Chapter 14 Letter to Julia

Smith slept late the next morning while I attended to duties of pot washing and trash hauling. Our grueling drive on the preceding days, from the Black Hills of South Dakota over the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, and into Utah, had made me anxious for Smith's health. That, and our long session last night, were reasons enough to rest another day. I had several matters to ponder, the first of which was to assess the risks of going on to Yosemite.

How serious a threat was POP? The two attacks on us nearly succeeded. Yet the attempts also seemed reckless and even amateurish, perhaps the work of a splinter group or even a rogue like Max Hess acting alone. On the other hand, POP bombed the Russian envoy, which indicated they could have access to the deeper pockets of those who wished America ill. If so, they could have sophisticated know-how. It made sense to assume the worst, that these terrorists had technology to find Smith and me in all the logical places. That meant the northern route through Montana and Idaho we started on, leaving a trail of credit card receipts, was now probably a watched route. That meant Harold's sister's house in Oakland could also be under surveillance. It meant my mail at home and the college could be intercepted. It meant calls to Julia could be monitored.

I ran my fingers through Rex's fur, pulling out briars. Was I paranoid? I bought every newspaper I could find over the past several days, but coverage of the Opera shooting had vanished. Not a line of print anywhere. Perhaps the story died a natural death with Max Hess's clean getaway.

I stowed dishes and sat at the picnic table with paper and pen. There was so much I wanted to tell Julia about what I'd experienced, how things that eluded me my entire life were coming into focus, and, most importantly, how I felt about her. But I found it impossible to put into words. After struggling for ten minutes, I wrote:

Dearest Julia,

It feels strange writing a complete sentence to you. There's so much to say yet I don't quite know how to say it. Smith, by the way, has been a help—way beyond my expectations. I want to thank you for your instinct in bringing him to me.

I'm sending this note care of the art gallery for a reason. I don't want to alarm you unnecessarily, but Smith and I, and perhaps even you, might be in some danger. I don't trust the phones or I'd have left a message on your new machine! Have you seen anyone hanging about when you went to collect my mail? Or over at Harold's? Please be careful.

Missing you,

Rich

I stamped the envelope and wandered over to a neighboring campsite, where the occupants were getting their gear loaded into the back of a pick-up. They were headed north, I discovered, and I asked if they would mind posting my letter when they got to Idaho later that day.

"There's a mailbox over by the camp store," the man volunteered. "No need to drive it all the way to Boise."

"My friend collects postmarks," I said. "She'd love getting one from there."

* * *

Later that afternoon Smith and I settled into folding chairs overlooking the clay-hued canyon. A carload of campers was moving in next to us, a trio of women in their early thirties. Smith seemed particularly interested in a red-haired one, and rose to extend an offer of help. It was bemusing, thinking of how endearingly inept and bumbling Smith was with anything practical. The red-head declined with a polite thank you, and in a few minutes the three women had efficiently set up camp. With a wave, they set off on mountain bikes down the canyon road. Rex trotted behind until I called him back.

When I'd regained Smith's attention, I said, "Here's what I've learned so far: Hobbes says there is no absolute right or wrong, that all action derives its moral authority from concern for our own self-love. In the modern view of evolutionary psychology, emotions are just tools for survival and procreation." I went on. "You, on the other hand, argue that concern for others is authentic, and that moral judgment can be deduced from studying our emotional reactions, using our sympathy. Is that about right?"

"That's basically it, yes," he said. "I envision a society in which the least amount of government control is needed. For that to happen, humans must have within themselves the ability to reflect on what is right and wrong, and the desire to discipline their self-love accordingly. Certainly this desire must be nurtured; the unfolding of a conscience happens only over a lifetime."

"How did people react to Hobbes?" I asked.

"Mixed," Smith said. "The church reviled him for removing God from the moral equation, for denying the existence of God's laws. Rationalists attacked him because they believed that logic could uncover the natural, categorical laws of morality, like the laws of calculus and geometry."

"Do you buy that?" I asked.

"About 'natural' laws of morality?—yes, of course. After all, where do you think Thomas Jefferson got the idea for your Declaration of Independence? He wrote—'We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalianable rights"—but where did these 'rights' come from? They came from natural law—the principle that human beings are bound to a common body of moral laws no less powerful than the physical laws of gravity and electricity."

My ignorance of history showed again. Smith patted my shoulder. "Unlike the rationalists, I say emotion and experience are at the heart of discerning absolute moral judgments. Don't misunderstand, logic is an invaluable tool, but analytics alone can't determine right and wrong. David Hume demolished that notion during my lifetime."

"Is that why today we separate positive economics, that part having to do with facts and theories, from normative economics, that part having to do with values?"

"Precisely. That's all David's doing. Which reminds me," he said, "I really ought to get you two together."

