Golden Age
Jane Smiley
ALSO BY JANE SMILEY
Fiction
Early Warning
Some Luck
Private Life
Ten Days in the Hills
Good Faith
Horse Heaven
The All-True Travels and Adventures of Lidie Newton
Moo
A Thousand Acres
Ordinary Love and Good Will
The Greenlanders
The Age of Grief
Duplicate Keys
At Paradise Gate
Barn Blind
Nonfiction
The Man Who Invented the Computer
Thirteen Ways of Looking at the Novel
A Year at the Races
Charles Dickens
Catskill Crafts
For Young Adults
Gee Whiz
Pie in the Sky
True Blue
A Good Horse
The Georges and the Jewels
THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
Copyright © 2015 by Jane Smiley
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Ltd., Toronto.
www.aaknopf.com
Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smiley, Jane.
Golden age : a novel / Jane Smiley. — First edition.
pages ; cm — (Last hundred years trilogy; 3)
“This is a Borzoi book.”
ISBN 978-0-307-70034-6 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-0-385-35244-4 (eBook) 1. Rural families—Iowa—Fiction. 2. Social change—United States—History—20th century—Fiction. 3. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PS3569.M39G65 2015
813′.54—dc23 2015016461
eBook ISBN 9780385352444
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover photograph by David Paterson/Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images
Cover design by Kelly Blair
v4.1
a
This trilogy is dedicated to John Whiston, Bill Silag, Steve Mortensen, and Jack Canning, with many thanks for decades of patience, laughter, insight, information, and assistance.
Contents
Cover
Also by Jane Smiley
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Family Tree
1987
1988
1989
1990
1991
1992
1993
1994
1995
1996
1997
1998
1999
2000
2001
2002
2003
2004
2005
2006
2007
2008
2009
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
2015
2016
2017
2018
2019
Acknowledgments
A Note About the Author
The Langdons
Walter Langdon (1895)
Wilmer Langdon—Walter’s father
Elizabeth Chick—Walter’s mother
Ruth Cheek and Lester Chick—Walter’s maternal grandparents
Etta Cheek—mother of Ruth Cheek
Lester and Howard—Walter’s brothers
Rosanna Vogel Langdon (1900)—Walter’s wife
Otto Vogel—Rosanna’s father
Mary Augsberger—Rosanna’s mother
Charlotta Kleinfelder—Otto’s mother
Herman and Augustina Augsberger (“Opa” and “Oma”)—Rosanna’s maternal grandparents
Rolf, Eloise, John, Gus, and Kurt—Rosanna’s siblings
Julius Silber—Eloise’s husband
Rosa—Eloise and Julius’s daughter
Elton Jackman—Rosa’s first husband, Lacey’s father
Lacey—Rosa and Elton’s daughter
Ross—Eloise’s second husband
Shelia—John’s wife
Gary, Buddy, Jimmy—John and Sheila’s sons
Angela—Gus’s wife
Francis “Frank” Langdon—first child of Walter and Rosanna
Hildegarde Andrea Bergstrom “Andy”—Frank’s wife
Janet—Frank and Andy’s eldest daughter
Jared Nelson—Janet’s husband
Emily and Jared—Janet and Jared’s children
Richard “Richie” & Michael—Frank and Andy’s twin sons
Ivy—Richie’s wife
Leonard “Leo”—Richie and Ivy’s son
Britt—Leo’s wife
Mona—Leo and Britt’s daughter
Jack—Britt’s son
Loretta Perroni—Michael’s wife
Chance, Tia, Beatrice “Binky”—Michael and Loretta’s children
Delilah Rankin—Chance’s wife
Raymond Chandler—Chance and Delilah’s son
Emile—Tia’s husband
Chris—Binky’s husband
Joseph “Joe” Langdon—second child of Walter and Rosanna
Lois Frederick—Joe’s wife
Roland and Lorena Frederick—Lois’s parents
Minnie—Lois’s sister
Ann “Annie” and Joseph “Jesse”—Joe and Lois’s children
Jennifer Guthrie—Jesse’s wife
Joseph “Guthrie,” Franklin Perkins “Perky,” and Felicity—Jesse and Jennifer’s children
Ezra Newmark—Felicity’s husband
Mary Elizabeth Langdon—third child of Walter and Rosanna
Lillian Elizabeth Langdon—fourth child of Walter and Rosanna
Arthur Brinks Manning—Lillian’s husband
Sarah Cole DeRocher and Colonel Brinks Manning—Arthur’s parents
Timothy “Tim,” Deborah “Debbie,” Dean Henry, and Christina Eloise “Tina”—Lillian and Arthur’s children
Charlie Wickett—Tim’s son
Fiona McCorkle—Charlie’s mother
Riley Calhoun—Charlie’s wife
Alexis—Tim and Riley’s daughter
Hugh—Debbie’s husband
Carlie and Kevin “Kevvie”—Debbie and Hugh’s children
Linda—Dean’s wife
Eric—Dean and Linda’s son
Cheryl—Linda’s daughter
Henry—fifth child of Walter and Rosanna
Claire—sixth child of Walter and Rosanna
Paul Darnell—Claire’s first husband
Grayson and Bradley—Claire and Paul’s sons
Lisa—Grayson’s wife
Dustin—Grayson and Lisa’s son
Samantha—Bradley’s wife
Laure and Ned—Bradley and Samantha’s children
Carl—Claire’s second husband
Angie—Carl’s daughter
Doug Schmidt—Angie’s husband
Peter, Rhea, and Dash—Angie and Doug’s children
1987
IT WAS FRIDAY. Everyone was somewhere else, doing last-minute chores. The tall young man got out of his little green station wagon, stretched, looked around, took off his sunglasses, and started up the walk. Minnie Frederick, who saw him through her bedroom window, dropped the stack of sheets she was carrying and ran down the
