Who Is Rich?

by Matthew Klam

  Who was this woman? I stood there in my coat, so nervous and guilty I almost choked, and asked for some water. She ran the tap and handed me a glass. A photo on the fridge showed a younger Amy with lighter hair, evenly cut on the bottom, before her son was born, holding Emily as a baby, standing behind the older girl, the beautiful blue-eyed Lily, and the husband, who looked decent, older, balding—beside an even older, smiling, bald-headed guy who I guessed was his father. I noted a pink receipt from a landscaper for “decorative stonework,” for $68,342. It was detailed and handwritten in plain language. There was a twenty-dollar bill under a magnet and a phone number scribbled on a business card that named Amy O’Donnell as principal partner in something called Cardinal Growth Fund. In the photo on the fridge she looked happy and serene. They were standing at the folded-out staircase of some kind of aircraft. The husband was tall and thick, with a big head and bags under his eyes. The older man, upon further inspection, was international war criminal and goon for the state Dick Cheney.

  “You know him?”

  He had a hand on Mike’s shoulder, smiling with no upper lip. She glanced at the photo. “Mike did a deal. We were friends. He used to take us places.”

  On the drive here I’d imagined an awkward meeting, which might’ve led to fumbling intimacy, nymphomania, the hostess lighting candles in a hot tub. But now I felt stupid and drank my water. Her face looked longer, with a pointy chin, and in a low voice she said, “How’s Boston?”

  “Fine. I’m done.”

  She leaned against the counter, looking at the floor.

  “I’ve been in a courtroom for the past five days, sketching cops and suicide bombers.”

  “You’re heading home.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What do I owe you for the water?”

  I saw her hands shaking. Over her shoulder, Cheney held his pose. “I do this thing where I can’t stop checking my phone. Do you do that?” I said yes. “Are we supposed to keep this up forever? Is there something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Telepathy? Bigger keyboards? Smaller thumbs? I can’t keep up this flirting. I’m not cut out for this shit.” She put her palms against her eyes. “I lose my phone and until I find it I’m a crazy person.”

  “It can be a little distracting.”

  “I yell, and I never yell.”

  “Don’t yell.”

  “It’s bad. We’re bad.” I couldn’t understand the point of that kind of talk. “This whole thing. We’re sick.”

  “They’re sick. We’re the good ones.” The stupidity of my response exhausted us.

  She stepped through the pantry into a hallway to check on her son, snoozing in his stroller, sucking his thumb. She silently slipped off his corduroy jacket, sighing softly, showing distress, glancing at me for direction. I figured I should leave. Unfortunately, I’d lost my sense of how to retrace my steps. There was a wall of framed photos—the husband made up for his bald head with some hairy forearms. I couldn’t help noticing a small black-and-white one of a moonfaced girl with barrettes and a dimpled smile. Amy came closer, breathing next to me, and said, “I think that was the last time I brushed my hair.”

  She put her hand on my shoulder as some kind of steadying gesture. I knew I was sick. It was a game that made everything else go away. It was as corny as the piña colada song, and as irrational as a noxious fear in the night, a fear of maiming and death by some rich guy’s hired thugs while my children watched in horror. The sneaking around demanded exhausting and myopic concentration, and made me schizo and paranoid. There was nothing I could do about the guilt.

  Anyway, I couldn’t stop myself. My own ethical dilemmas seemed small in comparison. She believed in prayer and public service, a certain godliness, and, even so, couldn’t stop herself from texting me photos of her naked butt. She wanted to create a stimulating after-school environment for poor kids in Detroit, and worked at it day and night, using all that moolah she’d ripped from the bones of humanity. She went down the hall. Half in a fog, I followed.

  There were some serious crown moldings, beautiful bookshelves filled with new hardbacks, a bio of Rudy Giuliani, some T. S. Eliot. Weirdly, some part of me grew to fill the size of the space. Another part of me felt like the victim of a war or famine, contemplating the high-walled fortress of a conquering army. Envy felt unsafe. The power of her money made almost any interaction disorienting, manifesting in feverish insecurity. Stuff on lower shelves confirmed the unthinkable, an engraved chunk of marble, thanking him, and also plaques and paperweights in wood, metal, plastic, and glass, acknowledging his service on the governing bodies of clubs, hospitals, colleges, and museums. Engraved pen holders, letter openers, staplers, and an actual chair with his name burned into the back beneath the crest of a Midwestern university. A piano sat on a raised area of polished hardwood floor, under a domed ceiling with tall windows on all sides, a sort of dance floor where an orchestra might set up. She’d hosted something the night before, and in fact an orchestra had set up, on that raised area by the windows. There were stacks of rental chairs, tabletops, and glassware in racks.

  The inner-city school thing sometimes meant baking three hundred cupcakes and driving sixty miles to sit in class all day letting kids from the barrio braid her hair. The school endeavor was a bigger time suck and sometimes meant flying to Chicago or Miami to negotiate the lease on a building on loan from the Catholic Church. Call it philanthropy, or a kind of grassroots activism, or white billionaires dismantling public education. Although at least she was doing something. She could’ve just as easily spent every afternoon humping her tennis pro. She had powerful friends, parties, pet projects with which to work out her ten-cent philosophies. The party the night before had been to help clean up Long Island Sound. They’d handed out plastic pails with plans for the next beach cleanup and encouraging data. She offered me a pail.

  Last year she’d had two yards of sand carted into the house so the kids could have a scavenger hunt, but the weight of the sand had made the floor joists creak, and when people started dancing she thought the house would fall down. This year Brooke Shields co-chaired the event.

