Richie, with his government pension, would of course vote for Obama, but Ezra was getting him worked up. Ezra didn’t mind arguing, so he assigned Richie plenty of reading, both for and against the pipeline. When Richie pointed out that the Canadian oil was no worse than oil from California, and that the Canadian oil would get to Texas, and into the atmosphere, no matter what, that the Chinese would not be deprived of the Canadian oil, and that much of the pipeline was already in place and operating, Ezra summoned a pleasant look, then leaned forward and said, “When do you stop? When do you say no? You don’t take mistakes from the past and use them as precedents for future mistakes. You say no, try something else—and something else emerges. You get investors to reject investments in oil companies. You use the Internet and crowdfunding. You bypass the Congress.”
“Good idea,” said Richie.
Michael continued to laugh at Romney—it was one of his greatest pleasures. One day, he said, “Look at me! I am in disgrace! Where’s the money? Where’s the expertise? But I can’t help feeling that I could run a better campaign than this guy. You could run a better campaign than this guy!” Michael seemed not to think Richie would be insulted by this remark. And he wasn’t. So many remarks over the years had stirred him up, and not anymore. It was strange. He didn’t mind it.
In D.C., Hurricane Sandy was like the flipside of the summer derecho—wet and windy, but cold and coming from the east, at the living room, rather than from the west, at the bedroom. Richie tacked a quilt over the windows and stocked up on a few things like Italian tuna packed in olive oil and cracked-wheat bread. He did not expect to be driven from the apartment, and he did expect to stay home—everyone in D.C. stayed home in a State of Emergency. When Jessica went out for her morning run, he stretched himself on the sofa and called Leo, who had an internship at the American Folk Art Museum in New York, thanks to Ivy. He said that he was staying with a friend way uptown, almost to Fort Tryon Park, which was higher ground than his apartment in Chelsea. He sounded calm and moderately receptive to his father’s attention. “How about your mom?” said Richie. “She’s in France,” said Leo. “But her place should be fine. I’m supposed to check it after the storm.” Richie said, “Call if there’s a problem.” Leo said, “ ’Kay. Love you.” From that Richie knew that Leo was somewhat more nervous than he let on. After Leo, he called Michael, who said he was at Henry’s. Richie said, “Are you dating Riley?”
Michael said, “Not yet. I have some tests to pass, and it doesn’t look good.”
“No surprise,” said Richie. After he hung up, he thought for a moment too long about whether this could possibly be true. He called his mom. It was an indication of how immortal he considered his mom that he hadn’t called her first. But she didn’t seem worried: the Hut was not in a flood zone, and Michael had given her a generator for her birthday and shown her how to use it. If it got really cold, she still had that mink coat from before he was born—she liked to climb into bed and curl up underneath it. Richie said, “What do you have to eat, though?”
Andy said, “Chocolate, dried cranberries, a nice Brie, some Honey Crisp apples, and a big Yellow Brandywine tomato.”
He said, “Mom! It could be days!”
She said, “Oh, I doubt that.” There was a long silence—she was finished talking. These days, she always finished talking fairly quickly. Richie, thinking of Leo, said, “ ’Kay. Love you.” They hung up. Richie realized that he had not meant to have any of these calls sound like fond farewells, but they did. That was how big Hurricane Sandy appeared to be.
When Jessica returned, she said that the Smithsonian was closed and groups of Chinese tourists were standing disconsolately at the door. Richie had Jessica’s favorite old Steve Martin movie, Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid, which she had seen seven times before she turned eighteen, in the DVD player and ready to go. He grabbed her, pulled her down on the couch, and held her as tightly as he could. If he had still been in Congress, he hoped he would have been thinking about the Grand Concourse and Prospect Park. But he wasn’t.
