Rich Boy

by Sharon Pomerantz

  He and Barry left the next morning, taking up residence in their old bedrooms. The harkening back to an earlier time felt bittersweet because it highlighted so starkly the absence of their father. Then they drove their mother to the hospital, getting there each day by nine. His father would have no legs—Vishniak’s worst fear, the first thing he had said when Robert walked into the house that day after returning from Boston. His heart was their next worry. His father’s body was slowly self-destructing, from the ground up.

  At the end of the first week, they finally performed the surgery. Days later, Robert watched a male nurse roll his helpless father over like a sack of flour so that he and an orderly could make the bed. Eventually, after rehab, he might be strong enough to do things for himself, but now he was as helpless as a strangely proportioned child. Robert looked away from the exposed stump of one leg, the bandages of another, and Barry got up and walked out of the room.

  Robert concentrated on the practical. This was what he’d been taught to do in law school; emotion was endlessly subjective, malleable, and abstract; best to stick with facts and actions. He bought a secondhand chairlift, hired a contractor to install additional railings and a removable ramp out front. At first he asked Stacia for the money, and seeing her confusion, as if he were speaking a foreign tongue, he got a check from Barry and put the rest on a credit card.

  The Post Office dragged its feet paying the disability. Robert spent hours on the phone with union officials who directed him to government administrators, the slowest voices, humans drained of all life force, endlessly shifting him down the food chain until he became furious and threatened a lawsuit. “I’m just a clerk,” a voice replied. “All things in good time.”

  But Stacia Vishniak did not know from good or bad time; she knew only that there was no money coming in, except the $120 a week she would collect for another month while she used up her back sick time, years of it—had she ever taken a sick day in twenty years as a crossing guard?—and then there would be nothing coming in. “Robert,” his mother said, grasping at his arm in a hospital hallway, her fingers digging into his flesh, “there’ll be no money coming in.”

  “You have savings, don’t you?”

  “Not enough. Not enough for no money coming in.”

  “I’ll fix it, Ma.”

  “You’re not working. Why aren’t you working?”

  Because I’m here with you. Because I couldn’t drive a cab all day and come home to Crea on Gramercy Park East. And because in the fall I’ll make more than twice what Vishniak made in his best year. But he said none of this, only repeated, “Barry has money. We’ll fix it.”

  He muttered the same staccato attempts at comfort to her day after day as his father slowly got better and his mother grew more hysterical. Not outwardly hysterical, inwardly so, which was harder to watch. She paced at night, up and back, up and back, footsteps so heavy on the carpeting that the wooden floors squeaked underneath; she could not eat or sleep, her eyes blazed black as two coals. She snapped at them if they left a light on, or put too much toothpaste on the brush. “Don’t waste that bread. Scrape the mold off” was printed in letters now, over the bread box. How much his mother had in the bank, and the thick roll of bills Barry took out of his pocket to show her—“See, see, Ma. I got money”—none of it mattered. She had gone somewhere else, to another time, even before they knew her.

  Then one day the first disability check arrived. The payment was almost as much of a relief to the brothers as the news that Vishniak could start rehab and might be home in as little as six weeks. There was money coming in, and his mother returned to them.

  BY NOVEMBER, ROBERT WAS back in New York, driving to Philadelphia for weekends. On one such drive, Barry informed him that he was, in fact, finally graduating from college, had smashed all his disparate credits together to get a degree in general studies. This would surely make their father happy, and in the nick of time. Robert asked if this meant Barry would get out of his current business, but Barry would give no further details, replying only that he had a plan.

  Robert had never let Crea come with them to see his father. He should have, but he put her off, saying that Vishniak didn’t want her to meet him in this condition, though that was a lie. When Vishniak had come out of the anesthesia, one of the first things he said was, “Am I ever going to meet her? You think I have so much time left?”

