The Privileges (22 page)

He wasn’t sure what to tell the kids to do in that house of mourning, so he settled for telling them what not to do: no texting from inside Grandma’s house, no earphones in their ears for any reason. Save it all for the hotel. He and Cynthia took them to the church where they were married and the four of them even had dinner in the Athletic Club dining room, which was the site of their reception; Jonas and April were indulgent about it at best. Nor were they especially diverted by the introduction of their “cousins,” a term that turned out to refer to the twin sons of Cynthia’s stepsister, Deborah. The two women hadn’t had occasion to speak to each other in years; April heard her mother cooing about some recent Christmas-card
photo of the twins but it was not any Christmas card that she and Jonas had ever seen. The boys were five years old and, April couldn’t stop herself from thinking, really unfortunate-looking. Virtually the only way to get them to stop talking was to feed them something. Somehow they’d gotten to know their grandpa Warren much better than she and Jonas ever had, and they turned cutely somber when discussing the loss of him.

Deborah was much altered. She was fat, for starters, with no vestiges of the goth edge, faint to begin with, she had cultivated as a grad student, to say nothing of her one night at Bellevue; she taught twentieth-century art history at Boston University, as did her husband, who was a good deal older than her and had been, Cynthia was amused to learn, the chair of the search committee that hired her. When Deborah cried at the funeral, not at all showily, Cynthia found herself struggling not to stare at her, without quite knowing why. She had written a eulogy for her father but had arranged for her husband to read it for her, as she doubted her ability to get through it. And when the last mourner had gone through the receiving line in the room at the back of the church after the service, Cynthia and Deborah hugged.

But that feeling of kinship was short-lived. After the last guest left Ruth’s house that evening, Cynthia heard two more voices out on the deck, and when she went out to investigate she found Deborah and Jonas leaning against the railing, deep in conversation. She tried to conceal her surprise, but could not, and when they both noticed her standing there in the doorway, they laughed. “We’re arguing about Andy Warhol,” Deborah said. “Pittsburgh’s own. I feel like I’m defending my thesis again.” Unless Andy Warhol played the fucking banjo, Cynthia thought, she would not have guessed that Jonas knew or cared who he was; but before she could say anything else, Jonas said, “Mom, what time is our flight tomorrow?”

“I’m actually not leaving tomorrow after all,” Cynthia said. “Your flight is at something like three-thirty.”

Jonas pumped his fist, and Deborah said, “Well, would you mind then if I took Jonas out to the Warhol Museum? One of the curators
there is an old classmate of mine. It’s a pretty great museum, actually. Maybe you want to come too.”

She did not miss the look that crossed her son’s face when Deborah made that last suggestion. “No,” she said, “I’m sure it’s a real life-changer and all that, but there’s things to take care of around here. You go. Knock yourselves out. Just be back at the hotel by, I don’t know, one.” Smiling as tightly as her mother might have, she stepped back inside the house and slid the door shut. Back in the kitchen there were a thousand dishes to wash, and she briefly entertained the pros and cons of just throwing them all in the garbage. It’s not like there’d ever be a crowd this size here again. Andy Warhol, she thought suddenly. It’s one thing to fall for that bullshit as a high-school student, but imagine devoting your whole life to it.

Adam and the kids flew home the next day, and so, as it turned out, did Deborah’s family; but Deborah stuck around. Cynthia supposed she should be happy that the burden of the next few days—all those hours maintaining one’s patience on the phone with the insurance company or the idiots at Social Security—wasn’t all going to fall on her, only child or not. Still, it was a little confounding to see how close Deborah and Ruth seemed to have become over the past few years, outside of Cynthia’s awareness. At some point, she thought, Deborah must have really bought into that whole extended-family thing, because she certainly hadn’t been buying into it when they first met each other, more than fifteen years ago now.

As for Ruth, having both girls in the house helped her maintain the bizarre equanimity that had characterized her all week. She’d wept a little during the service but otherwise there had been no great outpouring of grief. Cynthia believed this was some kind of denial. Or maybe it was relief. Or maybe it was just that she was old and alone and so there was no longer any need for her customary exaggeration of how hopeless things were. She puttered and took naps and answered condolence cards and fought good-naturedly with them when they tried to cook for her. She was sixty-seven and there was nothing to suggest that she couldn’t go on like this for another twenty or thirty years.