Smith didn't often repeat himself, and I thought I'd heard that line before. "One channeled spirit is enough, thank you," I replied.

"No, really." Smith stroked his cheek thoughtfully. "There are quite a few of my friends you need to meet. Perhaps now's the time, before it's too late. I still can't believe no one reads Voltaire. Quite shameful."

He became melancholic, and had I paid closer attention, and taken his last words as prophetic, I might have saved myself a good deal of trouble. I might have tried to convince Smith to leave well enough alone, to leave justice to the proper authorities of this day and age. I might have even gotten us the heck out of there. As it was, I took Smith's remark as a meaningless aside.

Lines formed on Smith's forehead. "Promises! Promises! Oh, Jupiter." He turned away, apparently engrossed in memories. I'd never seen him like this.

With difficulty he left his private thoughts. He pointed to the book on my lap. "This is important," he said. "Look—look at the title of my book: The Theory of Moral Sentiments." His became professorial. "Examine each word for its meaning. First, what is a 'theory'? A theory generalizes about cause and effect. The remainder of the title tells you about what: generalizations about 'moral sentiments.' Moral sentiments are emotions or feelings about right and wrong."

"I'm getting the idea," I said.

"I called it 'the' theory of moral sentiments to make it universal, and to indicate that I drew heavily upon my teachers and colleagues of the Scottish Enlightenment."

I shook my head. "Seems so removed from the 'invisible hand' and the self-interest of the butcher and the baker."

"To an untrained ear, perhaps. But never forget that economics started as moral philosophy," Smith said. "Morality must be explored before discussing its application to the realm of commerce."

He dropped his head. "I can't go on." He rose and turned away. "I have my own thoughts to attend to now."

* * *

The next day was beautifully clear: a breeze freshened the air. I decided to stay put in our hidden camp another day. In the morning I cataloged the tapes of Smith's talks. By mid-afternoon Smith was awake and chipper, and whatever had troubled him yesterday seemed long forgotten.

"Get out of here," he said. "I can clean up camp as well as you."

I looked at him doubtfully.

"Shoo!" He waved his hands like he was herding a flock of chickens. "You've been cooped up too long on my account. Go enjoy yourself."

Relieved, I dressed for a hike in the canyon, and packed a knapsack with a quart of water and some cheese and crackers. Promising Smith I'd be back by sunset, I set off briskly up a narrow trail, letting Rex lead the way.

The arid Utah countryside offered startling vistas of deep gorges and scruffy hillsides, punctuated by improbable chimney rocks jutting to the heavens. I imaged how Julia would paint these exotic landscapes. Everything was bigger than life and brighter when I shared it in my mind with Julia. I carried on a schizophrenic conversation with her for an hour until I realized that is why they locked people away. Toward sundown I spotted a coyote trotting up a trail on the side of a hill. I expected to hear its mystical call later that evening, and kept a handle on Rex's collar until it was well out of sight.

It was seven-thirty when I crested the hill overlooking camp. The normally placid encampment seemed eerily lit and over-active. Then I realized it was because a rescue vehicle was there, emergency lights circling. I began running before I consciously knew whose campsite they were at. It took twenty minutes to scamper down the face of the canyon, and several times I nearly tumbled.

A medic was putting equipment back in his truck as I got there. Smith was collapsed on a cot.

"What happened?" I asked, out of breath.

The medic held up my empty Drambuie flask. "Seems grandpa's been nipping all afternoon."

The red-haired woman from the campsite next to us came over. "He kept calling me his sweetheart, 'Miss Campbell,'" the woman volunteered. "Seemed to make him very sad when I told him I wasn't." She shook her head. "My name's Compton, not Campbell."

I turned back to the medic. "How is he?"

"He'll sleep it off. But I found these liver pills in the tent. He'll need some help for a week or so."

"I'm not his girlfriend," the woman insisted. "My name's Compton."

"I'm very sorry," I said to her, "he was obviously mistaken." I turned back to the medic. "Perhaps he needs a hospital."

"He refused. Said he didn't have insurance. Anyway, the nearest hospital is three hundred miles."

Caring for Smith would be difficult, I realized, remembering his earlier collapse at the Faculty Club. It wasn't something I could do alone. I made a swift decision, and headed at a trot to call Julia.

* * *

When the sleeping form awoke the next morning, Rex's ears were back, and he began the strange canine ritual of growling, circling low to the ground around the comatose figure on the cot. I put Rex on his leash and led him to the car. When I returned, Smith opened his bleary eyes.

"Again, you and this Smith fellow try to kill me," the voice said weakly, a little spittle coming from the side of his mouth. It was Harold! I helped him sit up and gave him a pill with water. After he swallowed I brought a smile to his face by saying I'd reached Julia last night at the gallery.

"She'll be here tomorrow," I said.

"Looks—looks like a smile on your face, too," he said.