by Dani Lamia
“I have your pine and peat bar in my guest bathroom,” I say. “Everybody loves it.”
“That’s so sweet,” she says. “Do you know where I got the idea for that one?”
“No,” I say.
“This drummer I used to see,” she says. “For some reason, the floorboard of his van was always covered in pine needles.”
I nod to her, maintaining my poker face. So my guest bathroom smells like Gabriella fucking some homeless drummer in his van. Great.
“I’m gonna go look for Henley,” I say.
I wander through the many rooms and alcoves of Bernard’s ostentatious mansion. There are expensive paintings on all the walls and ornate vases in the corners. The décor is frat-boy brothel. I feel for Phoebe. She must have little say in how the money gets spent, seeing as how it’s all Nylo money. I pass through a library full of leather-bound tomes of history and law, all of which have surely never been read. I hope that at least Julian accidentally grows up to be a reader. Reading books is one route away from the loneliness of money.
I wind my way upstairs, dodging children and their harried parents, getting nervous looks from the peasants. That’s right: it’s me, fuckers. I peek in a few of the guest bedrooms, enjoying the stillness. There are seemingly endless empty rooms full of perfectly made beds and giant mirrors above empty dressers. Who sleeps here?
I hear voices in one of the adjoining bathrooms, so I creep into the bedroom and crane my head around the cracked door to see.
There is Bernard with his pants down around his ankles. A young-looking mom in a sleeveless dress and YouTube-makeup-tutorial-bright-red lipstick is jamming her ass onto his cock, watching herself in the bathroom mirror. Bernard catches my eye and then gently closes the bathroom door all the way.
Back in the hallway, I decide I could really use a smoke.
I root around in my purse, hoping I have a hidden pack that I didn’t purge from my latest attempt at quitting, while I look for an open balcony. I glance into a billiards room as I pass by, then retrace my steps, hopping backward.
A shadowy figure is leaning against one wall, blowing jets of vapor at the ceiling, scrolling furiously on his phone, and joggling one leg.
“There you are,” I say.
Henley starts at my words, but quickly collects himself and smirks, throwing his arms open wide. He spins the vape pen dexterously around his thumb and it disappears out of sight.
6
“You look very adult and serious and stressed-out,” he tells me.
“In fact, I am trying to smoke a cigarette,” I say.
“I bet you can light up in here,” he says. “This house is so big, what does it matter? Ashing on some of these rugs will give them character. They’re all so dreadfully new.”
“I don’t want to set off any smoke detectors. Does that window behind you open?”
He shrugs. I push past him and undo the latch. There is a mesh screen behind the window and a gleaming tripwire that must be part of the security system, but at least I can blow my smoke outside.
Henley doesn’t look bad. He is still as impish and wiry as ever, lacking Bernard’s solidness but also his middle-aged paunch and jowls. He also lacks the clean good looks and fitness of Gabriella, but he has always been attractive, albeit in a less obvious, more devilish way. He knows too much about other human beings. Of my four siblings, he has always been the one who has unsettled me the most. He doesn’t have Bernard’s coldness, or Alistair’s genius, or Gabriella’s good nature. He has some kind of dissipated wisdom, something beyond me. It has always been intimidating, even though I know that on some level he admires my own comparative advantages: my ambition and drive.
“You should really switch to a vape,” Henley says. “They’re better for you and you can vape anywhere.”
“It’s very psychologically important for me to control a flaming piece of paper,” I say.
“Where are Alistair and the father figure?” Henley asks me.
Actually, I have no idea where they are. It is a little strange that they aren’t here yet. I see them both so often at work. Maybe I am a little happy they aren’t here. I do get tired of them.
“They must be around somewhere,” I say.
All of a sudden I get a whole bunch of texts at once. The cell phone coverage out here is terrible. I look down at my phone (Henley has not yet put his away) and see that they are all about the Playqueen acquisition. Our lawyers are finding some obvious anomalies, but I am actually glad. I like knowing exactly how something is fucked-up.
I look at the headlines and then save all the messages, feeling the itch to work. I need to respond to them, but I haven’t seen my baby brother in… two years?
“Has it really been two years?” I ask him.
“You’ve been busy with Nylo and your kids. Last time I saw you, you were just coming off that ugly divorce from… Ben?”
“That’s right,” I say. “That’s his name.”
“Anyway, how does it feel to be free?”
“Terrible,” I say. “I don’t like freedom. Not for me, not for anybody. I am a natural-born authoritarian. People only truly thrive under iron laws that take away their dread.”
“Yes, well, you haven’t been to China.”
“Haven’t you been thriving over there?”
“Not exactly,” says Henley. “In fact, I might not be able to go back for a while. I may or may not have done something that may or may not mean that my very important and delicate life of ease is at risk in the glorious Middle Kingdom.”
“What did you do? Fuck some Party leader’s daughter?”
“Ha, definitely, many of them. But that doesn’t make anybody mad. Wiggling out of a marriage can be tricky, but luckily I am quite wiggly. No, I didn’t get into trouble with the state at all. It was more with what you might call a private organization.”
“Tell me what happened,” I say. “Gabriella is certain you need money. Do you need money?”
