Golden Age (38 page)

Or hogs, but for hogs you had to build a confinement building. No one just let the hogs run around in a pen anymore. In fact, now that
no one had hogs, everyone remembered that hogs were dangerous—big, fast, and opinionated—they would run you down and trample you. Stories about someone who got in trouble with the hogs back in the old days came up rather often in the Denby Café. Or hogs that had been allowed to run loose, go feral—not in Iowa—oh, yes, in Iowa, grew tusks and bristles, ate acorns, three hundred pounds, five hundred pounds, chased some farmer out of his barn and all the way to his house. When was that? Oh, back in the forties.

It was Felicity who e-mailed him (from her bedroom to his, a distance of about seventeen feet) a pdf of an article from
The New York Times
. According to the article, there
was
someone in charge of climate research, and he
was
forecasting bad weather to come, which Jesse did not intend to report to the farmers at the Denby Café, because if what they were having was the bad weather to come, they would say, “Bring it on!” And most of them were Republicans, so they could say that with pride. Jesse read it idly until the end. Many of his attitudes toward global warming had been shaped by a movie he’d seen with Perky and Felicity early in the summer,
The Day After Tomorrow
. They had been eating popcorn and gaping, just like everyone else in the audience, and thinking what if what if, and then, apparently, New York City froze solid in the space of about five minutes, and Jesse wasn’t the only person in the audience who laughed out loud.

The end of the article referenced a study someone had done in Colorado, on the short-grass prairie, good cattle country (for those Belted Galloways, in fact, who liked to forage). Whoever had done the study mimicked the effect of doubling the amount of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere and then tested the grasses; the carbon dioxide elbowed out the nitrogen, and the resulting grasses (Russ Pinckard often said of carbon dioxide that more would be better for the plants, if not for the people) were less digestible and more fibrous. In the last paragraph, even worse—carbon dioxide was like fertilizer for invasive weeds. The article didn’t say which, and Jesse hadn’t yet found the study on the Internet, but he could imagine: foxtail, thistles, bindweed, velvetleaf, all the weeds that were his nemeses.

He e-mailed Felicity back: “What should we do?”

Then he sat looking out the window, into the foliage of the butternut tree. His mom, who was living in Minneapolis, where she had access not only to Whole Foods but also to Lunds, would be showing
up one of these days to look at her crop. He would be glad to see her, and also to see that apple pie of hers. He had mail. He clicked on it. Felicity had written, “Wind Farm!” Well, he hadn’t thought of that before.

—

RICHIE COULD TELL
how completely the Republicans now trusted him by who they put up as his opponent for re-election, a kid just the same age he had been twelve years before, but shorter, and with a degree from Albany State. He spoke in a piping voice. Every sentence ended as a question. Richie wondered if his wealthy Republican parents were sponsoring his campaign as a way to get him to stop whining about going into government service and enter the family business. It was an old parental trick that Richie often used with Leo: You want to walk all the way over to Flatbush and back just to buy a candy bar you can get at the bodega around the corner? Fine, go ahead. You really want to go to the Putney School? Well, you put in the application, and when you get in, we’ll talk about it. If your child was not so much daring as challenging, you had to call his bluff.

He had voted for the Iraq Resolution, the Patriot Act, the Homeland Security Act, and further appropriations for Homeland Security. He had voted for the Healthy Forests Restoration Act without consulting Riley, who was home with Alexis, who had the flu, and he had received a tongue-lashing, but he did think the act was not entirely bad. He had agreed with Al Gore about deploring Abu Ghraib, but had stopped short of calling for resignations. He had voted for Sarbanes-Oxley, but, then, so had everyone except Collins, Flake (notorious or legendary skinflint, take your pick), and Ron Paul, who, as someone said, wouldn’t have regulated a sewer pipe running through his child’s playroom. He had gotten himself quoted a few times when Maloney gave his report about global warming, but that report had been made during recess, during August—possibly, Richie thought, because Cheney was in the Rockies and Bush was at his ranch and everyone else in the world was water-skiing. The report, along with his remarks, had disappeared without a trace. After all of these votes, he had gotten a nice call from Loretta, who seemed to be acting as Michael’s capo. Would he like to come with them to Cannes? They were going for just a couple of days of the film
festival, then off to Dolceacqua and Apricale for some sightseeing? Fraser National Park? They were looking for a place. Michael loved trout fishing now—he was working much less, and learning to tie flies—he had a wonderful talent! When he saw Michael in New York or Washington, Michael was as nice as he had ever been, offering him actually good advice about Leo and about Ivy, who was dating a bestselling thriller author some ten years younger than she was (Michael’s advice: read the books to see whether she was gossiping about him, but stay on her good side). Michael had given him Loretta’s car, a perfectly good and not at all flashy Subaru wagon, green, leather upholstery, twenty-six thousand miles on the odometer, and twenty-three miles to the gallon. Not even Riley could disapprove, and she often borrowed it.

