Jane Smiley - Golden Age

They got into Charlie’s car and drove over there. Claire knocked five times, not her usual three, saying to Charlie, “My automatic response is not only to take no for an answer, but to assume that no is the answer.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh Lord, Henry sets the world record for self-contained, not to mention judgmental. When I lived here, it was pretty clear that he could hear, not only a pin drop, but a towel, a Kleenex, a Snickers wrapper. I’m not the neatest person in the world—”

The door did open, and Henry, wearing a knitted hat, peeked out. Claire was about to justify coming over without being invited, but Charlie opened the storm door, then the front door, and said, “Uncle Henry!” And then he enclosed Mr. Perfect in an enthusiastic hug. Henry staggered backward, so Claire took advantage. Charlie was already talking: “I was hoping I would see you! I left Denby about five, then I got to Claire’s about ten. We were just standing there talking, and the phone rang—”

“How’s Joe?”

“Oh, Jesse and Jen are so nice. And Guthrie made me watch him go up and down the living-room stairs on his hands. He is good! He makes a very careful left turn on the landing, and then does a sort of handspring—”

“I mean my brother Joe.”

“Oh!” said Charlie. “I didn’t see him. I guess he isn’t feeling—”

“Come in here.” Henry led them into the living room, a warm, friendly space that Claire had liked very much; of course, she had shifted the chairs, pushed the desk back against the wall, and bought three red pillows. The furniture had now returned to its former arrangement, and the pillows were gone. Henry sat on the couch, looking offended, but Charlie seemed not to notice and sat beside him. Claire said, “Did you call me? I mean, you called me. Everything okay? I called back.”

Henry didn’t say anything.

Charlie, with the smooth ill-manners of a born extrovert, said, “Do you mind if I finish what I was saying to Claire about my wedding?”

“You got married?” said Henry.

“Well, finally! Oh, by the way, I did tell Congressman Langdon that I was going to try and see everyone, and he said to say hi. Anyway, so…you remember when the Republicans shut down the government in November? Riley worked from home, but when they did it again on December 15, I said that if she wasn’t going to be paid then I was supporting her, and so I was drawing the line — she couldn’t work. Well, we sat around for two days. I think she read this new novel, what is it called, Primary Colors , for about a day and a half, because Ivy got her an advance copy, and she made a pecan pie, but then she was totally bored, so I said we were going to get married. By this time it was almost Christmas, but she said that the government would start up on the twenty-sixth. So we made a bet — if things resumed on the twenty-sixth, we would not get married; but if they didn’t, I could take her somewhere and we would get married. So, on the twenty-sixth, I took her to a farm in Virginia where they have ecologically integrated the system. I mean, the cows go into the harvested oat field and clean up the stalks, then poop, and after that they let the hogs in there to clean up the cow poop—”

“Dung,” said Henry.

“And then they bring in the turkeys, and after that the chicken coop on wheels, and they open the door, and the chickens pick up any bits that are left; the eggs are completely organic and fertile; and all the animals together have pounded the nutrients into the soil by walking around—”

“Where do you stay?” said Claire.

“Well, they have a bed-and-breakfast, where they serve only products they’ve grown and produced; the place is entirely self-supporting. If you want a bath, you throw wood into the boiler that heats the water, and there’s some kind of filter in the chimney….”

He went on. Henry glanced despairingly at Claire.

“After we got married, Riley said she needed a break, so I drove to St. Louis for a visit, and I thought I’d loop north to pass the time. Here’s the great thing: when we moved to New York, I sold my Tercel, and then, when we moved to Washington, I found the exact same car, even the same color, but with fewer miles on it, at a dealer in Baltimore.” He looked at his watch. “Two guys are going back with me. I pick ’em up at six. We should be back to D.C. by tomorrow morning. I’ve been averaging forty-two miles per gallon, and the price of gas has been around a dollar twenty-five, so each of us will pay about eight bucks for the trip.” He grinned. He was a nice young man, but Claire could see how his wife might need a break.

From deep within himself, Henry summoned a mote of curiosity (Claire knew she was being catty to think this). He said, “How is Richie doing?”

Charlie crossed his ankle over his knee and got comfortable. He said, “You know, Riley and I talk about this all the time. He can say anything. He can say that Hillary is sexy, and no one goes bananas, not even Hillary. There’s something about the way that he gazes at you, as if he’s really listening, and you have this feeling that he cares about you, and you also have this feeling that he might punch you in the nose. In D.C., that works. It works with Vito Lopez — you know who he is? He sort of runs the Brooklyn machine. He gives the congressman no shit at all.”

Then Charlie said, “You look like you could use some lunch. I could use some lunch.” He glanced at Claire. Claire shook her head. “I have to take all the table linen from the weekend parties back to the rental place and talk to some people.”

But Claire was curious to see how Charlie would pull this off. He said, “What’s around here? Did I tell you about my marathon? It was in October. I got into that state you get into, you know, where you are a mindless machine of pain and transcendence, and then I crossed the finish line and fell down and passed out, and that was that. Never again. But I still run about five miles a day. A meatball sub? What is Chicago famous for?”

“Hot dogs,” said Henry, inertly.

Claire sat up. She said, “You could go to the Superdawg drive-in on North Milwaukee. You can drop me at the ‘L’ station near there.”

“I eat hot dogs,” said Charlie.

After that, she saw how good he was. He did everything as if it were automatic, not pausing for a moment to gauge, or possibly even sense, whether Henry wanted to do it. He had Henry in his coat, with his scarf and gloves, out onto the sidewalk, into the passenger seat of the Tercel, burbling the whole time about hot dogs he had known, split, grilled, with onion rings, with French fries, mustard from Boulogne, not Dijon — he was a great lover of mustard. Henry looked stricken, but he did look — out the window, down the street, at passersby. Pretty soon, he was sitting up straighter and responding: No, he hadn’t eaten sausage in Milwaukee; perhaps he should have; actually, he’d never been to Milwaukee. Claire and Carl had invited him to Lake Geneva, but in fact he’d only been to Wisconsin once. No, he wasn’t much of a local traveler. Preferred France and Italy; maybe that was a mistake. Just before they pulled up to where she was going to get the train, he said, “I am getting hungry. Oh, Claire. I’ll call you later,” and then off they drove. She could see Henry’s head turned toward Charlie, his mouth moving. She thought of the hot dog they would have, juicy, thick, poppyseed bun. Carl liked those; Claire preferred the deep-fried battered vegetables, rather tempura-like in a Chicago way.

When she called the next day, Henry was almost talkative. It was a shame about that boy. Thirty years old and utterly without direction; one failed athletic attempt after another — swimming and diving in high school, then skiing and mountain climbing, now running, but that was over. He had very much admired the sweater Henry was wearing, a cable-knit cashmere; Henry had simply handed it over. Undiagnosed dyslexic, maybe. Did Claire remember the Cheek cousins? Had 160 acres up by Gladbrook? None of them could read; there was a dunce cap at the school there with “Cheek” written on the inside of the brim.