Golden Age

  He had accepted that if you were a bookish person the events in your life took place in your head. Once upon a time for Henry, those events had been dramatic; as the years went by, his skin prickling when Heathcliff ran out of the house calling “Cathy!” had given way to a gasp when Mr. Carker the Manager was hit by a train, and then to a quiet thrill when Beowulf found himself in Grendel’s mother’s cave. He had learned early on not to look up from the book and say, “Listen to this.” In graduate school, his pleasure in the dramatic gave way to something more abstract—yes, there had been the pleasures of words and their roots. Not only was “foot” connected to “fetlock” and “pedal,” but it was also connected to “impeccable” and “appoggiatura.” Not only was Artemis the sister of Apollo and the virgin goddess of the hunt, she was also Britomartis on Crete, an archaic mother goddess, no relation to Apollo at all. There were books that Henry remembered so clearly that he could still picture the pages he had read and the places where he had read them. One of these was The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Henry was in Berkeley and he dared to say to his cousin Rosa, “Who is Joseph Campbell?” She handed him the book, and he read it in a day, sitting on her mother, Eloise’s, porch in the sunshine. Gods and goddesses had eventually paled in comparison with wheat, rice, and corn, thanks to Les Structures du quotidien—that would have been on the beach beside Lake Michigan, sitting under an umbrella with Philip (he kept looking at Philip, the way you did when someone fascinated you), grinding his heels into the sand nearby. All of these books were carefully sorted and shelved in his apartment, and though he had loved them, perhaps they had held him back—they had been so lordly in their tone, so sure of themselves, so hardbacked and dense. Lost in the library, Henry had forgotten that the very men who wrote these books were out and about—some of Eloise’s friends of friends remembered Campbell himself on the beach, yakking it up about crabs and sea urchins with Ed Ricketts. The two men would have been half the age that Henry was now.

  His problem was Chicago, not books, but he was retired, wasn’t he? Didn’t have to go back to Chicago at all. If your life remained in your mind, complex and busy, full of what you had read as well as what you had done and whom you had met, you could carry it into the future, and it would all, somehow, flow together. That was his hope, and his superstition, and he planned to stay in D.C. as long as he could.

  —

  RILEY SAID THAT deciding to hike the Appalachian Trail was not something that you did by waking up in the middle of the night the day before Halloween, and, as always, Charlie had nodded and agreed with her. Nevertheless, when he got to work at the outdoor outfitters Monday morning, he went straight to the book-and-guide department and pulled out a guide. By lunch, he saw that he could start down in Georgia, where the weather was still pleasant, and just keep walking until it got too cold to go on. He had the equipment, even the orange vest (obviously, there would be plenty of people hunting, since it would be November), and he could get the trail provisions at a discount. His manager would give him the time off—their busy time was the spring and summer, and Charlie hadn’t taken any vacation in two years.

  By his afternoon break, he was walking around the shoes-and-boots department, wondering if he needed a new pair: you never wanted to break in your boots on the trail, but his were getting pretty worn. Supposedly, you would start out hiking eight miles a day, but Charlie thought he could do twelve or more. After work, he ran to Dupont Circle double-quick, got an earlier train than usual, and could not keep his mind on his book, which was The Hound of the Baskervilles. Henry made him alternate, man’s book, woman’s book; the last one he’d read was Northanger Abbey. Riley had him reading books, too—next to his bed was A Sand County Almanac. Riley was powering through Guns, Germs, and Steel, marveling from time to time that those Menominee ancestors (but really “Mamaceqtaw”) had managed to survive at all, and Charlie glanced at her surreptitiously while suppressing the yawns that came from his own reading material. More than once, he lost his place and started over, only dimly recognizing passages he’d read minutes before. He had two books on his side of the bed. Her side was close to the window, and her “currently reading” set ran in a line along the sill, blocking out the morning light almost as well as the shades they hadn’t bothered to buy yet.

  He got home. He helped make dinner very pleasantly, broccoli soup, veggie omelet. He chopped the vegetables and warmed the day-old whole-wheat baguette. She set the table.

  Charlie said, “I talked to Fred. He doesn’t need me after Thursday, so I think I will—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  Charlie looked at the wall above Riley’s head and assembled his arguments.

