Jane Smiley - Golden Age

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WHEN SHE PICKED UP her phone and Loretta’s voice said, “I didn’t know who else to call,” Janet knew that this was literally true. There were things that no one Loretta was close to — her mother, the monsignor, either Tia or Binky — was allowed to know. But Loretta had to tell someone, so Janet was allowed to know these things. Janet did not understand why Loretta thought that she, Janet, could be trusted to keep a secret, but in fact she hadn’t told any of the secrets. In her own mind, she threatened to tell them. If, for example, Loretta said one more word about how easy the “victory in Afghanistan” had been, and how “Al Qaeda has been routed” and “I expect to see Bin Laden’s head on a pike any day now,” she, Janet, would spill all the beans about Chance’s girlfriend, who was the eighteen-year-old daughter of illegal immigrants, about how Loretta’s dad was drinking and driving (if only around the ranch), and that he would put the two Australian shepherds and the German shorthair in the bed of the truck and then take off. When he started driving erratically, the dogs would jump out and head home. Twice her mother had had to go find him, and one of those times he had driven into a ditch and fallen asleep, leaning against the wheel, his door wide open.

Janet said, “Where are you? Are you around here?”

“No, we’re home.” Then, “Well, I’m home in New York. Michael is in Vermont at some hunting club.”

“What is he hunting?” said Janet, meaning, deer, bear, elk.

Loretta said, “Democrats.”

Janet felt her hackles rise.

“Listen,” said Loretta. But she did not go on. Instead, she put the phone down and, apparently, went to close some door. Who would be home? thought Janet. It was the middle of the semester. Loretta picked up the phone. She said, “Has Emily ever had an abortion?”

Now it was Janet who closed the door, not because Emily had ever had an abortion (that she knew of) but because Jonah and Jared were watching the Super Bowl and shouting. To Loretta, she said, “No. I don’t know. Not that I know of. I’ve never even met a boyfriend.” As if that made a difference, but in fact Janet had always, she now realized, relied on Emily’s pickiness to keep her out of trouble.

“Well, she’s pregnant.”

“Who?” said Janet. She licked her lips. This was like a test, indeed: If it was Tia, then that was a sign that plain, bookish girls could have a wild side. If it was Binky, then that was a sign that the apple had rejected the tree — Binky and Loretta were very close and looked a good deal alike. Loretta said, “Hanny — Alejandra, the girlfriend.”

“Chance’s girlfriend is pregnant?”

“I guess about eight or nine weeks.”

“They told you?”

“She called me.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Janet. “But why would you think I know anything about this? I never had an abortion. The last person I knew who had an abortion was in college. Her parents sent her to Europe somewhere. Did you ever have an abortion?” Janet said this in a challenging way, knowing that Loretta would say, of course not, but Loretta said, “I didn’t have to. I had a miscarriage.”

“No shit,” said Janet.

“It was before I met Michael, and he doesn’t know about it.” Another secret to keep: everyone had assumed Loretta was a virgin on her wedding night. In the ensuing silence, Janet thought of Fiona. It was a week or ten days now since she had at last brought up the subject of Charlie. Janet had been too out of the loop to know that Charlie had been heading to L.A. to meet Fiona when his plane crashed into the Pentagon, and then nervous about referring to it, but someone had to say something, didn’t they? When she asked, “Didn’t it just kill you?” though, it was she herself who started crying, not Fiona. Fiona said, “I was shocked, but, Janet, when he was born, I was out cold from the drugs, and they took him away. When the pregnancy started to show, they stuck me in a convent in Normandy — you know, around St. Louis somewhere. It was full of pregnant nuns. It wasn’t torture — they didn’t make me scrub the floors, like in Ireland — but they did make me go to Mass every day and say maybe a hundred thousand rosaries, and I was just waiting to get back to the horses. All I thought about was the five-year-old Thoroughbred I’d been jumping and how I could manage to gain as little weight as possible. I think I gained twelve pounds. I was eighteen when he was born, and I walked away without a thought. I have no kids. I know what people think that says about me, but…” Then she said, “I’ve seen one snapshot. To be honest, I can hardly even remember Tim. It was all horses, horses, horses.” Then, at the same time that Janet said, “I loved Tim,” Fiona said, “But there was no one like Tim, really.” The last thing Fiona said about Charlie was “He sounded very good-natured.” Loretta was talking again; Janet made herself listen.

“He can’t marry her. He doesn’t want to marry her. I don’t think she wants to marry him, either. It was a mistake. Her parents are very traditional. She’s eighteen. They think that’s plenty old to get married. Her sister was married at seventeen, and there are a couple of adored grandchildren. I think Chance has been on the road for the last four weeks. She is terrified that her dad will find out. Or her mom. Someone.”

Janet said, “Where are they?”

“The ranch.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“I don’t know.” That was why she had called, Janet realized — she was the one who was supposed to come up with a plan.

Loretta said, “The hospital out there is out of the question.”

“Have you told Michael?”

Loretta said, “No.”

“Why not?”

“A, because he wouldn’t think twice about it, and, B, because he would swear to keep it a secret and then get mad about something and start shooting his mouth off.”

Everyone knew that everyone knew that women had abortions, had always had abortions. Possibly, rumor had had it, her great-aunt Eloise had had an abortion; possibly there had been abortions on the Bergstrom side, back in the ancient days of Queen Anne’s lace — her mom had always implied that if something bad could happen it would have happened to the Bergstroms.

“That,” said Loretta, “is what money is for.”

And Janet did not wonder aloud what the monsignor would think.

Finally, Janet said, “I’ll ask around. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Loretta said, “Nothing but the best, okay?”

“Of course,” said Janet.

The next day, when she called her gynecologist and asked the question, the first thing he said was “What is her medical insurance?”

“No idea,” said Janet, “but there is plenty of money.”

Dr. Fox said, “I like a place in Oakland. Very professional but very supportive. Here’s the number.” That afternoon, she called Loretta. That evening, she got an e-mail from Loretta. The plan was that Hanny would tell her parents that she’d been invited to San Francisco by Chance’s aunt, who understood that she wanted to go to a community college but hadn’t decided which one. The aunt had invited her to stay for a week, and promised to take her to visit several colleges and to show her around. She would come on the bus, which she would pay for; Loretta thought this would arouse much less suspicion than if Janet went to pick her up.

She was small and young-looking, pointed chin, luxurious hair. All she carried was a rather large tooled handbag that Janet recognized as American West and a raincoat. As she came down the steps of the bus, she wiped her eyes with a Kleenex. Her makeup was smeared. Janet plastered a big smile on her face and strode up to her. “You must be Hanny? How was your trip? Are you cold? The weather hasn’t been great. Sorry.” Why did she apologize?