Golden Age (47 page)

She had taken his hand, she had come up with the response she wanted to come up with—sympathy, solidarity. Remember when their monthly income was something like a thousand bucks before taxes, when they lived a block from the railroad crossing, when they didn’t have a car? Remember, said Jared, when we tried to make our own mozzarella that time the milk went sour and we were afraid to throw it out? They laughed. Now, two months later, that was a poignant memory.

More had to come out, and it did: There was a lien on the house. It was not a second mortgage; the mortgage had first priority, and the mortgage was small, only eighty thousand dollars—he had kept up with those payments.

A day went by. Janet understood that each item of the confession was like a circle on the floor that seemed secure, but could, or would, turn instantly into a hole, dropping her to a deeper, darker level. On Saturday, she asked who had made the loan.

Washington Mutual.

Why hadn’t she been told? Why hadn’t she had to sign any papers? Her name was on the deed to the house, on the mortgage.

It was a business loan. The loan officer was friendly. He overlooked some of the paperwork. He wanted to make the loan.

Janet said, “Washington Mutual went bust. They were sold to Chase.”

“They own the loan now. Or don’t. No one is quite sure. I’ve been talking to them, but everything is so chaotic.”

Bad luck—Janet and Jared agreed, he wasn’t to blame, just a piece of bad luck.

On Monday, after an amicable two days, Janet broached the topic of Michael. She hadn’t known that Jared had talked to Michael, had seen Michael. How in the world could he imagine that—

Then it came out: Michael had set him up. Jared realized that now, but had not realized it in August, when it happened. Did Janet remember when they went for a few days to the Ventana Inn with the Trycks, and Janet had decided not to go with them to the Post Ranch for lunch because the weather was so gloomy?

Janet did remember this—she had opted for a facial.

Michael and some client of his had been there, finishing breakfast in the Sierra Mar. They said they were on their way to Santa Barbara,
taking the long route. Jared had been in a bad mood, complaining about business, wishing he could expand. He thought nothing more of it until a few days later, when Michael called him on his cell and told him that, if he wanted to expand, Michael had the investment for him. He was sure to hit it big before the end of the year. If he put in $750,000, he could get several million out, easy as falling off a log, no downside. The client he’d been with (driving a Bentley) was already in—why not Jared? Jared was driving their Toyota Highlander Hybrid, two years old, a car to be proud of, except at the Post Ranch Inn.

Janet swallowed when he said the amount—$750,000. Their house could have eaten that up without gagging in ’06, but maybe not anymore. Hard to say. They dropped the subject. Janet had not even said the obvious, “How could you trust Michael for half a second, how could you?” She continued to opt for solidarity, support, getting poor Jared through this, being thankful that they had paid Jonah’s school tuition, thankful that Jonah was a senior, thankful that he had not, could not, would never apply to Harvard, Princeton, Yale, thankful that Jonah drove the old Prius and that at his school this was not an embarrassment. Thankful that Emily was enjoying her job at the same Pasadena art gallery where Tina had put up her show five years before, thankful she spent weekends helping Fiona teach the littlest kids, content to ride once in a while, not to aspire to equestrian glory, to talk about someday having a handicapped riding facility, as if this were the form that her rebellion against everything her parents represented would finally take. Janet was in the habit of supporting this aspiration by remarking from time to time that she could never make a living at
that
.

Thanksgiving had been modest, enjoyable. The kids followed Janet’s lead in being especially affectionate toward their father and deploring both Richie and Michael—Emily said that a single continent between herself and her uncles was hardly enough. Janet had continued going to AA meetings, listening, remaining silent, cultivating a larger view. Jared’s birthday, his sixtieth, had been December 10. Janet made dinner for him, his favorite dishes. He didn’t show up that evening, that night, the next morning. The very moment when she was about to pick up the phone to call the cops, it rang, and it was Jared. He was in Minnesota, at his mom’s house. He wasn’t
coming back. He had decided to return to Minnesota as an alternative to killing himself.