  “Hey, babe. I need a break, and it’s not that expensive. Say I’m out there for a month, which is not likely; at the most that’s three hundred dollars—well, three fifty. I’ve got all the equipment I need. That old sleeping bag from Aspen that’s good down to ten below, we haven’t used that in years. Perfectly good tent, too.” He tried to sound conversational. “I looked at the boots, but I couldn’t justify getting a new pair at this point. Maybe in the spring or summer—”

  “You will be gone for a month?”

  “Three weeks, then? I thought a month would be the absolute outside.”

  “What if I have to go away for a few days? How will you know?”

  Charlie knew she was talking about Thanksgiving, which, as a semi-official Menominee, she would not celebrate, but she didn’t mind spending the day with friends. He said, “The house will be empty and the oven will be off.”

  “Oh God.”

  But she didn’t raise her voice. She sounded more or less resigned. Charlie pressed on.

  “You know that too long in the city makes me jittery, you know that. When we lived in New York, I went upstate every couple of weeks.” He smoothed his voice. “You went, too.”

  “I cannot take a month off to walk the Appalachian Trail.”

  “Eventually, you will have to take time off.”

  “The congressman takes enough time off for both of us.”

  This could be a sticking point: Charlie knew that Riley knew that Charlie knew that he liked Richard Langdon better than Riley did. “Hard-hitting” was not the word for Congressman Langdon, but every Congress needed some congeniality, that was Charlie’s view of politics.

  “Ivy is pretty strict about sharing the child-care duties, at least when Richie is back in Brooklyn.”

  “I don’t disagree with her,” said Riley. But she did. It would have helped if Leo had been a charming, sunny fifth-grader with a smile for everyone, but he was not. He had been known to lie facedown on the office floor and refuse to move, so that everyone had to step over him. Of course, that had last happened when he was six; he was now ten.

  Charlie reorganized himself. “I know you—”

  “You should go.” She set down her soup spoon.

  “Well, I do think—” But he felt himself backtracking.

  “No,” she said, “don’t think. It’s me that hasn’t been thinking. You have to move. You have to walk. You have to— Well, shit. Look at you. All day long you equip people for adventures, and your biggest adventure is running a loop around Dupont Circle.”

  Charlie said, “You aren’t seeing someone, are you?”

  Finally, Riley laughed a big, hearty laugh, and said, “I am only seeing the light, sweetie pie. I am looking up from my keyboard and recognizing…” She paused, gazed at him. “I am recognizing that you are, indeed, the most patient male I’ve ever met.” Her toe began to rub his ankle, and he had no need of his third and fourth arguments.

  The Tercel, he thought, was happy to be out. Fifteen years old, a hundred thousand miles, and why replace it? said Riley. It still got forty-two miles to the gallon. She had her eye on something called a “Prius,” already available in Japan, and supposedly ready to go on sale in the United States, though every time she drove into a Toyota dealership in the Tercel, they said they had no idea when
the Prius would be available, and had she ever considered a Corolla? No, she had not.

  The Tercel was also perfect for this trip, since it was too old to get stolen. Charlie left D.C. at 5:00 a.m. on Friday, and was in the Chattahoochee National Forest by three; it was bleak, gray, and cold. The trees were nearly leafless, but the trail was hard enough, only muddy here and there. He locked the car with two hours left until sundown, and set off.

  Charlie didn’t care much about day and night. His eyesight was good, he had been outdoors in all weathers, and as long as it wasn’t pouring rain he was comfortable enough. He started walking, and almost immediately it came over him, that energy. Inhale. Step. Step. Exhale. Inhale. His boots felt good, the way they conformed to his feet and embraced them. His socks felt comfortably warm, friendly. His old wool pants, hard to find anymore, were warm even when wet. His hat was pushed back on his head. Inhale. Exhale. Ponder the Cherokee—Riley had read him a few things before he left. But his thoughts kept drifting to Jordan Del Piero, with whom he had smoked some weed in high school (in the bedroom; yes, Mom), who now had three kids and was working for an important law firm in Clayton. And could he believe that Rianna Gray—that little thing, she looked twelve when she was seventeen—had published a novel? His mom had seen Moira Lutz at Kroger’s—in the baby-food aisle. She had two kids, and was married to someone important at Monsanto. His mom always said these things in a gossipy, idle tone, as if she didn’t care, but she did, and he knew what she told them: Oh, Charlie, he’s a late bloomer, I guess. Or: Oh, Charlie, he lets poor Riley do all the work.