But now there was Bunny. Bunny Greenhouse. Riley was moderately intimidated by Bunny Greenhouse, as anyone would be. She reminded Richie of that old Johnny Cash song about the boy named Sue. Bunny was a predator, and she was after Halliburton. Riley expected Richie to join in the hunt. Richie had tried to use the Maloney report to explain to Riley about priorities—if he was going to hammer away at climate change, then he could not waste his ammunition on $2.63 gas. Anyway, according to Riley’s logic, gas in Iraq should be five dollars a gallon, in order to incorporate the external costs of the invasion and the costs to the environment; it was the one-dollar-a-gallon gas that ought to be investigated. But Riley wasn’t standing for that: this was so cut-and-dried, such a perfect example of corruption, that to bring down Halliburton and Cheney would be a step in every conceivable right direction. He did not say that if he talked about Ms. Greenhouse on the floor of the House and pressed the importance of her charges against KBR, Halliburton, and Cheney, Cheney himself might cross over from the Senate and tell him, “Go fuck yourself,” as he had told Senator Leahy in June. Or that he might not be re-elected. Richie didn’t know if he cared whether he would be re-elected. Let his opponent take over—why not? Judging by the nebbish’s talking points, he truly believed that the market was free, he truly believed that Bush had had no warning about 9/11, he truly believed that there were terrorists named Mohammed in every alley in Brooklyn, he truly believed that his trust fund was God’s gift, he truly believed that his co-op about six blocks farther toward
Grand Army Plaza was worth five million dollars. He had a weaselly little wife with buck teeth and two minuscule daughters who were schooled at home.

Bunnatine Greenhouse was not fixated on $2.63-per-gallon gas in Iraq. She had also noticed that the Corps of Engineers had all sorts of rules on the books that they did not follow. She had been hired by her boss, since retired (forced out?), to see that the rules were followed, and she had all sorts of degrees and was an outspoken presence at meetings. Her conviction was that “emergencies” don’t last as long as companies seeking “emergency contracts” want them to. Probably she was going to be fired. Her bosses were already drumming up grounds for firing her, though Cheney had not told her personally to go fuck herself. The most Richie could do was make a speech defending her on the floor of the House and then have it go into the record. So much of being in Congress was putting stuff on the record.

He did it for Riley. He did it for Alexis. He could see that reporter from the
Times
in the gallery, but could also see him get up and walk out ten minutes into Richie’s speech. So he wasn’t going to get into the paper, either. At best, he was background. And this wasn’t a local issue in Brooklyn, so no local rag would mention it. Just some thoughts tossed into the void. Even so, when he was finished, Dingell gave him a smile. Riley gave him a hug; then she hurried off to day care to grab Alexis, and Richie was alone.

It was late afternoon. He decided to go for a walk before finding the Subaru and driving home. His first thought was to head over to the Hay-Adams and sit at the bar, but then he couldn’t take that anymore, either, so he wandered around to the south of the Capitol building. In spite of the various security installations, the evening was pleasant; the grass had that late-fall brilliance that contrasted with the fading of the trees. He passed the botanic garden and then walked west past the various buildings of the Smithsonian. This was a walk he sometimes made, and he also sometimes went into one museum or another. Now he saw a group of kids standing in a row in front of the
Ad Astra
spear at the entrance of the Air and Space Museum, being photographed by their teacher. Was his old military school the only school in America that didn’t dare take the kids to Washington for a field trip? He paused to look at the kids. The Air and Space Museum was one of Leo’s favorite outings.

