Jane Smiley - Early Warning

“What can I do for you, Rick?” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Philip was getting bored.

“I need a form you got, for the thesis credit.”

“Oh, I do have that,” said Henry. “Let’s see.”

Philip stood up and stretched, then looked out the window. Henry opened the top drawer of his filing cabinet and began to go through the folders.

Rick, looking over his shoulder, said, “That’s it, Doc.”

“Oh, good. Is that all you—”

“Hell, no! I mean, I was thinking I was going to do something like free verse; then, the other night, I thought obviously iambic pentameter, but now I’m not so sure. We could have echoes of Ibsen or something.”

Philip was at the door, his hand on the knob. Rick sat down in the chair beside the desk and wiggled around, making himself comfortable. “The words would be English, but the meter would evoke the North, you know? I’m thinking of my guy — let’s say his name is Thor — sailing almost to the Arctic Circle. It’s dark, it’s cold. No Latin-derived words, or, God, Norman French — you don’t want that. Well, maybe a few, but carefully se—”

“Just a minute, Rick, okay?”

As a known campus bachelor, Henry had to be careful, but he did step one step toward Philip.

Their gazes locked. Henry said, “Let me know if you need anything.” Then, “And give my best to Basil if you write.”

“Ta-ta!” said Philip.

The door closed behind him.

“Ta-ta?” exclaimed Rick.

“A bit of slang that could come from Swahili, oddly enough. Now, let’s get on with it, what do you say?” He sounded put out, and Rick looked alarmed.

At dusk, when he was walking home from the university, feeling not quite down but not quite up, thinking that the sixteen weeks of classes just now commencing was a long stretch of talking and reading, he sneezed and put his hand into his jacket pocket for his handkerchief. Instead of his handkerchief, which he now remembered leaving on the corner of his desk, he pulled out a slip of paper. It read, “Philip +, 312-678-3456.” Henry immediately felt much better.

—

“YOU LOOK SO GREAT,” said Ruth.

“Don’t say that,” said Claire. They were having breakfast at the pancake house, which they did every Monday morning. She had her turkey and a dozen eggs in the car, but the temperature was in the forties — she didn’t think the eggs would freeze. Paul wanted a “private Thanksgiving, just us,” but the smallest turkey she’d found was eighteen pounds. She and Ruth didn’t have much in common anymore, but they still referred to each other as “best friends.” Bradley was sitting quietly on the seat between Claire and the wall. He was holding his blueberry muffin, staring at it, turning it, and taking bites. He was concentrating. Claire smoothed his hair.

“Why not?”

“Because whenever Paul says that it’s because I’m pregnant again.”

Ruth laughed, but then said, “You don’t look…”

“No.” Then, “Not yet.” Claire knew this was a sensitive subject, and was sorry she hadn’t thought before saying what she did. She’d been taking the Pill for two months now, and she knew she had put on at least five pounds. She was also wearing contact lenses — she told everyone (including Paul) that that was Paul’s idea. It had been, at one point, but he had sort of forgotten about it. Brad looked up at her. Claire said, “That’s good, BB. You keep eating that. You need that.”

Brad nodded.

“He looks healthy,” said Ruth. “He ate the piece of sausage.”

“My mother says she never produced a picky eater.”

“I wish I’d been a picky eater,” said Ruth. “We heard so much about the starving Armenians that we had the clean-platter club, not the clean-plate club. You have such cute boys,” said Ruth.

“I do,” said Claire. This was how she was to be punished for veering toward a topic that had become taboo between them, the fact that Ruth had been married now for two years to Carl and still had no children. Not even a miscarriage. She would soon be thirty-one; ten years ago, she had planned to have had her own two by this time. Nor was she a member of the Wakonda Country Club, which Paul had joined the previous summer — three-thousand-dollar initiation fee, one-thousand-a-year membership. Claire took Ruth there as often as she wanted, but Carl, a builder, wouldn’t go. Carl was good-looking, as nice as pie, and could fix anything (Claire hired him whenever she could get him), but playing golf and tennis, swimming in a pool, and eating in a formal dining room with a tie on were not for Carl.

Ruth sighed. “I always wanted three.”

Ruth had a way of recasting her old ideas, making them more ambitious rather than less as they got more unattainable. “Sweetie,” said Claire firmly, “it can still happen.”

Ruth’s eyebrows dipped, and she put her fingers over her mouth.

Brad got onto his knees and set the remains of his muffin on his plate, then gazed at the orange slice. Claire picked it up, tasted it, put it back on the plate, and said, “You can eat it. It’s a sweet one.”

Brad shook his head.

Ruth said, “Does he like French toast? I haven’t touched this piece.” She turned her plate toward Claire, and Claire picked up the yellow triangle with Brad’s fork, set it on his plate, then cut it into pieces. She handed the fork to Brad. He said, “Wile Ting.”

Claire said, “The book is in the car. We’ll read it later. In the car is where the wild things are.” Brad grinned.

But it was she who was the wild thing, wasn’t it? thought Claire. There were four stages of wildness: Stage one was being married and falling silently in love with a young and charming man, but doing nothing. Stage two was doing something in the hope of trading your bossy, dissatisfied husband for the beloved young charmer; stage three was allowing the lithe physique and the merry nature of the charmer to occupy your every thought. Stage four was not caring, just acting. She was at stage three. If her analysis was correct, then she was a wild thing, but she didn’t feel wild, only that she was sitting inside the cage with the door open, and that was enough for now.

Brad successfully forked the first bit of French toast into his mouth, and Ruth said, “Good boy. Yummy.” He stabbed at the second.

“You are a good boy,” said Claire. She glanced at her watch. “Time to pick up Gray at nursery school. I’ve got fifteen minutes.”

“The streets are pretty clear. But it’s only a few blocks from here. Why don’t I stay with Brad, and you can bring Gray back here?”

Claire guided Brad’s fork just a bit, and he got the third piece. He seemed to be enjoying it. She said, “I’ll do that. Do you mind?”

Ruth shook her head. Her look was so sad, though, that Claire felt tears coming when she stood up from the booth. Yes, thought Claire, I deserve to have it all blow up, because obviously I do not value what I should. Why this was, she did not know. It was right out of Madame Bovary.

IT WAS ONE THING to break your foot when you were expecting things to continue to disintegrate, as she did in her own house, where she now held both stair railings when she went up and down, but how could you stumble on a single step at Younkers when you were returning a tablecloth your daughter-in-law had given you for Christmas, and fall down so that they practically carried you out, and you went to the hospital, and your foot was broken? So Rosanna was staying with Claire until she could get around.