by Dani Lamia
“You’re embarrassing us… ” Alistair said.
That was when she straight-up cold-cocked him, right in the side of the head, knocking him to the pavement in front of all the other mothers. He was more stunned than hurt, but he lay there for a while with the air knocked out of him. Our mother stood up and looked around at all the stunned faces of the other mothers. She had just haymakered a first grader.
Now, this was the early eighties, so violence against your own children was more tolerated and understood, but still, these were a bunch of very liberal parents and she had used a fist and it was clearly done in anger. She was shocked at herself. She knew that what she had done was unforgivable.
“Oh, sweetie, what happened?” she said, trying to remake reality. “You scared me, I thought you were someone else!”
It didn’t work. Actually, after that, we had to go to a different, still extremely elite elementary school on the Upper West Side. She couldn’t deal with seeing the other Aviators mothers.
After her suicide, the detective didn’t just want to know the details of what I saw when I stumbled upon her messy corpse. He wanted to know if my mother had ever had unusual mood swings, or if she had ever talked about taking her own life, or if she had been fighting with my father.
Nobody had ever asked me what I thought about my own mother before. The weird intimacy of it, and the invitation to discuss my feelings, caught me off guard. I gushed to the police detective about my mother’s fits of madness, about her ups and downs, about her neglect followed by her hyperattentiveness, about her perpetual giddy strangeness and her comfort with—almost glee at—violence and cruelty.
Even as young as I was, I knew why a person might want to die. And even as young as I was, I knew that I was helping my father by telling the truth about how crazy my mother had always been. I also knew I was helping my father by leaving out the fact that she sometimes fought with him as well. Because who didn’t fight with my mother?
My eyes dart to the anxious faces of my remaining siblings as I come out of my reverie. “Dad has nothing to do with any of this,” I say. “We just have to figure out who this Game Master is and then we can turn them in and stop this madness.”
“So we should stop playing the game?” asks Gabriella. “Right? That’s the vibe I’m getting here?”
We all stare at her.
“Henley was murdered,” says Bernard, finally. “Fine. I agree. The game is over.”
17
“We should keep playing,” urges Bernard an hour later, reversing himself utterly. “Are we really all just going to give up? He would want us to keep going.”
We’ve all had a lot to drink. The rest of my siblings can’t really hold their liquor. Not like me, not like Henley. We’ve been telling stories about our dead dirtbag brother, trying to make some kind of meaning from his death.
“What are you talking about?” says Gabriella. “We already decided. You even said!”
“No, I’ve been thinking about it,” says Bernard, his normal reticence to express himself shaken loose. “How else are we supposed to find whoever did this if we stop now? Nothing would catch the Game Master more off guard than if we didn’t even blink—if we just kept right on playing his game.”
“You have a helicopter,” says Gabriella. “Of course you would say that.”
Angelo Marino has been putting the finishing touches on our police reports in the next room. Now he comes in holding a sheaf of color-coded binders.
“Maybe we should take a vote,” says Bernard.
“What does voting matter?” I say. “Surely no one would believe that this was our father’s last wish, to kill all of his children. Anyway, whoever wins now, the case will get tied up in court unless we agree to a settlement.”
“Yes, but none of that is the point,” says Bernard. “The point is to play the game. Maybe Dad isn’t running the game, but he still set it all up. We are honoring both him and Henley if we keep going.”
What Bernard is saying is undeniably true. The scavenger hunt has all the hallmarks of something Dad would make, of one of his notoriously buggy and lame first drafts, before teams of creative professionals have gotten ahold of it and turned it into something polished and ready for the masses. Before it has been playtested.
“I’m going to keep playing,” says Bernard. “Fuck it. Who else?”
He raises his hand. Angelo Marino sits down at our father’s desk and lines up the colored folders in front of him. There is one for each of us. How has he managed to type up what we know and what we have seen so quickly?
“Okay,” says Bernard, when no other hands shoot up. “So it’s just me then.”
“It’s just you,” I say. “Congratulations, you’ve won the big prize.”
“So you should all give me your game phones, then,” says Bernard. “Since you won’t need them anymore.”
“I assume they are all evidence, actually,” I say. “In a murder investigation. We should give them to the police.”
“If they even ask for them,” says Bernard. “This Jay and Rutledge don’t sound very professional. Do you think they’ve ever had to work a murder before?”
“Surely,” I say, though now that he mentions it, I find it extremely hard to believe that these two men have much experience with the actual work of being detectives. What horrible luck for Henley to fall into the jurisdiction of the subway tunnels under Midtown.
“I’m not giving you my phone,” I tell Bernard. “We’ll all turn them over to the cops together.”
“If they ask for them,” Bernard repeats, petulantly.
“These are finished,” Angelo Marino says, gesturing to our reports. “If you wouldn’t mind signing them, I will have them couriered to the precinct and then we can all go home and get some sleep.”
