"Tell me you honestly think she had no idea what she was doing," says Beth.

"She thought she was doing the will of G.o.d," says Hattie. "She thought the whole thing was G.o.d's plan. She even thought the bombing of the World Trade Center was His plan-making people so nervous, they would believe anything, she said."

How sorry she is that she told the group anything! Why did she tell them? What was she thinking?

Now Candy at least hesitates. "The will of G.o.d." She rucks up her mouth.

"She thought she was doing the will of G.o.d but said later it was a bad choice," says Hattie.

"So she knew she had a choice." Beth gestures with a french fry.

"Later. She knew later," says Hattie. "I don't know how she could have thought she had a choice if it was the will of G.o.d. And I don't know that she wasn't manipulated into believing that to begin with."

"Of course, she was manipulated," says Greta.

"And of course she would be vulnerable to that," puts in Grace. "Think of her background."

"Because she's Cambodian!" says Beth again. "Because she's an immigrant!"

Candy makes up her mind. "If you want to know what's wrong with this country, I can tell you," she says-her left cortex resolving things w.i.l.l.y-nilly, Hattie knows. Producing "coherence" at any cost. It's anything but rational. And yet, Candy's conviction is palpable: Her small eyes blaze; she looks about to burst out of herself. "What's happened to us that we are so afraid to say what's right and what's wrong?" she demands. "What's happened?"

"Nothing's happened," says Grace.

But Candy is on a tear. "This is what's the matter with us," she says. "This is why other people hate us."

"Why, because we think?" says Greta. "Why, because we are honest about the complexities of things?"

"Are you trying to say the terrorists are right?" says Grace.

"She's saying," says Beth, "that she can see their point of view."

And Candy agrees. "I can. I can see their point of view. We have gone wrong!" Her thin voice hammers.

Silence.

"Maybe it's you who have gone wrong," says Hattie, finally.

Flora slips them the check.

Everett: What Went Wrong, Now.

In an ideal world, this shack would be out on the ice instead of in the air-a fishing shanty instead of a tree house. In an ideal world, he'd be pulling up the smelt instead of hanging out with the birds, wishing the wind would not howl so loud. Wishing he'd put in a stovepipe that vented right no matter which way the wind was blowing instead of only some ways. And maybe wishing some other things while he was at it, what the heck. And that that Cambodian kid'd get out of the hospital all right. That'd be one. That Ginny'd turn back into the girl he married. That'd be another. What the heck. 'Cause used to be, she was this sweet gal. Used to be, she was a gal no one would ever imagine getting mixed up with the Cambodian girl the way she did. Pursuing her. And causing his trouble, too, he's going to guess. The fire, everything, somehow. Causing it.

Causing it somehow.

What went wrong, now. He's talking about what went wrong. How a sweet gal got to be so angry the way she did.

What went wrong.

When she was born again, Ginny used to draw these pictures showing her life before and after. Two little circles, she'd draw, with a throne in the middle of each one. The before circle'd be her life, with an E in the throne, standing for herself. For her ego, she'd say-the part of her that was self-centered. The part that was all about me. Christ would be there in the circle, too, but He'd be kind of floating around along with other things she was doing. Cooking, working, driving the kids to baseball. They'd all be these dots floating all over. Until she took Jesus Christ for her Lord and asked Him to rule her life, she'd say. And then there'd be the after circle, see, with Christ on the throne. Her ego'd be off to the side, and everything she did would be arranged in a circle, like they were minute dots on a clock. Organized, so you could draw a line from them to Christ in the middle. And that'd be her new life, now. Organized.

That was the story she told.

But the way he saw it, her before life wasn't any near so disorganized as that. Or maybe it was sometimes. But other times it was organized around the farm. The farm was on the throne. And whether or not his life used to be disorganized, it's organized, too, now, see. Around telling why.

What happened. What went wrong. Why. It's on his throne, now, right smack in the middle of the picture. 'Course, there's folks would say that ain't grand enough for a throne. Folks who'd say that ain't like the Lord. Just like there's folks who only want to go forward. They don't ever want to go back. Look back. Understanding-they don't care about understanding.