“Did she say that? I don’t know how she got that idea. No, what I need is a job. Someplace to hide out for a while. Something to hold my attention and chill me out.”
“Do you even speak Chinese?”
“Sure,” says Henley. “It’s not so hard to pick up, if you’re motivated by colossal loneliness. Plus, there are those Party leaders’ daughters, as you mentioned. Expats bum me out, so I’ve spent a lot of time in giant dim sum restaurants, listening to endless drunk conversations. Anyway, I’m safe now. How are you?”
“What do you mean you’re ‘safe now’?”
“Not in peril? Unmurdered? Not being threatened and blackmailed by bloodthirsty men in bad suits, certain that I have wronged them?”
I sigh, rolling my eyes.
“And if I give you a job this will help you somehow?”
“It won’t hurt,” says Henley. “Remember how we all used to work doing playtesting for Dad’s games during the summers? I always enjoyed that.”
“You never took it very seriously.”
“But I was always good at it,” he counters.
“Last time we spoke, you wouldn’t shut up about how the future was China.”
“The future is still China,” says Henley. “Do you have any idea how starved they are over there for diversions and games?”
“Anyway, I’m glad you’re back. And I’m sure the father figure will also be glad to see you.”
“Phoebe looks good,” says Henley with a wry grin. “Don’t you think? Better than when I last saw her. She certainly takes care of herself.”
“Stop,” I say. “Just stop.”
I stub out my cigarette and give Henley a long and lingering hug, until we are interrupted by shouts from downstairs. Alistair is here with presents for everyone. I always forget to bring bribes for children, but he always remembers. I guess because he does
n’t have any children himself and so he doesn’t quite hate them all yet.
Henley and I make our way back to the front entrance of Bernard’s house, where all of the kids are gathered. I even see Bernard finally pop his head in from a back room. He smiles at his wife. I look around for the mom who was just grinding on his dick and see her joggling some two-year-old who is entranced by the skinny man with the knapsack full of drones, board games, stuffed bears, Helping Hands action figures, and video game consoles.
“A lot of the children here are underprivileged,” Henley whispers in my ear. “Veritable urchins, lifted right from the streets of Long Island. Poor unfortunates. Phoebe told me that they are all going to one of those Evangelical churches now. They are learning how to be true Christians.”
“Yikes,” I say.
“It makes Phoebe happy, and I think Bernard likes making new friends,” says Henley. “Don’t you think?”
“Henley!” shrieks Alistair, running to hug our little brother. “Look at you!”
I take the opportunity to step outside and check my messages. I light up another cigarette, unconcerned now if anybody sees me. I am a little shocked that there aren’t any messages from our father. He seems to have disappeared completely. It’s at times like this that I almost wish he had remarried, just so we would have someone else to call in order to keep tabs on him.
Swiping from message to message, I learn it isn’t just the lawyers who are freaking out about Playqueen. Now some of the vice presidents are weighing in, convinced that acquiring the company will be a huge mistake on account of how “narrow” Playqueen’s focus is. I grit my teeth, refusing to take the bait. Why is it my job to remind these executives that there are more women on planet Earth than men? How many shaky companies have we bought for way too much money over the years, just to stay in the market, just to keep our plan of attack diverse?
“Look out!” someone yells at me. I dodge sideways just in time. A drone the size of a basketball whizzes by my head. Maxim is standing on the front porch piloting it, and I see Olivia and Jane beside their cousin, looking glum and embarrassed. I take a long drag of my cigarette and then tromp up the front porch stairs.
“Are we ready to go?” I ask my daughters, not bothering to wish Maxim a happy birthday. Jane nods vigorously and Olivia shrugs. We say our goodbyes. I tell both Gabriella and Henley to come visit me in Brooklyn this week. I don’t say goodbye to Bernard, who seems relieved that I am leaving. Alistair is busy showing some children how to make the Helping Hands action figures spin around on one finger.
“Has anybody heard anything from Dad?” I ask my useless siblings. They all look at each other blankly and shake their heads.
“Well, when he shows up, tell him to call me,” I say.
On the drive back home, Olivia and Jane spend the whole time complaining about their evil little cousin and his creepy hobbies, including the mutilated, pinioned, and dissected bodies of small animals that he collects: squirrels, opossums, raccoons, birds, and even something he said was a fox but looked “just like a little terrier,” according to Jane.
“He calls it his taxidermy,” says Olivia.
“He kept coming up behind me and like leaning against me,” says Jane. “Just, like, wrapping himself all over my shoulders and legs. He wouldn’t stop. I think he was getting something out of it. He would get all red in the face and giggle.”
“If he makes you uncomfortable, you totally have my permission to bop him right in the face,” I say. “I don’t like him either, but the little one is nice, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, Julian’s sweet,” says Olivia.
When we get home, I keep the girls up eating ice cream and gossiping about their aunts and uncles. When I start to see them fading, I ask if they want to watch some TV or a movie. I’m trying to squeeze in as much face time as possible this weekend, before I have to be alone again for another two weeks.
