Three

Cress awoke to men talking outside her bedroom window. Trucks filled the driveway behind the A-frame. Stacks of lumber were off-loaded. Strings demarcated the new cabin’s foundation. In the next week, wood replaced the string, plumbing was stubbed in, and a cement truck churned steadily for two days, leaving a powdery gray platform in the pines. Cress finally spoke to wan Rick Garsh, shook his bony hand, met the crew.

“So far so good,” she reported to her parents. “Moving right along.”

“Talented man, that Rick,” her father said. “Keen mind. I like how he’s determined to make a life up there. Reminds me of myself when I was young.”

“You were never so scrawny,” said Cress.

“Hear the mornings are cool,” her father said. “How low’s it going?”

“I don’t know, Dad. The fifties? The forties?”

*   *   *

“Julie Garsh wants us for dinner tomorrow,” Jakey said. “You free?”

“I’ll check my calendar.” They were in Cress’s bed. “You want to go?”

“She’s a helluva cook.”

“They just don’t seem like anyone my parents would be friends with,” Cress said. “How Rick talked my dad into building this cabin is a mystery. My dad’s always built everything himself, on the cheap cheap cheap.”

“Rick has big plans for all of us up here,” said Jakey. “He’s going to build a hundred homes. Spend all our money. She’s got her eye on my little real estate office in the lodge. Who knows, maybe I’ll let her have it. Good to see some ambition on the mountain. I hope they get something out of it.”

*   *   *

Jakey picked her up; together they drove the quarter mile to a line of vehicles parked along the road: two pickups, a battered Bobcat, a Subaru station wagon. The large circular house had thick concrete pilings and wraparound windows tinted dark, which gave it the look of a spaceship or a ski slope bar.

Rick led them inside. The sunken living room was built around a jagged stone fireplace in whose enormous black hearth burned a tidy, tiered, triangular stack of logs—possibly the most photogenic fire Cress had ever seen.

Julie, in braids and full fringe, waved a knife from the kitchen. “Come in! Come in!” She stepped forward to hug. Silver earrings in the shape of feathers clanked against Cress’s glasses.

“The boys want Scotch.” Julie’s tone was low and confidential. “Join me in white wine?”

“Please,” Cress said, wanting the Scotch.

The living room had spoked beams, a semicircular sectional. A yellowing philodendron ran laps along the walls. “Did you build this?” said Cress.

“God, no,” said Rick. “We just needed a base when construction season started. This was a repo, we got it for a song. If I ever have time, I’ll knock it down to a nub, start over from the ground up.”

“Here’s to that day!” Julie handed drinks all around.

The men drank in front of the fire; Cress caught scraps of Meadows politics: whom they wanted on the community council, who wouldn’t pay half for repaving a shared driveway. Julie had Cress tear romaine for the salad, then sprinkle on croutons, dried cranberries, sunflower seeds, alfalfa sprouts. Thick blue cheese dressing held the scoop’s shape like ice cream.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” said Julie. “The weeks get long and awfully short on intellect, if you know what I mean.” She came closer, bowed her head. “I hear you need a job—and Rick needs a gofer.” She pronounced it like the rodent. “You’d run to Sparkville once or twice a week.”

“I’d love that,” Cress said, thinking with dread of the road.

“I’ve heard such marvelous things about you,” Julie murmured into Cress’s shoulder. “From your folks. And him.”

How could that be true? Her parents didn’t think she was so marvelous. And what did Jakey know? “Yeah, but I’ve only been seeing him a few weeks.”

“You two click. I can tell. Rick and I clicked like that, too.” Julie kept her voice low. “From the moment we laid eyes on one another.”

They’d only been married for a year, Julie went on, and together for a year before that. This was the second marriage for both. They’d met at a seminar on creative entrepreneurship. Both knew instantly. “Rick was still married. But he was emotionally and spiritually disconnected from his wife. By our first official date, he had a divorce lawyer. That was my condition.” Julie pressed her arm into Cress’s. “I’m so glad Jakey found you. You’re just what he needs.”

Julie knew nothing about her. But it was hard not to be flattered.

Dinner was oxtails braised in bourbon and scalloped potatoes. That multitudinous salad. Rick, Cress noticed, took small portions that didn’t touch on the plate—he was like a character she remembered in a children’s book: a slow eater, tiny bite taker. He systematically cut off and left all bits of fat.