And so Sandy ushered in Obama’s second term. Michael was on the phone to Richie even as Karl Rove was yammering on in disbelief that, according to Michael, the fix wasn’t in after all. “Look at him! Now that blonde is walking through the studio to talk to the numbers guys. What a surprise, except not to everyone outside the bubble. I always thought Rove was a prick!” He started laughing and hung up. Jerry Nadler, of course, had been re-elected, and a Democrat had replaced Richie’s replacement. Earnest graduate of NYU, master’s in social work, career in nonprofits, idealist, not the type of candidate Vito Lopez would have embraced, but, thanks to feeling up his office help, old Vito looked done for at this point. It was almost midnight. Jessica had fallen asleep on the couch with her feet in his lap. He took off one of her slippers and tickled her. When she opened her eyes, she said, “He won, didn’t he?”
“He did, sweetie. He did. The Super PACs don’t seem to have bought themselves a thing.”
Jessica yawned, and said, “Maybe it’s going to be all right, then.”
“I think that’s up to Ezra and Chance at this point.”
Jessica said, “Don’t leave out Leo. He’s got a lot on the ball.”
“That was complete do-it-yourself.”
“What isn’t?” said Jessica.
2013
EMILY WAS STILL in the ring, teaching a six-year-old boy who could sit on his pony but couldn’t get him to turn left or right. Fiona stood leaning against the gate, watching Emily do her best imitation of Mrs. Herman—talk a lot, be encouraging, demonstrate a few things, let the child find his way, but keep your eye out for pony misbehavior. Champ, who was a small pony, only twelve hands, was not as agreeable as Pesky had been, but he was good enough if the instructor carried a whip. The first thing Fiona said when the boy was finished was “What is your cousin Chance doing these days?”
“Ranch work, I guess.”
“Get him to come down here. I want to learn something new.”
Fiona never said “please” or “thank you”—too many years of giving lessons.
So Emily texted the last number anyone had for Chance, and two days later, he e-mailed her. The first time he came down, he rode four of Fiona’s young horses each day for three days; he rode six the second time. Fiona paid him a hundred dollars a horse, offered more, and said the safety factor was worth it. It was interesting to Emily just to watch. One horse, Dulcet, was talented but spooky. She rarely ran, but she often flinched. When Emily exercised her, the flinching was startling and distracting. Emily would worry that something worse might happen. It never did, but Dulcet was not progressing quickly—she was seven now, had never been to a show. Fiona had decided that, at sixty-five, she was too old to fall off, but Dulcet was beautiful and talented. When Chance worked her, he did nothing wild or cowboylike—he just gently solicited her attention over and over, reminded her to trot a circle, or square a corner, or whatever the exercise was. Fiona got on and did the same, and within a day or two, Dulcet was much more relaxed. Just before Chance got into his truck to leave, Fiona hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. She said, “I am going to pretend that you look like Tim”; then she hugged him again and said, “Charlie, too.”
The second time he came, Chance worked with one of Fiona’s very bad horses, one she’d gotten as payment for lots of missed board bills, who would buck hard and keep bucking. With Chance on his back, every buck led to the horse’s quietly spiraling, his back legs stepping over and over, until he sighed and gave it up. At dinner, where Emily talked about it to Chance, where he used words like “mindful” and “redirect,” Emily had to admit that she had sort of fallen in love with him, or maybe she was abandoning years of disdain. She could not help comparing him, just a little, with the lawyer she was idly dating, two years older than she was, who shopped only at Whole Foods, always took his shoes off when he entered his house, and chopped vegetables wearing latex gloves. His name was Corey, and
Emily had really wanted to find him compelling for six or seven months, but when he rolled his socks together before they had sex, somehow the thrill was gone. She and Chance started idly e-mailing.
Fiona told her that, once upon a time, all the best riding horses came off the track—they were fit and mostly sound and ready to try something new. Those days were gone; Fiona’s stable was full of Holsteiners and Hanoverians, most of them bred in Europe, but all old horsemen had a lingering fondness for Thoroughbreds they had known, rangy with lots of bone, nice ones related to Hyperion, Prince John, and Eight Thirty, or tough ones related to Nearco. It was early April. Fiona sent them to the Santa Anita Derby, but she didn’t go with them.