  Now Crea lay next to him in bed, her head on his shoulder, her body curled around his, and he felt distant from her. She had no idea what he’d gone through and he wanted to punish her for that, when he was the one who’d insisted she stay home.

  “Sweetheart,” she whispered. “This is so awful. The timing couldn’t be worse.”

  “Yeah, so inconvenient of my father to need an amputation just before our engagement party.”

  “That’s not what I mean. How dare you twist my words! Do you think I’m a monster?”

  “Of course not, I’m just tired. I’m sorry, darling. It is awful.” That was when he asked her if they could possibly put off the party.

  She had already thought of that and agreed completely. “We’ll put it off until your father’s better,” she said, kissing his cheek. “We can’t think of having the party without them.”

  His family would have to come to New York. Why did this only now occur to him? His family in Tuxedo. How would they handle it? How would Jack handle them?

  Crea told him to get some rest, but he could not sleep. Why was it so hard for him to imagine a happy ending? He had expected the worst with Gwendolyn, and she had seen all their secret and not-so-secret merits, even the ones he couldn’t see, and insisted he be proud of them. In the end, she’d fit in better than he had. Why not imagine a similar ending here? Had he learned nothing?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Meet Barry Vishniak

  Barry Vishniak stood in the center of a tight group, and Robert—curious as to what had drawn Tracey, Claudia, Mark Pascal, and several others around his brother—took a step closer, but all he could hear in the crowded living room was the echo of Barry’s raucous laughter. Then his words soared above the din of low conversation. “I’m not kidding, Tracey. Someday, everyone will have one. It’ll drive your car for you, write your checks, dictate your letters —”

  Robert caught a glimpse of Barry’s face, cheeks flushed with excitement and alcohol.

  “—no one will need their secretary, or their brain for that matter. The machine will do the thinking for us, the tedious thinking, that is. Leaving us free to, you know, contemplate.”

  “Who wants to contemplate?” Pascal asked loudly. “I’d rather just look at naked people.”

  Robert heard a high-pitched giggle. Claudia. It was so rare to hear her laugh. She’d had a lot to drink, they all had, though no one could compete with Mark Pascal, who’d begun with cocktails hours before the party started.

  “I can get you into that,” Barry continued, lowering his voice. “The soft kind. Totally legal, cheap to produce. Plenty of big entertainment companies have quiet subsidiaries. The markup is like a thousand percent. Guaranteed return. The hard stuff, on the other hand…”

  Barry’s voice faded to a whisper and Robert couldn’t hear the rest. Jack Alexander tapped him on the shoulder. “What field is your brother in, again?” he asked.

  “Stock brokerage,” Robert replied. “Prudence Brothers.” Just after Christmas, Barry had announced to Robert that he was working as a cold caller for a brokerage firm, sitting at a low desk all day and making endless phone calls from names he got off lead cards or out of the phone book. It was humiliating work, but Barry informed Robert that he had to start somewhere. Was this sudden industriousness purely the result of Vishniak’s second amputation? A reaction to Robert’s imminent job at A, L and W? Or had his recent holdup, by a regular customer wielding a knife, been more distressing to him than he admitted? Maybe all three, but here he was, six months later, having passed the Series Seven in record time and able to make h
is professional debut at Robert’s much-postponed engagement party.

  Jack pulled Robert gently in the direction of more guests who wanted to congratulate him as Stacia and Aunt Lolly approached. Robert had asked his brother to keep an eye on the family, but Barry was too busy, it seemed, to be bothered. His mother stared blankly at Robert; since entering the Tuxedo house, her expression had gone slack. Lolly, fashionably stuffed into a pink silk dress, smiled gamely. Like Cece, she had always cared more about clothes, whereas Stacia wore a black short-sleeved wool dress, stockings, practical shoes—she had wide feet and bunions, so all her footwear looked military. The house was warm, even for those wearing summer clothes; he felt for his mother in that wool dress. The front and back doors were open, and a few ceiling fans buzzed fifteen feet overhead. One of the few things Stacia had in common with the Alexanders was that neither household used air-conditioning, only Stacia’s choice was about the electric bill, whereas Jack’s reasons were harder to discern. The house would cool off in an hour or so when the sun set. Robert put his hand sympathetically on his mother’s shoulder, but she shook him away.