“Tell you what,” Jakey said to Rick. “We should build a chapel by the pond—some nondenominational interfaith wee-kirk-of-the-woods sort of thing. Get some retired preacher in there on Sundays.”

“I could build a beautiful little church,” said Rick. “A jewel box.”

“You could,” said Julie. “But who needs a church up here? Nature is the greatest cathedral. Just to walk in the tall trees is a sacrament…”

“I’m thinking of the after-church brunch crowd,” said Jakey. “And weddings, anniversaries, christenings, funerals—with catered receptions.”

“Bar mitzvahs,” Cress said.

“Hell, why not?” said Jakey. “I could do kosher.”

“When my parents bought their lot in ’65, there were plans for an ice-skating rink and tennis courts,” said Cress. “A swimming pool and clubhouse.”

“All pending,” said Jakey. “Still in the works.”

For hot fudge sundaes, they moved to the living room, around the fire.

A signal flickered between Julie and Rick. “Cress, may we be frank with you?” Julie said. “We’re crazy about your folks, but we could use some advice about how best to work with them.”

“Your father has his own ideas about building,” said Rick. “Sometimes we don’t see eye to eye.”

“I’m amazed my dad hired you,” said Cress. “He’s built all his homes himself. The house in Pasadena. The A-frame. The new place in Oxnard.”

“Your mom I adore,” said Rick. “She’s open to everything. But your dad—I adore him, too—but he … he finds it hard to give himself the better things in life.”

“My dad? He’s as tight as the skin on an apple!” Cress cried, using her father’s own phrase. “A child of the Great Depression!”

“It’s so good Rick’s building him a house,” Julie said. “Some people need help forging an enjoyable relationship with their wealth. We can help with that.”

The room was very warm. Beside her, Jakey breathed through his mouth, his lids fluttering. “I wouldn’t say my folks have wealth,” Cress said.

“What your dad doesn’t understand,” said Rick, “is that even slightly higher construction values make for a sturdier, more comfortable home—to say nothing of higher resale values.”

“Is he cheaping out on you?” said Cress.

“That’s what I don’t understand!” cried Julie. “Why deprive himself of the better things in life if he can afford them! It’s spiritual starvation! Everybody says we should give generously to the poor—and we should. But we need to give generously to ourselves first. Because if we come from abundance we don’t begrudge anyone anything—we give freely from the overflow.”

“Not sure my dad thinks that way,” said Cress, wishing Jakey would rally and rescue her. And he did. He startled himself awake with a big snore, then bustled them out.

Julie called from the door, proposing a hike the next day. “Just us girls.”

“Sure, great,” Cress called back, not knowing how to refuse.

*   *   *

“Overflow?” Cress said to Jakey as they crawled into her bed. “Abundance? They sound like televangelists. Or Republicans. I have a terrible feeling they voted for Reagan.”

“What’s wrong with voting for Reagan?”

She sat up. “Oh my God.” She snatched at the sheets. “You?” She scooted away from him, wailed. “I can’t believe I’ve had sex with a Republican.”

“I’m not a Republican,” said Jakey. “I just hated Carter. So lily-livered and ineffectual. And at least we got the hostages back.”

“You can’t seriously believe Reagan had a single thing to do with that.” Cress swung her feet out of bed. “I need water.”

What have I done? she asked the pressboard walls as she thudded downstairs. A Reagan Democrat—the worst! How had politics never come up before? She drank a long cold cup of water, nabbed the bourbon bottle.

“I’m a small businessman,” Jakey said. They were sitting up now, facing forward, passing the bottle. “You can’t believe the permits and fees and inspections I pay for. The disability, the unemployment, the social security. I’d probably still be married if I hadn’t had to work thousands of extra hours just to keep the government off my back.”

She didn’t know where to start. How could he object to such basic entitlements? “Careful, sweetie pie,” she said. “You’re in bed with a Keynesian.”

He laughed and reached for her.

“And furthermore”—she squirmed away—“maybe a lodge at the top of the world with a seasonal clientele is not the most economically viable business. And that, more than governmental policy, may be the real issue.”

“I’m remote, yes, but that’s not taken into consideration. Tulare County told me this week I need a new grease trap. That’s five, eight thousand bucks, easy, and for what? I’m not on a sewer line. And all you have to do is watch the Forestry Service up here to know that government shouldn’t manage these lands. They have no idea what they’re doing.”

“Oh yeah, turn the forests over to private interests. Great idea, Jakey. They’ll shave this mountain bald as a boulder. Not a tree left standing. That’ll give your business a big boost.”