Chance knew all about the racing drug scandals and the footing controversy. Both of them had been riding horses too long to be surprised by much, but Emily did say, “That’s why I’ve never been here.”
“Why do you expect people to be honest?”
She almost said, “Because Fiona is,” but she didn’t. Chance might have said, “How do you know?” There was a lot about every aspect of their lives that Emily knew it was wiser not to delve into. Instead, she said, “If you don’t expect them to be honest, does that make you honest?”
He said, “So far, never had to be otherwise.”
Emily believed him.
They found their seats before the fillies’ race, the Oaks, only six horses in the race, and not exciting, because the filly who broke first and went from the outside to the rail just kept running, and the others, no matter how hard they tried, could not get close to her. She had a steady, long stride and a determined attitude that Emily admired. She said, “That was a good race. No drama.”
“She’s not even three, really,” said Chance. “Nicely built.”
He acted restless, shifting in his chair as if the chair didn’t fit him. Emily said, “Let’s walk down by the rail. It looks more fun down there.”
When they went through the betting hall, Emily was most impressed by the guys at tables, pencils behind their ears, intently staring at screens, their Racing Forms and programs spread out around them. Chance asked if she wanted to place a bet. She looked at her program and said, “Why am I drawn to Dirty Swagg?”
“Who isn’t?” said Chance. “But let’s have a look at the animals, just to pretend that we know something.”
They walked out into the sunny paddock area, Emily behind Chance. She saw people look at him and smile—he did look graceful and horsey, but tall, not of the racetrack. He was not wearing his cowboy hat, just a baseball cap, but he was wearing his boots. A couple of girls scanned him up and down, then looked at Emily and turned away. Emily was amused.
At the rail of the walking ring, her eye went straight to the gray—pale head, beautiful dapples, tall and muscular—Flashback, said the program, the favorite, 6/5 odds. Dirty Swagg was 30/1, but he was handsome. Emily would happily take him when he was retired, and keep his name, which was a good name for a jumper.
Chance put his hands in his pockets and tipped back on his heels, gazing at one horse, then another, in a systematic way. Finally, he said, “I like that chestnut there. He’s got a lot of muscle, taller behind than in front, limber stride.”
Emily looked at the program—Goldencents, his name was. She said, “Let’s bet. I know you have two dollars, because Fiona paid you.”
And they did bet, a little nervous about saying the right thing. And their picks, Flashback and Goldencents, dueled it out in the homestretch, neither wanting to give up (Emily thought that, overall, Flashback showed more determination). Chance won eighteen bucks and Emily won three, so she made him buy her a hot dog.
In a year, she hadn’t asked him what was going on at the ranch, in his family, with his dad, or his mom. She knew he and Delie had split, but not whether he saw his son, Chandler, who would be almost eight at this point. It was all horses, horses, horses, just as it was with her other horsey pals. Possibly, that was the only space where she and Chance could be friends.
After the hot dog, they wandered through the parking lot to his truck, watching the other patrons scurry here and there. Clearly, some had scored—they gave the valets big tips, and in general seemed to have money falling out of their pockets. Others hunched their shoulders and slinked to their cars—bad day at the races. Emily thought she might come back, if only to keep her eye on Dirty Swagg.
At the very last moment, she said, “What’s up at the ranch?”
Chance put his hand on the roof of the truck and looked at her. He said, “Dry. I told my grandmother we had to cull the beef herd—they are scouring the pastures, and the price of hay is sky-high. It’s not like over around the foothills of the Sierras—disaster area over there. But we have to cut back. She’s not pleased. All the cattle have names.”
“They do?”
“Well, not really. But it always surprises me how she remembers their markings, and what that steer was doing last year up there in the north pasture. Anyway. Well.” He shrugged. From this, Emily understood that a hundred-thousand-acre ranch was more of a burden than a blessing.
