Free The Age of Hope by David Bergen Page A

taking a psychology course at the university once a week, Thursday evenings, and she was reading a book by Betty Friedan. It was very important. Hope thought that she had said, “Betty Friesen,” the woman who lived on Third Street, a woman their age, and she asked Emily if it was true that Betty Friesen had written a book. “I never imagined that she was a writer.”
    “Come on, Hope. For goodness’ sake. Betty Friedan. She’s from New York. She says that women need to be emancipated. It’s brilliant.”
    Though Hope didn’t believe herself trapped in any way, she resented the implication. So what if she hadn’t heard of Betty Friedan? Emily was still talking about her course and about the professor, a youngish man who wore a beret to class and who was American and lived with an American woman who was also a professor of psychology. “They aren’t married,” Emily said. “Just lovers.”
    Hope wondered what “just lovers” meant, but she didn’t ask. She felt suddenly old and stupid. She didn’t know anything, and this was a depressing thought. On the other hand, she wondered if there wasn’t entirely too much thinking going on and not enough work. Work was good for the soul. Thinking sometimes just confused the heart. Leisure, as Roy said, was a luxury that shouldn’t be overindulged, and for once Hope agreed.
    One day there was a knock at the door and when Hope opened it she discovered Harlin, the hitchhiker, standing there, and beside him a young woman.
    Hope tilted her head, unsure why Harlin was visiting, and then she laughed and said, “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
    “Just got one,” Harlin said. Then he said, “Joking,” and he pointed at a Studebaker sitting in the driveway. “Got my own ride now.” He waited.
    “Well,” Hope said, “do you want to come in?” She was showing already and she saw the young woman studying her stomach, and in order to make everyone comfortable, she said, “I’m pregnant,” and she made a little curtsy right there on the green linoleum.
    Conner walked in holding a toy gun and he pointed it at Harlin and shot him.
    “Got me,” Harlin cried and he stumbled across the kitchen holding his chest. Conner thought this hilarious. So he shot him again and again, and with each bullet Harlin writhed and groaned.
    Hope pulled Conner’s arm and said, “That’s enough, Conner. He’s dead.” She told him that these were friends from long ago.
    “Eight years. Maybe more. This is Ella, my fiancée.”
    Hope shook Ella’s hand. Ella nodded but didn’t say anything. Conner pulled his mother down to whisper in her ear.
    “They’re dark.”
    “Yes, they are,” she said.
    “Why?”
    “Off you go.” She pushed him towards the back door.
    “See ya, buddy,” Harlin called out.
    Hope didn’t recall him being so talkative and she said so. “Last time I saw you you said maybe three words. I did all the talking.”
    “And your husband.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He drove me all the way back to Kenora and he talked and talked. He talked about work and honesty, and he talked about everybody getting a kick at the can. And he offered me a job at his garage. I told him that I couldn’t live in a town that was all white.” He looked at Ella and then Hope and he grinned. “Still is white. I told Ella that there wasn’t a single Indian in this place. Or Chinese, or black man.”
    She wasn’t sure what Harlin wanted. She didn’t like his take on the town, though he was absolutely right. She said, “So you want a job now? After all these years?”
    “Hell, no. I’m a roofer in Kenora. No, me and Ella were passing by and I said you want to see a town in a time warp and she said yeah and so we took a detour. We went shopping, by the way, at your second-hand place. Lady there told us where your new house was. Ella’s looking for a wedding dress.”
    Harlin stopped talking and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one and exhaled. Hope fetched a saucer and