Jane Smiley - Golden Age

Riley said, “This can’t last. She is the most oblivious woman I’ve ever met.”

“Maybe she’s just easygoing. I mean, what is she, forty? Never been married.”

“Yes, she just does what she wants. Boxing. Bacon. She drives a diesel pickup. She voted for Dubya once, then Kerrey once. I’m not saying she’s unprincipled, but—”

“Yes, dear, that’s precisely what you are saying.”

“She likes Michael.”

“I like Michael.”

“You have to like him! He’s your nephew. I mean, she likes him voluntarily.”

That seemed to be the crux of it. Henry wiped the last plate carefully and placed it in the cabinet. He said, “I know you have reasons to disapprove of Michael, but he’s got a sense of humor. He’s observant. He’s well read. He does his thing, and he lets others do their thing.”

“Fucking free market,” said Riley. “I would love to have a look at his portfolio. I’m sure every investment is in something that gets government subsidies, all the time that he is saying the free market must decide what works and doesn’t.”

“Hypocrisy is not confined to the financial sector.”

“I don’t understand how he thinks,” said Riley. “I just don’t.” Henry let it go at that.

Henry felt he did understand how Michael thought — he thought like a hunter, he thought like an invader, he thought like a predator. He sought high status, which in the modern world was measured by money, houses, cars, looks, rumored but unproven mistresses, and demeanor. A thousand years ago, he would have been wearing only the best furs, only the most brilliant neck chains; he would have spent his free time hunting wolves and bears. Two thousand years ago, he would have had slaves and concubines; five thousand years ago, he would have had multiple wives, many horses, and a nice circular dome for a house, with a neat fire in the middle of the stone flooring. What was to understand? The incomprehensible thing was that in the modern world his type seemed confined to certain regions — New York, Washington, L.A., London — but in retreat elsewhere — Berlin, Paris, Madrid, maybe Beijing. That he held no appeal for Riley was no surprise, either — all of her eggs were in the high-priestess basket. She adhered to a calling that molded her thinking, she had suffered a sacrifice, she had a three-year-old postulant, she hated profligacy of any kind. And she was in a battle for the soul of Richie. It was clear to Henry that Richie’s soul was indeed embattled, and thus he clung to Riley as an antidote to Michael. But what would she gain were she to win him? Better, in Henry’s view, to admit, not defeat, but that the prize was not what it appeared to be. Richie would never not fold, never not compromise. Henry had discovered Blockbuster, where he loved to wander as he had once wandered library stacks; recently, he’d come across a Hamlet he had missed, with Bill Murray as Polonius, set in New York City. He’d watched it in fascination and discovered that he did not want Hamlet to come to the point and avenge his father, he wanted him to cross the boundary from feuding society to a society of laws and bring his uncle to trial. In his whole life, Henry had never disagreed with Shakespeare, but now, old man that he was, he did. Michael had his place, but it was as a historical marker.

—

THE NEXT PERSON Richie took Jessica to meet was his mother. He didn’t know which one made him more nervous. He was well aware that Jessica cared nothing for her appearance. When she was naked, she was wonderful to look at, at least to him; she was muscular and strong, but her muscles were smooth, did not ripple and bulge. When he embraced her, he could feel the warmth and spring of her body. And she was indulgent. In the eight months that they had been dating, she had never once criticized him or told him what to do — she didn’t believe in it. Nor did she tell Leo what to do; when he challenged her, she said, “Suit yourself.” When he found out she was a boxer, he’d insisted upon donning boxing gloves and going a couple of rounds. She had rope-a-doped him for maybe six minutes, then given him one in the jaw that knocked him down, though not out. He hadn’t asked for a rematch, though she offered to take him along to the gym and get him a few lessons.

Richie knew his mother could fall short in many ways, from a vacant look on her face, to wearing something truly antique and strange, to offering them six pieces of romaine as their entire meal. However, he had not imagined that she would fail him by inviting Michael and Loretta and Chance and Delie and the baby — what was his name? — oh, Raymond, after Loretta’s dad. Raymond Chandler Perroni Langdon, because there was also some old Hollywood connection between Raymond Chandler and Gail Perroni’s father. He was now three months old. They called him “R.C.”

The weather was pleasant, not so hot as it had been; everyone was in the tiny backyard. Richie had explained to Jessica that both Michael and his mom were veterans of AA, so Jessica received her virgin tonic water and lime wedge with her customary cordial good nature. One good thing was that Loretta had taken over food detail; she whispered to Richie that she’d brought along ribs, potato salad, carrot cake. (“There is exactly nothing in the refrigerator! I asked her what she lives on; she said there’s a bakery somewhere that makes wonderful chocolate croissants!”) Jessica observed where R.C. had been placed, and sat far away from him. That put her near to Chance, and Richie saw them start talking. Michael sat down beside him and said, “Hot.”

“I’d like to think you are referring to the weather.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“She’s a lovely, harmless girl who could beat you to a pulp in about five minutes, so keep your opinions to yourself, okay?”

“Is she gainfully employed?”

“She’s a bouncer at a gay bar.” Out of the corner of his eye, Richie saw that Michael was impressed. He said, “I’m joking. She manages a fitness gym.”

“Low on fertility, is my guess.”

“I think she’s opted out of the asshole-reproduction role. She has six brothers and a sister. She is the second oldest.”

“You’re sure she’s a girl, right? I mean, you’ve had plenty of time to look by now. You can’t judge by the exterior add-ons or even the fake vagina. It’s really in the hips.”

Richie knew that part of his problem for his entire life was that he couldn’t come up with ripostes. Michael’s barbs surprised him every time, and he was missing whatever part of your brain it was that batted back.

Michael went on, “I have this Playboy in my permanent collection from five years ago, the December issue. You could tell the one who started out as a guy — great hair, beautiful face, but hips like Chance’s.”

And why not say something mean about Chance the dope or his floozy wife, whose hair seemed to have been put on like a football helmet? But Jessica was chatting with Delie in a pleasant, animated way. Chance had gone around to the other side of the house. Richie felt his teeth grinding. He said, “Mom seems immortal.”

“Gail Perroni is ten years younger than she is, and looks ten years older. Loretta says there’s some group that does calorie restriction and they live to be a hundred. Maybe that’s it.”

“It isn’t genetic. Uncle Sven died in his seventies.”

“I think she’s using an artificial preservative. Formaldehyde.”

Richie said, “You have a sick imagination.”

“I call it creative. If you refuse to think outside the box, then you get stuck in Brooklyn.”

Richie made up his mind to ignore this. Michael was clearly bursting with pleasure at some market innovation he had recently come up with. It was true that he never told Richie any of his networth particulars, but Loretta didn’t mind tossing around large numbers as if they were the price of pasta—“I think it was fifty million. Was it fifty million, Michael, or forty-five? Binky, have you put in your paperwork for the Year Abroad program, or haven’t you? Please give me a straight answer.” Or, “That place on East Seventieth I told you about — it went for twenty-four million! I nearly fell over. I can’t imagine what our place is worth now.”