Jane Smiley - Golden Age

Andy was sitting at the head of the table, wearing a lovely dark-red sheath. Her hair was swept up behind, and every time she turned her head to look at one of her guests, the candlelight caught her pale skin in a flattering way. Claire had long since gotten over her youthful wish to be beautiful, but just now she appreciated that quality Andy had, of seeming like a captured wild animal, graceful and taut in every muscle, but yielding to fate at the same time. And then Claire caught Andy and Frank sharing a tiny smile. It was brief and yet so intimate that Claire found herself weirdly embarrassed, and she knew that she would say nothing about it to Henry.

CHARLIE WAS THRILLED with Manhattan. He’d never imagined how wild the city itself was, and if you started at the southwest corner of Central Park, across from Columbus Circle, and ran north through Central Park to the corner of 110th Street and Cathedral Parkway, then down 110th Street a block to the southwest corner of Morningside Park, north from there to 123rd Street, then over to Riverside Park, then followed that park down to where it ended at Seventy-second Street, then east on Seventy-second to Central Park West and south again to Columbus Circle, it was only about nine miles — an easy run. He’d wangled a clerk’s job at a luggage store, and had submitted his application to an outdoor outfitters on Broadway. He and Riley were earning enough to rent a much-infested studio on 125th Street, though he told his mom it was on Ninety-eighth Street. Even his mom knew that 125th Street was in Harlem, and though his mom had laughed so hard she gagged when a woman from church said that if you drove through East St. Louis with your windows open, black people (she didn’t call them that) would jump on the roof of your car and take you captive, she also had never liked him driving around East St. Louis. New York, as far as she knew (she had never been there), was just like East St. Louis, because, well, it was a thousand miles east of East St. Louis. She vacationed in the Ozarks and was proud that Missouri had all five indigenous American poisonous snakes right within its borders. Iowa was flat, Kansas was dry, Arkansas was hot, and Illinois was damp. That was all she needed to know.

Their furnishings were sparse: a gray futon on a metal frame, two bookcases, a table for a desk, three chairs, some dishes and cooking utensils, and a collection of mouse, rat, fly, mosquito, and roach traps.

Since the reunion, he’d exchanged a few letters with Minnie, Christmas cards with Jesse and Jen, two phone calls with Debbie, and one with Arthur. His mom had written Arthur and heard back, sent baby pictures and one of Charlie’s funnier report cards from third grade (“Reads backward with unusual skill, must be prevented from walking the top of the monkey bars”). Arthur had sent two pictures of Tim as a child, but his mom hadn’t yet forwarded them. Debbie wrote his mom that Janet had been in contact with his birth mother, but that this woman hadn’t shown an interest in knowing more. Charlie didn’t remember who Janet was, and he didn’t blame his birth mother. His mom said that if she lived in Pasadena, California, it was probably better not to have anything to do with her.

His luggage store, four blocks south of Central Park, had some nice stuff. Charlie was rearranging the counter display for January markdowns when Michael entered. Michael’s glance passed over him without a mote of recognition; Charlie shifted his own expression from friendly to professional and went back to the wallets. Lisa, Jackie, and Mark were behind the counter — they’d just been arguing about where Jackie should go skiing over the weekend, and Charlie had been eavesdropping; he hadn’t been skiing in New York yet.

Michael went straight to Lisa and said, “Hello, there.”

Lisa, who lived with her parents at Eighty-eighth and York, was working here as a punishment for dropping out of Connecticut College for Women after the first semester of her sophomore year. She gave Michael a warm smile. All four of them were good at this, since they worked on commission. Michael set his briefcase on the counter and regarded it. Lisa said, “May I help you, sir?”

Michael flipped the briefcase over and pointed at something along the side. He said, “Do you see that stain? The oil stain?”

Lisa bent down, but she didn’t really look at it. She said, “I do, sir. I’d be happy to send that to our repair shop. I’m sure Giorgio could get it out.”

“I would always know it was there,” said Michael.

“Giorgio is really—”

“I need a new one.”

Charlie could practically see Lisa salivating.

“This one is Bottega Veneta,” she said. “I’m sorry, but we don’t carry that brand. I can show you—”

“I’m sure you can,” said Michael.

“—some comparable styles, however. Do you prefer Italian boutiques, sir?”

Michael gave her a brilliant smile, and she matched him; then he said, “This is a few years old. I personally think Bottega Veneta has gotten a little too flashy lately.” He surveyed the golden-lit displays along the walls and said, “What’s that one?”

Lisa pirouetted neatly and said, “Such a lovely piece. That’s an Asprey. Let me also show you the Valextra. They are Italian, but based in Milan. Not quite as…baroque as Bottega Veneta.” Charlie almost snorted with the pleasure of it. Mark went through the curtain into the stockroom. The wallets were now in a perfect line; Charlie stepped a foot to the left and started coiling belts. Lisa set two briefcases on the counter; they were both brown, the Asprey edging toward cordovan, the Valextra edging toward buckskin. She smoothed her hand over one, then the other. Michael said, “Mmmm.” Charlie moved even farther left, caught Jackie’s glance, and stepped into the window, afraid he was going to make real noise.

He could still hear them, though.

“That is nice leather.”

“The best.”

“The English is a little conservative. I hate to look stuffy.”

“I totally understand.”

“On the other hand, as I get older—”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, sir. I really wouldn’t.”

Pause.

“I am drawn to the Valextra. I’ve looked at those before.”

The Valextra was maybe 30 percent more expensive than the Asprey. Lisa said, “It’s a rare piece. It’s not for everyone. We sell maybe one a season, but I always think…”

She had been working here for two weeks. Charlie went deeper into the corner beside the window.

Outside, a woman passed him, her nose in a guidebook. She stopped, looked toward the street sign, then opened the door of the shop. Charlie saw Jackie intercept her — they went back out the door. The show went on.

Lisa said, in a regretful, almost lachrymose voice, “I have to tell you, sir, the Valextra is a fifteen-hundred-dollar item.”

There was a long pause, and Charlie peeked out from behind the stack of Tumis. Michael had one hand on the Asprey and one hand on the Valextra, and he was stroking them gently with a half-smile on his face. Then he hoisted the Valextra and gave a deep sigh, matched an instant later by Lisa. The curtain to the stockroom fluttered — ah, Mark was watching, too. Michael said, “How much is the Asprey?”

A pregnant pause; then Lisa’s voice half broke when she said, “Eleven hundred.”

Michael looked straight at her and said, “I’ll give you eleven hundred for the Valextra,” but he said it cheerfully, with a grin, as if he were joking. Lisa responded, “We don’t usually…Well, thirteen is as low as I can go. The manager is in Italy, looking at new collections. I don’t think…”