A California Closing

by Robert Wintner

  But even billions get tedious in time. What can a girl do, spend it? Not ever—not even going at it two-fisted 24/7. Not double time or triple. Never, ever is how soon she could spend it.

  But harking back on the unwed teen seven months gone with nowhere to turn, she gained perspective on money and its management—and appreciation thereof. She realized that the nature of tedium in the wealth/poverty continuum is far more easily remedied with money than it is with none. Wealth is better, and the good thing about fifty years is the total removal of doubt that time and massive, whimsical spending can allow.

  A few odd events took place a long time ago. Most of the principals are gone. The details are fuzzy. A female child may be out there somewhere in a random universe. Time had reduced the filial connection to an accident of birth resulting from capricious sexual contact, resulting in a baby person of parallel DNA but with no more social connection than a ship passing in the night—or on the sidewalk in broad daylight.

  But please, Ellspeth Burnham was not the first female to incur experience of a dire, personal nature and move on, and she would not be the last. Life is for the living, for those who can find joy in adaptation, and so she did. Her actions were not cold but practical. She achieved optimal potential for all parties concerned—and she did so with the best interests of all parties in mind.

  She wondered from time to time, after coming into wealth so vast that money had no meaning, how a devil-may-care life could be, if cash-on-hand got down to a few million. She could downsize down to teensy-weensy with less than anybody and live simply in blue jeans and a used car, in a modest ridge-top bungalow with her pets, her knitting, and her garden. But what could she do in the meantime, give the billions away? That would free her from the constant demands of management and defense, but it seemed so … foolish.

  Alfred died at ninety-two, young by the claim of those mourners lamenting the loudest; he had so many good years left. Such a pity, they cried and carried on. It was those same people who’d raised the wry eyebrow when, at fifty, he married a girl of fifteen. Detractors called it statutory, but Alfred called it technical, inconsequential with mutual consent, and legally defensible, as rendered by the in-house legal staff. After all, fifty and fifteen don’t seem so far apart, staring down from ninety-two and fifty-seven. Besides, she knew enough to manage a house and grounds and kitchen staff. Nearly fifty years of it was proof.

  The widow Burnham moved from mourning her dear departed husband to the southland of her idle fantasy—her idea of living a little closer to the earth. She longed for a change of scenery and a lifestyle that might recapture the old vitality. Who needs twelve thousand square feet and servants when the pesky laws of physics allow a person to be only in one room at a time? She could entertain in several rooms at once, but then the guests seemed so similar to the guests at the last entertainment, or the same entertainment, with the same questions and chitchat on who did what to whom and the degree to which it should be deemed faux pas or de rigueur, no matter what room you turn to. Worse yet was the endless speculation on money, its gain, loss or movement sideways. The guests seemed to agree in principle that it was a rough and tumble world out there. They found comfort in like company, oddly blind to the hazards of the overly insulated.

  The media could be amusing at times, sniffing the Smythe/Burnham trail for bombastic effusions on nothing. It’s what they do. Who doesn’t make a mess, sooner or later?

  She lived that life and had more life yet to live, so she went south, where less could be more of everything.

  Feeling free and light again, she took up where she’d left off—suddenly, with a few billion smackeroos instead of being a single mother with a baby busting her chops and coming up goose eggs every time. Once again mobile and nearly anonymous on the ridge overlooking Monterey Bay, she felt snug, far from the society page but not from the world she craved. She couldn’t have a boyfriend in Highborough, though normal urges arose.

  Was she done with that sort of thing? She didn’t think so.

  She felt equivocal but optimistic, self-counseling that the correct man had yet to come along. A girl could have a fling or a regular man friend. What could it hurt? Her prospects? Ha! The odd man up the road might do, briefly. He looks hungry and feels vulgar. That seems refreshing.

