowing plume rising over the horizon, and plenty of time to look east, wondering what was happening behind him. Of course, no farmers discussed this. The real mystery was that they hadn’t thought about it in this way before. Yes, the Russkies had had the bomb for years now, but bombers took a while and could be shot out of the sky somewhere over, say, Canada. But missiles, like the one that launched Sputnik, took less than half an hour, it was said. Faster than a tornado, hardly time to head for the storm cellar. This year had been a good one for tornadoes, too — nine in May alone, and five more in the summer — though none had touched down as close as the one in ’51, which took out most of that church up in Randolph and stayed on the ground for almost an hour, people up there said. Joe himself hadn’t seen a thing that day — just been standing in the barn, fixing something, and looked up to see how green the sky was. Well, bombs and missiles would be worse.

These were not thoughts he shared with Lois or Minnie. It might be that Lois, who read only cookbooks and was bored by the news, didn’t know what Sputnik was, though Minnie, because of her position at the high school, of course did. One of the first things she’d said about it was “Look out. More homework.” And she was right. A big deal was being made in the paper every day about whether American children were wasting their time in school reading Dick and Jane and learning addition tables — maybe they should be reading something more challenging and learning how to use a slide rule in second grade. According to Minnie, who did keep her ears open, they were going to put “missile silos” out west, in the Dakotas and Nebraska. Those would be targets, too.

The funny thing was, and he was reminded of this every day he harvested the corn, he had just bought a new tractor in the spring, an International Harvester 400, a huge thing, 48 horsepower, and he had spent the whole summer worrying about how and when he was going to pay it off. That Sputnik satellite got into his mind (they said you could see it passing over, but he hadn’t), and he forgot to worry about the tractor, even though it was red, like the bull’s-eye in a target.

They finished the row they were harvesting, at the far end of the north field behind his house, and he jumped down off the tractor. As they walked toward the back door, John, who was seven years older than Joe but looked the same age, started talking about a combine he’d heard about that propelled itself. The tractor could be off doing something else. Gary said, “Like what, grocery shopping?” and they all laughed.

“No,” said John, “it’s got these snap rolls to get rid of the stalks and the leaves. Then the ears go through the cylinder, and out come the kernels. You got good bins, you can let the kernels dry out right on the farm.”

“What would we do all winter, then?” said Joe.

Before John could answer, Gary said, “Fix the combine.”

They kicked off their boots, took off their jackets, stomped around, and brushed themselves down. Even though not much in the way of dust was rubbed away, they were only going into the kitchen. Lois wouldn’t complain about that. As soon as they were inside and pulling out their chairs, she started taking dishes out of the oven. First came the green beans, then the roast potatoes and carrots, then the rib roast. This extremely appetizing piece of beef was from one of John’s steers — he still kept five or six head in the hillside pasture he had up there, not a slope he wanted to plow, up, down, or sideways.

Joe said, “Where’re the kids?”

“Jesse’s napping, and Minnie took Annie into Usherton for the afternoon. I think she is taking her to a matinee of some movie about a squirrel.”

Joe said, “I hope it doesn’t scare her to death.”

But, really, what was the use of talking, when there was all this food to eat? He, John, and Gary dove in.

Joe said, “Granny Mary loves Burt Lancaster. She says he reminds her of a boy she once knew.”

Gary stared at him. Joe shrugged. Gary was twenty now. He was the only one of John’s three to stay on the farm — and why wouldn’t he? With John, they all farmed seven hundred acres between them, and no other relative — not Frank or Henry or Buddy or Jimmy or Kurt — had the slightest interest. Even Gary was iffy — he talked sometimes about joining the army. But someday he could have this, if he wanted it.