Jakey took a long swig of whiskey and handed her the bottle. “How ’bout this? How ’bout you be my personal economics advisor?” He poked her thigh. “You can give me a full economic evaluation. Seriously. I’d pay you for that.”

He slid down, kissed the side of her breast.

In fact, she’d already ascertained that Jakey had his own private economy. At the register, he ignored the price list stored under the counter and charged whatever he felt the customer could bear; a bag of marshmallows for her (or some kid) would be a dime; for Dr. Peterson of Thousand Oaks, a buck and a dime. Jakey ran his restaurant, bar, and market by self-interest, but not the kind that fit any rational model. There was no maximizing of any profits. God knows what his books looked like—fiction of some ilk, no doubt. Often, she noticed, he didn’t even ring something up, just opened the cash drawer and made change. If someone squawked over a high price, Jakey would say, “Fine, fine, go buy it at the bodega across the street.”

Of course, the nearest competition was the Hapsaw Lodge, sixteen twisting miles down the hill.

*   *   *

Julie arrived ten minutes early with a wooden walking stick. Having feared a slow pious trek through the woods, Cress was disappointed to be led down the familiar looping asphalt roads to the lodge. Tap tap tap, they went, Julie keeping close, often brushing against her. Cress had never been nudged and brushed against as much as she had here in the Meadows. But she’d never spent as much time so close to older people, who might be hard of hearing.

“You should know,” Julie said, “Jakey went a little nuts after his wife left. A little frantic for company. Terrified of being alone. But he’s been looking for a special someone for a while now. And you”—here, her arm collided with Cress’s—“you’re so different from all the women up here. I have to give him credit. He’s surprised us by making an exceptional choice.”

“We’ll see how it goes,” Cress said. “It’s only been a few weeks.”

Tap tap tap. “I’d love to give you a little advice,” Julie said. “May I?”

Julie knew an equation that applied to divorced men: Take how many years they were married and divide it by two: that’s how many years before they’re actually ready for another relationship—how long before they’re out from under their old marriage and can be fully present for a new one.

Cress did the math: if Jakey was married for twenty-four years, he’d need twelve years of recovery time, two of which had elapsed. “Ten more years!” she yelped. “He’ll be really old then.”

“But you should snag him now,” said Julie. “Men don’t wait around. Ready or not, they find someone new right away. Rick wasn’t over his marriage when we got together. But he’s worth all the Sturm und Drang.”

“Sturm und Drang, like what?”

“He gets moody, won’t talk for a whole day. Rick can be very dark. But I wasn’t getting any younger. I knew I better grab on and fasten my seat belt.”

Jakey seemed incapable of moodiness, even grumpiness. Distraction, maybe. Jakey could be distracted.

“I like Jakey,” Cress said. “But I don’t know about the long run.”

“Jakey’s super!” Julie shoulder-bumped Cress. “Friendly, good business head. Big heart. So lovable. He’s worth it, I can promise you that.”

Why would Julie promise her anything? Cress wasn’t used to making friends this way: assuming the best, and leaping ahead as if they knew each other. And Julie was so much older, so far outside Cress’s circle, so fond of Native American accessories.

“Don’t let Jakey’s age put you off,” said Julie. “Some of the happiest marriages I know are May–Decembers.”

Marriage! Cress hadn’t gone to Minneapolis with John Bird in part because she’d wanted to avoid the courtship-leads-to-marriage track. Wasn’t there romance that flowered differently, that didn’t morph right into marriage, pregnancy, childrearing, and monogamy for its own sake? What was the sexual revolution for, if not to allow for more varied experiences, a wider range of happiness? Cress was in no hurry to re-create family life—at least not as she’d known it. How surprised she’d been when Tillie—the fastest girl in high school, the first of their group to move out of her parents’ house into her own apartment, the first to live with a man—was also the first to turn up married. Was that where Tillie’s sexual curiosity, energy, and naughty laughter were pointed all along? Why? Women no longer had to pick one man, set up house, and reproduce. Though setting up house with Jakey might be fun. For a while, anyway.

“By the way, I haven’t told my parents I’m seeing Jakey yet,” said Cress.

“They won’t hear a peep from me.”

A small, late lunch rush was in progress at the lodge. Jakey came out to pour them each a glass of white wine. “You gals set the world straight yet?” He nipped Cress’s neck, went back to the grill.

A man at the end of the bar stood and walked over. “Is that Sharon Hartley, all grown up?”

