Free The Age of Grief by Jane Smiley Page B

from his school on a trip to Kyoto, and at Akira’s house. Akira was a fellow teacher at his school who befriended him. His house had four rooms, two Japanese style and two Western style.
    He remembers, of course, other scenes of Japan—acresof buses, faces staring at his Westernness, the polite but bored rows of students in his classroom—when he is trying to decide whether to go back there. But these are not fixed, have no power; they are just memories, like memories of bars in Lincoln or the pig houses on his grandfather’s farm.
    And so, he survives the storm. He pulls into the driveway of Harold’s new house, one he has not seen, though it is in a neighborhood he remembers from junior high school. The storm is over. Harold has his snowblower out and is making a path from the driveway to his front door. With the noise and because his back is turned, he is unaware of Kirby’s arrival. Kirby stops the car, stretches, and looks at his watch. Seven hours for a four-hour trip. Kirby lifts his shoulders and rotates his head, but does not beep his horn just yet. The fact is that he has frightened himself with the blinding snow, the miles of slick and featureless landscape, thoughts of Japan, and the thousands and thousands of miles between here and there. His car might be a marble that has rolled, only by luck, into a safe corner. He presses his fingers against his eyes and stills his breathing.
    Harold turns around, grins, and shuts off the snowblower. It is a Harold identical to the Harold that Kirby has always known. Same bright snowflake ski hat, same bright ski clothing. Harold has spent his whole life skiing and ski-jumping. His bushy beard grows up to the hollows of his eyes, and when he leans into the car his mustache is, as always, crusted with ice.
    “Hey!” he says. He backs away, and Kirby opens the car door.
    “Made it!” Kirby says. That is all he will say about thetrip. The last thing he wants to do is start a discussion about near misses. Compared with some of Harold’s near misses, this is nothing. In fact, near misses on the highway aren’t worth mentioning unless a lot of damage has been done to the car. Kirby knows of near misses that Harold has never dared to describe to anyone besides him, because they show a pure stupidity that even Harold has the sense to be ashamed of.
    At dinner, over sweet and savory Nordic fare that Kirby is used to but doesn’t much like, the people around the table, his relatives, waver in the smoky candlelight, and Kirby imagines that he can feel the heat of the flames on his face. The other people at the table seem unfamiliar. Leanne, Harold’s wife, he has seen only once, at their wedding. She is handsome and self-possessed-looking, but she sits at the corner of the table, like a guest in her own house. Eric sits at the head, and Mary Beth, his wife, jumps up and down to replenish the food. This assumption of primogeniture is a peculiarity of Eric’s that has always annoyed Kirby, but even aside from that they have never gotten along. Eric does his best—earnest handshake and smile each time they meet, two newsy letters every year, pictures of the children (known between Harold and Kirby as “the little victims”). Eric has a Ph.D. from Columbia in American history, but he does not teach. He writes for a conservative think tank, articles that appear on the op-ed pages of newspapers and in the think tank’s own publications. He specializes in “the family.” Kirby and Harold have made countless jokes at Eric’s expense. Kirby knows that more will be made this trip, if only in the form of conspiratorial looks, rolling eyes. Eric’s hobby—Mary Beth’s, too, for they share everything—is developing each nuance ofhis Norwegian heritage into a fully realized ostentation. Mary Beth is always busy, usually baking. That’s all Kirby knows about her, and all he cares to know.
    Across the table Anna, their older daughter, pale, blue-eyed, cool, seems to be staring