  To his right, just for fifty feet, the hill fell away in the twilight. With the onset of night, the forest gave up its scents, but Charlie was too far south to recognize what they were. Inhale. Exhale. At parties, Riley did hug him and say, “Oh, this is just Charlie. He works at Hudson’s.” Some of the men then chatted with him, but none of the women, not in Washington. He lengthened his stride. His skin looked like he’d spent years outside without sunblock, but the only way he seemed to be aging was that his hairline was receding. Was it strange that he had given so little thought to the future, that he was so engrossed in the next few steps that he had forgotten about the cliff at the end of the path? It felt good to walk, though. Good, possibly, to be dismissed and given up on. He lengthened his stride again, and thought, Being given up on is the nature of freedom, isn’t it? And then thought that maybe this was the first real thought of the rest of his life.

  2000

  JANET WAS on the verge of deciding that the whole thing wasn’t her business after all when the last call came in, from Loretta in Antigua. Janet looked at her watch; it was ten in Palo Alto, so it might be two in Antigua, time for lunch. Loretta said, “Did they call you and tell you they found him?”

  “Yes, he’s at the ranch. He sneaked in in the night, and your mom found him in one of the guest rooms after the school called her.”

  “I can’t believe the school let him escape.”

  “I don’t think the grounds are fenced or anything; I mean, I’ve only driven past it, but it’s not high-security.”

  “Shit.”

  “How long are you in Antigua?”

  “We just got here two days ago, so two weeks. Magnus has a sailing yacht. This afternoon, we’re headed for Montserrat.”

  Janet looked at the mirror on her closet door and made a face like a dog growling.

  “—can you please go get him and take him back? I would be so grateful. I don’t dare ask my mom to do it—she shouldn’t be driving at all, she says her shoulders hurt too much. Dad only drives on the ranch.”

  Janet heard herself say, “I can do that. It’s—what?—an hour and a half. Jonah has art class after school today, so I don’t have to pick him up until four. That’s six hours from now.” After all, she had never been to the ranch.

  “I love you,” said Loretta. “Michael thinks—” But then the connection failed, and Janet never heard this piece of very interesting information.

  When she got there, Chance was on a horse in the arena beside the barn, practicing spins and slides. Janet had never seen him on a horse. She recognized at once that this was his real self, not the neatly trimmed and well-clothed boy she saw at restaurants or when she’d picked him up at SFO a couple of times. His heels were down, his body was limber, his shoulders were loose, and his cowboy hat (Janet would have put him in a riding helmet) was dirty and well used—it fit him perfectly. What was he, sixteen or seventeen? Janet couldn’t remember. Then she looked again, and saw that there were several Angus calves milling in a pen attached to the arena, and that Chance had his riata looped over the horn of his saddle. She walked toward the calves, and one of them put his nose through the fence and mooed. That was when Chance saw her.

  He cantered over, slid to an easy halt. He said, “Aunt Janet. You came to get me.”

  “I did,” said Janet.

  “Mom sent you.”

  “She did,” said Janet. “What’s your horse’s name?” Janet reached through the fence and tickled the chestnut on the cheek.

  Chance said, “Bogey. Grandma named him. He has a sister named Bacall.” When Janet grinned, he asked, “How’s Emily doing with Pattycake?”

  “I don’t know who hates the New England weather more, Emily or Pattycake. They should have gone to Pomona.”

  “Grandma says I can stay here. The season is about to begin. I’m going to practice for the spring, and then go on the circuit.”

  “What circuit?”

  “Roping.”

  “What about school?”

  “I hate school.”

  Janet knew that if this were Jonah talking she would be hitting the roof, but that was Loretta’s job.

  “Is your grandmother in on this?”

  “Gran thinks I have talent and should use it while I can. Bogey is thirteen, we’ve trained him perfectly, he’s peaking, and so am I.” He sounded very reasonable. He patted the horse and said, “Reining horses take a long time to grow up. Grandpop told me that when he gave him to me, when I was in first grade.”

