Jane Smiley - Early Warning

Lillian didn’t mention that Arthur, too, had reacted strongly to the picture of Nixon and Mao. They’d been watching the news, and he said, “I’m amazed he hasn’t been shot.” Lillian was well trained not to ask questions, but she knew he meant Nixon, not Mao. Now she said, “Is Rosa still married to the gambler? Gosh.” Lillian shook her head. “Little Rosa will be forty next year.”

“I guess Rosa and Lacey live with some new boyfriend so far back into the Big Sur mountains that it takes Lacey an hour or more each way to school on the bus, but they have enough money. Rosa sells glycerin soap she makes with herbs she grows, like lavender or tarragon, and the boyfriend makes violin bows that violinists all over the world are waiting to buy for sky-high prices. They don’t have a television or a radio. Eloise gave me some of the soap — it’s in my suitcase. I brought some for you. It smells delicious. You can take your pick, except for the lemon.” She pushed her plate away and said, “That was good.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re thanked.”

Lillian carried the plate to the sink, where she rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. Janet rose from the table and did what she always did, which was to walk over to the bank of Tim’s pictures — Tim as a newborn, cross-eyed; Tim walking the back of the couch, laughing, with Debbie off to the side, furious; Tim smiling in front of a broken window, the offending tennis ball in his hand (Arthur had labeled that one “Bull’s-eye!”); Tim walking on his hands; Tim dressed as Elvis Presley for Halloween; a picture Steve Sloan had sent her, of Tim onstage at a dance, flicking his cigarette ash into the nest of some unsuspecting older boy’s duck tail — grinning, fourteen, already smoking with expertise; Tim playing his guitar; Tim’s senior portrait, so smooth and innocent-looking. Janet surveyed them for the hundredth, the thousandth time. Since the big argument with Frank that Lillian had heard no details about, Janet was more scarce than she had been, though she still came around every so often to look at pictures of Tim. Debbie said only that Janet swore she would never speak to Frank again. Debbie also said that Janet had never had a boyfriend; Lillian hoped that her devotion to these pictures wasn’t the reason.

She said, “I think maybe your grandmother isn’t quite the old lady she used to be. You heard that Joe taught Rosanna to drive and then bought her a car after she passed the test. She had to take the vision test twice, because they thought she was cheating the first time.”

Janet turned toward her. She looked sad, but she sounded normal: “You’re kidding!”

“Well, they didn’t say that, but they did say that her results were unusual for a woman of her age. Twenty/twenty or just about.”

“What did Joe buy her?”

“She learned in Lois’s car, so I guess they decided that the safest thing was to get her the same model. Two thousand dollars. Minnie told me that Lois was fit to be tied, in her way.”

“What way is that?”

“She wrote a thousand-dollar check to the Methodist church for the new roof. So what was Joe going to say?”

“Uncle Joe is always nice.”

Lillian heard a step behind her, and before she even registered that it was Arthur, Janet’s face hardened, and then went blank. Arthur put his arm around Lillian’s waist and kissed her on the side of the head, then said, “Janny! I didn’t know you were here!” He moved to give her his customary hug, and she stiffened, then backed away, but she did eventually smile and say, “Hi, Uncle Arthur. How are you?”

“Upside down and backwards.” But he didn’t get a laugh.

Lillian said, “I think she prefers ‘Janet,’ darling.”

“I don’t care,” said Janet.

Arthur stared into the toaster at his muffin. When it popped up, he pushed it down again, and then, when it was just right, he popped it and juggled it to the counter, where he buttered it. All of this made Lillian strangely self-conscious, but she had no idea why.

Arthur said, “How do your brothers like Cornell?”

“I guess they’re pretty busy. Cornell still has ROTC, so they joined that.”

Lillian said, “Your dad made gunpowder all through college. They were trying to make it out of cornstalks for the war effort. I guess one time it worked, but only once. Did he tell you that he lived in a tent?”

“I didn’t believe that. You really think it’s true? He also told me he didn’t graduate,” said Janet.

“Pearl Harbor,” said Lillian.

Janet was staring at Arthur, who seemed not to notice. Suddenly she tossed her head and said, “I have to go. I have to turn in my senior thesis in a week, and I’m supposed to be typing all day today.”

“What’s your subject?” said Arthur.

It was then that Janet finally met his gaze completely. “The CIA,” she said.

But Arthur said only, “I thought you were a French major.”

Janet said, “I was going to do it on Violette Lecoq, but there wasn’t enough material, so I am doing it on André Malraux.”

There was a long silence; then Lillian said, “Well, it’s almost noon. I guess we’d better go. Arthur, I’ll be home for dinner. With dinner.”

—

IN THE CAR, Janet felt more comfortable. She had given Aunt Lillian the lavender bar, which was her second favorite. She thought of it as the last piece of herself that she was leaving behind in a place she had loved but was finished with. She no longer yearned to have the snapshot of Tim on his bike squinting into the sun that had been taken the summer she spent with them. She was almost in that picture — just as Uncle Arthur lifted the camera, a bee buzzed by, and Janet ducked to the left. If you looked closely, her shadow was there in the bottom corner. Whenever any of her teachers at Sweet Briar had used the word “paradox,” Janet thought of that picture — her shadow in his picture, his shadow in her life.

They drove along. Aunt Lillian always held the wheel as though the car could leap out of her hands at any moment — Tim had said that once.

Aunt Lillian asked, “What are you doing after graduation?”

“I’m moving to California.” It was the first time Janet had uttered this aloud. She spoke with confidence, she thought. “I met some kids who have a house in Oakland. One guy is a mailman and one works for Safeway, and two of the girls are at Berkeley. I met them all.” The one who worked at Safeway was a black guy. The mailman lived in the attic, where, he said, it was easier to dematerialize and evaporate through the roof, especially since there was no insulation. The third girl (also black) worked as a nude model for local artists, who paid twenty-five dollars an hour, or more. You didn’t have to look like Marisa Berenson to be an artist’s model — better not to, in fact.

“Must be a big house,” said Lillian.

“Three stories. The rent is forty dollars a month per person, plus a little more in the winter for heat. Someone is moving to Hawaii, so I get that room. One of the girls is going to help me find a job. All I need is a hundred dollars, so I’ve been saving from my allowance every month. I should have it.”

“How are you getting out there?” Aunt Lillian made this sound easygoing, as if she weren’t prying. Janet said, “A bus ticket is fifty-two dollars.” She did not say that a guy she knew from U.Va. had suggested they hitchhike. It all depended on the next two months, and how much she could save from the last two allowances her mother was ever going to give her. There might be a graduation present, too. If her father gave her anything, she would view it as ransom money. And take it, she thought.

She glanced over at Aunt Lillian, thinking, “I am twenty-one years old,” but saying only, “It’s a bad time to get a job. And a good time to try stuff out.”