If Janet were to look in the drawer on his side of the bed, she would see the loaded gun there. He asked her to dispose of it, very carefully. He did not think it would go off—the lock was on—but you could never be too cautious. He was not coming back to California, to their marriage, to anything. He could not bear it. He hung up. When she called back, no one answered, either then or in the subsequent three days, during which she tried the number seventeen times, and then gave up. It took her several hours to open the drawer. The gun was underneath some folded-up pages from the
Financial Times
. She picked it up the way they did in movies, between thumb and forefinger, and carried it down to the cellar (holding the railing with her other hand every step of the way), and put it into an unused little safe they had bought years before. She locked the door, and in the morning she went out into the backyard and buried the key.

She was surprised at which specifics enraged her, and also at the order in which they arose. First, of course, was that he would have a loaded gun in the house, in the bedroom, and not a shotgun, but a handgun, and many bullets. What if, what if, what if, became a series of steady pops in her brain, day and night, the image of herself and Jonah naïve and stupid, walking around a house inhabited by a loaded gun, making one wrong move and having an accident. That sort of thing happened all the time—some high-school kids in Santa Clara had found a pistol and started playing with it, and one of them ended up shot in the throat. After that, the first notice of late payment, addressed to Jared and to her, arrived. She opened it in a rage and then quailed: no payments had been made on the loan since October, they (she) owed almost twenty thousand dollars, including fees. Twenty thousand that they (she) didn’t have. She stopped what-iffing and simply froze—only following her first instinct, which was to go to Safeway and buy lots of beans and cans of stewed tomatoes. In the middle of the night, she prioritized her spending: Bluebird’s board and vet bills would come before any of this debt, because a sixteen-year-old former event horse with soundness issues had no hope in the now collapsed equestrian market. But when she went to the barn, she was too edgy to ride; she took Birdie for walks and gave her cookies, and she avoided everyone human.

None of her friends knew that Jared had left. She accepted no invitations of any kind. She told Jonah the barest bones of the story—his dad’s company had failed, his dad had gone back to Rochester to get himself together and help his mom move out of her house to an old folks’ home (totally made up), everything would be all right. Jonah gave her one of his looks, the one that always said to Janet, “I knew something like this was coming.” She told Emily a little more—that maybe she would have to sell the house, that sometimes a marriage was just a marriage, not a love match, and marriages could hit the wall. At least there wasn’t another woman, some thirty-five-year-old. Emily said, “Dad doesn’t have enough money for one of those”; clearly, Emily was in communication with Jared.

And with Far Hills. When her mother called, she knew all about it, which relieved Janet from having to tell her. Andy hemmed and hawed until it was clear that Janet wasn’t ready to confide, then went on to other events—Ray Perroni had died, and Gail Perroni was sure it was because the housing development Michael had funded on the southeast corner of the ranch was such an empty eyesore, rows of prefabs, two stories of rattling plywood bleaching in the sun, weeds everywhere, streets but no sewage lines or electricity. A hundred acres of quite good pasture wrecked. It wasn’t much in comparison with the rest of the ranch, but Ray Perroni couldn’t stay away from it, couldn’t get over it. He keeled over in his truck, heart attack, Gail found him dead and cold, eyes open, hours later. Loretta was not invited to the funeral. She had moved to the house in Savannah—did Janet know they had a house there? Binky was with her. Michael was still in New York, trying to sell the place on the Upper East Side.

Andy’s tone was normal for her, the recitation of facts and events, something like a steady hum, nothing like the ups and downs of gossip, absent both Schadenfreude and fear, expressing nothing more than curiosity. All of her money was lost, too, but when Janet said, “Mom, what about you,” daring to delve no deeper, Andy only said, “Oh, I have plenty of books I’ve bought over the years and never read. Chance has simply disappeared.”

“What does that mean?” said Janet.

“He might have gotten a job on a cattle ranch in Colorado. Emily heard that through several intermediaries. He doesn’t want anything to do with Michael. Terribly shamed.”

“I wouldn’t have given him that much credit.”

“Then you underestimated him, I guess.”

Finally, Janet said, “What about Richie?”

“Free at last,” said Andy.

And Janet knew this was true.

“And he has a pension.”

“How much?” said Janet.

“Oh, goodness, I’m not quite sure,” said Andy, “but maybe seventy-five or eighty thousand a year.”

After they hung up, this was the thing that enraged Janet for the next four days.