When Ben half-heartedly asked for full custody, I think he was surprised I agreed. Everyone was surprised. I loved how monstrous it made me feel. But he is a better nanny than any I could ever hire. And the idea of him living alone as a swinging bachelor made me sick. So now I am the swinging bachelor. I am the fun one. I am the one they will run to when they are old, when they want the truth about life.
“We’re bushed, Mom,” says Olivia. Jane doesn’t even say goodnight. She just goes up to her room and falls asleep facedown in her bed.
“Your family is so much more fun than Dad’s family,” says Olivia, giving me a hug before taking off for her own room. “Except for Maxim.”
“My family?” I say. “It’s your family, too!”
“Ha, yeah, right,” says Olivia.
I take the elevator up to my room, checking again to see if my father ever arrived. But there are no messages from him. I’m just about to text Bernard when my phone rings. It’s Alistair, who has never quite learned the etiquette of texting first.
“You’re up,” he says, short of breath. “Oh god, none of us know what to do. I’m so sorry to call you like this, but we are all freaking out over here. Bernard just took off at top speed. I guess he’s going to swing by your place to pick you up?”
“What’s wrong?” I say. “What’s the matter? You have to slow down and explain yourself.”
“It’s Dad,” he sputters. “One of his maids found him in the shower. He fell down or something. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. They’re saying he’s dead. But that can’t be true, can it?”
I crumple to the floor, my hands shaking. I scramble for the phone, which has fallen through my fingers. When I pick it back up, I accidentally hang up on Alistair. I frantically tap at the screen but can’t seem to remember the code to unlock the phone, or maybe it won’t unlock because of my sweaty fingers. I keep pressing the buttons but nothing happens.
7
In the pew at St. Patrick’s, the girls are bookended by me and Ben. They seem to be handling everything okay, which is more than I can say for myself. This is a full Catholic funeral service, and the bleachers are packed.
There are reporters here from New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Washington Post, The New Yorker, New York Magazine, and even from The Guardian. They all want to interview me, and I am too shell-shocked to fend them off very well. They are blending in with work acquaintances and Dad’s old board game buddies and low-level executives he was mentoring, and honestly the entire funeral is just a giant fucking unplanned mess. Luckily, almost everything I have said so far to these vultures has been garbled and unusable for any stories they might be trying to file.
I should have been better at bringing everyone together and making sure this goes smoothly, but I just don’t have it in me, and so everything has fallen on Angelo Marino, my father’s personal lawyer and best friend. Angelo Marino has done his best, but the past two days have been a whirlwind of shock and grief and funeral arrangements, and until we got here, we didn’t even know whether it would be me or Alistair speaking at the vigil.
I don’t have anything prepared, and Alistair is terrified of public speaking. I am the oldest, but Alistair had a closer relationship with Dad. In the end, we decided to both say something short.
When it is time, Alistair walks up to the altar first and immediately freezes. He clutches the lectern while the priest looks on encouragingly. Alistair has actually been holding up better than I would have expected, but now it seems like the public speaking is fucking him up more than the tragedy of our father’s accidental death.
“Prescott Nylo was a legend in business, a legend in game design, and a legendary competitor and friend,” he finally manages to choke out. “But for me, he was just a dad. A very good dad.”
He shuffles his notes. He looks around. He coughs.
“Jesus, he looks like he’s about to throw up,” whispers Henley, leaning forward from the pew behind me. “You’d better get up there and save him
.”
I stand up discreetly and approach the altar. The aging Irish priest has gunk-covered spectacles, a sunburned scalp, and food crumbs in his luscious beard.
“We always knew our dad was proud of us,” Alistair eventually continues. “How many people can say that? We always knew that he loved us, and I hope that wherever he is now, he knows that we love him and that we are proud of him.”
Polite applause breaks out. Alistair stumbles down from the podium and gives me a long hug as he makes his way back to his seat. His eyes are dry. Only Gabriella has broken down in tears so far this morning, and even this seemed forced to me.
I glumly ascend the podium myself. I reach into my pocket and pull out some hurriedly scribbled notes, but when I smooth them out on the lectern, they don’t seem to make any sense.
I look out over the congregation. Henley—that demon—is grinning at me. Bernard and Phoebe look exhausted. Maxim is in fact totally asleep, and Julian is trying to stay awake but keeps nodding off. I don’t blame them. Is there anything more boring and soul-crushing than a full-length Catholic funeral?
Olivia and Jane look up at me expectantly, and I remember that I am supposed to be representing the strength of the family. I am supposed to be representing the permanent, unshakable power of the Nylo Corporation. I am supposed to be a living symbol of our family’s excellence, cunning, and creativity.
“I don’t care who you are,” I begin, my clear voice filling the room. “It doesn’t matter if you are a good person or a bad one, a rich person or a poor one. Prescott Nylo wanted to make you happy, or at least take away your cares for a few minutes on the long, unswerving road to oblivion. We all loved him passionately, those of us who knew him. But he was more fun than any saint. He was better at cards, at Sea Farmers, at Twilight Struggle, at jacks, and at Tetris than Satan. There is that old trope of challenging death to a game in exchange for your immortal soul. Well, Prescott Nylo didn’t just win games against death and the void and meaninglessness of existence and all that: he invented new games.”
