Rich Boy

by Sharon Pomerantz

“Are you referring to the shoe-shine girls?”

  He nodded. “I was not consulted.”

  Could Jack really be thinking about this now? When the shoe shiners had been around for months? Was he losing his mind? Robert had the sudden, uncanny feeling that it was this, his bringing in the shoe-shine girls, and not Mario’s illness, that was the real reason he’d been summoned. Healey was the natural person to assign him work; there was no reason for Jack to be involved. “The girls shine shoes,” Robert said. “You like your lawyers to look professional.”

  “My lawyers can get their shoes shined in Grand Central or out on the street on their own time. They wear suits, but I don’t bring tailors into the office.”

  “The firm does pick up and deliver dry cleaning.”

  “That’s so our people can work late and not have to worry about their clothes.”

  “The shoe shiners have done so much for morale, surely you’ve seen that?” he asked. “Everyone is in a much better mood on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

  “Exotic dancers in the halls might put them in an even better mood. But that’s not the kind of atmosphere I want for this firm—word gets out. It’s not dignified.”

  “Then why haven’t you gotten rid of them?” Robert asked.

  “Because several partners asked me not to.”

  Robert tried to stifle a smile but could not. “They could help us, really. We are known, for being, well, uptight. I think that reputation hurts recruitment.”

  “Are you saying we get inferior lawyers?”

  “No, I’m not. But the atmosphere, even with the beautiful art, can be, well, depressing. The glass panels foster a kind of paranoia. No one laughs or even smiles much.”

  “Where are the happy lawyers, Robert?” Jack snapped. “On the beach in Hawaii, maybe you see a few.” He sighed and stood up, turning away from Robert and walking back to the windows. When he faced Robert again, his tone was consciously restrained, his voice low. “I don’t care if my people are happy or sad—their state of mind is not my business. I only care that they’re productive. And staring down some buxom girl’s shirt does not make lawyers more productive, it only makes them more distracted!” He motioned to the door, letting Robert know that their discussion was at an end.

  WITHIN TEN MINUTES OF his meeting with Jack, Robert was greeted by one of the mailroom guys, who plopped stacks of Mario’s files on the floor in his office. Other than the cumbersome computer monitor and its attached keyboard, there was now hardly a spot on his desk or the floor that was not taken up with papers. As the man left, a girl knocked on the door and asked if he wanted a shoe shine.

  This one was called Augusta, and she was small and androgynous; her short hair stood out from her head in shiny black spikes, and each ear was pierced up and down the lobe.

  “Sally still sick?” he asked, holding out his shoe. Two weeks before, she had altogether stopped coming to A, L and W.

  “She was never sick,” Augusta said, putting down her box with a thud. “I told you, she’s no longer doing this route. You know how many times a day I get asked, ‘Where’s Sally?’ I swear, it’s getting on my nerves.”

  “Sorry,” he said, as she placed his foot on her stand and began to spread polish on his shoe, accidentally staining his sock. He pretended not to notice. Sally had not returned his calls to her service—her home number was unlisted—nor would she respond to the notes he’d left with the doorman. One evening he’d sat in the lobby, reading through the work of a junior associate and waiting for her to return; after forty-five minutes, he finally gave up.

  “She in another show?” he asked, as the girl moved his foot abruptly to the floor.

  “Huh?”

  “Sally, in a show?”

  “I don’t give out personal information,” she said, and went back to working.

  Her rent checks still arrived each month, a money order in the envelope, a New York postmark, but not so much as a note.

  “She’s not sick, is she?”

  “Look!” Augusta snarled. “I don’t know a damn thing about her!” She looked to be on the verge of tears. “I’m on her route almost three weeks and the tips are still lousy. Even Christmas tips! I gotta eat, too.” She placed his foot back on her cloth and began to clean up, not saying another word.

  “You’re right,” he said. “And I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay you for two. How’s ten dollars?”

  “Whaddo I gotta do?” she asked.

  “It’s a gift shine. For the guy with the big office as you come in, on the right. Don’t be afraid of the paintings.”

  “Cool,” she said, brightening. “Scary artwork.”

