Golden Age (36 page)

When the war started, Jesse had gone to his box of Uncle Frank’s old letters and read a few about the Second World War. When he’d read them as a kid, they’d seemed weird and exciting: swimming beside a water moccasin in the Ozarks had seemed right out of the movies, not to mention the anecdotes about Anzio, the Rapido River, and Sicily. He didn’t think that Uncle Frank had been nostalgic for the war; he was too unsentimental for that. But he had appreciated the way that his life developed out of the war—the German papers he
had translated, that he understood the dangers of the world and how they must be confronted head-on. Why had Jesse grabbed his soil testers and mapped his own little world? Because, if you were going to make it as a farmer, you had to do it right, and Uncle Frank was all about doing it right. After supper, while Jen and Felicity watched a rerun of
Unsolved History
concerning the death of Princess Diana, Jesse reread a letter Frank had sent him about the farm. It had come not long after Frank gave him the acreage that he’d bought from Cousin Gary. He wrote, “Dear Jesse, Imagine my surprise when I looked into it and found out that I could have gotten this three hundred fifty acres at half price a few years ago. I’m not telling you what Gary charged me, but I will say that in ’73, he would have charged me $750 per acre and been taking me to the cleaners. Anyway, the lesson for you, as a twenty-year-old owner of real property, is that land is only a commodity once in a while. Keep your eye on the price of gold, the price of land. Just telling you right now, land is about $1,600 per acre, gold is $144 per ounce. Get back to me in twenty years. Love, Uncle Frank.”

Jesse went into the kitchen and got the morning paper out of the trash. Gold was $355 an ounce. Land, he knew, was about twenty-two hundred. He passed through the living room and said, “Felicity, can I use your computer for a moment?”

Felicity nodded, her eyes glued to the TV set.

The computer was turned on; in fact, it was never turned off. A fire hazard? He searched about for an inflation calculator. When he found it, he saw that both his land and his fictional gold had lost plenty of value since 1976. His land should be worth almost five thousand per acre, and gold should be worth almost $450 per ounce. He stared at the computer for a long minute, then went to a site he enjoyed about wild plants and herbs. He must have gotten his taste for roadside chamomile from his mom, he thought.

That night, just after Jen got into bed, she said, “Honey, I have to tell you this. David is selling the farm.”

David was her brother. He had 640 acres up near Grundy Center, a whole section (worth, Jesse now knew, $1.4 million, or four thousand ounces of gold). Jesse frowned and said, “Why now?”

“Because the debt is driving him bananas. The buyers said they
would take it and the equipment for the price of the debt, and he could keep the house and live in it and work the land for them. It’s some corporation. They will pay him to work the land.”

“So—he becomes a tenant farmer.”

Jen sniffed, was quiet, then said, though not resentfully, “Who isn’t, really?”

And, thinking of his own debt, Jesse said, “I don’t know.”

—

OVER THE YEARS
, Richie had come to understand that the motto of the House of Representatives was “This, too, shall pass”—this campaign, this fund-raiser, this debate, this lecture from an irate voter, this two-year term, this bill, this item of paperwork that no one, least of all the congressman himself, had time to read. A year before, he had, indeed, truly thought his office-holding phase was also about to pass, but, alas, no. Enough of his constituents forgave him for his support of the Iraq Resolution so that he squeaked by. (And who was to say that Vito Lopez had not helped in that effort, just a bit? And, for that matter, Michael had, at last, contributed to his campaign, the largest legal amount.)

This latest “letter” that he had to read sat on his desk with a Post-it arrow and exclamation point from Riley. Richie tried not to understand what she was getting at. The letter was about funding for hightech solutions to low-tech threats: Iraqis would leave bombs along the roadside in cans, plastic bottles, the carcasses of animals, old cushions. American soldiers would walk or drive by, and the bomb would go off. The army maintained that they had foreseen this tactic all along; however, they now needed “tethered blimps with cameras” (almost forty million bucks), jammers against remote controls (no price tag), and seventy million more bucks for “new solutions” (read: “desperate measures”). The desperate measures were due for immediate shipment (after New Year’s, after Easter, maybe sometime next summer). Richie made no sarcastic comments in public. He only nodded and looked grave. Our soldiers were still dying, and Iraq had been conquered!