—

JESSE WAS SURPRISED
at how well informed everyone at the Denby Café was—even Julianna, about nineteen, who carried the coffee around and ran the cash register now, had read about Michael Langdon, not quite a local boy but close enough, in the
Chicago Tribune
. He and Jen didn’t say much, beyond recalling various incidents they had heard about that served as predictors for some sort of bad behavior. Felicity followed the story in her online subscription to
The New York Times
—she occasionally sent Jesse links and disapproving e-mails, especially when it came out that Michael’s fund had been “worth” almost a billion dollars. She had looked for Chance online, but he had closed his MySpace account (who hadn’t?), and never responded to e-mails. And his cell-phone number did not work. Every time she tried and failed to contact him, she e-mailed Jesse—“Are you worried?”—and Jesse e-mailed back, “No.” He wanted to e-mail back, “Not about him,” but then, he knew, she would fire back, “WHO ARE YOU WORRIED ABOUT?”

He didn’t dare answer.

The fact was, Guthrie was in the neighborhood: he was spending time, and maybe living, with two friends from high school, Melinda Grand and Barry Heim. Melinda was a nurse’s aide at Usherton Hospital, and Barry was a long-haul trucker for the pork-confinement operation that Jesse’s father had hated so much. What did Guthrie do? Well, that was a good question. He told Jen that he was taking classes at Usherton Community College, in hotel management, and living on “savings.” The house that Melinda and Barry lived in was an old
farmhouse north of town, overlooking the river, never good farm country, good for hiding something. Guthrie did not think he would be deployed again; he was glad to be home; he was twenty-five and looked fifty.

Even though it was time to get going on the farm work—at least to be fixing this and that, checking the soil moisture, thinking about seed (or listening to the salesmen give him their pitches)—all Jesse really wanted to do was drive past that dump Guthrie lived in and see what was going on. Except that the dump was located on a very un-Iowa sort of road, not the usual grid, but back up a long drive littered with junk—an old truck, old engine parts, a rusted cultivator, some tires, and that was only what he could see from the road. The roof peak of the house itself thrust up above the treetops, and it looked like it had shingles on it. He knew what people all over Iowa did in those types of houses: they cooked up drugs. Jesse stared up the lane for a few minutes and then drove on to Usherton to the feed store. When he got home in the late afternoon, and Jen told him that Guthrie had called and would be there for supper, Jesse felt anxious and guilty, as if his spying might be found out.

For a week, the weather had been suspiciously mild. Jesse was sitting on the front porch in the old rocker, nursing a beer, and watching the high wisps of cloud to the south turn gold and then pink. When he saw Guthrie’s car, a two-year-old Nissan, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if old wreck or newish sedan was more suspect. When Guthrie got out of the driver’s side and looked in both directions before proceeding up the walk, he couldn’t not wonder what Guthrie was looking at or for. When Guthrie frowned, was that a bad sign? When he then smiled, was it a self-conscious or even a guilty smile? A foot on the bottom step; he looked thin. Was he fit, or was he eaten away? Jesse said, “Hey.”

Guthrie said, “Hey.”

Everyone said that when a boy went away to a war he came back a man. Guthrie had gone away twice, come back twice—did that double the maturity quotient? Everyone also knew that you could never see the boy in the man: every man looked more like his father and uncles than he did like his youthful self. Guthrie looked like a combination of Jesse’s dad and Jen’s brother David—which side did the premature worry lines come from? Jesse often missed Minnie,
who would tell him. She had moved to the old folks’ home, and they hardly ever heard from her. He finished his beer and stood up, but he didn’t hug his son. Hadn’t seen him in two months, but to hug him could imply something that might offend.

They went in the house.

Jen might also worry about Guthrie, but, as an optimistic, active, fit, and healthy sort, she would almost certainly not have thought of methamphetamine, would only remember the best about Melinda and Barry—how cute they were in fourth grade or whenever—and so Jesse had said nothing to her concerning his anxiety. A scientific type of farmer, he told himself this was an experiment: If and when Jen expressed concern, then his own concerns would be justified, and they could, might, do something. What that would be, no one on the Internet agreed. Guthrie kissed his mom, went to the refrigerator, offered Jesse another beer, took one for himself. Jesse popped the cap. Guthrie said, “Corona? You guys are getting very snooty.”