stairs. But he was not at the door, and when she went out onto the porch, he was nowhere to be seen. Back in the house, through the kitchen, out onto the stoop. Still nothing, apart from Jesse, her nephew, a noisy dot, cultivating the bean field east of the Osage-orange hedge. She walked around the house to the front porch. The car was still there. She crossed to it and looked in the window. A pair of fancy boots in the foot well of the passenger’s seat, two wadded-up pieces of waxed paper, a soda can. She stood beside the green car for a long moment, then touched the hood. It was warm. It was real. She was not imagining things, sixty-seven years old, she who came from a long line of crazy people on all sides, who was both happy and relieved to have chosen long ago not to reproduce. What, she thought, was the not-crazy thing to do? It was to make a glass of iced tea and see if her sister, Lois, had left any shortbread in the cookie jar.
When did Lois first mention him—Charlie Wickett—sometime in January? But Minnie hadn’t paid attention, because she was planning her summer trip to Rome. He was Tim’s son, Lillian and Arthur’s grandson, produced by means of one of those irresponsible high-school romances that every principal was only too familiar with. The baby had ended up in St. Louis. Tim had ended up in Vietnam, killed by a grenade fragment. Charlie now lived in Aspen, said he would be happy to meet everyone, to drive to Denby, and within a week, a reunion had exploded around his coming. They were all heading to the farm—Frank and Andy, Michael and Richie with their wives and kids, Janet, alone (Minnie remembered that Janet had always had a thing about Tim), Arthur and Debbie and her kids (Hugh, her husband, couldn’t come because of exams, though). There hadn’t been a family gathering of this size since Claire’s wedding—1962, that was. Minnie hoped everyone would mind their manners. She knew plenty of farm families who did not get along, but they kept their conflicts to themselves and behaved, at least in public. Families that had scattered, like the Langdons, could end up looking and acting like alien species of a single genus. Frank had nothing in common with Joe (never had), except that, thanks to Frank, the farm was paid off. Frank let Jesse and Joe work the land however they wished. Lillian, whom everyone had loved, had passed three and a half years before, and there was plenty of family gossip about what a mess Arthur and Debbie were. Dean kept to himself, and Tina, the youngest, had taken off to the mountains of Idaho. She wasn’t coming (but she had driven down to Aspen, met Charlie, liked him, and issued a bulletin in the form of a drawing that depicted a handsome, laughing kid. How she had gotten the twinkle into his eye, Minnie didn’t understand). For once, Henry was coming from Chicago (Minnie suspected that no one in Chicago knew that Henry was a farm kid). Only Claire, who was driving up from Des Moines, was a regular visitor. A big party. Lois was in charge of the cooking, Jen in charge of shopping, Joe in charge of the generous welcome. Minnie had done a lot of cleaning.
Now Charlie appeared on the other side of the screen door, loose-limbed and fit. He saw her, he smiled, and Minnie said, “I thought you were a phantom.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” said Charlie. “When I got out of the car and realized how hot it was getting, I decided I had to take my run right away, so I ran around the section. What is that, do you think?”
“Four miles,” said Minnie.
He said, “Well, I’m not used to the heat yet. But it’s really flat, so that makes up for it a little.”
She got up and opened the door. She said, “I’ll bet you’d like some water.”
She took a glass out of the drainer and held it under the tap. Not too brown. Lois had bought some kind of French sparkling water for the weekend, though Minnie was surprised you could get that sort of thing in Iowa. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, poured it down. She didn’t see the Langdon in him the way Frank had when he first espied him in a coffee shop in Aspen last fall, and, supposedly, was convinced the boy was a younger version of himself. Nor did she hear it in his voice (but, then, she hadn’t spent much time with Tim). What she saw was grace and a ready smile. His eyes flicked here and there as he drank—he was no less observant than Frank, probably, but he looked like those kids she had known over the years whose parents were indulgent and easygoing, kids who understood that redemption was automatic.
Yes, she was charmed.
She said, “I’ve made the bed in your room. You can take your things up there and have a rest, if you’d like. Everyone else should be home in a bit. Jen took Guthrie and Perky into town to Hy-Vee, but she should be back any time.” He filled his glass again and drank it down. She said, “My name is Minnie Frederick; my sister, Lois, is married to your great-uncle Joe. Gosh, we sound old! I’m the dedicated aunt of Annie and Jesse, also nosy neighbor, retired local principal, and arbiter of disputes.”
