Early Warning

1972

LILLIAN THOUGHT it was funny that, after forty years or so, what pushed her aunt Eloise out of the Communist Party was Chairman Mao shaking hands with Richard Nixon. Janet told her about it when she came back to Virginia from her spring break in California. She was sitting at the table in the breakfast room. Lillian, who wasn’t at all hungry, set the scrambled eggs and toast on the table in front of her niece, then pulled the shades. It was a bright morning for the end of March, and Janet had flown into Dulles late the night before. Lillian had promised to take her down to Sweet Briar, and the weather was perfect for it — there would be magnolias all the way, she thought. Janet said, “I was there for five days, and we spent all of one of them taking boxes and boxes of literature to the dump. I suggested a used-book store, but Eloise didn’t want anyone falling for all the crap. As she said.” She picked up her fork.

“Otherwise, she seems fine?” Lillian could not imagine walking away from one’s entire life in that way — Eloise’s version of divorce.

“As in, does she have a brain tumor or has she lost her mind? I don’t think so, she seems great. She took me to a wonderful rose garden not far from her house. You can’t believe she’s only seven years younger than Grandma, or that she ever lived on a farm. She’s so lean and muscly, she dyes her hair faithfully, she walks or jogs several miles every day. I was impressed. And I think there might be some kind of boyfriend. He called her, but I didn’t meet him.”

They laughed together.

Lillian said, “What is she doing for money?”

Janet shrugged. “Who knows? I mean, when did she buy her house? She told me it’s paid for. She works at a cheese collective in Berkeley. She’s maybe thirty years older than everyone else, but she wears her sandals and her braid down her back, and she fits right in. She said to me, ‘Spender left, and I stayed. Koestler left, and I stayed. Mitford left, and I stayed. Then Sartre left, and I stayed, but I am leaving now. Did you see the look on Mao’s face? He might as well have been giving Tricky Dick a big kiss on the lips!’ She sounded personally insulted.”

Lillian didn’t mention that Arthur, too, had reacted strongly to the picture of Nixon and Mao. They’d been watching the news, and he said, “I’m amazed he hasn’t been shot.” Lillian was well trained not to ask questions, but she knew he meant Nixon, not Mao. Now she said, “Is Rosa still married to the gambler? Gosh.” Lillian shook her head. “Little Rosa will be forty next year.”

“I guess Rosa and Lacey live with some new boyfriend so far back into the Big Sur mountains that it takes Lacey an hour or more each way to school on the bus, but they have enough money. Rosa sells glycerin soap she makes with herbs she grows, like lavender or tarragon, and the boyfriend makes violin bows that violinists all over the world are waiting to buy for sky-high prices. They don’t have a television or a radio. Eloise gave me some of the soap — it’s in my suitcase. I brought some for you. It smells delicious. You can take your pick, except for the lemon.” She pushed her plate away and said, “That was good.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You’re thanked.”

Lillian carried the plate to the sink, where she rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. Janet rose from the table and did what she always did, which was to walk over to the bank of Tim’s pictures — Tim as a newborn, cross-eyed; Tim walking the back of the couch, laughing, with Debbie off to the side, furious; Tim smiling in front of a broken window, the offending tennis ball in his hand (Arthur had labeled that one “Bull’s-eye!”); Tim walking on his hands; Tim dressed as Elvis Presley for Halloween; a picture Steve Sloan had sent her, of Tim onstage at a dance, flicking his cigarette ash into the nest of some unsuspecting older boy’s duck tail — grinning, fourteen, already smoking with expertise; Tim playing his guitar; Tim’s senior portrait, so smooth and innocent-looking. Janet surveyed them for the hundredth, the thousandth time. Since the big argument with Frank that Lillian had heard no details about, Janet was more scarce than she had been, though she still came around every so often to look at pictures of Tim. Debbie said only that Janet swore she would never speak to Frank again. Debbie also said that Janet had never had a boyfriend; Lillian hoped that her devotion to these pictures wasn’t the reason.

