The Genocides

Pastern, the Congregationalist minister, and his wife Lorraine. They had been good to Buddy during the years before he’d left for the University, when life had been one long feud with his father who had wanted him to go to the Ag School in Duluth. And Vivian Sokulsky, his fourth-grade teacher. The only older woman in town with a sense of humor or a grain of intelligence. And all the others too, always the best of them.

Now, Jimmie Lee. Rationally you couldn’t blame the Plants for Jimmie’s death. He had been murdered—though how or by whom, Buddy could not imagine. Or why. Above all, why? Yet death and the Plants were such close kin that one could not feel the breath of one without seeming to see the shadow of the other.

“Hello there, stranger.” The voice had a strong musical timbre, like the speaking voice of the contralto in an operetta, but to judge by Buddy’s reaction one would have thought it harsh.

“Hello, Greta. Go away.”

The voice laughed, a full, husky laugh that would have reached the last rows of any balcony, and Greta herself came forward, as full and husky in the flesh as in her laughter, which now abruptly ceased. She stood herself before Buddy as though she were presenting a grievance before the court. Exhibit A: Greta Anderson, arms akimbo and shoulders thrown back, full hips jutting forward, her bare feet planted in the dirt like roots. She deserved better clothing than the cotton chemise she wore. In richer fabrics and brighter colors and given better support, the type of beauty Greta represented could excel any other; now she seemed just slightly overripe.

“I hardly ever see you any more. You know we’re practically next-door neighbors—”

“Except that we don’t have doors.”

“—yet I don’t see you from one week to the next. Sometimes I think you try to avoid me.”

“Sometimes I do, but you can see for yourself it doesn’t work. Now, why don’t you go fix your husband’s dinner like a good wife? It’s been a bad day all around.”

“Neil’s in a blue funk. I expect he’ll be whipped tonight, and I’m not going to be around the house-or should I say the tent?—when he comes home from that. When he went back to town, he fooled with the rope on Studs’s pen to try and make it look like it wasn’t his fault—that Studs had jumped over the bar. I can just see Studs clearing an eightfoot fence. But it didn’t do him any good. Clay and half a dozen others saw him doing it. He’ll just get whipped a little harder now.”

“That idiot!”

Greta laughed. “You said it, not me.”

With a feigned casualness, she sat on the step below his. “You know, Buddy, I come here a lot too. I get so lonely in the new town—it’s not really a town at all, it’s more like summer camp with the tents and having to carry water from the stream. Oh, it’s so boring. You know what I mean. You know it better than me. I always wanted to go live in Minneapolis myself, but first there was Daddy, and then…. But I don’t have to tell you.”

It had grown quite dark in the ruined village. A summer shower began to fall on the leaves of the Plants, but only a few droplets penetrated their cover. It was like sitting in spray blown in off the lake.

After a considerable silence (during which she had leaned back to rest her elbows on Buddy’s step, letting the weight of her thick, sun-whitened hair pull her head back, so that as she talked she gazed up into the faraway leaves of the Plant), Greta let loose another well modulated laugh.

Buddy couldn’t help but admire her laugh. It was as though that laughter was a specialty of hers—a note she could reach that other contraltos couldn’t.

“Do you remember the time you put the vodka into the punch at Daddy’s youth meeting? And we all started doing the twist to those awful old records of his? Oh, that was precious, that was such fun! Nobody but you and me knew how to twist. That was an awful thing to do. The vodka, I mean. Daddy never knew what happened.”

“Jacqueline Brewster could twist well, as I recall.”

“Jacqueline Brewster is a pill.”

He laughed, and since it had become so much less customary for him, the laughter was rough-edged and a little shrill. “Jacqueline Brewster’s dead,” he said.

“That’s so. Well, I guess next to the two of us she was the best dancer around.” After another pause, she began again with a great show of vivacity. “And the time we went to old man Jenkins’ house, out on County Road B—do you remember that?”

“Greta, let’s not talk about that.”

“But it was so funny, Buddy! It was the funniest thing in the world. There we were, the two of us, going at it on that squeaky old sofa a mile a minute. I thought it would fall to pieces, and him upstairs so dead to the world he never knew a thing.”

Despite himself, Buddy snorted. “Well, he was deaf.” He pronounced the word in the country way, with a long e.