Everybody Rise

by Stephanie Clifford

  “The what?” He shook his head. “Oh, your friend’s dinner. You’d best cancel.”

  “I’d best cancel? I was the one who told you not to do it in the first place.”

  “What does it matter, Evelyn? It’s one dinner.”

  “She’s signed you up. She’s going to kill me if you drop out. And what about the money?”

  “What money?”

  “The donation? That you have to give? She signed you up for twenty-five thousand.”

  “You never mentioned a twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation.”

  “I’m positive I did.” She knew she hadn’t.

  “You said there was a donation, Evelyn, not one that’s more than the yearly salary of many Americans. Promising that I’ll give twenty-five thousand dollars to a cause of your friend’s? What were you thinking?” He stared at her, unblinking.

  “I didn’t make the promise. You were the one that wanted to go.”

  “Evelyn, I do not think anything will happen with the investigation, but if it does, and frankly, even if it doesn’t, do you know how unseemly it would be for me to be giving such a large donation to one of your friends right now?”

  “What am I supposed to tell her?”

  He smiled and picked up the yearbook again. “Lord, Evelyn, tell her I can’t go.”

  “It’s not as easy as that.”

  He wasn’t listening anymore, though. He had again opened the yearbook again, to the same page. He was tracing his finger over the caption; Evelyn could only read the first part, “BASEBALL BOYS BREAK TIME, captain D. Beegan…”

  He did not look up when Evelyn slid her unfinished bourbon toward him and left.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Security Questions

  The sharp ring of the Petit Trianon apartment phone startled Evelyn awake. What was it? Where was she supposed to go? It was dark; was it today or tomorrow?

  Another ring and she lifted herself off the couch. “Hello? Yes?”

  “Miss Evelyn, Miss Charlotte is coming up.”

  “What—what time is it?”

  “Eight oh-five, miss.”

  It took Evelyn a couple of seconds to place herself in the evening. She’d left PLU early to go to Equinox for a vinyasa class, trying to quiet her mind, reverberating with worry about her father and her money situation and the Luminaries dinner, but it didn’t work. In the locker room after class, Evelyn got dressed again, not wanting the other girls putting on heels and skirts and makeup in preparation for nights out to think she had no plans for the evening. She joined a blonde blow-drying her hair in front of the long primping mirror and gave her a knowing smile as Evelyn smoothed her own hair. Evelyn’s look lasted long enough to take in the ring pressed against the girl’s hair dryer: princess cut, platinum, the ring a banker would bestow.

  She was pretty sure, lately, that if she dropped enough hints, she could get a ring like that from Scot. Wedding rings were everywhere, and Evelyn didn’t want to be the pitied single girl forever. But what was the point in extracting a ring from Scot? If you were going to marry and not feel much for your husband, that husband should at least give you the life you wanted. Sarah Leitch, whose husband was squat and boring but had made $20 million last year, was redecorating her Napa winery right now.

  Standing at the mirror, Evelyn, too, had blown her hair dry, patted concealer around her eyes, stroked mascara onto her eyelashes, added lip balm, and put on her Jimmy Choos. She’d then twisted a gold-set ruby ring on backward on the fourth finger of her left hand so it resembled a wedding band. She’d walked to the lobby of the gym looking the very picture of a married girl off to a social event, for anyone who was looking.

  “Can you tell her I’m not here?” she said to the doorman.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Evelyn, she is a regular guest so I let her up already. It is policy.” She had not seen Charlotte much lately. Charlotte was always going to museums with names like the American-Jewish Museum of the West African Diaspora and making a point of how much she learned there and how much more instructive it was than what Evelyn was doing with her time. Evelyn knew that her life sounded ridiculous to Charlotte—Charlotte had said that much directly. What Charlotte couldn’t know was how addictive it was.

  There was a knock on the door. Evelyn switched the ring to her right hand and tried to sound surprised: “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Charlotte.”

  “Oh! Char! Coming! Sorry, they didn’t call up.”