She said, “I think maybe your grandmother isn’t quite the old lady she used to be. You heard that Joe taught Rosanna to drive and then bought her a car after she passed the test. She had to take the vision test twice, because they thought she was cheating the first time.”

Janet turned toward her. She looked sad, but she sounded normal: “You’re kidding!”

“Well, they didn’t say that, but they did say that her results were unusual for a woman of her age. Twenty/twenty or just about.”

“What did Joe buy her?”

“She learned in Lois’s car, so I guess they decided that the safest thing was to get her the same model. Two thousand dollars. Minnie told me that Lois was fit to be tied, in her way.”

“What way is that?”

“She wrote a thousand-dollar check to the Methodist church for the new roof. So what was Joe going to say?”

“Uncle Joe is always nice.”

Lillian heard a step behind her, and before she even registered that it was Arthur, Janet’s face hardened, and then went blank. Arthur put his arm around Lillian’s waist and kissed her on the side of the head, then said, “Janny! I didn’t know you were here!” He moved to give her his customary hug, and she stiffened, then backed away, but she did eventually smile and say, “Hi, Uncle Arthur. How are you?”

“Upside down and backwards.” But he didn’t get a laugh.

Lillian said, “I think she prefers ‘Janet,’ darling.”

“I don’t care,” said Janet.

Arthur stared into the toaster at his muffin. When it popped up, he pushed it down again, and then, when it was just right, he popped it and juggled it to the counter, where he buttered it. All of this made Lillian strangely self-conscious, but she had no idea why.

Arthur said, “How do your brothers like Cornell?”

“I guess they’re pretty busy. Cornell still has ROTC, so they joined that.”

Lillian said, “Your dad made gunpowder all through college. They were trying to make it out of cornstalks for the war effort. I guess one time it worked, but only once. Did he tell you that he lived in a tent?”

“I didn’t believe that. You really think it’s true? He also told me he didn’t graduate,” said Janet.

“Pearl Harbor,” said Lillian.

Janet was staring at Arthur, who seemed not to notice. Suddenly she tossed her head and said, “I have to go. I have to turn in my senior thesis in a week, and I’m supposed to be typing all day today.”

“What’s your subject?” said Arthur.

It was then that Janet finally met his gaze completely. “The CIA,” she said.

But Arthur said only, “I thought you were a French major.”

Janet said, “I was going to do it on Violette Lecoq, but there wasn’t enough material, so I am doing it on André Malraux.”

There was a long silence; then Lillian said, “Well, it’s almost noon. I guess we’d better go. Arthur, I’ll be home for dinner. With dinner.”

—

IN THE CAR, Janet felt more comfortable. She had given Aunt Lillian the lavender bar, which was her second favorite. She thought of it as the last piece of herself that she was leaving behind in a place she had loved but was finished with. She no longer yearned to have the snapshot of Tim on his bike squinting into the sun that had been taken the summer she spent with them. She was almost in that picture — just as Uncle Arthur lifted the camera, a bee buzzed by, and Janet ducked to the left. If you looked closely, her shadow was there in the bottom corner. Whenever any of her teachers at Sweet Briar had used the word “paradox,” Janet thought of that picture — her shadow in his picture, his shadow in her life.

They drove along. Aunt Lillian always held the wheel as though the car could leap out of her hands at any moment — Tim had said that once.

Aunt Lillian asked, “What are you doing after graduation?”

“I’m moving to California.” It was the first time Janet had uttered this aloud. She spoke with confidence, she thought. “I met some kids who have a house in Oakland. One guy is a mailman and one works for Safeway, and two of the girls are at Berkeley. I met them all.” The one who worked at Safeway was a black guy. The mailman lived in the attic, where, he said, it was easier to dematerialize and evaporate through the roof, especially since there was no insulation. The third girl (also black) worked as a nude model for local artists, who paid twenty-five dollars an hour, or more. You didn’t have to look like Marisa Berenson to be an artist’s model — better not to, in fact.

