Jane Smiley - Golden Age

Felicity had not read about any occasions where social action made a real difference — it was, she thought, too hard to organize, and too quick to devolve into self-conflicting actions and arguments. Exactly that thing had happened to feminism, which by rights should have worked beautifully. Felicity believed that viral movements worked better, but Jason was good-looking, Jason was excited, so she was here, skeptical already, but she did have her phone out. She lifted it up and took a picture as soon as she could get all of the occupiers in without their being dwarfed by the building. As she got closer, she read various signs— “Tuition Shooting Up! Jobs Plummeting!” and “Who’s the Boss? We Are!” and “What’s Your Salary, PreZ!” Felicity knew that President Geoffroy made about $450,000 a year, up every year. It took 112 students to pay the president’s salary. Houses in Ames were cheap, but there were developments out in the countryside, even to the north, right beside the high-voltage transmission towers, that were a lot more expensive. That was where the administration lived. She wandered among the protesters, smiling, taking pictures, nodding when someone called out, “Post them!”

Everyone looked excited and cheerful, and she and Jason were in the Union by one, eating pulled-pork sandwiches for lunch. She didn’t think much about it (though she did conscientiously make up her missed classes) until a month later, when she saw the pepper-spray incident at UC Davis. She had in fact applied to the microbiology department at UC Davis, and gotten in, but she hadn’t gotten a fellowship, and the tuition was much higher than at ISU, so she had stayed in Ames. She watched the footage several times, how casually the cop pointed the pepper spray at the kid sitting at his feet, and sprayed him in the face. That might have been her, except — not; would never have happened at ISU. Felicity was a realist above all. She did look up the cop’s salary—$110,000. That surprised her. Her best teacher, the Foodborne Hazards professor, wasn’t making two-thirds of that; as for Jason, he didn’t have a chance, really.

IT WAS the pepper-spray incident that propelled Richie, at long last, into his new job at a think tank — the ReNewVa think tank. Riley found him the spot, but he wouldn’t have ended up there without Jerry Nadler, who was conducting an inquiry into law-enforcement malfeasance throughout the Occupy movement, and Michael, who knew Boris Kohn, the ReNewVa funder, from some Caribbean trip and talked Richie up for the job. Officially, he was a “consultant,” and he did have an office, but his real job was to be told what to do and say. He still had that TV presence he’d always had, that way of seeming enthusiastic and genuine. As Jerry pursued his inquiry, Richie rephrased what he said and smiled more than Jerry did. Riley insisted that Michael never appear at ReNewVa. Richie didn’t have to enforce this — Michael knew where he was welcome and where he wasn’t. He spent his time at youth-empowerment programs around D.C., shooting hoops with kids and giving little talks on Focus and Intention.

Michael had opened up to Richie in the last six months. He blamed Loretta for almost everything. Did Richie remember that girl, the artist, Lynne? He’d adored her, bought her that place in SoHo, but she scared him, she was so ambitious and, he thought at the time, knowledgeable. He was wrong. Loretta was the one who should have scared him; she had seemed to agree with him, but she took his every thought or statement a step further. Chance was born, and he said, “This is fun, we should have a flock”—she stopped using birth control, and here came Tia. He said he rather liked Reagan or Thatcher, or whoever, and there they were, contributing as much as possible to Reagan’s campaign, offering to go to rallies. He decided to cut back on his drinking, and she had him not only in AA but with a counselor three days a week. He had to agree to whatever she “suggested” just to gain a little bit of freedom. The only thing she left to him was making the money, and so he spent more and more time at work, just to have something for himself. And he wasn’t allowed to spend it — she chose the place on the Upper East Side, she chose the schools…

When Richie and Jessica went to Michael’s place for dinner (and to meet Binky’s boyfriend) after the New Hampshire debate, Michael said, idly, “At least Huntsman isn’t an idiot.”

Richie kept cutting his steak into smaller and smaller pieces. Jessica said, “That depends on your definition of an idiot.”

Binky laughed and the boyfriend looked carefully around the table. According to Michael, the boy’s family was deeply divided, politically, and dishware had been thrown at Thanksgiving. He was from State College, Pennsylvania, and sold houses on the Internet to investors in China.

Michael said, “What is your definition of an idiot, Jessica?”

“A voice crying out in the wilderness.”

Richie laughed and patted her knee under the table, but said nothing.

Michael said, “Well, Romney is an idiot — I know from firsthand experience. You tell him something, anything, and he gives you a sort of blank smile and then looks over your shoulder, I guess for the cue cards. I never met anyone else like him. I always thought he had a condition of some sort.”

Richie said, “They can’t stop him.”

“The voters will,” said Michael, decisively, and the boyfriend — oh, yeah, Linc — breathed a sigh of relief.

Michael didn’t dislike Obama, never called him by any remotely racist epithet. Michael thought Obama was reasonable in all things, and said that he felt relief just being able to express that opinion out loud. He liked Geithner, he liked Holder, he liked Sonia Sotomayor. Most of the others he hadn’t met. It could be said that the only person in the world who made him angry these days was Loretta, who, on the advice of the monsignor (now in North Dakota, where his ministry was profoundly needed), had resolved to be patient. She had even called Richie late one night to probe into whether there was any hope of a reconciliation. Richie, sitting up in bed, with Jessica’s hand in his, had told her the truth — no. Loretta had said, “He will regret that.”

Richie had said, “I don’t think so, not in this lifetime.”

Loretta had said, “The next one is a lot longer,” and slammed down the phone. Then Richie had rolled up against Jessica, kissed her about twenty times, and said, “What do you think happens after we die?” And Jessica said, “Nothing.” That thought seemed like a tremendous relief.

As far as Richie knew, Michael was not dating anyone. He never mentioned women, and he told Richie to drop by whenever he was in the neighborhood. Richie did, twice. Not a woman in the place, not a stray item of underwear, no fragrant handkerchief under the sofa. Maybe this was the hardest thing to believe, so Richie did not believe it, but he respected Michael’s secrecy skills.

—

UNLIKE THE HOUSE to the left, their building did still have its roof and shingles, and unlike the building across the street, their front entrance was not blocked by a huge tree that had flipped out of the ground onto two cars, a blue Toyota and a silver Mercedes. Facing east turned out to be a good thing — the only damage was to rooms overlooking the alley, like their bedroom, not to rooms overlooking the street, like their living room. Some junk had blown onto their deck, and the lounge chairs and table were turned over, but, as Michael said when he showed up about five minutes after Richie and Jessica came up from the cellar, where they had spent the night, it could be worse. He had already driven out to Uncle Henry’s — trees down, but no real damage; Henry, Riley, and Alexis sent their best. Since he had shoes on, Michael braved the glass-strewn bedroom and brought out some clothes. Power was out everywhere, but his house had a generator — did they know that? — so he would give them breakfast.