Well, he's past caring now. He is. Everyone's got to pick what sits on his throne, and he's picked the truth. How it started with the farm, and with Ginny's pa. Rex the Farmer King, they called him. And he's going to tell it now, the whole darned thing. How Ginny got to be what she was. What happened. It ain't all straightforward, but what the heck. He's going to tell it anyway. He is.

Let's just say it's his idea of heaven.

It is.

In an ideal world, Ginny's pa's barn would be full of hay and that'd be a lot of hay, now. Rex once figured his barn could hold fifteen thousand bales. Think on it. Fifteen thousand bales. That did seem a big number even before he, Everett, ever came to help load an entire barn himself. And since he's had that honor, well, it's just gotten bigger. Heavier. Even for a big guy like him, it was a job. See, you're tired already from all the cutting and the tedding. The raking. The baling. You're tired. Then it's load, load, load. Theirs was the old-fashioned bale you get with an old-fashioned baler. The kind of baler that rams the hay into bricks, and then ties 'em up with twine. The kind where you can still see the hay. Lot of farmers did go with the new balers some time back-thought they were quicker. More modern. Nowadays you see those round plastic bales all over. But come to find out lately, critters get in there and putrefy. How do you like that. Seeing as they're all sealed up with no air, they putrefy. And from that you get disease. Botulism. They say you can't give that hay to horses. Horses're too sensitive. But the fact is, it'll kill a cow, too. It will. So folks are backing off those new balers. Coming back to the old-fashioned bales, where if a critter gets in, it'll mummify. Where it'll dry up and get crunchy, maybe, but that's all. It'll mummify.

Folks are coming back.

Old Rex'd have had a good laugh over that one.

'Course, old style or new, loading was work. But at the end you'd look up and see all that hay. And that was something, all right. Stacks and stacks, it'd be, stacks and stacks. Stepped up, so's you could climb on up to the top if you were inclined and have a look right out one of those little high windows, a.s.suming it wasn't too cobwebbed. And you would have yourself quite a view, now. Quite a view. But Everett's always thought, even better's looking down. 'Cause it's a vast amount of hay, see. A vast amount. And ain't that the difference between people and cows, that people'd see winter coming and load up, where's all cows know is the hay's here or it ain't, it's fermented or it ain't. That's the older ones who'd know that. The older ones who get the sweet-smelling fermented on account of it's easier on their systems. The young'uns, now, they'd know something different. There's grain, too, or there ain't. That'd be what they know. Something different. 'Cause that's what they'd get, some grain with their hay on account of they were growing. Probably the cows know there's timothy in the hay or there ain't, now, too. Clover. A little mummy. They know. But people are the thinkers that would ever get the notion of building this vast thing to store hay in, see. The cows'd never have any such idea. They would not.

They're escape artists, though, those cows. You wouldn't think so to look at them. 'Cause they're big. Big as cows, Rex used to say. But big as they are, they can get through the fence in a wink. Big as they are, they know every hole in the fence, those cows. They know every hole that ain't even a hole but a hole coming up eventually. Potential. They understand potential. Smart as they are, though, a man like Rex was smarter. Rex could tell you where they escaped to, see. 'Cause they did not escape to the same place every time, now. Nope. That would make things too easy, if they escaped to the same place every time. Nope, some liked certain places and some liked others, and some liked certain places depending on something, and other places depending on something else. Say it just cleared. They might like a certain corner then, but if there was a bunch of them and not just one, they might like another corner. Or if it was cloudy. Cows don't like to go from light to dark, see. So they might avoid a certain dell on a sunny day, but head straight on over there if it was cloudy. Those cows could send you tramping around until you were plain worn out, they could. They could send you to the nuthouse. But Rex, now, Rex never would have to tramp around. 'Cause Rex could think like a cow, see. He could. He could think like a cow. Even after he got sick, he'd just sort of wake up sometimes and say, What about by the ditch? Or else, Them puddles. They're not going to like them puddles. One time he asked if Everett was wearing a yellow raincoat. Told him to leave it home. And Everett did, see. Didn't ask why, he just did it. 'Cause he knew Rex.