“Must be a big house,” said Lillian.

“Three stories. The rent is forty dollars a month per person, plus a little more in the winter for heat. Someone is moving to Hawaii, so I get that room. One of the girls is going to help me find a job. All I need is a hundred dollars, so I’ve been saving from my allowance every month. I should have it.”

“How are you getting out there?” Aunt Lillian made this sound easygoing, as if she weren’t prying. Janet said, “A bus ticket is fifty-two dollars.” She did not say that a guy she knew from U.Va. had suggested they hitchhike. It all depended on the next two months, and how much she could save from the last two allowances her mother was ever going to give her. There might be a graduation present, too. If her father gave her anything, she would view it as ransom money. And take it, she thought.

She glanced over at Aunt Lillian, thinking, “I am twenty-one years old,” but saying only, “It’s a bad time to get a job. And a good time to try stuff out.”

Then Aunt Lillian surprised her; she said, “I think you’ll have fun.” Of course, Aunt Lillian was thinking that she would be seeing Janet again; Janet wasn’t so sure about that. Even Aunt Eloise didn’t know she was coming back to California — Aunt Eloise thought she was taking a job in Chicago.

—

ON THE DAY after the end of second grade, Charlie put a dollar and one of the Rice Krispie treats that Mom had made for him on Sunday in his pocket, and set out for the swimming pool. Charlie knew north, south, east, and west, and he knew that the swimming pool was south, but he also knew that he could catch the bus right by his school, which was now out for the summer, although in a week Charlie was going to go to summer school to learn some more about writing. Charlie was left-handed — he knew this because the pointing finger on one hand was longer than it was on the other hand; the longer finger was on his left hand, and to tell right from left, he had to look at his fingers.

Mom had said that he would go to summer school from ten-thirty until noon. Today was a hot day, and Charlie needed a swim. He had taken lessons all last summer and all winter at the Y, and he could do crawl and breast stroke. He had gotten his trunks out of his drawer, and a towel from the hall closet, and rolled it around his trunks. Now he opened the front door and closed it quietly behind himself. Mom was taking a shower.

All through second grade, he had walked to school, at first with Mom, then with Barry Clayton, who was in third grade, and, a few times when Barry was sick, by himself. He went out the front walk to Tuxedo, then walked north on Glen Road. There were six dogs on the way to school. Only one of them was scary, a large brown dog with black on his face who was inside a fence, but as Charlie walked along, the dog ran beside him behind the fence, with his nose to the ground, growling and barking. Charlie said, in his bossiest voice, “Shh, shh, shh, shh,” as he walked along, and he didn’t run. If you ran, that made the dog more ready to jump the fence. Glen Road went along the railroad tracks, and he was not allowed to climb the hill to the railroad tracks, though sometimes he did. He passed Clark, where Ricky Horner lived on the corner (Mom always laughed at this rhyme), then passed Atalanta, and came to Marshall. No cars. It was a quiet morning. He had no idea what time it was. If you walked all the way to Marshall and turned right, you could get penny candy at that store. Charlie liked Mary Janes, Pixy Stix, and candy buttons. If you turned left and crossed Glen Road (which he was not allowed to do), you could walk under the tracks and down to Deer Creek, which was deep and had steep sides, but Ricky Horner said there were fossils in the banks if you looked hard enough. He had shown Charlie two he’d found. Several kids in his class lived on the other side of the tracks, and they walked to school every day, so Charlie didn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to go there.

The bus stop to the swimming pool was across from the playground. There was nobody standing there, but it was in the shade. He decided it was too risky to stop for candy — besides, he had his Rice Krispie treat — so he went and stood right next to the pole that said “Bus Stop”; those words he could read, though they could also be “suB potS” if you wanted them to be. He was in the lowest reading group, and had been all year. Miss Lewis was not happy when he told her all the words he saw on the page. She wanted him to see “words” when he might really be seeing “sword.” And she always wanted him to read the words in order, from the left side to the right side, even when it might be more fun to read them from the right side to the left side. That was why he had to go to summer school. But, as Mom said, there was no reason to get mad, and so he never did, and so Miss Lewis liked him anyway, more than she liked John King, who was also in his reading group and spent a lot of time snapping his fingers and drawing pictures of men parachuting out of airplanes, and more than she liked Billy Swenson, who just stared at the book and picked his nose. No girls were in their group.