  Alfred N.W. Burnham’s stroke had rendered him a man of few words for years prior to passing. His morose condition suited those around him, who agreed that the stoic mood likely suited him too. Nobody called him taciturn and cold, but he was. The shriveled old man in a vegetative state remained in the news, a moneyed celebrity and dry goods icon kept alive by the God-fearing insistence of the United States Congress, which stellar assemblage threatened federal intervention if the old man was unplugged. Alfred N.W. was still a pillar of capitalism who could return on God’s will to glory in a grateful society, representing humanity, goodwill, convenience to church, schools and shopping and those values we hold dear.

  A nation could pray.

  Military incursion, earthquake, tsunami, flooding banks, and congressional scandal deferred to the Burnham context. Alfred N.W. and the hope of millions gave meaning to motivation and movement. The camera scanned for a blink, a sigh, a nod, a twitch. Was that a wink? What could he be thinking? Ratings remained solid, as the Burnham billions expanded and contracted with the Burnham respirator … until the Burnham saga went to breaking news: Death Just In.

  The airwaves buzzed with bio, follow-up bio of associates, friends, fans, and family in their grief and devastation at the loss of the iconic giant. He’d been vegetative for years, and the naysayers had called it good-as-dead. It became official with death. Gone was the husband, the father, the son, the grandson—the great grandson! A hospital statement put the cause of death as complications. Two congresspersons demanded autopsy, so the media stayed on it. Heirs, assigns, beneficiaries, fiduciaries, and spouses declined to comment, even those with apparent claim to the bulk of the billions. The story moved when offspring older than herself promised litigation if bequeathals went in any direction other than the appropriate line. Cameras followed the body and went to split-screen to show the incredible man in his final days, when he breathed, kind of.

  Why would she smoke a ninety-two-year-old vegetable? Then again, why wait? With Alfred dead the money got frozen in place. Viewers called for action now—for justice! Speculation swung like a pendulum. Alfred would have needed only hydration to generate a beep on the life machine; he could have made it to a hundred five if only someone had cared or had a heart. Or a hundred ten—vegetables can sit on a shelf for years and still be alive, with a pulse and social security number. So yeah, maybe she did it!

  But that theory was cynical, and the grieving widow was the picture of innocence, a self-made woman living on a hilltop over a bay, all alone. Down from Olympus and into the suburbs, she’d downsized her lifestyle to the basics: a view, a used car, and a garden. She loved it. She loved the quiet, easy neighborhood, the convenient grocery store, the people saying hello and suggesting that she have a nice day.

  “Twelve thousand square feet? Nobody needs more than three.”

  The tale of her climb down and march south lulls Mulroney, who nods and catches himself. Her cleavage is powdered. Does she sweat there?

  She says her family history is deep and rich and a very important thing to share, so it’s not lost, ever, and she appreciates his willingness to hear it, and …

  He cuts her off: “You know…”

  She leans forward. “No, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?”

  She’s coy, possibly receptive, but to what? To ovations of … not romance, but what? A romp? But two people at the age of better sense, beyond hormonal vicissitudes, can be so easily embarrassed and equally prone to gaffe. For example, what if she’s not receptive? What if Mulroney presents something uncouth—something illegal? This flirtatious manner may be a ruse—or a misperception. Did she not recently migrate from the land of the socially misbegotten?

/>   Then again, why would a man of a certain age and indelicate situation stroll up the street with a gift to call on a woman of even greater years, if not to achieve an objective? She appears to be a nice woman, and the plan is conceived, and it germinates. And a man has to do what he doesn’t want to do.

  She lingers furtively, but how can a man be sure? Of course, he can’t be any surer than any man has ever been, except maybe for those who were sure. Mulroney was always certain, when it came to money and business, and he may as well see this as that. But what is he supposed to do, ask for a loan? But she’s flirting. Should he whisper sweet nothings on a ninety-day note? Or maybe call it a grant to help a less fortunate used car salesperson? She murmurs over the past and the filthy rich people she’s known. Oh, she used to hate that phrase, but then she came to hate more that crowd’s obsession with spending and one-upping, her friends and neighbors watching each other and elbowing as they clambered up the rungs …

  He glazes again, grateful for her renewed oration on one thing and another. He hesitates cutting her off again for fear of where things might go, though she does seem to be working up to something. He decides to stand up as if to leave—or maybe he should just plainly share his need, however humbling it may be. In either event, a true salesperson must ask for the money because a deal was never closed without asking for the money, and failure to ask dooms a salesperson to wonder what might have been.