He knew him.

Folks said Rex's pa had the ability, too. Said his pa knew where a cow would go before the cow knew it itself. Said his pa could intercept it on the way. And, who knows, probably Rex's boys had it, too. That knack. Probably they had it, too. They just didn't know 'cause they moved to the city first thing. First chance they got, they moved. And maybe they knew where the cabs were going to go, or where the traffic jams were going to be. The breakdowns. Maybe they knew. But if they did, no one knew it, see. No one said it. Two boys, Rex had, Jarvis and Bob. Good kids. They never did talk about it, though. Cows and whether they could think like them. They just kind of stayed off the subject. Stayed off the subject of the farm in general. What was going to happen to the farm. They stayed off it.

No one would've guessed it'd be Ginny who'd come back in the end. The girl. But in the end it was, now, see.

The girl. A farmerette.

No one would've guessed it.

Everett was not a city boy, like Jarvis and Bob got to be. He grew up in the country. A country boy. But him and his dad were jacks-of-all-trades, see. Handymen. They'd fix your car if it broke down, get it out of a ditch if it fell in one. Fix your gla.s.ses, too, if in the course of taking care of the automobile you sat on 'em. Anything. Mostly, though, they did electric work. Wiring. 'Cause a lot of places had these bad wires, see. Mice'd eat 'em. Water'd corrode 'em. And guys'd try and fix 'em even if they had no earthly idea what was positive and what was negative. The old-timers, especially. The old-timers liked to hook things up and tape 'em. Kind of a Sunday-afternoon thing. Everett and his pa'd have to go straighten things out before their places burnt down. 'Course, his pa never would say much, on account of his accent. But folks appreciated that, now, see. They appreciated it that he'd just fix what was wrong and not say what they did stupid. And they appreciated it that he'd do other stuff while he was out there, too, if they asked him. Get out the patch kit if they had a cracked tub. Do their sash cords if their sash cords were snapped. It was all stuff they could do if they got around to it, was how they thought of it. If they had the time. Busy, they always said how busy they were. Implying they had more important affairs going than his pa. But his pa didn't care. He wasn't proud. He was from Hungary, see. He knew what hard times were. Communism. War. Never mind that back in the old country his family were teachers. Lawyers. He wasn't proud. Food before pride, he'd say. Food before pride.

That's why their family ate. As much as they wanted, every day.

Ginny was the first kind of hungry Everett ever knew.

He was proud of her from the first. Proud that folks knew her family. Knew their farm. That eighty acres they had-fields, mostly. It was good land. Level enough for around here. But now even with that good land they couldn't make a living off just farming it, see. Too cold up here. Season's too short. And the taxes just keep going up and up. Price of grain, price of equipment, everything. Up and up. That's why you see more and more of the great old farms with little developments at their edge, chewing up their fenders. They're getting nibbled up, see. Nibbled up. First the barn roofs get rusty. Then there's a spell of bad weather. Then comes some other country messing up the market. Mexico. Argentina. Places you never thought of. But next thing you know folks're forced to sell off land to pay their taxes, see. It's happened to most everybody, just about. Excepting Ginny's family. Ginny's family was the exception that never did have to do that. 'Cause Rex always found another way now. Or a lot of ways-he had a lot of ways. Kept some sugar bush so he could sugar in the springtime, for instance. He'd sell off his softwood for pulp, too, when the opportunity came up. Sell off his spruce and fir. And he did some real estate in addition. Had him a little business. Rex Realty. For a long time, just about all the farmers used him. Time to see the king, they'd say when they were in trouble. Time to see His Highness.

He was something in his time, Old Rex. He was something.

Everyone said it.