  “Is it all right to take a few photographs?” Lolly asked.

  “Of course,” Jack said genially, “but we have two photographers.” He pointed them out in the sea of women in patterned maxidresses and sheaths and the men in cotton sweaters, bow ties, and khaki pants. “I’ll mail you the proofs and you can choose what you like.”

  “I don’t mean of the people,” Aunt Lolly said, taking a small Polaroid out of her purse. “I mean of the house. To show to our family back home?”

  “If you like,” he mumbled. Then, changing his tone, aware of his role as host, he added: “If they come out well, I may ask you for copies for the insurance adjuster!” He laughed at his own joke, and Stacia and Lolly thanked him politely and walked off with their cameras. “I think things are going well, Robert, don’t you?”

  Robert nodded, following behind his future father-in-law. A few hours earlier, when Stacia had arrived in the hall with Barry, Crea rushed at her with the full confidence of one who is always liked, but seeing Stacia’s expression, she’d stopped in her tracks. The black dress and severe hair did not help. Stacia, too, remained in place, her neck craned heavenward. “Some place to keep clean,” she’d remarked. “All these windows. Shows all the dust.”

  “I suppose,” Crea replied. She wanted a word of praise, some assurance. But Stacia only pointed at the painting on the wall.

  “That you?” Stacia asked.

  “Guilty.”

  “A cartoon? I mean, is it meant as a joke?”

  “A Warhol lithograph, but some people would say that’s the same thing.”

  Stacia had not responded. Aunt Lolly and Uncle Fred arrived then, bustling into the hall with arms outstretched, and then more guests behind them. His family should have come earlier, but they’d gotten lost on the way. They might have stayed over at the house the night before—the invitation had been extended more than once—but they’d declined, sure they’d be putting Crea’s father out, and so Robert had found them a bed-and-breakfast nearby. Walking in, seeing the house, they must have realized that Robert was not lying when he’d said Jack would hardly know they were there. But by then they’d already checked into the B-and-B, leaving their bags behind, and Robert knew that this was for the best. They could use the privacy, and he would sleep better with them staying somewhere else, guilty as he was to admit it. As always with his family and hotels, with his mother and leaving Oxford Circle, arrangement led to headaches. He wanted to show them the wider world, to do for them while simultaneously wanting them to go away. These impulses warred with each other, but never more than they were doing that day.

  Jack stopped to introduce him to an ancient friend, then to two Tuxedo neighbors. Every few feet they stopped to chat with someone, Jack’s hand resting paternally on Robert’s shoulder. “Yes, this is him, the man who makes my daughter so happy. Yes, hello there! Good to see you!” And then to Robert, “He doesn’t smile because he’s having trouble with his teeth. Don’t take it personally.” He found Jack’s sudden attentions, his private whisperings, intoxicating. Jack had always seemed oddly neutral about the engagement, neither thrilled nor horrified. Robert understood why people at the firm ran after him—he bestowed his attention so reluctantly, so rarely, that it felt irresistible when he suddenly focused on you. Robert thought of poor Vishniak, at home with a nurse and his two brothers; Stacia had not wanted him to travel yet, and the doctor concurred. He had a father, one who had always loved and cared for him. Why, then, was he so grateful for the smallest attention, the slightest hint of approval, from Crea’s? Because he did not have this father, a man who might initiate him into the world, a successful man whom people ran after, who did not ask for power but took it for himself.