She was easily exhausted, though, and went to bed early, and a few minutes later Cynthia was sitting numbly in the kitchen staring at a light-switch cover shaped like a rooster when Deborah walked in happily waving a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon she’d found in the liquor cabinet. Hallelujah, Cynthia thought.

“So when are you heading back?” Deborah said, after the first one.

“The day after tomorrow, I think. I’ve got a board meeting, and then we have this place down in Anguilla we go to sometimes, so we’ll go there when school’s out, which is in … What is today? Anyway, it’s next week.”

Deborah nodded but was unable to suppress an ambivalent laugh. “You guys have really been successful,” was what she said.

Cynthia wasn’t sure how to reply to that one. “It’s all Adam,” she said finally. “Some people just have a talent for investing.”

“Well, you two always did seem to have that kind of penumbra around you. And now your kids have got it too.”

“Your boys are adorable,” Cynthia said, reaching for the bottle.

“Thank you. And the weird thing is, I have two more. Sort of. Sebastian has two daughters from his first marriage. Both in college now. So after all these years, I’m the stepmother.”

“Ironic would be the word there, I guess,” Cynthia said.

“Say this for my dad,” Deborah said, holding up the bottle. “He knew that life was too short to settle for cheap liquor.”

“So I’m curious,” Cynthia said. She could see already that Deborah was something of a lightweight, and who knew but that this might be the last time they ever talked. “What’s happened to you? I mean the one thing I always thought we had in common was thinking that the whole blended-family thing or whatever people call it was bullshit. You always seemed to hate it worse than I did. And now you’re all Aunty Deborah with Jonas, and you’re treating Ruth like she’s your own mom. Is your own mom even still alive? That seems like something I should know, I guess, but I have no idea.”

Deborah looked at her slyly. “She lives with us,” she said. “Back in Boston.”

“Get the fuck out of here.”

She nodded, amused by herself. “I don’t know when it happened exactly, but somehow the older I got the more exposed I felt, and the whole family idea got real meaningful to me. I developed this need for it. I had a theory that it had to do with being an only child, like the fear of being alone that comes with that, but I guess not. It didn’t happen to you.”

“So is this it for you, in terms of coming out here to visit or to help Ruth or whatever? I’ve always kind of wondered about the step-thing. Does it end when you’re an adult? Does it end when the marriage that made it happen ends?”

Deborah considered it. She put her chin down on the kitchen table and stared at the bottle. “Time will kick your ass,” she said. “I used to be so angry about how fake the whole thing was. I was pissed about having to be in your wedding, even. But you wait around long enough and these bogus connections harden into something real, whether you like it or not. I really think of Ruth as one of my parents now. I don’t think Dad’s death can undo that.”

“What will happen to her?” Cynthia said suddenly. “You know there’s going to be a huge crash once we’re gone. It must fucking suck to be old. It must suck to have your husband die. But I mean what can we do about it? The only way to hold it off is to stay here forever. And there’s no way she’s coming to live with us, I mean, hats off to you and all that, but I could never do it.”

“She’d never come live with you anyway, even if you asked her. Or with me. No way Ruth could ever open herself up enough to depend on one of us like that. I think she’ll actually do okay living alone. Better than most people. The thing to worry about, if you want to worry about something, is what if her health goes south, like Dad’s did. Then you’re looking at some hard choices.”

Did she mean “you” as in “one,” or “you” as in “Cynthia”? But there was no way to ask for a clarification because she felt craven and selfish just for wondering. Anyway, those decisions were still a long way off. “She’s never been sick a day in her life,” Cynthia said.

There was some kind of noise from the direction of the living
room, and they both cocked their heads in case Ruth was up, but only silence followed. The muted TV still flickered on the walls beyond the kitchen door.

“You know,” Deborah said, “my dad was really a great guy. He had his limits in terms of expressiveness, but he was really loving. And he always had a soft spot for you. I think because you were certain things I wasn’t. It hurt him that you didn’t think of him as a parent. You never really gave him a chance.”