The real estate was a natural for him, seeing as he knew everyone and they knew him. No one ever had to tell him there was land coming up. He knew it like he knew the cows. Who was going to be selling. How many acres. He could see it before they saw it themselves. What they were going to have to get for it. 'Course, things changed once he got sick. But before he got sick he knew, and because he knew, he never did have to sell off land himself. Lost his pigs, once. Bank came and took 'em away. But he never had to sell off land. Other folks ran day and night and still could not hold on to their land. And, Rex, now, Rex ran day and night, too. Even with some good moves he ran. Day and night. But his moves were good. Effective. They were effective.

And back when they were in high school, Ginny was queen of all that, see. She dressed like everyone. Ate like everyone. You couldn't have called her uppity. But you could feel it, that she was what you call a have. Everett's pa said yes to everything. Other folks said no. Ginny said yes or no, depending. She could help with the car wash or she could not. She could help with homecoming or she could not. A compact girl, she was, back then, solid but light, with bean-green eyes and dirty-blond hair. Folks said she looked like her mother. A Frenchie. Died when Ginny was eight of something, Everett never did know what. All he knew was that Ginny smiled or not depending on whether she felt a smile coming on, and when it first began to seem that he was the boy who made those smiles come on, well, now, he was happy as Christmas Day.

Their very first date they danced all night with each other and no one else down at the Grange Hall. Right with Judy Perry and Randy Little and Sue Ann Horn all looking, they danced. Belle Tollman. 'Course, back then the Grange had no electric. All they had was them gas lamps with them net hearts. You ever see how they breathe? How they pulse, like they're on fire and not on fire? Well, him and Ginny were like that. Burning and burning and yet not burning up, somehow, just like he was himself and not himself. Everything was strange. He danced just fine even though n.o.body would have called him a dancer before that, and his palms did not sweat even though they always did. Guess she was such a light-footed thing, she just pulled him along somehow. And when they left the Grange Hall, they just started out strolling, hand in hand-hand in hand, just like that. As if that was their habit. As if they didn't have to decide it. Though, well, her hand was so soft and dry, he could not pretend that that was ordinary. Because in fact, he thought it wondrous. A wondrous hand. Warm. He would not have believed you could feel a person's heart in their hand, but it turned out, you could. Made him want to live forever, now. He wanted to live forever, holding her hand.

They walked down through downtown and then up toward the farms. Not heading anywhere. Just walking. But knowing it was pitch black, too. Knowing it. 'Course those country roads were good necking-you didn't exactly have to go find yourselves a spot. For miles it was just the stars and the tall moving trees and the two of you, finding your way, you hoped, down your own road. Doing stuff you'd heard plenty about, but not enough, it turned out, when the time came. Well, he was nervous about that part. He was nervous. But before he stopped, and turned, before he pulled her arm along his side and her hand to his back, he told her he was hers and always would be, and was not nervous about saying it at all. He was just stating the obvious. That she was his world. That he'd lay down his life for her. He didn't know where he got such ideas. But if she was surprised to hear it, she didn't let on, now. In fact, she didn't say anything right back at all. She just kissed him as if she couldn't help it. Not as if it was something she could do or not do, depending. She kissed him as if it was something she was born to do, and then she said it. That it was something she was born to do. That she had no doubt. It was good, it was right. She knew. Then they kissed again, and it was the easiest thing, see. n.o.body tells you how the dark helps, or how bodies seek each other. What seekers they are. Her mouth was warm, what with the night cold all around them. And her body was warm, too, so warm he got tight in the groin right off. It was like they were being joined by a third party right off. Eager to get in on things. And what a time he was having trying not to breathe so loud. What a time. He was greatly hoping she would not notice, and she didn't seem to, but after a while, she did pull lightly away. A piece of tact that just made him love her even more. That made him dead grateful, in fact, as they started a bit haltingly home. 'Cause his condition would only have gotten worse. Mortifying-it would've gotten mortifying. As it was, every tree seemed to be mocking him as they walked, poking straight up like it did. The trees were mocking him. Still him and Ginny made it, holding hands, all the way to her pa's farm. Then he kissed her good night and waited at the bottom of the hill to see she got in safe. 'Course, he was hoping she'd turn and blow a kiss. He was hoping. She did not. But she did stand a bit in the door gla.s.s once she was in. Pulled back the curtain, knowing he'd be looking, now, and waved. Her shape outlined clear by the light, and he could have sworn she was pressing her body into the gla.s.s, too, like in a movie. Remembering.