  “And don’t let the secretary keep you out. You’re good at asserting yourself.” He handed her the ten. “And Augusta, don’t forget to tell Mr. Alexander that it’s from me.”

  AFTER WORK, ROBERT WENT to the hospital hoping, among other things, to get more information. He found Mario asleep in bed in a big private room — big by Manhattan standards—while Tracey dozed in a chair by the window. Mario was hooked up to an IV and a machine—oxygen? Robert wasn’t sure. Up above them both, on the wall, the television was tuned soundlessly to Jeopardy. Visiting hours would be over soon. He walked over to the corner and shook Tracey awake. “Who the hell are you?” Tracey asked, sitting up and smiling.

  “It’s a nice room,” Robert whispered, taking the chair across from him.

  “No need to whisper—he sleeps so soundly that I’ve checked to see if he’s breathing.”

  “I wasn’t sure I’d see you here,” he said. Mario had not been out to Tuxedo in months, and Robert assumed he’d fallen out of favor, or worse.

  “He’d begun to bore me. Maybe because he was always so tired. But I wouldn’t abandon a friend in need.”

  “How’s his condition?”

  “He’s dehydrated, temperature was one hundred and three. They put him on fluids and some kind of pain reliever so he can sleep. The headaches got so bad, his vision was blurry.”

  Just then, a blond, ponytailed nurse entered, a mask hanging slackly below her chin. She needed to take some blood.

  “Why don’t we go to the cafeteria?” Tracey suggested. “I haven’t eaten all day. We’ll get something fast.”

  “Visiting hours are over soon. I’d like to at least say a few words to him.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I have some influence here,” he said. “I got special privileges for Graciella, too.”

  “What did you say she was?” Robert asked, as they walked toward the elevator bank.

  “His girlfriend.”

  “That’s one name for it,” Robert said softly.

  “Graciella’s an economist from Paraguay, Vishniak,” Tracey said, pushing the button for the elevator. “She’s highly intelligent, or so Mario says; I can’t understand a thing she says.”

  The doors opened with a pinging sound. The elevator was empty and the two men stepped on, then the doors closed. Robert turned and looked at Tracey. “Has he been tested?”

  “Tested for what?” Tracey asked.

  “For AIDS,” Robert snapped. It had been a long day. He wasn’t in the mood. “You remember that one? New and never boring? No cure? Everyone’s talking about it?”

  “It’s viral meningitis,” Tracey said calmly. “The doctors were clear. No test is necessary.” The elevator doors opened and they stepped off. Tracey made a right-hand turn down an empty hall and Robert followed. “Start a rumor like that, and you’ll ruin his life. You hear me?” His voice was low and tight and a vein stood out on his forehead, like a bolt of lightning. “Do you want to ruin his life? And hurt your chances of making partner, I might add. He’s your biggest supporter. And how do you think you got him to support you?”

  “Because I speak Spanish?” Robert asked. “And I’m a good lawyer.”

  “Because I encouraged him to take you up,” Tracey said. “I’m sure you’re a fine lawyer; Mario has said as much. But from what I hear, it’s a lion’s de
n over there, and you need him.”

  Robert knew Tracey was right, knew also that he’d offended him just by being honest.

  “So are you going to stop acting like a worrisome old hen?” Tracey asked.

  Robert nodded and put his hands up. “I surrender.”

  “It’s not Appomattox, Vishniak,” Tracey said. “And if you don’t shut up, you’ll miss the pleasure of watching me choke down hospital food. That should amuse you.”

  Robert followed Tracey past the entrance to the Sanford and Genevieve Trace Cardiology wing, and turned left at the portrait of Judge Harding Trace, as the two moved silently toward the looming, and as of yet unnamed, hospital cafeteria.

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Crea takes a trip

  He’d been surprised when she said yes. But they’d bickered all winter, and she was trying to please him, and as the family set out for Philadelphia, with Robert driving, he felt grateful, even buoyant. Crea and Robert sang folk songs for Gwen, the songs of their generation—Simon and Garfunkel; Joni Mitchell; and Peter, Paul and Mary. Then she wanted songs she’d learned at school, and they all sang “Five Little Ducks” and whatever else she assigned them, like a family in a Disney movie. What a relief to get along, even for a few hours. He and Crea sang out, vaguely off-key, laughing as their daughter made fun of them. Had he known what was coming, he wouldn’t have sung, would have saved his voice.