  She drones on that the latest phenom for richies is the good-works social circle. That is, persons of wealth let their magnitude be known, in order to make the A-lists of the nonprofit organizations working diligently to feed the children, clothe the needy, inoculate the poor—oh! Save the whales! “That one is ripe. My God! But you see everyone who’s anyone showing up at these things, and the food and liquor are over-the-top, and the entertainment could not possibly be paid for because it’s actually the guest list! The catch is, these people must contribute once a year somewhere, or fall off the lists. Well, there aren’t nearly so many wealthy people anymore—I mean, of course there are, but not so many who let on. I mean, most of the magnitude people don’t utter a syllable, and those who hint at magnitude don’t exist. Not really. They think value on paper is the same as mountains of moolah. Ha! Paupers! Presenting as patricians. It’s … deplorable, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm. Well…”

  “Well, yes. I do believe that imposters to wealth are an odious bunch and, quite frankly, our cross to bear. It’s not right, and it gets worse: the truly wealthy have so many burdens in maintaining social order. Really, it’s why I’m so glad to be here. Everyone seems so … real. You know?” Yes, Mulroney knows. So she drones over cronies and confidants and the stressful life of the upper class, who must tirelessly defend the ramparts from the ever-clawing upper middle—and from the lower too, if you can believe it. The nerve of some people! “Animal rights my behind. I snap their necks! They serve society, and so do I!”

  She made a deal with the devil a long time ago, and she honest to goodness has shared that little secret with nobody—no body—until this very moment. “I mean right now this moment, with you, Mister Bicycle Man.”

  He rolls his eyes over a half nod to indicate something—maybe she’ll take it as an avowal of trust, or the trust between them, or the beauty of meeting someone new and feeling like old friends—of his own love for the little fuzzy ones. He wants to say something but holds back.

  She waits. “What? What were you going to say?”

  What’s to risk? What’s to lose? She’s human. She’s been around the block. She knows about wealthy people and the merely rich who aspire to true greatness yet fall behind and hang on by the hair of their chinny chin chins; oh, she knows. He needs to state his case, which is nothing more nor less than an honest step forward, which is not a lunge into the precipice. Her hand has slid as if incidentally over to within touching distance of his, so he sets a fingertip on her wrist. She smiles. Is that a purr? Or is her stomach grumbling. “Betty. I have this … I have this … This…”

  That feels like a swing and a miss with the bases loaded, bottom of the ninth. It’s late in the game, but a guy has two more swings. Maybe better to save the last two for a new inning …

  Loser! Life is not baseball, and sports analogy means you’re out of your league, so forget the squeeze play and swing away for a stand-up double. At least. All men and women arrive at the age of realization, that in the end is solitude, and until then we must find true friends and help each other as we can. She knows this. She said as much. Moreover, underscoring the game- and series-winning potential of the situation, she removes her hand from under his fingertip and rests it on the back of the sofa, and fondles his ear lobe. It’s a setup, to be sure, a warranted advance and much, much more, indicating that intimate contact may consummate approval of the loan application. Well, it could.

  So they sit and ponder life and the world. The stage is set for success, the nature of which may well be symbiotic, in a way. A homespun billionairess in denim wouldn’t dally frivolously, unless she would, but the potential reverberates in Mulroney’s head like Tom the cat’s head inside the garbage can lid when it got banged with a sledgehammer. DONNNNGGGG!!! All he has to do is ask, or perhaps fondle or diddle in kind to best fill the communication gap. The only thing for certain is that the move is up to him and pronto, lest the game be called.