But Richie could not say that he had a solution, other than time travel. Sometimes, walking through the halls of the Capitol, he thought of
The Terminator
(who didn’t?)—Arnold Schwarzenegger
returns from the future and guns down the Hammer and everyone else who asked Richie day after day if he was “on board.” Richie didn’t ask for that. He would settle for
Galaxy Quest
—just a few extra seconds to have changed one thing. But, he thought, what would that thing be? The moment he said yes when Congressman Scheuer asked him if he wanted to run? The moment he said yes when Alex Rubino said he should go over and work for the congressman, just to keep an eye on the old man? The moment he said, “You know, I think it would be interesting,” when Ivy made a face at the idea of his running?

It was worse because Michael showed him off now. He came to Washington at least twice a month and stayed at the Hay-Adams. Richie would go for breakfast or lunch, and they would eat so good-naturedly together, laughing at the same jokes, looking much the same (Richie had to make sure that he wore Michael’s least favorite colors on those days, just to be certain that they were not dressed alike). Twins weren’t supposed to look as much alike as they aged, but people would do double takes, even those who had known Richie for years. Richie always said, “I’m the left-hander,” to smooth over the moment. Michael seemed jolly and harmless and incredibly rich—no one in Washington objected to that anymore. Yes, he had a watch collection, something Richie, with his Timex, could not fathom. Yes, he now drove a Ferrari, but he drove it sedately. Michael grabbed his hand and smacked him on the shoulder when they parted.

When he was in New York, Richie went to Loretta’s dinners, which had transformed from family to society after Chance, Tia, and Binky made their escapes (the walls of their place were now plastered with pictures of Chance on his horses or astraddle the haunches of a terrified calf). The mix was financial, mostly—bankers, hedge-fund managers, stockbrokers, and their wives. They gave equally to both parties, were in general agreement that “strong measures” were necessary. (Even if that included leading a boy at Abu Ghraib around on a leash as if he were a dog? Rumors abounded in the halls of Congress, but it seemed that no one else had noticed the press coverage, and Richie was the last person who would say anything.) He was not the only politician, but he was the only one who looked exactly like the host, and whom the hostess came up to every time she thought of it and linked arms with. She made him feel like a beloved pet, and
every time he voted with the administration, he felt himself inwardly licking her hand and asking for a treat. She took personal credit for “converting” him. Former Monsignor Kelly, who was now a bishop and head of a diocese in Minnesota, an outpost if ever there was one, was present in spirit, if not in person, she said, since she still sent a lot of money to his favorite charities, and also flew him in from Duluth whenever she could.

To go from the letter on his desk to dinner at Michael and Loretta’s felt, to Richie, like swimming in molasses. He wasn’t drowning fast enough; in fact, everyone told him he looked better than ever and seemed “to be coming into his own.” Even Leo, now fourteen, was more respectful. Loretta had gotten him into Dalton; he enjoyed it, and Ivy was not complaining. Younger members of the House gazed at him respectfully, perhaps the very way he had once gazed at Congressman Scheuer.

—

THERE WAS
a car parked in the driveway, which Henry didn’t mind—he’d just awakened from a nap and wasn’t going anywhere. It was cold and damp, and he was tired. He’d finished his translation of the
Táin Bó Cúailnge
, and was trying to decide whether there were any plausible connections between Cuchulainn’s transformation into a monster and Grendel or his mother. Monsters were an interesting study. There were plenty of them in Indo-European literature, and he was inclined to think of them as being a remnant of the indigenous peoples that the Indo-Europeans had overcome on their journeys west. Henry yawned. A woman came out of the front door and headed to the car. She got in and drove away. Henry looked at his watch. It was five-thirty-four. Riley would be cooking (she was strict about giving Alexis wholesome food). Henry thought he might sneak downstairs and hang around for an invitation.