When he dropped her at her apartment, he gave her a tight hug. Corey called her before bedtime to see if he might come over; she told him about going to the races. He was appalled. Every statistic he cited about drugs, about broken-down horses, about gambling addiction was one she herself would have cited the day before, but tonight she only said, “Oh, I know. It’s shocking. Okay, well, thanks for calling,” and hung up.
—
THE FIRST TWEAKER Guthrie remembered seeing had been Stephanie Crest’s father. Stephanie was in his class at school—what were they, twelve or thirteen? Eighth grade. A slight, hunched man would walk back and forth, back and forth, just off school grounds. No one ever stopped him, even when he grabbed the chain-link fencing and shouted Stephanie’s name and that someone was going to kill her and she had better watch out! The other kids liked Stephanie, but there was plenty of gossip that Guthrie overheard and was impressed by: the windows of their house on Kirkman Street in Usherton (a nice street, everyone agreed) were blacked out, her father kept guns in every room, her mother was long gone. Over that summer, Rod Crest went to jail and Stephanie disappeared, maybe into foster care, maybe sent away to her mother. Guthrie never mentioned it at home, and no one gossiped about it—his dad and mom weren’t interested in much that went on in town. Five years later, just before his first deployment, Guthrie had seen Rod Crest, out of jail, walking past Hy-Vee, and he had thought, wondered, just for a moment, if the old man was heading into the Hy-Vee drugstore to buy Sudafed, and then he had forgotten about it—tweakers were a different breed, they had nothing to do with him. Even after he got out of the service for good, and started having that one dream about the kid sitting on the hood of the car—Perky’s old Jeep Wagoneer—passing through the checkpoint and blowing up just as he lifted his hand to wave to Guthrie, it never occurred to him to touch meth, though he smoked a lot of weed; everyone did. Tweakers were self-evidently stupid; they stole anhydrous ammonia from fertilizer tanks and carried it away in gas cans, they didn’t smell the odors emanating from their houses, their houses blew up. If there was one thing Guthrie had learned on the farm, it was that you don’t play around with anhydrous. Tweakers never stopped tweaking no matter what, whereas marijuana smokers had interesting discussions about good and evil, then fell asleep.
That was all he needed to know until he ran into Melinda Grand at a Greg Brown concert in Cedar Rapids. Melinda had graduated a year ahead of him from North Usherton High, and had been active in 4-H, though she didn’t live on a farm (her cousins had the farm). She had raised pumpkins, brought pumpkins to school for the other kids to carve into jack-o’-lanterns. She was tall and pretty and looked you in the eye. Back then, she had dated Reiner Ohlmann.
Yes, Melinda lived with Barry Heim, but they were just roommates—Melinda loved that house, and when it came up for rent, she went straight to the listing agent and asked to rent it. Barry had a
lready claimed it, and the rent was too high for her anyway, so when she ran into Barry in the Cueball, which was right across the street from the crappy apartment complex she was then living in, she offered to move in and help, not only with the rent, but with keeping the lights on and the refrigerator from molding over while he was on the road. He said yes, and for sure he was thinking of getting into her pants, but that fell by the wayside: she was much more useful as a roommate than as a girlfriend. Barry had never dated anyone for more than a month. All this was what she told Guthrie, anyway. It was Barry who was the tweaker, though you couldn’t tell—he drove that rig back and forth to Omaha six days a week, and he used the meth to keep himself going.
They both told him that it wasn’t like the old days, when tweakers batched their own in the kitchen sink. It all came from Mexico now. Six guys at the pork-processing plant worked butchering hogs five days a week and transported crank a few times a month. If you were making six bucks an hour, you had to have a second job, everyone knew that. Melinda was a nurse—she knew the bad stuff. Part of the relationship, for Guthrie and maybe Melinda, was watching Barry: would he pull it off? He said he knew a guy up by Algona who tweaked for thirty years, had a family and a job; tweaking was his golf or deer-hunting; you could manage it if you had the guts.