  She opened the door to a tired-looking Charlotte wearing a smart gray suit, pulled together, no doubt, by the Saks personal shopper she’d hired who specialized in lady bankers. On her feet were L.L. Bean duck boots, slushy from the outside world.

  “Do you have any beer? I could use some.”

  “What are you doing in the neighborhood? And out of work at eight?”

  “I’m not staffed on a deal for the first time in ages. Also, sorry, you’re asking me what I’m doing here? When you’re the one that’s basically dropped off the face of the earth? Seriously, do you have a beer?”

  “Just wine.”

  “You always have beer.”

  “Just wine, Char.”

  Charlotte plopped on the couch and took the wineglass Evelyn offered. “You look dressed up. Are you heading out?”

  “No, I had an event. After work,” Evelyn said. Yoga could sort of be counted as an event. “So what are you doing up here?”

  Charlotte made a weird air sound with her cheeks. “Date. Bad one. I feel like I just scream ‘lesbian’ to everyone I meet.”

  “Did you wear the duck boots?”

  “Evelyn—” Charlotte started to get up.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” Evelyn held her hands up.

  “No, I didn’t wear the duck boots. Thanks for asking.”

  “I just meant—” Evelyn poured wine into Charlotte’s glass. “I’m sorry about the date. You’re such a catch. Look at you. You’re going to be running Graystone sooner or later.”

  “In my duck boots?”

  “Honest opinion? Not in the duck boots.”

  Charlotte let out an angry laugh. “Graystone. Yeah, I’m a woman. That’s not going to happen. I just can’t play the New York game. If I get out of work at a reasonable hour, by the time I go to the gym and get home it’s time to go to bed. Rinse, repeat for seven days straight. When, exactly, am I supposed to meet someone? Then I meet this guy, at a freaking work event, by the way, and he tells me I’m too intense for him because of my job?”

  “Char, Char. It’s crazy. He’s crazy.” Evelyn sat down next to her friend and awkwardly patted her knee.

  “Oh, look, Evelyn Beegan’s offering physical solace. It must be bad.”

  Evelyn smiled.

  “I remember the two times at Sheffield you hugged me,” Charlotte continued. “Graduation and when my uncle John died.”

  “It seemed called for.”

  “The Babs still has never hugged me, after all these years. A firm handshake is all I get. You were trained by the best.”

  With her finger Evelyn stopped a trickle of red wine that was escaping from the bottle. “You could say that.”

  “How’s work?”

  “It’s so annoying, Char. They’re all about boosting membership numbers. I get that, but that’s not the site’s brand. The world doesn’t need an also-ran MySpace. The high-end idea makes sense, and we’re getting members and creating influence, and they basically want to throw that away to show big membership growth.”

  “That does seem strange. I think the brand works. I mean, it’s not my bag, but advertisers must love having access to the Camilla Rutherfords of the world.”

  “Exactly. But the site has essentially shunted me and that strategy off to the side. One of the co-CEOs, Jin-ho, has taken over some of the membership and marketing and he has no idea how to appeal to these people. It’s cray-cray.”

  “You say ‘cray-cray’ now?”

  “I’ve always said it.”

&nbs
p; “Okay, Camilla. So do you want to tell me where you’ve been these last few months, if you haven’t been throwing yourself into work? Did you and Camilla get a domestic-partnership license and go on your Fiji honeymoon?”

  “I haven’t been anywhere. I’ve been in New York, mostly. Aspen, too, Bridgehampton, obvs. Oh, Newport. Quogue, which is beautiful in winter.”

  “You can stop there. Who would’ve thought the girl who wore pleated khakis in the Sheffield senior photo would become such a social butterfly?”

  “They weren’t pleated.”

  “They were so pleated.”

  Evelyn was giggling now, settling back into the couch.

  “Ev,” Charlotte said softly. “The stuff with your father—”

  “What stuff?” Evelyn sat up, on guard.

  “The stuff with his firm.” Charlotte groped for the words. “If you want to talk—”

  “I don’t want to talk. I don’t know how you know about it, but it’s not your business. It’s not a big deal, nothing’s going to happen, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone,” Evelyn said, hitting the consonants hard.