The bus came, and halted, and the door opened. The driver, who was a fat man, leaned forward and looked around Charlie to see if there was a grown-up with him, but when Charlie handed him the dollar, he took it and gave him three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel. Charlie reached up and put his dime and his nickel in the machine, where they rattled down through the glass part, and then he put the rest in his pocket and went and sat down. Five other people were on the bus; two of them were Negroes, one was a very old lady, and two looked like high-school kids. When Charlie was sitting in his seat, the bus pulled away, and his mom’s car went by, going the other direction. Charlie sat back in his seat and arranged the rolled-up towel on his lap. It was very important not to forget it or lose it. He thought he was doing a good job.

—

DEBBIE, indulging herself by going for the first time in her life to the National Horse Show in Madison Square Garden, was sitting maybe eight rows up and toward the middle of the arena. She was watching the “Gambler’s Choice” class, in which the horse and rider had a minute to get over as many jumps as they could. The jumps were assigned points — most points for most challenging jumps. She hadn’t looked at the program, but she recognized Fiona as soon as she trotted into the ring. What was it now — eight years — since she’d spent the night at Fiona’s house before Fiona left for college out in Missouri, and they’d gotten into a little argument, though any argument was unusual for them. Fiona was riding a wiry chestnut; she cut the turn and headed for the triple bar (a big one, too). Debbie nearly stood up and shouted with glee. How terrific she looked, how light her hands and how straight her back as the horse jumped perfectly, landed on his left lead, did a flying change, and galloped for one of the high-point fences, a hogback heading away from the gate. Debbie looked at the scoreboard, and maybe Fiona did, too — she had ten seconds, so she sat deep, pulled the horse sharply around, and raced for the Liverpool, a water jump at least fourteen feet wide. As the bell rang, signaling the end of Fiona’s minute, the horse landed, never touching the water with even his back toe. Debbie stood up clapping, and so did a few around her, but then Kathy Kusner, who had been on three Olympic teams, came in on a gray, and everyone was looking at her. Debbie watched Fiona leave the ring on a loose rein, nodding at Kathy as she went out. She looked at her program. Fiona’s horse’s name was Torch. Fiona Cannon, the girl who would do anything, was now Fiona McCorkle, and her barn was called Ranlegh Stables. If she was in the “Gambler’s Choice,” then probably she would still do anything. Her trainer had ridden in some Olympics. Debbie couldn’t remember which one, though 1952 stuck in her mind. Debbie picked up her handbag.

At the aisle, she made her way along the barrier until she came to the gate. Then she waited, looking at the standings. Fiona was third, but there were six more riders. Debbie sat down and watched. Of the last six, four had knockdowns, which lopped four points off your total, and one had a refusal, which was a loss of three and wrecked his time. Fiona had jumped seven jumps in a minute; this guy got over two. When the class ended, Kathy Kusner was first and Fiona was third. She was beaten for second by a single point. Debbie wondered whether Kathy had ever galloped straight downhill, standing on her horse’s back. All the winners entered the arena and received their ribbons and their applause. The “Gambler’s Choice” was not an Olympic-type class, but the audience appreciated it. Debbie made sure that she was visible when Fiona led her horse past, smiling and holding up her ribbon. Fiona glanced in her direction, smiled an impersonal smile, and then, after she had passed, looked back. Debbie saw that she was recognized — the impersonal smile changed to a look of surprise and then seriousness. Debbie jumped the barrier. There were a few “Hey!”s but she hurried away from them.

