Jane Smiley - Early Warning

Frank hailed another cab and went to 158 Front Street, her apartment building. When he got out, he looked up immediately; he knew which windows were hers, though he had never been inside. The windows were dark, and they stayed that way all evening. Frank didn’t head home until ten, and didn’t get home until after eleven. He had no driver anymore — he had to make his own way. It didn’t escape his notice that his own windows were dark, too. Not even the front-porch light was on.

He made his way in through the garage. Nedra’s door was closed; the kitchen was dark; the family room and the living room were dark. Richie’s door was cracked — Frank closed it. Michael’s door was closed. Janny’s door was open because she was away at school. Andy’s hall door was closed. He went into his own room. The connecting door to Andy’s room was also closed. This was the way rich people lived, and Frank liked it. Jim Upjohn told him that he and Frances both had their own suites — his modern and hers more Art Nouveau.

But he was lonely, and he was quite certain already of what on Monday he discovered had indeed come to pass — Olivier and Lydia had moved, leaving no forwarding address with the building superintendent. Nor could Information find their phone number — not in Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, or the Bronx. For two weeks after that, he left home as usual, pretending that he was going to work (yes, he told Andy, the deal had gone through; he’d been given two weeks’ notice) and roamed New York City in widening circles, knowing that if Lydia was there he would see her. His eyesight was as good as or better than ever, since he was getting farsighted and had had to buy reading glasses. But he didn’t see her, not even once.

—

CLAIRE PERSUADED Joe and Lois to bring Minnie, Rosanna, and the kids to their house in West Des Moines for Christmas dinner. Henry agreed to come, too, and spend the night, since it was a six-hour drive from Chicago. Rosanna hadn’t gone anywhere for Christmas in her entire life, if you didn’t count Joe’s house. She would bring a green-bean casserole, and Lois was going to bring the fruitcake and the Parkerhouse rolls. That meant that Claire was responsible for the turkey and dressing, the mashed potatoes, the salad, and, Paul insisted that morning, the eggnog. Claire said, “Mama is going to ask if there’s liquor in it.”

“Say yes.”

“If there is, she won’t let Joe drive home, even if he doesn’t have any.”

“Minnie will drive home. Minnie is the biggest stick-in-the-mud I ever met.”

“I love Minnie,” said Claire.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t love her. It means she can drive home.”

Paul sat down next to the Christmas tree with the morning paper, and she went into the kitchen.

At two, when she was peeling the potatoes, Henry walked in the back door. He was carrying boxes wrapped in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer paper, and behind him was Jacob Palmer, and the first thought that came into her mind was an expression of her father’s, “black as the ace of spades”; then she blushed and said, “Hello, Jacob! Do you remember me?”

“Of course I do,” said Jacob in his almost British accent, very musical, and Claire saw that they were in for an interesting Christmas dinner. Henry gave her a hug and a kiss and a Merry Christmas and walked through to the living room. He came back a second later, saying, “Where’s that boy?”

“He’s napping.”

“Poor thing.”

“He’s not a poor thing. He’s a good boy, and we will all be glad he’s had a nice nap. Are you two hungry?”

Henry said, “Jacob decided not to go home for Christmas, so I invited him; is that okay?”

“Of course,” said Claire. “It’s a twenty-pounder. You look nice.” Henry had on a gray suit with narrow pants, pointy-toed shoes, a white shirt, and a narrow dark tie. Claire looked him up and down and said, “You look like a Beatle now.”

“Which one?”

“Stuart Sutcliffe.”

“The sexy one!” said Henry.

Jacob was in a medium-brown glen plaid, blue shirt, regular shoes. He looked better, and richer, than Henry. He said, “Who do I look like?”

Claire said, “No one in Des Moines.”

He laughed.

Paul came in. Claire saw his eyebrows shoot up and then down; then he smiled and said, “Jacob! Didn’t know you were in this country.”

“I’m at Wisconsin.”

“Go, Badgers,” said Paul.

Joe, Lois, Minnie, and the kids bustled in ten minutes later, followed by Rosanna, who was already talking as she came through the door. “Well, after all that wet weather the last few days, I was sure the roads would be frozen solid with the cold snap, but Joe—” She caught sight of Jacob and stopped dead. Then she looked around to make sure she was in the right house.

Henry stepped in, put his arms around her, and said, “Hi, Mom. Merry Christmas.” He kissed her firmly on both cheeks, and, Claire saw, he held her rather tightly, as if restraining her. She said, “My goodness.”

Henry spoke smoothly and brightly. “I want you to meet Jacob Palmer. He’s a friend of mine from England. Remember when I worked on that dig in Yorkshire? Now he’s getting his doctorate at Wisconsin.”

Jacob smiled and held out his hand. They all saw Rosanna hesitate, and they all saw Henry lean toward her slightly. She held out her hand rather limply, and Jacob grasped it. As he said, “I’ve heard all about you, Mrs. Langdon,” in a crisp and jolly way, Rosanna seemed to remember herself, and participate in the hand shaking. But when it was over, she stepped back, went around everyone, and said to Claire, “How’s the turkey?”

It was Minnie, of course, who engaged Jacob in conversation, while Joe undressed the kids and Lois took the food into the kitchen. When Claire followed her, Rosanna was closing the oven door. She stood up and said, “What accent is that?”

“He’s Jamaican.”

“You’ve met him before?”

“In England, when we visited Henry last year.”

“He and Henry are friends?”

“Looks that way,” said Lois, neutrally.

Rosanna pursed her lips, then said, “Well, we have to be hospitable.”

Claire felt a sudden flush of anger.

Rosanna put her hands on her hips. “But I thought those riots in Watts last summer were just terrible. A hundred people were killed.”

Henry appeared in the doorway. He said, “That’s not true.”

“Well—” said Rosanna.

Henry stared at her. Claire had never seen Henry look so strict. Usually, he looked agreeably distant, as if he didn’t quite speak their language. Lois was pouring brandy over the fruitcake. Then Henry said, “And Jacob has never been to Los Angeles. So he knows just about as much about those riots as you do. His specialty is the Caribbean slave trade.”

Rosanna said, “They don’t have that anymore….”

“You need to talk to Jacob about that.”

“Well!” said Rosanna, as if she was about to lose her temper. She plopped down in a chair. But then she looked up at Henry, who was staring at her as if she were a misbehaving student who had better straighten up and fly right. Claire looked at the kitchen clock and said, “Do you think we really have to turn this turkey on its back?”

Rosanna snapped, “I don’t understand why you cooked it on its side in the first place. I never heard of such a thing.”

“Craig Claiborne—”

“Oh,” exclaimed Rosanna, “some man!”

But that was the end of it. Once she had mashed the potatoes and made the gravy, Rosanna settled down, and by the time she and Claire carried the food into the dining room, everyone was seated around the table. Gray was already in his high chair, laughing and receiving a piece of roll from Jesse, who was also laughing. Jacob was seated between Joe and Minnie; they were deep into a discussion of everyone’s favorite topic, the weather. Terrible in Madison, said Jacob. He smiled. “Last year, when I first got there, I had never been anywhere that cold in the winter before. I was walking across the campus on a day when it was, oh, twenty below zero, and one of my teachers came running up to me and asked if I had a hat. I said no, and she gave me hers, right off her head. She told me that you lose sixty percent of your body heat through the top of your head. No one had bothered to tell me that.”