  They were old now. When Robert came in the door, they moved toward him slowly but with enthusiasm. He didn’t recognize a few of the children, attached to a cousin or two, all with second wives or husbands he’d never met. Crea allowed herself to be kissed, she was not consciously rude, not even capable of it. But she had brought a deck of cards with her, and when the women gathered around the food in the dining room and then in the kitchen, Crea took out the cards and taught Uncle Frank’s daughter and Gwen how to play Go Fish. Yes, she was good with children, which they all noted appreciatively. But she sat in that corner much of the night, talking to no one over twelve.

  When dessert was on the horizon, Robert left his uncle’s side and sat on the arm of her chair. The children had fled and she was playing solitaire. “Have you eaten anything at all? They’re all waiting for you over there.”

  “Your mother doesn’t like me,” she whispered. “Those women, they’re all staring.”

  He sighed. “They don’t know you, Crea. But you should make the first move.”

  “Why? I’m the guest.”

  “You spend all day cajoling and organizing and small talking,” he said. “If you can handle the Black and White Ball, you can handle the Vishniaks.”

  They were, she asserted, two very different things. “What is it with these paintings, Robert? Are there more, now? I don’t remember this many from when I was here last.”

  “Every few years she likes to change things around. Like you do.” He smiled, could not help himself. “You like art, darling. The oldest ones came from green stamps, remember those?” But of course, why would she? “Or people give them to her.”

  “As gifts?” she asked, her voice high as she flipped over her card, then shook her head. “Bad hand,” she mumbled.

  He left her to go stand with Gwen, who, away from her mother, shoved a hunk of cherry pie into her mouth, the red filling staining her lips and chin. Gwen wanted to ask Stacia if she would teach her how to bake one for herself but could not make herself heard in the noise. Robert had to stand between them and scream their questions and answers back and forth like some lunatic translator—his mother was going deaf. “Jesus, Ma!” he yelled. “Could you get yourself a hearing aid?!”

  His daughter looked at him, not knowing what to do. She was not used to this part of him, the part that came back here to them. He patted her shoulder. Not only were they all loud, the room was so very bright. “Sparkly,” Gwen said. Other than Stacia, who liked her practical neutrals, the women of the Northeast liked bright colors and glittering accessories—red velour pants, sequins on shirts, gold lamé purses and other eye-popping details. Next to them Crea, in her dark brown suede skirt and winter-white turtleneck, brown boots, a simple gold necklace, looked like a visitor from another planet.

  When the women moved into the kitchen, stuffed themselves into that tiny room to help with the cleaning up, and Crea stayed with her cards, it suddenly dawned on him. “It’s the recipes, isn’t it?” he asked her. She did not respond, only flipped over another card, pretending not to hear. He knew he was right. Those recipes, the ones that Stacia and Lolly had copied out on those lined three-by-five cards before the engagement party. Crea had put them somewhere before their move into the house and still had no idea where. She did not want to be asked about it. They had yet, in eight years of marriage, to try a single dish. No brisket or kneidelach, not even a lousy munn cookie. He didn’t care, really, except that whenever a new restaurant opened in Manhattan they were in line, among the first to try Mongolian-fusion, Macrobiotics, and a restaurant that ground up all the food in a blender until it was practically liquid. But mention chicken soup with a matzo ball and her mind went amnesiac.

  By nine thirty, Gwen had curled up on the couch, asleep. Unable to stand it, Robert took Crea’s hand and pulled her to the food table—she had eaten only a chicken wing, a little kasha. Standing next to her, forcing her to converse with his family, he screamed her replies to their questions, growing increasingly hoarse. Then, in one long yelp, he lost his voice, forcing his wife to speak for herself. She smiled and told them small, dull facts about the house—somehow now, she could make herself heard, and they leaned closer, listening as she described Gwen’s school. “The teacher has them reading in kindergarten,” she said, and they nodded as if she’d said the children were going to the moon. The room began to relax. “I had a nice time,” she declared, then kissed Stacia good-bye, and then the others. They looked at each other, puzzled, and then decided that they were pleased, even, with that much, so anxious to think well of her that it broke his heart all over again.