“Cressida,” she said, as an older, rheumy-eyed Reggie Thornton toasted her with his coffee cup. His pompadour had deflated, his white hair sat close to his skull, in perfect waves.

“Cressida Hartley. I’ll be darned. You up for the weekend, Cressida?”

“A couple months, actually. And you? Visiting old friends?”

“Still have my place by the pond,” he said.

A convicted killer—that made her shy. But Reggie was cheerful and friendly; he asked about her parents, her sister, about the new cabin going up. “I knew Cressida when she was a skinny little sprout about yea high,” he told Julie as he walked behind the bar. He filled his coffee cup with bourbon from the well, then grabbed the wine bottle and topped off their glasses to the brims.

*   *   *

“How do you kill two people driving drunk and still drink?” Cress asked Julie on their way home.

“He’s not supposed to,” said Julie. “The coffee cup’s so the sheriff and rangers won’t catch him violating parole.”

Cress herself was drunk. A nasty Chablis-yellow ache pulsed behind her eyes, and all she wanted was a dark room, ice on her face, and a gallon of water. Julie had left her walking stick against the bar, and Cress, noticing, was so grateful not to have its metronomic accompaniment all the way home, she said nothing. She walked quickly, to get there, and she talked, too, to distract herself from her headache. Art, she told Julie, had been her first major, but so damn hard. Then economics had come so easily. Her boyfriend in college was an econ major, and she’d just taken an intro class so they could talk. But the first econ paper she wrote won the department’s yearly essay prize—her boyfriend never forgave her for that. She’d entered his territory and bested him. It broke them up. But who knew she’d had a talent for economic theory? Even before she graduated, she’d had a paper published—when she was still a fine-arts major. Only when she was applying to grad school did her painting professor sit her down. Maybe think twice, he said. Frankly, he—her teacher—didn’t think she had the temperament for life in the art world. (He said temperament, but she knew he meant talent.)

“If art’s your calling,” Julie said, “it doesn’t matter what anyone says.”

“I don’t know about calling,” Cress said. “I just liked making it.” She’d applied to Pratt and Cal Arts, anyway, she said, and got into Cal Arts, but without any financial aid. In econ, she got into all four places she’d applied, probably because female applicants were so scarce. Iowa gave her a three-year fellowship. Her boyfriend there, John Bird, was also an economist. But that’s it. No more economists for her. And once she was done with the diss, no more econ either.

“So you’ll go back to painting?”

“I don’t know.” For her dissertation, she planned to write about the economics of art, how the work accrues value. She’d posed certain questions, then tried to answer them: for example, what brings more value, a good review or a sold-out show? A major prize or a museum purchase? A museum retrospective or the artist’s death? She’d spent last summer in Chicago talking to gallery owners and museum directors, who were as interested as she was in the answers. The market realities were sobering and could chill any artist’s ardor. “The best thing an artist can do is die,” Cress told Julie. “Nothing raises prices more than death.”

The death line usually made people laugh, but Julie Garsh had no discernible sense of humor. She pursed her thin lips. Then, panting as she trotted to keep up, she said to Cress pretty much what everyone else did: “Just finish the dissertation. Then you can do whatever you want.”

*   *   *

In the morning, waiflike Franny appeared at the A-frame’s sliding glass doors with a vacuum cleaner. The top of her head didn’t reach the standing bear’s nose smears. “Your mom says I have to clean, ’cause her and your dad’s coming up.”

“I guess she doesn’t trust my housekeeping.”

“That’s what she said.” Franny hauled the hose and canister inside.

Cress didn’t want to lie around reading New Yorkers while Franny worked, so she sat at the card table and took out a file, scrolled a sheet of paper into the Selectric. CHAPTER ONE, she wrote at the top of the page, and under that The Problem of Value in Art. Okay now. Start. Determining the utility of visual art has always been a difficult discussion. Too much, too vague, and she probably shouldn’t begin with a term like “utility,” which means something different in econo-talk than in English—not if she ever wanted to publish this as a popular (as opposed to an academic) book. She yanked out the paper, balled it up, tossed it into the fireplace, and twirled in a fresh sheet. The intrinsic value of art may be incalculable, but the price of art tends to be linked directly to market realities. Nope. Too big a bite. Yank, crumple, and toss. How art accrues value in the marketplace is only subjective at the beginning. Better, more grabbing. But soft, soft. Into the flames!

“Bingo,” said Franny, who’d been watching from the loft.