We pick up our file folders. I’m the only one who bothers reading my statement before signing it. Actually, I’m a little shocked to find out how much of the statement is simply the truth, as strange and incomplete as the truth is.
I sign my statement and pour myself another glass of bourbon to take downstairs to my room. I say goodnight to everyone, my eyes lingering on Alistair, who looks like he has something he wants to say to me.
“What?” I ask gently, but he just shakes his head.
When I reach my room, I collapse onto my bed. I try to find some kind of soothing ambient music to lull me into a stupor along with the rocking dizziness of all the liquor, but nothing helps. I lie on my back for a long time, trying to force myself to fall asleep, but sleep won’t come.
I think about how I will have to tell my daughters that their beloved uncle is now also dead, just like their beloved grandfather. They’ll blame me for it on some level. They’ll wonder about their own fragile place in the universe. They’ll wonder what it means that even though we have nearly infinite money and all the power that money brings, we were not able to avoid such a strange accident.
Unlike the poor unfortunates, my children will not have dreams of aspiration. They will not suffer from the delusion that if they simply work hard enough and acquire more wealth and power they will be able to avoid their own doom, to bargain with the forces of darkness and then come out on top. Yes, their lives will be easier. But there is something devastating about growing up in a world where you know exactly what money can—and cannot—buy.
I am actually more afraid that this double blow will raise Ben’s standing in their emotional calculus. He represents a form of achievement and growth that is not material and that seemingly has no clear boundaries. He represents a fake world of flattering ersatz spiritual transcendence, of proletarian renunciation, of self-denial and commitment to dubious higher principles. I can only teach them to be ruthless and to wield power responsibly in a way that benefits the most people without diminishing the paralyzing force of the Nylo name. I can teach them that being “the on
e who decides” confers the imperiousness of power but that these decisions don’t actually matter all that much.
However, I fear the trauma of this double loss will make them into goddamned pious stylites like their smug father. I fear that if I start to represent dissolution and the grave, I will lose them.
I need fresh air. I take my elevator to the ground level and walk around, smoking a cigarette. It is 4 a.m. in Brooklyn, and the only other people on the streets are drunk bros and shark-like hustlers, trying to see if anybody is good for a free cigarette or worth jumping for their cash or phone.
A thick young man wobbles up to me and stops, staring at me, blinking. He is wearing an untucked silk shirt and tight jeans that do not flatter his already poochy belly. Is it true that women outnumber men almost two to one in this city? He doesn’t seem to feel that he has to work very hard to be a viable male here.
“Hey, whoa, you are really hot,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. “Keep moving, man.”
“Do you want to, like… come home with me?”
His massive insecurity is palpable. He wants to be the type of person who can command people into having instant sex with him. He wants to be the sort of person who can ask for instant sex without any repercussions.
I turn away from him, still smoking, hoping he’ll get the hint.
“Oh,” he says, and I can hear his sneer even though my back is turned. “So you’re too good to even talk to me. Okay.”
It’s true, though. I am too good to even talk to him.
“Fine, whatever, I was giving you a compliment,” he says, sidling away, already forgetting our interaction, having gotten what he needed from it. I responded to him once. He proved he was not afraid of me.
It is only seconds later that a completely different sort of dirtbag comes shuffling around the corner. He sees me and his eyes light up with shrewd malice.
“Hey,” he says, leaning into my field of vision. “Hey, the thing is, I am trying to get twenty dollars so I can buy a bus ticket and I already got ten dollars so maybe you could give me a ten-dollar bill and I can get a ticket back home to my kids?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t have any cash.”
This is true. I don’t keep any cash in my purse. I move closer to the front of the building where the security guard can see me.
“Okay, god bless,” he says. “But could I at least get a few cigarettes, maybe?”
He knows I am going to say yes, and I know I am going to say yes, but I am resentful of this fact. I reach into my tiny purse and pull out the pack of Dunhills. His eyes gleam with glassy excitement.
“Whoa,” he says. “The good shit. Remember when these used to be, like, ten bucks a pack and we thought they were expensive, back when we were in high school?”
His familiarity shocks me. Are we the same age? I don’t remember the price of Dunhills. I don’t think I have ever tried to buy any other brand.
I hand him three cigarettes and shut my purse, heading for the building entrance. The fun of smoking has been squashed.
“Hey, wait, you got a light?”
“No, I’m sorry,” I say, slipping through the revolving door. As a percentage of my holdings, with the amount of money that most people give away as spare change, I could change this man’s life forever, making him weep right here on the street with permanent gratitude. Fuck him for not knowing that, for not knowing me.
I look back over my shoulder. The man is still there in front of the building, staring inside. He comes up closer and puts his face to the glass. I give a knowing glance to the security guard and the guard reluctantly gets up and slowly walks toward the revolving doors. The poor unfortunate gets the idea. He skips away, stuffing the three cigarettes I gave him into the pockets of his low-slung shorts. He gives me one last withering stare of pure contempt before he disappears from view.