  THE NEXT WEEKEND, Crea was in Aspen, a trip long planned with her girlfriends, who wanted to get in the last decent skiing. There was no question of Gwen going to Aspen. The altitude made her ill, as it did her father. So they were home together for the weekend. Robert had to work on Saturday—Gwen would spend the day with a friend and the nanny—but all Sunday he’d reserved for her, his one day off. When Crea left, she expected tears, but Gwen was used to being left, or leaving—she never cried. And then she was to have her father for a whole day, and this promise trumped everything.

  First they went to the Upper West Side to see Barry’s new apartment. After he’d returned from Philadelphia, he’d called his brother. He had barely talked to Barry in months, partly because he was so busy and partly because he could hardly stand to hear him talk about Claudia in his disturbing, proprietary way. But Robert also had to admit that he’d missed his brother, plus he was concerned about their mother’s hearing. Barry already knew about Stacia’s hearing—he went there every month or so, he pointed out, whereas Robert dropped in twice a year. “My trip to Hong Kong was great, by the way,” Barry snapped. “Thanks for asking.” Still, he was not interested in chastising for long. He had other news: Vishniak the dog had died. He was old but it felt like a blow, even to Robert, who had never even liked the animal. But the name, you couldn’t get away from that name.

  Barry’s condo was at Eighty-seventh and Broadway, a corner unit with two walls of windows in the master bedroom. To Robert, it was like all new buildings put up in that decade—giant boxy rooms, cheap but attractive flooring, and a kitchen with every possible appliance, including a double refrigerator the size of a compact car. In the middle of the tour, Robert heard two children next door screaming bloody murder, then a mother coming in to scold. Even for so much money they couldn’t take the time or expense in these new apartments to make the walls thicker. This was what people wanted now—fast to go up, big and anonymous, with terrific views. He did not ask Barry t
he price, only smiled in a way he hoped looked admiring. After ten minutes, Gwen got impatient and they all left for the park.

  They walked to Riverside, and Barry, knowing that Robert was going to ask him questions about the market, as he always did when they were together, began to talk about a trader named Barnett. “His instincts are never wrong,” Barry said. “Thanks to him, I just made you a fortune in currency futures. The Swiss franc has been a gold mine.”

  “Currency trading is risky,” Robert said, grasping his daughter’s hand as they walked carefully down the long, winding stairs that took them from the street into the gardens at Ninety-first Street.

  “You’re young. You can tolerate risk. You don’t make money any other way. That’s what our parents never understood. It takes balls of steel to get rich.”

  “I worry, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, you always worry. Let me do the worrying.”

  “What exactly do you give Barnett in exchange for his great instincts?” Robert asked.

  “My undying gratitude,” Barry replied. “I get you results and you know it. Or you’d never let me handle so much of your money.”

  Yes, it was addictive, tearing open that statement each month, seeing the numbers climb. His account was up to a quarter of a million dollars, and if he made partner, he’d be well on his way to becoming a rich man.

  “Daddy, look!” Gwen said, rushing toward the garden, where they could see the tops of the occasional crocus pushing its way up out of the soil. Nearby, some volunteers were digging up weeds and spreading grass seed. Couples walked hand in hand — it was the first day warm enough to spend outside without a winter coat. They walked south toward a playground on Eighty-third. The water canal in the middle of the playground was empty in March, but there was a merry-go-round, where Gwen met a little Russian boy with his father, who spoke little English, and the grown-ups took turns pushing the contraption round and round while the children, harsh taskmasters, demanded to go faster and faster. When it was his turn, Robert sweated and huffed — it felt good to be moving outside in the fresh air, and then he looked up and saw Sally Johannson coming through the trees at a jog that was closer to a run, her eyes focused straight ahead.