Pressing.

Those were happy times, all right. They were happy times.

They got hitched when they got out of high school. Then he got drafted, right off the bat, and all of a sudden it was, Good-bye, young wife. All of a sudden it was, Hope I don't come back in a body bag.

Ginny cried till she couldn't see.

'Course, those were hard months in 'Nam, watching people get blown up. Sickening, now, the whole thing was sickening. He'd never smelled blood before, death. He'd never seen any of it. Wounds. Guts. Things hanging. And everything happening sudden-you never knew what was coming. Startling. It was startling. Hot. He could see why his pa never did talk about such things. His first a.s.signment was to help flush out the Cu Chi tunnels outside Saigon. 'Cause the gooks had them these tunnels outside Saigon, these miles and miles of tunnels. Lived down there like worms, then popped up out of nowhere-gave 'em an advantage, see. A big advantage. They were tricky to catch. He had him a good dog to help sniff 'em out, though. Virgil. A German shepherd, smarter than most people. A sweet dog. Smart. But one patrol Virgil stepped on a mine and blew up right as Everett hit a b.o.o.by trap himself. Took a wall of nails in his chest and had to be shipped home on a stretcher, now, see. Took 'em a year to get his insides put back. A year and ten kinds of docs.

And well, now, those were bad times, all right. Dispiriting times. The kind of times that made you think about human nature, and animals. Beasts. Evil. Things you were better off not thinking about, to be frank. Ginny nursed him like a baby, though. And come one day, he was free to start life all over again in a city a little south. Ginny had read about it in a magazine, see. Described it just about every day while he was lying there in the hospital. What a cute place it was. Big enough to have a movie house, but small enough to be livable, she said. She liked that word, "livable." Neither one of them wanted to live the way her brothers did, with no trees. But a movie house-well, that did sound pretty good. Cafes. Less snow. They found themselves an apartment to rent. Bought themselves a couch with their wedding money, but made good use of cardboard boxes for most things until such time as he could replace them. And that was a busy time, all right, fashioning tables and chairs. A four-poster bed. Ginny liked all kinds of turnings and carvings, and those things took time. Equipment. They took equipment. That was a hurdle right there. But Everett got himself a job at an outfit called J. H. Moses, and at J. H. Moses he got to be pals with a guy with a shop, see. Norbert. Thanks to Norbert, Everett was able to turn and plane and hammer while Ginny pinned and sewed and stuffed. And what do you know, in a couple of years they had them as pretty a place as you could wish for. Queen Anne chairs with needlepoint seats. A mahogany table with ball-and-claw feet. That four-poster bed Ginny hung with real lace. They even talked now and then about a rolltop desk. A rolltop desk's quite an enterprise, now, but they did talk about it. Cubbies. How it'd have all these cubbies.

And those were happy times, all right. Healing times. Look forward, Ginny'd say. You got to look forward. And, Try not to dream. That was a good one. Try not to dream.

He was all right, now. He was. He was all right. p.r.i.c.kly. He was p.r.i.c.kly. He wasn't so great at relaxing, neither. But what the heck. He was all right.

He was all right.

In his first job, besides the carpentry he'd done wiring. Some tiling, too. Plumbing. He'd even rocked a bit, painted. He was a good painter. A jack-of-all-trades, like his pa. Willing. His new job was just carpentry. And that was all right, too, see. That was all right. He didn't much like the sites they got put on, though. In his old job they'd done in-law apartments and shed dormers. Kitchens. Family stuff. But, now, J. H. Moses was different. J. H. Moses was more oriented toward the boss's house. Three-car garages. Jacuzzis. One lady had her a toilet that would spray your bottom when you were done with your business-had it shipped all the way from j.a.pan. Guess they were pretty popular over there. In all his years, he'd never seen anything like it, and most of the guys felt similar. They had to try it out, they said. They did. But when he said that back where he came from, rich people had three-story barns, they hooted, too. Called him Farmer Everett. Even Norbert called him Farmer Everett. Asked if all that furniture he was making was what rich people liked back home. 'Cause it was very traditional, he said. Old-fashioned. He said his own wife liked contemporary.

