Jane Smiley - Golden Age

The crafts room did not have a window, so Leo couldn’t see whether the promised blizzard had materialized yet, but of course it did have a door, and one of the three boys (there were seven girls) had his eye on it. He was quick, and his mother was not, so it was Leo’s task to interfere with the escape. Having spent years on the run himself, Leo recognized the first shudder of energy — the boy’s gaze would flick toward the door; then, before his hand even lifted off the clay, Leo was there, bending down, saying, “Jack! Here you go. Just pat it like this, then push a little.” The wet clay seemed to have a natural attraction almost as strong as the door, because the boy dug his fingers into it with pleasure long enough for Leo to praise two of the girls and answer a question about next month’s program.

Another piece of luck, Leo thought, was that he had no artistic talent, no musical talent, no literary talent. Every attempt he made was pedestrian and dull; even his mom agreed with that. (When he had showed her two stories that he had written in his creative-writing class junior year, she’d said, “Well, it’s early yet, don’t give up.” So he gave up.) His talent, and a good one for his job, was appreciation. He saw the boy flutter again; that’s what it looked like to Leo anyway, a flutter of energy over the child’s hands, arms, face. He was on the other side of the room, but he got there in time to take the child’s hand smoothly as it touched the doorknob, to turn him back smoothly to the little table, to slide him past the tantrum that might have popped out. “It looks like a truck to me,” said Leo. “Trucks are cool. See? We can install the headlights right here.” He poked one end of the piece of clay.

Five minutes later, the class was over. The mom waited until everyone had left, and picked up her son. She got right inside Leo’s personal space, and smiled up at him. She said, “I am taking Jack to Maialino. Have you heard of it? It’s an Italian place in the Gramercy Park Hotel.”

“I live down there,” said Leo.

“Come with us!” said the woman, and so he did, and so they waited for him to straighten up the crafts room. By three, they were walking into the wind toward the Lincoln Center subway station (no snow yet, but the clouds looked like bags ready to tear open). Leo noticed that the mom was graceful and good-natured, maybe a few years older than he was. He said, “I was a runner. When I was six, my mom had me in San Francisco, at a hotel in Union Square. She went to the bathroom in our room, and I was outside and down to the corner before she realized I was gone.”

“It is a nightmare,” said the woman. “I’m Britt, by the way. Not Brittany.”

“Leo. Leo Langdon.”

The kid said, “I’m Leo, too.”

Leo said, “I didn’t know that. I’m terrible with names. I thought you were Jack.”

“I used to be Jack.”

“When were you Jack?” said Leo.

“This morning.” The kid held out his hand. Leo shook it. All three of them laughed.

—

EMILY DID GO to Gail Perroni’s funeral, and she did stay that night at the ranch, and she did have a long talk with Chance, and she did report it to her mom when she got back to Pasadena two days later. The first thing Janet asked was whether Loretta had been there.

Emily said, “No. She sent flowers, but she didn’t come. Binky came with her husband — what’s his name? — Chris. They live in San Francisco. He said that he put a house in Atherton on the market for four and a half million, and it sold within two days for five. All of the bidders were Chinese, from China, not just half of them.”

“Where was it?”

Emily took a deep breath. “Stockbridge Avenue. Near Sequoia. Four bedrooms.”

Her mom said, “Where the Cornells used to live, with the fake teahouse?”

Emily hadn’t remembered that place, but now she did. She said, “Probably.”

“Five million?”

Emily had not felt that she was betraying Chance, telling her mom about the funeral — Chance never said not to talk. But maybe, she realized, she was betraying her mom.

“That’s what he said.” Then, “Sorry.” She pressed on. “Anyway, I guess part of the reason Loretta didn’t come, even though they have spoken a few times in the last year, and they met in L.A….”

“Neutral territory.”

“Not quite,” said Emily. “The Beverly Wilshire, which was more Gail’s stomping ground than Loretta’s. Anyway, she didn’t come because Gail insisted on being cremated and sprinkled around the ranch, and so part of the funeral was a long walk, where we all distributed some ashes. They were put in a bowl, mixed with wildflower seeds, and there was a little scoop, and we took turns.”

“I loved the lupine all along that hillside a few years ago,” said her mom.

“No lupine this year. The hillsides were already brown.”

Silence.

Emily went on: “Anyway, cremation is against Catholic doctrine, so Loretta wouldn’t countenance it, and Chance told me that she called him four times, and Uriel, who manages the ranch now, four times, to try and stop it. But Chance said that he was always going to have it the way Gail wanted.”

“Isn’t Ray buried on the ranch?”

“Well, he is. Supposedly, the little chapel out behind the house is consecrated enough for that. But Gail told Chance that that place was suffocating and she wouldn’t have it. Those were almost her last words. No priest would officiate, so they had a funeral director up from Salinas who agreed to do it her way. She’d already set it up with him.”

“Please don’t tell me she had a horse killed and his ashes mixed in with hers.”

“No, but maybe she thought of it. Chance said he helped her go down to the corrals every day. She had a chair there, and she would sit and watch him work the Appaloosa. They call her Ray.”

“Oh, good Lord,” said her mom. “Now you’re going to tell me they think she’s Ray Perroni reincarnated.”

“She’s a nice horse,” said Emily. “Chance let me ride her bareback. She was good.” And it had been heavenly, Emily thought, bareback, lead rope, perfect obedience. It made every item of horse tack she had ever used seem awkward. She said, “Here’s another thing.”

“What?”

“Chance says he’s going to grow hemp on some of the pasture land. Legalizing it was in the farm bill. It depends on the legislature. I guess he has to get some kind of license. And he’s becoming a vegetarian.”

“A calf-roping, cattle-raising vegetarian?”

“Well, Gail didn’t know this, but the cattle herd is way down — I think less than a hundred — and he might get some bison.”

“Bison in California?”

“There are plenty of them. They sell to Whole Foods. And he knows this woman who breeds hogs for restaurants. Her male is a wild boar that she caught as a piglet. With a net. She sells to restaurants in San Fran. He thought that might be a good idea, too.”

“Is he even related to Michael?”

Emily said, “Gail would say no. She said no quite often.”

Her mom laughed.

“Loretta told Chance that a poll she heard about asked if people thought that there was going to be an armed revolution within three years, and three out of ten said yes. Get this, not only does she agree, but Tia’s husband gave a talk at the NRA convention about how to get ready.”

Her mom said, “Good Lord.”

Now Emily felt she could say, “How are you?”

Her mom said, “Jeez, I was such an idiot. I bathed Birdie with some old Cowboy Magic shampoo, and she got bumps all over her shoulders and across her back. So much hair fell out. Did I tell you about this?”

“No.”

“Well, I must have been too ashamed. It’s been two months. One woman at the barn said she would be fine, it was like blistering her — you know how they blistered racehorses’ legs in the old days, during the winter; nobody does it anymore. But, anyway, the woman said her hair would come back shinier than ever. I haven’t ridden in weeks, though.”