Jane Smiley - Golden Age

CLAIRE KEPT HER EYE on Carl’s responses to things in order to gauge whether she was being reasonable or crotchety. This was the current example, where to go after her seventy-sixth birthday. Chicago wasn’t unbearably cold, but it was, well, Chicago. There had been torrents of rain in August, then the “bomb cyclone” of cold in November, though, as Carl pointed out three times, “no billion-dollar weather disasters, according to the ‘Catastrophe Report.’ ” Carl felt that they should be pleased that November was catastrophe-less, since each of the previous thirty-three months had seen at least one. “Of course,” Carl said, “a billion dollars is only a hundred million in 1960 dollars.” 2013 had hosted forty-one billion-dollar events. Carl said “Florida”; Claire said, “Rick Scott makes my skin crawl.” Carl directed her to a Web site that rented condos by the week around Melbourne. Claire remained skeptical until the morning after their arrival, when the pleasant weather, the neat furniture, and the well-maintained landscaping won her over, at least for the time being. Her mother had died when she was seventy-four. Seventy-four was quite young these days — she had met a group of seventy-four-year-olds on a plane a few years ago who were going kayaking in Australia. But, really, you lived all your life in the present — memories that accumulated randomly in your mind did not convince you of the passage of time. When your son kissed you kindly on the hair, or your step-daughter spoke extra clearly, that was when you saw yourself as you had once seen your mother. It didn’t even matter that the children were hardly children anymore; her automatic response to their getting taller, filling out, sharpening their personalities was much like sitting in a movie theater and watching a film — it had nothing to do with her sense of herself.

The vacation — two weeks — was a break, especially since Claire chose not to bring her computer and they opted to not watch the news. If it wasn’t floods in Arizona, then it was drought in California, refugee crises in Italy, algae blooms in the Great Lakes, trains carrying bitumen going off the tracks and exploding in…

She tapered off after about an hour, let Carl have some peace, and then watched Yankee Doodle Dandy on TCM, casting sideways glances at Carl, enjoying his laughter and his pleasure in Cagney’s odd but exhilarating dancing style. When Carl said that if he had been short he might have been a dancer, Claire made him get up and spin her around the living room of their very modest condo, which he did, humming “Singin’ in the Rain.” She thought, but did not say, that Carl could have done anything he wanted, dancing included. She had said that often enough, and she knew the reason, an egotistical one — she wanted everyone in the world to appreciate him the way she did.

Once they were in bed, in the dark, the condo bedroom was a little disorienting, since the bed, which was against the west wall in their house, was against the east wall in the condo, and if she woke up to use the bathroom, she had to pause long enough to direct herself so as not to walk out onto the balcony and over the railing (she made herself not think this thought). The walls of the bedroom were yellow, which was pretty during the day. Her own walls Carl had repainted four times, finally settling on a restful shade called “Coastal Vista.” Nor did she especially like the sheets, which were cotton (hers were bamboo), but the coverlet was perfect — light enough to be cool without air conditioning, and heavy enough to stay put. Finicky. She was so like her mother now. The mattress was a little too firm—

Carl rolled toward her. He put one arm under her neck and laid the other one across her, and she snuggled backward toward him. They sighed simultaneously, and she felt him go to sleep. He always fell asleep before she did, which she found reassuring — it was as if he were the guide, leading her toward sleep and whatever they might find there. As with everything, he went there willingly. She could not say that Carl was never afraid, but he had always approached fear as systematically as he approached laying tile or putting together a cabinet, or, indeed, growing those vegetables in the backyard that he now adored — he would be planting the seeds in paper cups as soon as they got home.

Her own thoughts were more difficult to put to rest. Her knee itched, hair was tickling her nose, her leg jerked suddenly. Who was that who had restless-leg syndrome? Gray’s mother-in-law, it was. She took something for it.

Her bladder woke her up, as it did every night. She tried to exit the bed as quietly as she could, made herself turn left rather than right, did not look at the night-light in the bathroom or think about the paragraph in the lease that released the owners from all accidents. She thought she stepped down two steps, which startled her and woke her up — there were no steps. When she got back to bed, the sheets were cool again. Carl was sound asleep, but then he woke up, sat up, blew his nose, lay back again. He groaned softly as he settled in. She tickled the back of his head, which was the only spot within easy reach. She heard him yawn, and yawned herself. He was a little awake, because he squeezed her hand.

Claire always dreamed in the morning; when she woke up, the first thing she thought of was the conundrum in her dream, why had she not made out the bill for her party clients, such a big party, all pink, and her mother’s voice said, “Pure laziness, you ask me.” Claire stretched and stood up — she hated this part about old age, always heading for the bathroom; it made chamber pots look good. Carl was still asleep. The room was already warm. She looked at the clock. It was nine-twenty-three.

In the bathroom, she washed her hands, blew her nose, took a drink of water. She couldn’t believe they had slept so long — hadn’t they gone to bed before ten-thirty? But she yawned. She went back into the bedroom. Carl was lying on his side, facing away from her, his arm outside of the covers, his hand resting on his hip. She said, “Sweetie, it’s late. What do you want to do today?” When she sat down on her side of the bed, his arm flopped awkwardly backward. He didn’t respond. She knew what was wrong — or, at least, her body did, because she avoided touching him, only got up, went around, squatted down in front of him. His eyes were closed; his face looked the way it always did when he was sleeping, handsome, with sculpted cheekbones and a smooth forehead. She ran her fingers through his hair and said, “Sweetie?” His body shifted away from her. She touched his carotid artery, then put her ear to his chest — no movement, no sound.

Claire remained where she was for a long moment. Her immediate thought was, So it’s happened again. Of course, the death of her father was sixty-two years in the past, but if all your life was present all the time, then, yes, the two events sat beside one another, proving something. She put her hand on his forehead again, and now she felt its coolness. She kissed his lips, and felt their thickness, their lack of response; that was, indeed, the very thing that convinced her, but also, in a way, reassured her. No need to panic — Carl had gone on ahead. At that thought, the tears began.

Even so, even so, the rest of the world was the enemy now, wasn’t it? People would bustle in, push her aside, carry him off. He would then go to the funeral home, after that the crematorium (it was in his will). She continued to stroke his forehead, kissed his beautiful lips again, thought briefly of knives in the kitchen — it might be easy, she could lie down beside him and do it. Why go on, really? But she didn’t; she was a good girl. She stroked him for a while, then turned around and sat beside him, her back against the side of the bed, her head resting against his bent knee. He felt present in the room. That was all that mattered.