  Janet said, “Don’t you graduate this year? Just graduate, then do it.”

  “Nope.”

  Janet climbed onto the lowest railing of the fence and leaned over it, grabbing Bogey’s rein. She said, “Chance. It’s four months. Graduate.”

  “Mom already sent my college applications in. Georgetown, St. Louis U., Fordham. Not Notre Dame, because it’s not Jesuit.”

  “What does your dad say?”

  “Do you mean Michael or Father?”

  Janet barked a laugh, but Chance wasn’t joking. She said, “Michael, I guess.”

  “He says, fuck you.”

  To whom? thought Janet. But she said, “Okay, even so, I think we can work this out. Just come with me—”

  Bogey started backing up, fast, tucking his chin, flopping his ears, right out of her grasp. Then he spun, and a moment later, Chance and Bogey were galloping across the arena, then through the open gate at the far end. Janet stood up, shadowed her eyes, saw them disappear around the barn, and then reappear moments later, galloping up a trail that crossed a hillside behind the house. They were going fast.

  Janet drove to the house. Loretta’s mom was standing in the doorway, a little hunched, perhaps waiting for her. She said, “He’s a very stubborn boy,” as she stepped back to let Janet in. It was now twelve-forty-five.

  Janet said, “I wonder where in the world he gets that.”

  “I say nothing,” said Gail Perroni. Janet had liked her every time they met—three or four times now.

  Of course there was food. Gail led her into the kitchen, where two places were set. She said, “I thought you might be hungry. Pop is out with Teo—that’s the foreman—checking the fence line at the far end of the ranch; heavens, that’s miles and hours away. And a good thing. I’m going to have to break him in easy to having Chance here.”

  Janet said, “I thought he was crazy about Chance.”

&nb
sp; “Oh, he is, but he’s going to be just like Lori about this. I’ve spent her whole life trying not to be outnumbered by the two of them.”

  She ladled out what looked like tortilla soup, then offered Janet crisp tortilla strips, slices of avocado, and chopped tomatoes for garnish. She said, “I’m having iced tea, but we have some Cokes somewhere.”

  “Iced tea is fine,” said Janet as she pulled out her chair. The soup looked so good that the trip became worth it.

  Gail looked at her bowl with pleasure, then began eating. She seemed very relaxed. Once Janet had eaten some, and taken a few sips of her tea, Gail said, “I guess you’ll have to leave by two, in case you hit traffic.”

  Janet said, “I guess Chance won’t be going with me.”

  “Oh, I doubt he’ll be back by then. Bogey can be out all day. He’s as fit as they come.”

  They continued to eat.

  Gail touched her napkin to her lips—very gently, since she was wearing lipstick, a fuchsia-orange, and plenty of rouge, too. Janet said, “Loretta is very upset.”

  “She’ll be fine. A fait accompli is about the only thing that has ever worked with that girl.”

  To the best of Janet’s knowledge, Loretta was not yet forty-five. Gail looked older than her own mom, but that could be years of sun. Gail tipped her soup bowl and spooned out the last bite, then helped herself to another slice of avocado. Then she sighed, and smiled. She said, “Well, I feel a lot better now. So—I knew this was coming.”

  “Did he say something over Christmas?”

  “I knew this was coming sixteen years ago, when Dalla—Remember her? She was the nanny?—she would say to me, ‘Ma’am, do you think that boy can hear? I call him and I call him, and he just walks away.’ So we did a test. He was stacking blocks, and we sneaked up behind him—you know, to clap or something? Well, he heard us coming, no problem. Nope, he hears you fine, but only when you are saying what he’s interested in. It isn’t going to do him one bit of harm to take time off from that prison in Portola Valley. I don’t know why she sent him out here. I told her not to, but she would do it her way. If he goes out on the circuit for a year, he’ll learn that that’s a hard life. A friend of ours had a boy who was determined to be a rodeo clown. He did that for exactly a year and screamed to come home, and Jane, that was his mom, she said, ‘Nope, you do it till you’ve learned all about it.’ It’s dangerous. He lasted a good four years.” She stood up and picked up her bowl, then Janet’s. “Now he’s a vet. Even vet school is a breeze compared to being a rodeo clown.”