Jane Smiley - Golden Age

“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.

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.