Her eyes were drunk. Either she hadn’t done this in a long time or she did it a lot. Cynthia suddenly lost interest in the answer. You started taking on other people’s grievances and there was no end to it. She was nobody’s sister, and neither was Deborah. It was one thing to conspire about the future but there was no way she was going back into the past.

“I already have a father,” she said.

Juniors and seniors from Dalton still came and went at the Moreys’ apartment like it was some kind of after-school program; but months after April’s friend Robin had stopped living there, gone back to reassume her place inside her own much more opaque home, April still missed having her around. Which was ironic, she thought, because toward the end of Robin’s time there, the girl’s behavior had actually started to offend her a little, less on her own behalf than on her mother’s. Robin brought drugs into the house, she used her key to sneak out at night and flirted with the doorman so he wouldn’t bust her, she even brought guys into the downstairs half of the apartment in secret, and even though April had done just about all of these things herself at one time or another, her thought this time was: My mother takes you in and gives you every freedom and this is how you pay her back?

When it got around Dalton that she was essentially a runaway, and that her mom had beaten her (April herself may have been the one who let that slip), Robin’s school persona had undergone a sea change. She went from a carefully cultivated normality to a kind of exalted strangeness. She started playing up to her new persona by
mouthing off to teachers (who, like Cynthia, basically let her get away with anything), to other kids, to the people who worked at the Starbucks near school where they hung out during free periods. Friday afternoons sometimes she’d be so drunk she’d fall asleep in class. To others it might have looked like acting out but April saw it as pure performance. Only she knew how good the chances were that this supposedly damaged badass would end the day lying in her pajamas on April’s couch with her head in April’s mother’s lap while the three of them watched movies and shared a bag of red licorice. But now that was over and Robin and she, though still friends, didn’t share anything like that at all.

Once in a while, when Robin was still living there, when the two of them were up late and couldn’t get to sleep, they used to lie side by side on April’s bed with their laptops and go into these chat rooms that were obviously full of older guys. It was hilarious, because you could say absolutely anything to them with no repercussions because they could have been anywhere in the world, and so, for that matter, could the girls themselves. The guys were just glad you weren’t cops, probably. They would masturbate pathetically while April and Robin, lying on their backs with their laptops on their stomachs, typed the most ridiculous porn and then tilted their screens toward each other to read, trying to outdo themselves until they both laughed so hard they hurt. It would always end with the loser asking to meet you. He didn’t care where you were; he’d travel anywhere to meet Bobbi or Sammi or whatever name they’d given each other that night. They were safe because they lied about everything. Though it wasn’t the same, April still did it sometimes by herself when she was bored.

Now on most weekends it was just the four of them. One Friday April’s mother announced that they were all going to the Hamptons the next morning to look at houses. This was a bit of a surprise; though they visited people out there all the time, her dad in particular had resisted joining the general migration for years, saying that it never changed and there had to be some more interesting place in the world to see. They would spend the next several weekends on the East End looking if they needed to, Cynthia said, but the kids
exchanged an eye-roll at that one because once their mother had made up her mind to purchase something, she usually got what she wanted in the first hour. Their dad drove them out to Amagansett in the morning and, sure enough, maybe the third place they saw had their mom hooked. It was really nice, April had to admit—about a hundred feet from the beach—and just being out here at all would bring her closer to a lot of her friends on the weekends. Another home to fill up with stuff. Her mom would be in heaven for the next few months.

Back in the city a few nights later she was in her room alone writing to one of the deviants in the chat room and, when he asked her her name, she thoughtlessly typed April. She had a moment of total panic until she remembered that there were a million Aprils in the world. But after that night, whenever she would log on, amid all the lying and the fake porn-star affect there would be this one voice on the screen that would sometimes pop up and say, April? Is that you? His name, or so he said, was Neil, and he lived in Connecticut. Far from the city? she wrote, and he said, Not far at all. Why? He asked for a picture, and she said no way. He sent her one of himself. A little old, maybe, but not a complete gimp, that is if it was really a picture of him at all. There was no way to know, or rather there was only one way to know. That’s all the Internet was, lies gone wild, and it only made you dizzy if you tried to sort it out.