The woman wasn’t like anyone around D.C. or anyone in Brooklyn. She was wearing loose black pants and a black sweater. Her hair was long, and looked like she cut it herself, grabbing it in her fist and clipping the ends with shears. In spite of the dark colors, she was big—five ten for sure, and large in the bust and the derriere—okay, Richie thought, watching her pass him, the ass. She had a real ass, and shoulders. She turned to look at the Hirshhorn, and he simultaneously thought that she was pretty and that she had no makeup on, which was why she didn’t strike you. He looked again, then dropped his gaze. But he sped up. How did you pick up someone not in a bar? Riley and Nadie were not there to advise him.

She kept walking—past the main building of the Smithsonian, toward the Washington Monument, which got taller and taller. Richie glanced surreptitiously down at his chest and swept what might have been a few crumbs off the gray cashmere blend of his overcoat. It was too warm for gloves and a hat, but he looked respectable, congressional. She was a good walker, long-strided and self-confident. He caught up to her at 14th Street and stood beside her as they waited to cross. Their shadows stretched before them. He glanced at her sideways, and smiled. She said, “Are you following me?”

Richie nodded.

She said, “Why?” But she didn’t seem nervous in any way.

He said, “I want your vote,” then held out his hand. “Richard Langdon, congressman, New York ninth district.”

Without missing a beat, she held out her hand. She said, “Jessica Montana.”

Richie said, “You’re kidding, right?”

And now she did smile—the smile made her. She said, “No, I’m not. But it’s been an inspiring name.”

“Because?”

“My great love is women’s semi-pro boxing. Do you know anything about that?”

“Nothing,” said Richie. “I am in politics. Do you know anything about that?”

“Nothing,” said Jessica.

“Then,” said Richie, “let me take you to dinner. We are made for each other.”

“I’m always hungry,” said Jessica.

2005

E
MILY HAD BEEN
a little surprised to be asked to be a bridesmaid for Chance and Delilah’s wedding (Delilah Rankin, lawyer, two years older than Chance, Emily’s own age, supposedly the daughter of a big Texas family), but when Tina pointed out to her that twelve bridesmaids was standard for a hundred-thousand-dollar wedding, Emily saw that she was being dressed and cast in a supporting role. Her only job was to smile and not catch the bouquet. Her aunt Loretta had prevailed on her maternal counterpart to have the wedding at Pebble Beach rather than in Dallas, which was fine with Emily, since she could go there with her mom, stay two nights, go home to Palo Alto (thank God, she thought, Jonah was too old to be cast as ring bearer). And so she stayed in the background most of the time, eating treats, reporting her observations to Tina by cell phone. One thing she hadn’t told anyone, though (and everyone was in a flurry, because they were dressing the bride and the service was due to start in half an hour), was that, if they hadn’t roped Delilah into her bridal corset, at least some people would have noticed the bulge, though maybe not Chance. Maybe Chance would be amazed to commence parenthood about a month after his twenty-third birthday.

She’d seen dresses that she knew were chosen by the bride to make sure that the bridesmaids looked appalling, but this dress even Tina approved—it was silvery, with an irregular hem and a slanted collar.
The shoes were silver, too, and so were the decorations. At least nine out of the twelve bridesmaids looked pretty good in the dress. What Delie saw in Chance, Emily could not imagine, unless it was pure sex. Since moving to Idaho, Emily had slept with plenty of cowboys, and eventually they all came to look alike—limber and dry, their cheekbones getting sharper and sharper, their eyes getting twinklier and twinklier. They all had stories about being rousted out of bed at four in the morning to go retrieve the calves in the freezing rain. Her favorite was one a very nice guy had told her: He was following a cow and her calf up the side of a mountain, he was bored, he tickled his horse with the tip of his quirt, the horse startled and jumped off the cliff. Fortunately, Ryman was quick—he went left when the horse went right and landed on his feet, looking down at the horse, who landed on a ledge. The horse assessed his situation, then scrambled up the mountainside on his own, a good thing. But Ryman was exactly why Emily would never marry someone like Chance.