never happened before, but it was right.
She was grateful to Walter for doing her the favor of holding Joey and having Frankie on the other side of him, so that she could give her attention to Reverend Sunday, who was certainly a dynamic man. There was something reassuring about how he seemed to have seen it all, and these things he was saying were the things he had learned not from books, like Father Berger, but from his own experience. He seemed to be saying that you could do it the easy way or you could do it the hard way, but he was here to tell you that the hard way wasn’t worth it in the end. What was that old story, the Parable of the Vineyard? Rosanna had always thought how unfair that was, that the workers who showed up late got in just the same as the workers who showed up early, but she hadn’t reckoned with the hardships that the late workers had had to endure before they got to the vineyard. Clearly, a day in the vineyard wasn’t terribly easy, but a day outside the vineyard was probably terrifying. She did not exactly listen to Reverend Sunday. It was more that she sat quietly and let his words and actions spark her own thoughts.
It was a show, with singing and a big choir, and other people talking. But that made sense, too. Wasn’t Mass a kind of show? She had never thought of it like that. Except that the thing about Mass was that the show was in Latin. A show in English was better at holding her attention. She looked around. That time was starting that Walter’s mother had told her about, when Reverend Sunday called out to the audience and people stood up and went forward and presented themselves to be saved, and then the audience got more restive with rejoicing. Walter’s mother had said, “Honey, don’t get caught up in that. It’s not very nice. You can be saved perfectly well without making a spectacle of yourself,” and Rosanna had agreed. Now she watched the people moving forward and felt rather sorry for them—there were a couple on crutches, and a boy who was being led by his friend and looked blind. Not everyone was like that—plenty were just normal—but one thing Rosanna was never going to believe in was faith healing. She had to say, though, that Reverend Sunday didn’t talk about healing—he talked more about drinking. She sat quietly.
WALTER HADN ’ T STAYED in a hotel since his return from Europe, and he’d only stayed in a hotel once there. This place in Mason City wasn’t at all like that place in Amiens where he had stayed while on leave in France (and didn’t know what to do with himself except walk around the town and stare at things that had been there for hundreds of years). And it wasn’t that strange place on the park that didn’t look like any building Walter had ever seen. It was just a hotel, with a bathroom down the hall, one window looking out onto the street, and two beds. Rosanna had Joey in the other bed, and Walter had this bed to himself. They had let Frankie wrap up in a blanket and sleep on the floor, though not between Walter and the door. Frankie was a wild one, no two ways about that. He made Walter and his brothers look domesticated by comparison.
Probably the street was the reason Walter wasn’t sleeping. Cars went up and down the street like you wouldn’t believe, all night long, as if these people didn’t have anything to do during the day, and maybe they didn’t. What did they have to do other than buy and sell the sorts of things Walter produced on his farm—corn and oats,or not those, but pork and chickens and beef and eggs and cream and butter? You walked down the street in a town like Mason City and you wondered what went on there. Walter had become just the sort of curmudgeon he used to disdain his father for being—the farm was the source of all good things, and what you couldn’t grow or make there, you didn’t need. People in town had too much time on their hands, so they built themselves stores and picture shows and even
She was grateful to Walter for doing her the favor of holding Joey and having Frankie on the other side of him, so that she could give her attention to Reverend Sunday, who was certainly a dynamic man. There was something reassuring about how he seemed to have seen it all, and these things he was saying were the things he had learned not from books, like Father Berger, but from his own experience. He seemed to be saying that you could do it the easy way or you could do it the hard way, but he was here to tell you that the hard way wasn’t worth it in the end. What was that old story, the Parable of the Vineyard? Rosanna had always thought how unfair that was, that the workers who showed up late got in just the same as the workers who showed up early, but she hadn’t reckoned with the hardships that the late workers had had to endure before they got to the vineyard. Clearly, a day in the vineyard wasn’t terribly easy, but a day outside the vineyard was probably terrifying. She did not exactly listen to Reverend Sunday. It was more that she sat quietly and let his words and actions spark her own thoughts.
It was a show, with singing and a big choir, and other people talking. But that made sense, too. Wasn’t Mass a kind of show? She had never thought of it like that. Except that the thing about Mass was that the show was in Latin. A show in English was better at holding her attention. She looked around. That time was starting that Walter’s mother had told her about, when Reverend Sunday called out to the audience and people stood up and went forward and presented themselves to be saved, and then the audience got more restive with rejoicing. Walter’s mother had said, “Honey, don’t get caught up in that. It’s not very nice. You can be saved perfectly well without making a spectacle of yourself,” and Rosanna had agreed. Now she watched the people moving forward and felt rather sorry for them—there were a couple on crutches, and a boy who was being led by his friend and looked blind. Not everyone was like that—plenty were just normal—but one thing Rosanna was never going to believe in was faith healing. She had to say, though, that Reverend Sunday didn’t talk about healing—he talked more about drinking. She sat quietly.
WALTER HADN ’ T STAYED in a hotel since his return from Europe, and he’d only stayed in a hotel once there. This place in Mason City wasn’t at all like that place in Amiens where he had stayed while on leave in France (and didn’t know what to do with himself except walk around the town and stare at things that had been there for hundreds of years). And it wasn’t that strange place on the park that didn’t look like any building Walter had ever seen. It was just a hotel, with a bathroom down the hall, one window looking out onto the street, and two beds. Rosanna had Joey in the other bed, and Walter had this bed to himself. They had let Frankie wrap up in a blanket and sleep on the floor, though not between Walter and the door. Frankie was a wild one, no two ways about that. He made Walter and his brothers look domesticated by comparison.
Probably the street was the reason Walter wasn’t sleeping. Cars went up and down the street like you wouldn’t believe, all night long, as if these people didn’t have anything to do during the day, and maybe they didn’t. What did they have to do other than buy and sell the sorts of things Walter produced on his farm—corn and oats,or not those, but pork and chickens and beef and eggs and cream and butter? You walked down the street in a town like Mason City and you wondered what went on there. Walter had become just the sort of curmudgeon he used to disdain his father for being—the farm was the source of all good things, and what you couldn’t grow or make there, you didn’t need. People in town had too much time on their hands, so they built themselves stores and picture shows and even
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