Read Online Golden Age by Jane Smiley - Free Book Online Page A

carry off”) and flattering. She smiled at herself and said, “The buyer for designer wear told me that they train the sales force always to bubble over in delight when a woman comes out of the dressing room, no matter what she really looks like. In our department, all we do is turn on the switch of the Kitchen Aid or say, ‘Yes, the Le Creuset is very heavy,’ but we never mention that you might drop it on your toe if you don’t watch out.”
    Henry said, “What were we like as kids?”
    “Were you ever a kid?”
    “Mama would have said no. She said I rejected the breast as soon as I learned to read.”
    “Which was at two months old, right?”
    “I doubt I waited that long.”
    They laughed.
    They took her car—not “used,” but “vintage,” as she called it, a silver Datsun 280Z that her older son, who called himself “Gray” now, had talked her into buying for him, but lost interest in when his girlfriend declared it unsafe. Its all-too-apparent lack of safety was why Henry liked it—all options were on the table, including death. That seemed the realistic way of looking at things.
    Somewhere around Rogers Park, she said, “There are a couple of places to look at in this neighborhood. You want to go with me? I think there’s an open house somewhere, too.”
    “Why don’t you just live with me? I’m getting too old for three bedrooms.”
    She glanced quickly at him. Through her window, he could see the darkness of the lake. The fedora was pushed back on her head the way you always saw it on gangsters in the movies. She said, “What if I make a mess?”
    “I’ll clean it up.”
    “I accept.” She said it quickly, as if afraid he would take it back.
    “What about your furniture back in Des Moines?”
    Claire said, “Hate that crap.” Henry leaned across the center console, the shift, and the lever of the emergency brake, and kissed her on the cheek. He was the one who was grateful.
    —
    AS SOON as Claire walked into Andy’s house in Englewood Cliffs, she saw that if this Christmas visit was to come off, her expertise was needed. Arthur, Debbie, Hugh, Carlie, and Kevvie were expected, as well as Richie, Ivy, and Leo. When Andy had called after Thanksgiving, she’d said that the unaccustomed celebration was all about Leonard Frederick Langdon, named Leonard after V. I. Lenin and Frederick after Friedrich Hayek (according to Frank, a true hybrid), August 14, seven pounds, four ounces. Claire gathered that “Leo” was a triumph of modern obstetrical science.
    Gray would come up from Philly for the day with his girlfriend, but Michael had gone to California (Loretta was strict about Christmas), Tina had the shop in Idaho, and realtors like Dean could never get away, so there would be no discussion of the savings-and-loan crisis. Claire bought potatoes, butter, milk, turkey, onions, celery, and bread for stuffing, cranberry sauce, canned pumpkin, shortening for piecrust, and Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream. She baked rolls just the way Lois had taught her. She strung Christmas lights, hung ornaments, bought holly and pine boughs. She simmered some cider with spices on the stove, and all the time, Andy followed her around, saying, “Oh, that’s a good idea. I hadn’t thought of that.” Sometimes Frank walked through and kissed both of them on the cheek.
    Claire and Henry agreed that the weirdest part was that Henry had been put in Frank’s room (Claire in the maid’s room, which was sunny and pleasant). Frank was sleeping with Andy. This information had led to raised eyebrows, but nothing verbal. While she was cooking and decorating, Claire decided that she should have been a housekeeper rather than a wife. She didn’t mind doing this stuff—she was organized, she liked things to smell good and taste good. Perhaps she was more like her mother than she had ever cared to admit. She was happy each time the front door opened and the bundled-up revelers who came in from the cold smiled, took