He opened his refrigerator and pulled out a nice blue cheese that he’d picked up, and, yes, there was an unopened box of water crackers in the pantry. Riley was a sucker for blue cheese, and Alexis did love crackers. Thus he bribed his way into Riley’s kitchen.

Riley was putting an onion quiche into the oven, and Alexis was sitting in her usual spot, a small chair that hooked onto the table. She was patting her hands on her red placemat and saying, “Go go
go go.” She was eighteen months old, which meant that Charlie had been dead for two years and two months. Alexis was like a small clock to Henry, measuring the period of his loss. He and Riley never talked about this. He set the cheese on the table and opened the box of crackers. He said, “May Lexie have a cracker?” Alexis said, “Yes!” Riley laughed, and said, “She’s good at giving herself permission to do whatever she wants.”

“I’ve never seen her want anything you wouldn’t want her to have.”

“That’s her genius,” said Riley.

“Who was here?” Henry sat down in his usual spot, put his hands on his cheeks, pulled them out, and crossed his eyes. Alexis stuck out her tongue. They both laughed. It was possible that, before Alexis, Henry had never played with a child. It was rather fun.

Riley said, “Bunny Greenhouse.”

Henry said, “Did you make that name up? It’s perfect for a friend of yours. Animals and global warming, all at once.”

“No, I didn’t, and I only hope she becomes my friend. I’m wooing her, or maybe she’s wooing me. She has the goods on Halliburton.”

“Who’s that?”

Riley spun around. She said, “Please go back upstairs and do your homework, Professor Langdon.”

Instead, Henry unwrapped the blue cheese and set it on one of the plates that were stacked in the middle of the table, then lined some crackers up beside it. It was cold, but it was fragrant. That worked. Riley took a knife out of the drawer, cut herself a sliver, and laid it on a cracker. She ate it and said, “That’s a nice one.”

“It’s a Stilton. I buy it in honor of the Mercians.” But she didn’t rise to the bait, so he held out his fingertip, with a tiny fragment of cheese on it. Alexis took it and put it in her mouth. Then she made a perplexed face that caused him to laugh.

“Bunny is in procurement for the Army Corps of Engineers. She knows what everyone is charging the taxpayers for gas in Iraq. Halliburton, which Cheney used to run, is charging two sixty-something per gallon. Everyone else, including the Kuwaitis, is charging around a dollar a gallon. The Halliburton contract was a no-bid contract—the DOD just rubber-stamped it because it had ‘Cheney’s Bank Account’ scribbled across it. I think it’s called extortion? Or maybe
just fraud? Corruption? Like that. I want the congressman to do something about it.”

Then they exchanged a look that said, Oh, right. We’re talking about Richie here.

Henry said, “There’s always hope.”

Riley said, “I used to think that because I wanted to. Now I think it because I have to.” She leaned over and kissed Alexis on the top of her head. Henry said, “Has Michael captured him?”

“You tell me. I think he’s been obsessed with Michael since he was born. I wonder if that’s always true of younger twins.”

Henry said, “Richie is older. By something like four minutes.”

“Well, I wish he’d remember that. Anyway, Bunny is moving with all deliberate speed. Her younger brother is Elvin Hayes.”

“He was good,” said Henry. “He had a great jump shot.”

“She can handle herself.”

Now she opened the oven door and peeped in. From where he was sitting, Henry could see the top of the quiche, brown and crinkly. He got suddenly hungry. He said, “I can set a table very nicely.”

“Oh,” said Riley, “you are so like Charlie at worming your way into my affections.”

Henry said, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

2004

J
ANET WAS FEELING
kind of empty and cold, the way you did in California when the air was damp, the sky was overcast, the holidays were over, and your beloved eleven-year-old had turned twelve and begun to disdain (well, maybe ignore) you, and even though you knew it was essential for his development into manhood that he do so, it still hurt. So, when the phone rang and it was Emily on the other end saying, “Mom! I’m in Pasadena! You have to come!” she called Jared and said she was going to meet Emily in L.A. that evening, spur of the moment, and would he pick up Jonah, and she would be back the next evening, or they could join them…