Jane Smiley - Golden Age

Richie almost signed up for an account — even Ezra had an account — but in the end, he was too embarrassed.

One day, Michael said, “You know, that place is worth six million bucks now.”

“Up from a thousand or something like that,” said Richie.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember Dad telling us once that when he was a kid the land was worth eleven dollars an acre, if they were lucky? I don’t remember how many acres they had then, but it was probably something like three.”

Michael would not even smile. “I can’t believe he bought out everyone and gave it to Jesse. That still pisses me off.”

“Like we were going to farm.”

“I know lots of guys, especially in Chicago, who are in farmland. They say it’s a good investment. And if the crops burn up where they are standing, they get insurance payouts. Dad sent him money every year. He never gave me money.”

“You were always telling him you were worth more than he was.”

Michael scowled and went out on the deck. When he came back in, he talked about shoes — he had found a pair of Edward Greens in a used-clothing store, fit perfectly, perfectly broken in, seventy-five bucks.

It was so disorienting to think of Michael attending to weather conditions in Iowa that Richie was more than thrilled when, in September, he saw an article in the Times saying “Drought conditions appear to be easing, says National Weather Service.”

—

FOR EZRA, who had been active in the Keystone XL protests the year before (how had Richie missed that? Well, he had made sure to avoid 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue while it was going on), the election posed a terrible dilemma. Next to the picture of John Burroughs, he now had a printout, in 24-point type, of a quote from The New York Times: “Mr. Romney envisions a nation in which coal-burning power plants are given new life, oil derricks sprout on public lands and waters, industry is given a greater say in the writing and enforcement of environmental rules and the Code of Federal Regulations shrinks rather than grows.” On his computer, Ezra had a file of everything Obama had ever said about climate change, including a speech he had made in the spring in Oklahoma, congratulating his administration on circling the world with oil and gas pipelines. Nothing Obama had said subsequently about stopping climate change redeemed his candidacy for Ezra. He thought voting for Romney might usher in the revolution, but, Ezra told Richie (realistically, Richie thought), he, Ezra, was the sort of person who might not survive the revolution. He could vote for Jill Stein, but to do so would not sufficiently express his anger at Obama. He was thinking about voting for Jill Stein and writing a letter to the White House explaining his vote.

Jessica was voting for Obama as an anti-racist gesture. The cascade of racist remarks about him and the made-up brouhaha about Benghazi offended her almost to the point of anger — a rare point for Jessica. When those soldiers were discovered in Georgia who plotted to assassinate him and had eighty thousand dollars’ worth of guns and explosives, she sent in a campaign contribution, resurrected her campaign buttons from 2008, wore them to work. Michael was voting for Obama because Loretta would never vote for Obama, and he was also telling Tia and Binky that they should vote for Obama, as a protest against the Republican Party for offering a roster of candidates that went from bad to worse to worst ever. He didn’t believe a word of the Republican yakkety yak about Benghazi, either. For about a week in October, even after Romney won the first debate, he could not stop laughing at an article he read about Romney’s body language. The “expert” found his “tilt and nod” gesture (“with eyes wide open”) positive and welcoming. Romney’s “tilt and nod” was a permanent tic, according to Michael, and had always reminded him of those dolls from the 1950s with dumbstruck round blue eyes, pursed lips, and bobbing heads.

Richie, with his government pension, would of course vote for Obama, but Ezra was getting him worked up. Ezra didn’t mind arguing, so he assigned Richie plenty of reading, both for and against the pipeline. When Richie pointed out that the Canadian oil was no worse than oil from California, and that the Canadian oil would get to Texas, and into the atmosphere, no matter what, that the Chinese would not be deprived of the Canadian oil, and that much of the pipeline was already in place and operating, Ezra summoned a pleasant look, then leaned forward and said, “When do you stop? When do you say no? You don’t take mistakes from the past and use them as precedents for future mistakes. You say no, try something else — and something else emerges. You get investors to reject investments in oil companies. You use the Internet and crowdfunding. You bypass the Congress.”

“Good idea,” said Richie.

Michael continued to laugh at Romney — it was one of his greatest pleasures. One day, he said, “Look at me! I am in disgrace! Where’s the money? Where’s the expertise? But I can’t help feeling that I could run a better campaign than this guy. You could run a better campaign than this guy!” Michael seemed not to think Richie would be insulted by this remark. And he wasn’t. So many remarks over the years had stirred him up, and not anymore. It was strange. He didn’t mind it.

In D.C., Hurricane Sandy was like the flipside of the summer derecho — wet and windy, but cold and coming from the east, at the living room, rather than from the west, at the bedroom. Richie tacked a quilt over the windows and stocked up on a few things like Italian tuna packed in olive oil and cracked-wheat bread. He did not expect to be driven from the apartment, and he did expect to stay home — everyone in D.C. stayed home in a State of Emergency. When Jessica went out for her morning run, he stretched himself on the sofa and called Leo, who had an internship at the American Folk Art Museum in New York, thanks to Ivy. He said that he was staying with a friend way uptown, almost to Fort Tryon Park, which was higher ground than his apartment in Chelsea. He sounded calm and moderately receptive to his father’s attention. “How about your mom?” said Richie. “She’s in France,” said Leo. “But her place should be fine. I’m supposed to check it after the storm.” Richie said, “Call if there’s a problem.” Leo said, “ ’Kay. Love you.” From that Richie knew that Leo was somewhat more nervous than he let on. After Leo, he called Michael, who said he was at Henry’s. Richie said, “Are you dating Riley?”

Michael said, “Not yet. I have some tests to pass, and it doesn’t look good.”

“No surprise,” said Richie. After he hung up, he thought for a moment too long about whether this could possibly be true. He called his mom. It was an indication of how immortal he considered his mom that he hadn’t called her first. But she didn’t seem worried: the Hut was not in a flood zone, and Michael had given her a generator for her birthday and shown her how to use it. If it got really cold, she still had that mink coat from before he was born — she liked to climb into bed and curl up underneath it. Richie said, “What do you have to eat, though?”

Andy said, “Chocolate, dried cranberries, a nice Brie, some Honey Crisp apples, and a big Yellow Brandywine tomato.”

He said, “Mom! It could be days!”

She said, “Oh, I doubt that.” There was a long silence — she was finished talking. These days, she always finished talking fairly quickly. Richie, thinking of Leo, said, “ ’Kay. Love you.” They hung up. Richie realized that he had not meant to have any of these calls sound like fond farewells, but they did. That was how big Hurricane Sandy appeared to be.