Contemporary. All that equipment, and his wife liked contemporary.

Ginny got herself hired as a teacher's a.s.sistant, and when that went great, signed up for a college degree. 'Course, the degree took years and years. Books. It took books. Cost them half a barn, too. But come one day she marched right up on a stage in her cap and her gown, and didn't they all bust with pride then to have a college grad in the family. She got herself a job right off, now, too. Second grade. And what do you know, the kids loved her. The parents loved her. The other teachers loved her. They did.

But the princ.i.p.al had it out for her, see. A mean old bat she was, a shrunken-up skunk a pig wouldn't poke. She didn't like Ginny's lesson plans. She didn't like Ginny's bulletin boards. She didn't like Ginny's bicycle safety unit. 'Course, old Gertie was fired at the end of the year, but not before she fired Ginny first. Left a record so full of black marks, Ginny cried for months. Cried and cried. Everett tried to help keep her chin up, now. Pointed out there were other jobs in the world. Other schools. Helped her get herself out to those interviews at other schools with her chin up.

n.o.body ever did hire her, though, see. So she went and tried to get pregnant instead. How'd you like a little baby, she'd say. How'd you like a baby Everett. She was ogling babies in the grocery store. Looking at all the cute baby things. But after all those years of being careful, they couldn't be careless enough, now, somehow. It was strange. She prayed on it. Went to church and asked for G.o.d's help. And a couple of times there she was late with her monthly, see. She was. But she was never late more than a couple of weeks, now. The thing just kept coming back. Coming back and coming back.

And those were discouraging times, see, no question. They were just discouraging.

Especially as back home in Riverlake, her pa was doing even worse than she was-had been for a while. 'Course, Old Rex never would have suggested it. He never would have. But the farm was too much for any man to keep running on his own, and the fact was, he was getting older. Or maybe his angina started up earlier than they knew. It was hard to say. But one way or another, he was losing heart, now. He was losing heart. Every time Ginny talked to him, it was something else broke. The tractor was broke. The deep freeze was broke. The mower. 'Course, that mower was no good from the start. It was just the sort of thing you pick up at auction and curse every day afterward. A foretaste of d.a.m.nation if ever there was one. A preview of h.e.l.l.

The whole place was going to h.e.l.l.

By the time they got up for a visit, a fox had gotten in the chicken coop. In all the years the farm had been a farm, a fox had never gotten in the chicken coop. But that day they walked into a half-empty coop. And that was a sorry sight, all right. Even the racket was only half the racket. Something you might not think was sad, but come to hear it, it was. Especially as it meant Rex had left the coop door open. There was no other explanation, unless some fox had learned to work a coop latch. Rex must have left the coop door open. But, now, n.o.body said any such thing, see. Nope. n.o.body said any such thing. Instead they stood there as if they were on a school field trip and had to pick out the roosters from the hens. Him and Ginny all zipped up against the cold, and with their hats on tight against the sleet. Only Rex had his torn-up barn jacket all open, what the heck, his shirt showing a good-size wet stripe down the middle, on account of he was a good-size man. The kind of man who looked cooped up in a coop. He always wore a hat, but for some reason he wasn't wearing a hat that day. Had to give his hair a flick as he came in, so as to keep it from dripping down his neck. But didn't it look right dapper, now, like he'd just come out of the shower. That salt and pepper all glistening, and his face not pale, as they'd been expecting, but pink. Pink and grizzled. Rex had these roam-y eyes, now, sand-colored. He never missed anything, and that day he glanced around like he always did. Inspecting. But afterward there was this little linger in his look, now, just this little linger-as if he was coming back to something instead of moving on. Guess it was the look of doubt. Then he turned away, a man who had never turned away from anything, and by that they knew he was shook up.