Wait, did we literally go to high school together?
No, of course not, I tell myself. I’ve never seen the man before in my life. And hopefully I will never see him or anyone else like him ever again.
Why is it impossible to shield oneself completely from the ugly, disgusting world that hates you for no reason?
18
I finally fall asleep for a few hours but I am awakened at 7:30 by Peter sneaking into my office to deliver yet another batch of flowers, candy, and cards from fellow CEOs. I stumble to the closet and pick out some gray slacks and a summery blouse. I fix myself up in the bathroom and brew a pot of coffee, which I drink in my office while reading the business sections of the Times, the Journal, and the Financial Times, which Peter has separated from the rest of the papers like shelled pistachios or deveined shrimp.
I can’t postpone the Playqueen meeting. It has to be this afternoon or never. I can’t let a little thing like the murder of my youngest brother put me off.
It is about 9 a.m. when Peter walks in, sheepishly holding his phone in his hands like a hat.
“I am so sorry,” he says. “I was just reading the Post online.”
“Did they break the story?” I ask, sighing.
“Yes,” Peter says. “An elevator crash at the Empire State Building? That is so insane. You must be devastated.”
“I am not doing great,” I admit.
“I can cancel all your meetings again today.”
“Nope,” I say. “I’m having them.”
“Are you sure? I know everyone will understand. The amount your family has suffered lately… It is a little hard to believe.” Peter gives me an understanding smile, even though he can’t possibly.
“The meetings will continue as planned,” I insist.
He reads my mood perfectly and scuttles out. I squeeze my phone for a while like a stress toy, but then I finally do the horrible, right thing and call Ben.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.”
“So, guess what.”
“I am right in between classes—” he starts.
“Henley is dead,” I cut in. “He was killed in an elevator crash. It snapped his neck. Last night.”
“What?” says Ben. “What the fuck?”
“Look, you can read all about it in the Post, evidently. Would you mind telling the girls?”
“They really liked Henley,” says Ben. “They’ll be devastated. So soon after your father? And so sudden? You must be reeling.”
“I am reeling,” I say. “So be gentle with the girls but tell them the truth. If they have any questions, tell them they can call me, but obviously I am busy putting everything in order. Can you take care of them?”
“I am so sorry,” he says. “I can’t even believe this. I am so sorry you are all alone with this.”
“Anyway, now you know. I’ll call the girls tonight. I promise.”
“They have seen a lot of death lately,” says Ben. “So have you. Jesus.”
“I’ve gotta go, dude,” I say. I hang up.
I spend the rest of the morning alone in my office trying to catch up, working on everything I’ve been putting off. I get my notes in order for the Playqueen meeting and go over the P&Ls for the various divisions in the next quarter. I read a bunch of dumb memos about upcoming parties and company events, which for some reason will still be happening, even though my father will not be able to attend them. For a moment, I wonder who will take his place with respect to making speeches and rousing the troops. I realize that this person will now be me.
Self-deprecation has never been my strong suit. I make a note to read Grant’s memoirs again. I must become someone who inspires people. Grant never wanted to be a general. He just wanted to be a math professor. I, too, can become a general if I must.
As I work, I try very hard not to think about Henley. I try very hard not to remember all the trouble he had gotten into over the years, all the random women running aft
er him who I had to chase away with stern conversations, with cash, with NDAs.
I think about the time he was arrested in an East Village McDonald’s for public indecency. He had taken so much acid that he had his pants off in order to soothingly masturbate himself into a stupor in one of the booths. After a generous contribution to the Emerald Society, he was let go and his record was expunged. He promised to keep it to ketamine, coke, and DMT after that.
“I’m too fun for acid,” he lamented. “Acid is too smooth.”
I try very hard not to remember him getting kicked out of boarding school for an elaborate prank gone awry that involved burning an obscene poem into the manicured lawn of the dean using weed killer. Partway through, Henley realized that the weed killer would take too long, so he switched to gasoline. He lit the gas-drenched letters, somehow not knowing that the grass in between would also catch fire.
“It worked in this movie I saw,” he lamented.
I try very hard not to remember how he showed up at my house after the divorce with a team of male strippers and a Ziploc bag full of coke. He insisted that the strippers were working for free after seeing naked pictures of me he had stolen from my phone. They actually all stuck to this story, trying to get my number even as I was kicking them out. I wasn’t in the mood to get laid, but he did make me laugh—and I hadn’t been able to laugh in months.
“You really should have just fucked a few of them to be nice,” he said. “At least one.”
I’m so lost in memories that I don’t notice when noon rolls around. All of a sudden, Alistair and Angelo Marino are in my office, looking at me gravely. I glance up from my desk and frown at them.
“It’s time,” says Angelo Marino.
“Right,” I say. “Have you heard anything from Jay and Rutledge? Shouldn’t they be here?”