  “God forbid Camilla finds out?”

  “Camilla knows, in fact, Charlotte.”

  “Of course she does. Number one confidante.” After a few moments, Charlotte breathed out heavily. “What about Pres? Have you seen much of him?”

  “Pres? Sure. We were supposed to have dinner last week but ended up going to the River Club with Camilla instead. On Sutton Place? There’s the most fun club downstairs. You wouldn’t believe who I saw.”

  “About Pres,” Charlotte said pointedly. “I went out with him on Tuesday to get drinks, which, in my mind, was like a drink or two, and he ended up blacked out. He texted me at one A.M. from the King Cole Bar, and then wandered over to Eleventh Avenue. I’m surprised he wasn’t mugged.”

  “So funny. I was at King Cole on Tuesday but I didn’t see him. It was earlier, because Nick and Camilla and Bridie Harley wanted to meet after—”

  “Evelyn. Pay attention. Preston. I’m worried about him. He’s drinking a lot more than usual.”

  “Sorry. Sorry. I haven’t noticed it. I suppose I’m not that worried. It’s winter and it’s bleak outside so everyone’s drinking more than usual, and Pres has such a high tolerance. He’s coming to my birthday dinner at the Colony in a week and I promise I will watch him. I’m so sorry you’ll be in Indianapolis for it. Did I tell you Camilla’s doing a tropical theme? It sounds wild.”

  Charlotte looked upset. “Yeah, I’m sure it will be. Oh, right. He gave this to me to give to you. I guess he thought I’d see you before he did, which, obviously not. That’s why I came by tonight. I’ve been carrying this around for weeks.” Charlotte pulled something out of her bag. “Your Whiffenpoofs CD.”

  “The Poofs! I’ve been waiting for its safe return for months. Will you play it? My computer’s on.”

  “Yeah.” Charlotte walked to the sideboard, where Evelyn’s desktop sat tethered to the Internet at an awkward height, flanked on each side by an upright Slim Aarons photography book. Charlotte shoved over one of the books and placed the CD in the drive. As it whirred and the Yale men sang “Rainbow Connection,” she picked up Evelyn’s checkbook lying face down on the sideboard. “Evelyn Beegan, don’t tell me you still use checks.”

  Evelyn had no idea how long the checkbook had been there. Weeks? When was the last bill she had paid?

  “You don’t do online banking?” Charlotte asked.

  “It’s too complicated. Do you want some water? I’m parched,” said Evelyn, trying to get Charlotte off the subject.

  “Yeah.”

  As Evelyn filled up two glasses from her Brita, she could hear the fast clack of computer keys from the living room. “Char, what are you doing?” she asked.

  “Just checking something online,” Charlotte replied. Evelyn remembered that Charlotte had bought herself Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing and learned touch-typing during a summer Evelyn spent at tennis camp, a skill that was apparently still in full effect.

  Evelyn returned with the water, and Charlotte, standing over the ancient IBM, was nearly beaming. “Look, I’m so helpful that I’m setting you up now. Your account number was on the check. You just need a username. What should we use, ‘EvBeeg’?”

  “Charlotte, I don’t want online banking, okay? Can you back off?”

  “Easy, Ev. I promise, it will save you time. Here. Just choose a username and a password.”

  Evelyn set Charlotte’s water glass down hard and slid it over to her, watching the water marks it left on the sideboard and not bothering to wipe them up. “Do you have to bring all your, like, workday hustle to my apartment, Charlotte? I have zero interest in this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Remember at Sheffield when you refused to get a debit card? You were still writing checks at the Seven-Eleven and waiting for your mom to send cash via U.S. mail. Look. It’s super easy. Here.”

  If only her mother would send cash via U.S. mail, Evelyn thought, taking a tiny sip of water. It tasted tinned, and she returned to the couch, exchanging it for her wine. She knew she had to get hold of her money stuff. Maybe Charlotte could help. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought. All those letters from Con Ed and Time Warner Cable and her credit-card companies were sitting, silently threatening, in her silverware drawer, and she had so not wanted to face them that she had been using plastic takeout utensils lately when her Thai or her sushi was delivered, so she didn’t ever have to open the drawer except to wedge more envelopes in.