“Are we going to need one of those?”
“We should know by tomorrow evening.”
The smile popped out. He said, “I thought of bringing my protection squad along, but she had to work.”
“Your girlfriend?”
He nodded.
“We heard about her.”
“You did?”
“You don’t know that you were followed, that your license-plate number was jotted down, that your every move went into the photographic memory of Frank Langdon?”
“When was that?”
“Last September. You sold him boots, too.”
Charlie shook his head, but he didn’t seem disconcerted. He looked at the ceiling moldings for a moment, then said, “May I look around the house? My mom would love this house.”
“It’s a kit house from 1916. It arrived on the train, and my father, grandfather, and uncles helped put it together. There used to be lots of other houses around, including the Langdon place, which we could see from here, but that one had to be torn down. We had a one-room schoolhouse within walking distance, but that’s gone now. In some places, there are a few trees where houses used to be.” Minnie made herself stop talking, only said, “But you look around, ask questions if you want. I’m going to clean up in here.”
He went through the swinging door into the dining room. She tried to imagine how the place looked to him. Old, though not decrepit. Weighty? Awkwardly set into the tall-grass prairie (maybe a sod hut would be more appropriate)? She had lived here her whole life, except for a few years in Cedar Falls, getting her teaching degree. Her parents had died here, and not easily—her mother had lingered for years after her stroke, with only Minnie to take care of her and Lois after her father disappeared, and then her father returned, full of drunken resolve to get something back that was owed him; Lois had found him at the bottom of the cellar stairs, his head smashed into the concrete. (What had he been looking for? Booze? Treasure? Revenge?) But if every day was spent in the same place, then bad days were overlaid by good ones, your home was just your home, there was no reason for restlessness. Even the story Minnie told herself, that she’d always and only loved Frank, was a dusty remnant now that she had watched him habitually disregard the beautiful Andy, now that she’d realized that the small value he placed on his wife had its source in him rather than her. If Frank had, by some miracle, appreciated Minnie, lo these forty years ago, and loved her, and married her instead of Andy, he would have estimated her, too, at less than her real value. It wasn’t in him, whatever it was.
Charlie came back into the kitchen as Minnie was wiping down the sink. He said, “Airy.”
Minnie laughed. “Well, exactly. But thanks for reminding me to shut the windows. We can keep out maybe five degrees of heat if we close the place down for the afternoon. Tonight might be okay; your room has a fan, at any rate. No air conditioner—sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t like air conditioners. My grandmother’s lived in St. Louis for almost sixty years without an air conditioner. She believes in wringing a cloth out in cool water, then folding it across the back of your neck.”
“She sounds enterprising. You do what you want. There’s always plenty of food. You weren’t supposed to be here till tomorrow, but I’ll tell Jesse and Jen t
hat you’ll be coming and going as you please.”
And he took her hand in his warm one, squeezed it, and said, “Thanks! Thanks, Minnie. You are great! I hope all the Langdons are like you.”
—
THE OFFICIAL DINNER WAS Sunday at three. Janet was standing maybe a little too close to her cousin Debbie, but Debbie didn’t seem to notice. She was saying, “Why would we ever see him again, now that he’s seen us roast this hog? I mean, look at the smoke over the house, like a black cloud. Could it be any cruder?” Debbie sneezed. They were in the kitchen—Janet slicing tomatoes, Debbie chopping celery. Through the window, Janet could see the whole family staring at the sizzling pig; of course her dad looked avid, but everyone else was smiling in anticipation, too. Janet had thought meringues and soufflés were more Aunt Lois’s sort of thing. Debbie went on, “I mean, I was ready for Tim’s doppelgänger, you know? But I don’t see it in this Charlie. And that’s a relief.” Janet did see it, though—the hips, the hair, the vocal timbre. Debbie said, “I admit I was afraid at first, and to you, I will admit why—the comeback of the golden boy.” She shook her head. “But this is good for me. I’ve come to terms with my own issues, which everyone has to do at some point, right?”
Janet did not confess the waves of irrational hope that had broken over her these last few weeks. This Charlie would be something of a resurrection; would she adore him, would she embarrass herself? Her childhood worship of her cousin Tim was family legend. She said, “I hope so.” Charlie had turned out to be himself, in spite of his resemblance to Tim. And Janet had turned out to have no feelings toward Charlie other than regular first impressions. She said, “At least he’s not some stray product of my dad’s youth.”
“Uncle Frank had a youth?” They both smiled. “Who said that?”
“My mom,” Janet said. “She thinks of that as a joke.” Debbie rolled her eyes. Janet said, “Has anyone told Fiona?” Janet remembered Fiona as Debbie’s wild and intimidating equestrian girlfriend, much braver than any horsey girl Janet had known at Madeira or Sweet Briar. That Fiona had been at all interested in any boy, even Tim, and had gotten pregnant, was more than a little startling.
“I did,” said Debbie.
“How did she react?”
Debbie spun toward her, knife in hand. “She said, I quote, ‘How interesting. Oh dear. There’s the van. I’ll call you.’ ”
