Jane Smiley - Golden Age

He e-mailed Felicity back: “What should we do?”

Then he sat looking out the window, into the foliage of the butternut tree. His mom, who was living in Minneapolis, where she had access not only to Whole Foods but also to Lunds, would be showing up one of these days to look at her crop. He would be glad to see her, and also to see that apple pie of hers. He had mail. He clicked on it. Felicity had written, “Wind Farm!” Well, he hadn’t thought of that before.

—

RICHIE COULD TELL how completely the Republicans now trusted him by who they put up as his opponent for re-election, a kid just the same age he had been twelve years before, but shorter, and with a degree from Albany State. He spoke in a piping voice. Every sentence ended as a question. Richie wondered if his wealthy Republican parents were sponsoring his campaign as a way to get him to stop whining about going into government service and enter the family business. It was an old parental trick that Richie often used with Leo: You want to walk all the way over to Flatbush and back just to buy a candy bar you can get at the bodega around the corner? Fine, go ahead. You really want to go to the Putney School? Well, you put in the application, and when you get in, we’ll talk about it. If your child was not so much daring as challenging, you had to call his bluff.

He had voted for the Iraq Resolution, the Patriot Act, the Homeland Security Act, and further appropriations for Homeland Security. He had voted for the Healthy Forests Restoration Act without consulting Riley, who was home with Alexis, who had the flu, and he had received a tongue-lashing, but he did think the act was not entirely bad. He had agreed with Al Gore about deploring Abu Ghraib, but had stopped short of calling for resignations. He had voted for Sarbanes-Oxley, but, then, so had everyone except Collins, Flake (notorious or legendary skinflint, take your pick), and Ron Paul, who, as someone said, wouldn’t have regulated a sewer pipe running through his child’s playroom. He had gotten himself quoted a few times when Maloney gave his report about global warming, but that report had been made during recess, during August — possibly, Richie thought, because Cheney was in the Rockies and Bush was at his ranch and everyone else in the world was water-skiing. The report, along with his remarks, had disappeared without a trace. After all of these votes, he had gotten a nice call from Loretta, who seemed to be acting as Michael’s capo. Would he like to come with them to Cannes? They were going for just a couple of days of the film festival, then off to Dolceacqua and Apricale for some sightseeing? Fraser National Park? They were looking for a place. Michael loved trout fishing now — he was working much less, and learning to tie flies — he had a wonderful talent! When he saw Michael in New York or Washington, Michael was as nice as he had ever been, offering him actually good advice about Leo and about Ivy, who was dating a bestselling thriller author some ten years younger than she was (Michael’s advice: read the books to see whether she was gossiping about him, but stay on her good side). Michael had given him Loretta’s car, a perfectly good and not at all flashy Subaru wagon, green, leather upholstery, twenty-six thousand miles on the odometer, and twenty-three miles to the gallon. Not even Riley could disapprove, and she often borrowed it.

But now there was Bunny. Bunny Greenhouse. Riley was moderately intimidated by Bunny Greenhouse, as anyone would be. She reminded Richie of that old Johnny Cash song about the boy named Sue. Bunny was a predator, and she was after Halliburton. Riley expected Richie to join in the hunt. Richie had tried to use the Maloney report to explain to Riley about priorities — if he was going to hammer away at climate change, then he could not waste his ammunition on $2.63 gas. Anyway, according to Riley’s logic, gas in Iraq should be five dollars a gallon, in order to incorporate the external costs of the invasion and the costs to the environment; it was the one-dollar-a-gallon gas that ought to be investigated. But Riley wasn’t standing for that: this was so cut-and-dried, such a perfect example of corruption, that to bring down Halliburton and Cheney would be a step in every conceivable right direction. He did not say that if he talked about Ms. Greenhouse on the floor of the House and pressed the importance of her charges against KBR, Halliburton, and Cheney, Cheney himself might cross over from the Senate and tell him, “Go fuck yourself,” as he had told Senator Leahy in June. Or that he might not be re-elected. Richie didn’t know if he cared whether he would be re-elected. Let his opponent take over — why not? Judging by the nebbish’s talking points, he truly believed that the market was free, he truly believed that Bush had had no warning about 9/11, he truly believed that there were terrorists named Mohammed in every alley in Brooklyn, he truly believed that his trust fund was God’s gift, he truly believed that his co-op about six blocks farther toward Grand Army Plaza was worth five million dollars. He had a weaselly little wife with buck teeth and two minuscule daughters who were schooled at home.

Bunnatine Greenhouse was not fixated on $2.63-per-gallon gas in Iraq. She had also noticed that the Corps of Engineers had all sorts of rules on the books that they did not follow. She had been hired by her boss, since retired (forced out?), to see that the rules were followed, and she had all sorts of degrees and was an outspoken presence at meetings. Her conviction was that “emergencies” don’t last as long as companies seeking “emergency contracts” want them to. Probably she was going to be fired. Her bosses were already drumming up grounds for firing her, though Cheney had not told her personally to go fuck herself. The most Richie could do was make a speech defending her on the floor of the House and then have it go into the record. So much of being in Congress was putting stuff on the record.

He did it for Riley. He did it for Alexis. He could see that reporter from the Times in the gallery, but could also see him get up and walk out ten minutes into Richie’s speech. So he wasn’t going to get into the paper, either. At best, he was background. And this wasn’t a local issue in Brooklyn, so no local rag would mention it. Just some thoughts tossed into the void. Even so, when he was finished, Dingell gave him a smile. Riley gave him a hug; then she hurried off to day care to grab Alexis, and Richie was alone.

It was late afternoon. He decided to go for a walk before finding the Subaru and driving home. His first thought was to head over to the Hay-Adams and sit at the bar, but then he couldn’t take that anymore, either, so he wandered around to the south of the Capitol building. In spite of the various security installations, the evening was pleasant; the grass had that late-fall brilliance that contrasted with the fading of the trees. He passed the botanic garden and then walked west past the various buildings of the Smithsonian. This was a walk he sometimes made, and he also sometimes went into one museum or another. Now he saw a group of kids standing in a row in front of the Ad Astra spear at the entrance of the Air and Space Museum, being photographed by their teacher. Was his old military school the only school in America that didn’t dare take the kids to Washington for a field trip? He paused to look at the kids. The Air and Space Museum was one of Leo’s favorite outings.

The woman wasn’t like anyone around D.C. or anyone in Brooklyn. She was wearing loose black pants and a black sweater. Her hair was long, and looked like she cut it herself, grabbing it in her fist and clipping the ends with shears. In spite of the dark colors, she was big — five ten for sure, and large in the bust and the derriere — okay, Richie thought, watching her pass him, the ass. She had a real ass, and shoulders. She turned to look at the Hirshhorn, and he simultaneously thought that she was pretty and that she had no makeup on, which was why she didn’t strike you. He looked again, then dropped his gaze. But he sped up. How did you pick up someone not in a bar? Riley and Nadie were not there to advise him.