  Evelyn poured herself another glass of wine and stood up. “Okay. ‘Evie98,’” she said, using her Sheffield graduation year. She leaned over Charlotte’s shoulder and entered her standard password, “maybefaraway,” from Annie.

  “Good. Okay. Security questions,” Charlotte said.

  Evelyn scrolled through the dropdown menu: What was the make of your first car? Who was your childhood best friend? Who is your hero? Where did you meet your spouse? The cursor stood blinking at her, needling her for an answer. She couldn’t pass this test. She had never had a car, being at boarding school when other people were getting their licenses. Her childhood best friend was, more or less, her mother, but she wasn’t going to put that down. And who had a hero in this era? Who did this bank think it was, trying to fit Evelyn Beegan into the neat segments that defined its mass-market customers?

  “Ev?”

  “This is a stupid exercise, Charlotte.”

  “You’re being impossible. I’ll answer it for you. Hero: Brooke Astor.”

  “Very funny.”

  Charlotte typed in the socialite’s name and began rifling through the mail on Evelyn’s silver tray, but it was invitations and appeals for charity donations. “Where are your bills, Ev?”

  Evelyn pulled at her hair, trying to think of the answer that would freak Charlotte out the least. “Dunno.”

  “Evelyn! I’m basically being your very highly paid data-entry assistant, courtesy of Graystone Partners, at the moment, all right? Can you not be a two-year-old?”

  Evelyn remembered that her checking-account statement had arrived that week and had not yet been sequestered in the drawer, and shouldn’t cause too much of a reaction from Charlotte; there wasn’t a huge amount in the account, but at least she didn’t owe anything on it. Evelyn pulled the statement from under a Gorsuch catalogue on the hallway table and handed it over.

  “You mind if I open it?” Charlotte said, already ripping it unevenly. Evelyn, not wanting to watch, turned around and took a vase of long-dead flowers to the sink, pouring out the old water, which smelled completely unorganic, bacteria and slime and acid. She squirted Caldrea over the sink to try to cover up the smell with Mandarin Vetiver.

  “This isn’t a credit card, Ev. I need something that you pay actual bills to.”

  “Hmm? I don’t know.” Charlotte could be so harsh, so firm, that Evelyn felt she had made an error in giving her an opening.

&nb
sp; “Where do you put your savings, by the way? It’s good not to have too much in a checking account, but we should transfer some money in to cover your expenses. Where are you, Vanguard? Schwab?”

  “Okay. Okay.” Evelyn turned on the water to give herself a moment to think. She hadn’t thought the checking account was in such bad shape, but Charlotte’s reaction made it sound like there was next to nothing in it. The assumption that she had some secret savings or investment account somewhere to save her—this was another part of the world nobody had told her how to handle.

  “We can even set up an automatic transfer monthly from your investment account, so we’re not eating into the principal of your investments.” Charlotte looked at her expectantly.

  Evelyn managed to force out some words. “Not right now. I’m good for now,” she said. Did everyone have separate investment accounts that funneled money to them monthly? How had she missed all of this?

  “No biggie. So let’s go back to online banking. We’ll set up the recurring payments. It’s, what, rent, cable, do you pay Internet separately? Cell phone. And credit cards, right? What do you have for credit cards? An AmEx, right?”

  Evelyn let the water soak through a slightly soiled yellow sponge. Maybe Charlotte would know what to do. Maybe, if she was really in trouble, Charlotte would offer to lend her money. Evelyn would object unconvincingly, then accept graciously, and then she could pay the bills, or part of the bills, and everything would be fine. She wiped up the water around the vase. “Some others, too,” she said in a small voice.

  “Like?”

  “A Visa, and Barneys, and Scoop.”

  “Scoop has a credit card, first of all? What’s the APR on all of these?”

  Evelyn’s hands traced pretty windshield-wiper patterns with the sponge, so lightly she was spreading water drops over the counter rather than cleaning them up. “Not sure.”

  “Well, I need the statements.”