Torch’s hindquarters were disappearing into the tunnel that must have led to the stabling, and Debbie went after him as smoothly and calmly as possible — she knew how to act around horses. A moment later, a short man — the groom, no doubt — appeared and held out his hand. Fiona, who had taken off her hard hat and her hairnet, gave him the reins. As he led the horse away, Debbie called out. Fiona looked around, took off her gloves, made a little fake smile, but kept walking, though more slowly. When Debbie caught up with her, she said, “Debbie! How nice to see you! I had no idea…”

“You did so well! I loved how you went for that water jump! You really—”

“It’s a fun class.” Then she said, “Well, wonderful to see you. I have to get ready for the next class.” And she turned and walked away.

Debbie ran after Fiona and grabbed her by the arm. Fiona spun around and shook her off. She was strong — Debbie could feel the tension of her biceps through her jacket. Debbie said, “I am glad to see you! I wish you were glad to see me!”

They stood staring at one another for what seemed like a long time, and then Fiona said, “I am. I really am. You look grown up.” Debbie laughed, and said, “Is that a compliment?”

“I don’t know.” But she did smile. She did at last smile. Then she said, “Do I look grown up?”

“No,” said Debbie. “You look like a boy.”

“Dreams do come true, then.” She was back to being serious. Then she said, “I am sorry, Deb. I was very wound up about that class. We’ve never come all the way to the Garden before. You know me. I was never very nice.”

Without meaning to, Debbie said, “I loved you.”

Fiona smiled again, leaned toward her, and kissed her on the cheek. She said, “You were very patient. What are you doing now?”

“I teach eighth grade at a private school.”

“Do you ride anymore?”

Debbie shook her head.

“You should. You were so game, and I made you do lots of things that most girls would have been scared shitless to do. I am scared shitless just thinking about them.”

Debbie laughed.

“So what is your cute brother doing?”

At first Debbie thought she meant Dean, and she said, “He graduated from Dartmouth in the spring, and he’s—” But then she realized, and she said, “Oh. Do you mean Tim? I didn’t realize you knew him.”

Fiona said, “How could I not know the cutest boy in school?” She looked blank, innocent. Debbie licked her lips, and her eyes filled with tears. “He was killed in Vietnam six years ago.”

Fiona went white.

It was funny how it all rolled back through you, how you relied on everyone you knew knowing that your brother had been killed, had had his skull pierced by a grenade fragment, and so you never had to say the words or think the thought, because every time you did, it was too fresh to tolerate, if only for a minute.

Fiona twisted her gloves in her hands and said, “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” She looked down. “Did he ever tell you that he used to”—she paused—“he used to give me rides sometimes in his car?”

“I never knew what Tim did.” But had Tim somehow been Fiona’s boyfriend? This idea was so impossible that Debbie couldn’t process it, and therefore decided not to.

But the tears now in Fiona’s eyes spilled down her face. She brushed them away with her hand, and then she said, “I do have to get ready for the next class. The horse is pretty green and takes a lot of warming up.”

“I’m glad I saw you.”

“Me, too,” said Fiona.

She turned and walked down the tunnel toward wherever they kept the horses.

Debbie made her way back to her seat and sat quietly for the next two classes, but she didn’t see Fiona again, even though she was in the program, on a horse named Restless. There was no explanation or announcement. With the traffic, Debbie was home by midnight, and she lay awake in her bed until four, wondering if they had ever really been friends, she and Fiona, or if it had always been the way she sometimes saw among her students — the one girl, Fiona, the dedicated, oblivious rocket heading into the future as fast as she possibly could, and the other girls milling about her, locked in the day-to-day contest for position and love. Which would you rather be? Debbie thought. And yet there was the picture in her mind of that chestnut horse, airborne over the Liverpool, his forelegs folded, his neck stretched, his ears pricked, Fiona crouched on his back. As with every arc, she knew, there was a moment of weightlessness in there. Once you felt it, you were doomed always to long for that feeling again.