  Yet he hesitates. She’s not too far from seventy, but he has liquor and the shadows are pleasant. She has a decent rack, though it looks firmly harnessed. But what if … What if he can’t … Well, let her come and get it, if it’s the getting she wants. Big M Mulroney could fuck a snake when the chips are down, especially if it’ll get the chips back up. So he eases back to let her fondle his ear. She does, chattering anew over friendship and its amazing changes in form over the years. He listens, paying attention as an act of giving that feels selfless and grateful, nodding but not nodding off. The scene feels reasonable and civilized. And safe, which never led to a payout, but the game is still on, with no errors.

  This is not romance. This is friendship. He’s married, after all, and a woman should respect that. Besides, in the more reasonable light of rational thinking, he realizes that she won’t want to take her pants off till dark, two hours out, call it modesty or another excuse in a series.

  She giggles at the very idea of a neighbor being snooty—to her!

  He giggles back, “I can’t imagine anyone being snooty to you. You’re too friendly.” Mulroney recalls the salad days, when he would show a date what she’d caused to happen, and she would scream bloody murder or respond more cordially. It was just the same as asking for the money and seemed like a real savings in time, but that was long ago, when Mighty Joe Young was an upstanding youth, a figure to admire, an endearing character to those who got to know him.

  This was not that. Betty B would hardly make a stink, and the Mulroneys are headed out of town anyway. Still, he’s not a stalker or a flasher; Michael Mulroney is simply an aging man in a jam seeking help from a friend and willing to return service, which he senses she is seeking and he can provide if he closes his eyes on some co-ed ass from the salad days. Betty is good company, and he gives her a whirl in the mind movies, not exactly honking his horn but maybe … getting to know you, getting to know all about you … And he says into the lull, “What a crazy world it would be if everybody was, you know, making love to everybody else.”

  “Yes, it would,” she coos. “And that’s what’s wrong with the world, people don’t even know each other and they’re willing to get intimate. But … What’s this?” She sets a hand on his crotch.

  What’s this? She’s discussing his dingdong in the third person as she rolls on about the difficult people she’s had to deal with and their presumptuous behaviors regarding intimacy, when they obviously knew nothing of friendship or trust. He realizes her social skill; she’s been talking away to make time for the move. Mulroney! You loser! Never mind. But wait: she’s retrieving it, toy
ing with it … talking to it … calling it Peter. His name isn’t Peter. Where did she get Peter?

  “Such a bold little Peter. Can you say please?”

  “He has several names, actually, besides Peter. I used to call him Mighty Joe Young. Or Lord Jim. Or The Little Colonel. Gargantua. Jack in the Box—but Peter is fine.”

  Mulroney is rarely speechless but is rendered a man of fewer words. She’s in control and knows it and seems to savor it, seeking his comfort level at the same time. He wishes he’d known it would go this way. How nice it would have been to relax with confidence rather than anticipate disaster, worrying over the mess and fuss of a terrible misunderstanding. Beyond his wildest dreams, he ups the ante on the loan app—make that the grant application that will not require a few hundred grand to get the job done, but a simpler, cleaner, more precise and truly regal one point five. Between friends? Chump change!

  But it has been decades since Mulroney romped on a sofa with a date, and the exchange seems off. Maybe it’s the yard work that makes her hands rough. At any rate, she’s apparently convinced that a piston enjoys a dry cylinder. He seeks to change the scene by mumbling, “Fungo. I mean sometimes I would call him—it—Fungo. Like a fungo bat. You know?”

  “I think Fungo wants to finagle a tonsil exam. Don’t you?”

  “Betty, I … uh…”

  The sofa looks like high-end chintz. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s a leaf and twigs print, and surely she wouldn’t want to disturb the lovely pattern with a load o’ tapioca. Wait a minute—what are those yellow clouds?

  Okay, it’s her sofa and this does not appear to be the first time she’s risked a few stains, but they’ll never get the goo to go away under these conditions. But he can’t very well ask that she get on with the tonsil exam, or if she knows how a Jewish princess eats a banana. Perhaps sensing his dilemma, she stops anyway in the worst way of stopping, to ask the most disappointing question in the world of Michael Mulroney: “Would you buy a used car from this man?”