That was before they even saw the news around the corner-before they even saw how one of the sugarhouse roofs had caved in under the snow load. Just caved right in. To be frank, it was hard to believe, even looking right at it. To be frank, even looking right at the roof dipped down, even looking right at how it'd busted apart in the middle, where the seam was, it was hard to believe. 'Cause that sugarhouse had withstood some fifty winters easy. And now here it was. The sides not snapped and splintery but buckled like the whole thing had turned out not to be made out of wood and metal at all, but cardboard. A cardboard house. 'Course, Rex really ought to have gone up there and knocked the snow off back when the storm came, now. Even if he'd seen the roof hold snow that deep before, he should have done it. 'Cause you can't always tell what the snow is by looking at it. Some snow's heavy, and some snow's light. He knew that. And that roof being a shed roof, the pitch of it wasn't steep enough for the snow to slide off on its own, now, see. Who knew what the pitch of the thing was, but to be frank, in these parts, you should not put up a roof like that at all. To be frank, in these parts, you should put up a gable roof with a nine-over-twelve pitch at least. And knowing those old sugarhouses had those d.a.m.ned shed roofs, well, Rex ought to have got up there with a shovel, the way he always had. He let the sleet fall on him and flat said so himself. He ought to have. But he was too dead tired to do it, he said. Too dead tired. And where that was the first time anyone had ever heard him even use the word "tired" with regard to himself, Everett did expect Ginny to start crying right then and there. He did. He expected it. But she did not. Instead she just listened, calm as a doorstop. The sleet was building up like icing on their shoulders and heads, but Rex and Ginny and him just stood there anyway, as if it was this fine spring day, while Rex explained how he wasn't really tired. How it was just his heart making him feel as though he was tired. He wasn't really tired.

"Because you're not getting enough oxygen," Ginny said.

And Rex said that was right, now. His doctor had said the same thing. He wasn't getting enough oxygen.

"We better be getting back," he said finally. "That sky is out to get us and the Good Lord seems to have taken a powder."

So they tromped back up the hill, their hands in their pockets, thinking.

Ginny and Everett shoveled out the barn floor. That floor was so caked with cow s.h.i.t, it looked like it been refloored s.h.i.t brown. But what the heck. They cleaned it all out. They shoveled out some paths through the snow, too, so as to make it easier to haul water up to the hogs. And come the end of the day, they took Rex out for a prime rib down at the inn. Talked over the equipment. The tractor. The mower. Ordered up some strawberry shortcake for dessert. Rex complained about the new folks in town. They want to bake bread for a living, then complain when they have to drive all over tarnation delivering it, he said. Ginny and Everett laughed. They laughed when Rex complained about the commune next door, too. How they complained about him. Complained about his chemicals. Complained about how runoff from his fields was trickling down to theirs.

"So I told them, When you figure out how to fix gravity, let me know," he said. "So I told them, Go f.u.c.k your sheep."

Ginny and Everett laughed some more.

"Because that's what they do, them hippies, you know, when they're not f.u.c.king each other," said Rex, scratching his jaw. "The sheep or the cows, depending on their equipment."

Ginny and Everett laughed again. They did not point out that some of their cla.s.smates from high school were living on that commune now. They didn't think it was needed. They were just glad to hear Rex sounding like himself.

"A bunch of rich kids, that's what they are," he said. "Think any of them got drafted? Those kids got off, every one of them got off. Their daddies got them off."

That was one of his favorite topics of conversation, along with the government.

"Think they care about the family farms down there in Washington?" he said. "Or do you think they're too busy with their girlfriends to care? Giving it to them every which way."