  In the backyard, the grass was so green and even that he felt as if he were in a painting. A string quartet to his left played Vivaldi. Waiters circulated with glasses of wine and champagne. He scanned the horizon for his family and saw that Barry, his mother, and his aunt had gotten into the buffet line. Two partners from the firm joined Robert and Jack: one was a litigator, the other in corporate. Robert had never met them before. “Yes, this is my future son-in-law,” Jack announced in a theatrical tone, as each man shook his hand. “I had to promise him my daughter to get him to sign with us!” He made a few jokes about the ever-expanding size of the wedding guest list—last anyone had heard, it was up to four hundred. Then an elderly man with a cane teetered by, and Jack followed him with his glance. The two partners did the same. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I see Schoenberg from the Real Estate Board,” Jack said, and was gone, and then the two others followed suit, so that now Tracey was at Robert’s side.

  “Robert, I’m investing some money with your brother. He’s quite the salesman.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  Tracey looked at him. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “He’s had his license for about five minutes.”

  “I’m only giving him a little bit to start with. Nothing I’d miss one way or the other.”

  “It’s your money,” Robert said, shrugging. He would not be so small as to step on Barry’s chance. “I’m sure he’s appreciative.”

  “He’s amusing and he’s smart, if a bit rough at the edges—and I’m curious to see what he’ll do. He makes Claudia laugh, always a plus—and he’s related to you, after all.”

  “Jesus, I hope he hasn’t approached Jack,” Robert said. “That would be a disaster.”

  “Jack Alexander can take care of himself. You shouldn’t be so servile—it’s a strong word but I’m sorry, it fits. Hang back and he’ll respect you more.”

  “Does he not respect me now?”

  “Don’t care so damned much,” Tracey said, taking a drink from a passing waiter and leading Robert away from the music and the crowds and toward the hedges. “He had you investigated, you know.”

  “Investigated?” Robert asked. “By whom?”

  “It’s standard procedure when no one really knows the groom or his family, and in your case it’s been, what, eight months before the families met?”

  “My father was sick.” Though they might have met months ago; Robert had fielded offers from both sides that he somehow forgot to deliver. This was partly his fault, wanting to spare his family and himself. Still, a detective?

  “I’m only saying that no one knew much about you.”

  “You did.”

  “I tried,” Tracey replied. “But what do I know? I’d never met your parents or your brother. I don’t even know what you did after graduation.”

  “Does Crea know? And for that matter, how do you know? Maybe you misunderstood.”

  “Association meeting. I heard Trenton Pascal recommend this guy to Jack. Seems Trenton used him when some musician came sniffing around Mignonne.”

  “So all of Tuxedo knows I’ve been vetted by a detective?”

  “I’m su
re no one heard but me. And Crea doesn’t know. She’d have a fit if she did. She’s madly in love—and she’s loyal.”

  What secrets did he have? Drugs when he was young—like his whole generation. A dealer in his family, at least up until two months ago. And Gwendolyn. Even if they could find anything on her, nothing he’d done was illegal, only stupid and naïve. “Anything turn up?” Robert asked, trying to sound casual.

  “You think we’d be here if it did? Jack’s going to be protective, I told you that.”

  “I wish you hadn’t mentioned it at all.” He took out his inhaler, gave himself another preventative blast. Once more and he’d start to shake.

  “So do I,” Tracey snapped. “I thought I was doing you a favor. Silly me.”

  They stood side by side, not sure what to say next. Neither one wanted to walk away on an angry note, and so they silently stared out at the view until Tracey had found something else to remark upon. “How does that man get away with that blue? I’ve never seen a suit that color.”

  “Mario Saldana,” Robert said, “from Caracas. Works in real estate. Nice guy, if you like to talk about sports.”

  “Does he sail?” Tracey asked. “I’m putting a crew together and a man dropped out.”

  “Let’s go ask him,” Robert said. “They say he’s a shoo-in for partner.”

  But the two of them had only taken a few steps when they collided with Mark Pascal, who seemed to need help standing upright.

  “Crea Alexander and Robert Vishniak!” he called out loudly. “Crazy! But then, you’re a lucky bastard, you always were.”