They ordered up some more shortcake. To be frank, it wasn't as good as what they had in the city. To be frank, this time of year the strawberries were mushy on account of they were frozen instead of fresh. Pulpy. They were pulpy. Ginny and Everett ate it up anyway. And as soon as they got in the car to go home, Ginny said, So what if we went back to help? And way before they got to the apartment, their minds was made up. Jarvis wasn't going back. Bob wasn't going back, neither. But they were. 'Cause that farm had been in the family for a hundred years, easy. Ginny's ma was buried there. Ginny's grandma and grandpa, and her great-grandma and great-grandpa, too. It was bigger than anything in the city, a lot bigger. Come to think on it, in fact, it was everything. And here they'd left Rex to run it on his own for years. What was that all about? As if movie houses and cafes were more important than the farm! As if they were more important than Ginny's pa! Everett called up work first thing the next morning. And, well, now, it didn't pain him too much to say he wasn't going to be framing up that four-car garage with the automatic door opener, did it. Ginny borrowed them a van for the furniture. And that was it. They didn't have to weigh and consider, see. They didn't have to decide. They were just going.

They drove up without telling Rex. Surprised him, and well, he was surprised sure enough. In fact, his sand-colored eyes teared up before he could put a stop to it. And now, that wasn't something you saw every day. Ginny teared up, too, just to see it. Everett got to work. There wasn't room for all the furniture they'd made, but they did put some of it to use. Piled the rest on a pallet in the bas.e.m.e.nt, then spruced up a mite. Not to set things straight, now. To set things straight they'd have had to open up the walls and insulate. They'd have had to replace the windows with double-pane. Replace the furnace. Have a look at the pipes and the wiring. The wiring was probably some kind of cobweb, if you looked. Creative-it was probably what his pa used to call creative. They didn't touch it, though, didn't touch the real stuff. They were just making the place livable. Putting down carpet. Putting up wallpaper. Hanging some curtains. They washed the windows and reduced the heaps. 'Course, the heaps were an enterprise, right there. Rex was no worse than other humans when it came to clutter, but if he needed a chair, everything went on the table. If he needed the table, everything went on the counter. And if he needed the counter, it all went back on the chair. Ginny found all kinds of things as she worked. Prescriptions. The phone number of some woman Rex said was after him. Unpaid bills. Certified-mail slips. She held one up.

"You ever pick this up?"

Rex made a face. "Don't believe I did."

"What about this?"

Clean-shaven as he was these days, he looked more like a schoolboy than you'd have thought possible. Stricken, even. He looked stricken. Except when he was really in trouble, see. Then he'd wink.

"Help me out, now," he'd say. "Womankind's got it out for me."

And before things got worse, him and Everett would put on their hats and head out to the field. 'Course, they had plenty of problems out there, now, too. Out there, they had problems galore. But out there, they were at least battling sick animals and broken equipment. Time. Nature. Enemies worth calling enemies. Whatever went wrong, no one was going to shake a finger at them.

They fixed the sugarhouse in time for the sugaring season, kept the lines clear and had a good year. Spring breeding went fine, too. Pretty soon a new herd of wobbly-legged calves were escaping out the fence just like their forebears. Escape artists. The lambs were bleating away, and the pullets were laying their first little long eggs, and those eggs were delicious indeed. Tender. Ginny and Everett were glad to be on the farm, and Rex was taking it easy the way he was supposed to. Slowing down if he felt anything at all. Ginny and Everett took CPR out at the high school while Rex got himself accustomed to the idea of surgery. A bypa.s.s. He was having him a bypa.s.s. 'Course, everyone had them these days. Medicaid would pay for it. It wasn't going to be bad.

Those were happy times, in a way. They were happy.

But Ginny had her an account book, and a box for the bank statements, and every night she stayed up later, like she was in some farm movie.

"Depends on what beef goes for this year," she'd say. "If it's better than last year, we'll be all right. If it's worse, we'll be in trouble."

'Course, the real problem wasn't the price of beef at all. The real problem was Rex's real estate 'cause he'd always made some extra introducing this one and that. Getting them to shake hands.

"But now people don't call-have you noticed?" said Ginny. "Because they know that he's sick. He doesn't look like someone who could get the best price. He doesn't look like he has the energy."