  “I have so much leftover food.”

  I had no zany fundraising stories to share. I felt shaky and middle-class. I had brains and an education and was not lazy but maybe worse than lazy, barely scraping by, donating twenty dollars here and there to the charity of my choice, while the superpowered people saved the world.

  We walked on. We passed a big red room, a round ottoman, a Chinese triptych, giant vases. A white room, chrome, glass, glaring bright white sofa as long as a Greyhound bus. Dining room, earthy wooden table, fireplace, wrought iron chandelier like in a Frankenstein movie. We passed an actual painting by Thomas Eakins of a woman looking bored shitless in a pink dress, and a framed photo of an astronaut floating in space, inscribed by the astronaut with a Sharpie, thanking Mike and his investment fund. Then a room that looked like where they actually lived, with beat-up couches, toys, a TV, corduroy pillows with the stuffing falling out, and a kid’s piano.

  We passed a big guy in a dark T-shirt and sweatpants, splattered with paint, holding a paint roller, talking in Spanish on a cellphone. No flicker of recognition passed between them. She seemed involved in deeper calculations.

  We traversed the mud room, gleaming Moroccan tile, blue walls, stone sink, deep shelves, sneakers, shoes, boots, flip-flops, baseball caps, straw hats, rain ponchos, scarves, mittens, earmuffs, gloves, shawls, and capes. Past the mud room we descended into a part of the house where people folded laundry, including a woman watching a hip-hop video on low volume. She sat on the couch in a collared white shirt and a cardigan.

  “This is Perlita,” Amy said. “Perlita runs our world.”

  Perlita stared at us. The lower level was bright and airy and entirely aboveground. I’d heard all about her, going to night school, man troubles, car problems, two kids back in the Philippines bein
g raised by their aunt. Amy said, “Wanna yell if he wakes up?” Perlita nodded. Amy smiled, the tendons pulling at her neck.

  We went back a different way, and turned and climbed a dark, narrow staircase, and as we climbed I looked out a small window onto her covered swimming pool, with walkways of elaborate stonework. I recognized the barn in the distance, a clean beautiful post-and-beam structure she’d sent me photos of, no animals inside it, nothing at all but her sunlit painting studio, where she made her goofy artwork.

  Upstairs we passed a four-year-old’s bedroom the size of a bowling alley, with its own veranda. We passed additional seating zones, a paneled library, a gym with chromed machinery and a padded floor, an office—and finally entered a sunny room with high windows. A bed hid behind a rice-paper folding screen. She closed the door and bolted it and put her face in my face and breathed. I went a little cuckoo, recalling the Spanish-speaking housepainter, processing and abandoning scenarios, outcomes, inspecting the place for signs of him, whoever he was, a massive black armoire, a tall, blackened fireplace, some Asian-looking chests. I felt sick and wanted to leave. I had a sandwich and some cookies waiting for me in the car. The bed sat low on a wooden platform with a pea-green silk comforter and gold tassels. It didn’t look all that virginal. There were books on the nightstands. It was creepy, although maybe I didn’t give a shit. They had a crib by the bed, like us. An invisible kid watched me run my hands up and down his mother’s flanks as the surveillance cameras of my imagination whirred away, gazing at us with a thousand hidden eyes. I felt the obligation of it, another insincere gesture to another unhappy mother. “You have a long drive home,” she said, letting me go, “and I have stuff to do.”

  But beyond this room was a smaller room with a ficus tree and a couch and a wall of glass facing the woods. There was a makeup mirror on a desk scattered with jewelry and a walk-in closet heaving with her clothes. On the couch were sneakers and a laptop, where, I imagined, she’d written all those emails. The adjoining bathroom had a floor made of smooth stones and an egg-shaped tub. Moisture lingered in the air, her smell. I believed all of it then: that she had nobody else to talk to, her husband was gay or autistic, a bill of goods she’d sold to me that I was the man and could do what I wanted.

  “I have twenty-one minutes,” she said, blushing, with sad eyes, all business. “Then I have a lunch that’ll probably cost me a million bucks.”

  Something fell off the makeup table and crashed. I felt myself soaring, brightly, falling over. The couch was too short. I had one hand up her sweater and one down her pants. Her head tipped back as she grabbed my wrist and said, “I feel ugly.”

  I felt ugly, too. I’d spent five days in an airless courthouse under bright fluorescent lights, eating fried-egg sandwiches. The night before, we’d texted to arrange this rendezvous. After it was arranged, I didn’t sleep a wink. I drove three hours with reckless abandon to get here in time.

  “I’m not taking off my clothes.”

  It all came back from last summer—the change in breathing, the hand on my hand, resisting, instructing, guided masturbation.

  “We don’t have to do anything,” I said.

  “Yes we do.” She tightened her grip. “Every day, all day, you’re the only thing I think about, the only person I want to talk to.”

  It was true that I’d never had that with Robin.

  “I married someone who ignores me,” she said.

  “But you got sick of it.”

  “But it creeps me out to use some rationalization.”

  “Like we’ve been mistreated,” I said, “so we deserve this.”

  “Or we’ll all be dead soon and no one will give a shit.”

  “Don’t get mad at me. I’m not the one jerking you around.”

  “You’re so liberated.” We hovered in that vulnerable state. I felt her wanting my help getting past it. “Why did you wait until last night to tell me you were coming?” Her breathing changed and became more labored, her eyes on me but not seeing, her anger distracting her guilt. She exhaled, trying to reel it back in.

  “I wish this whole thing would blow up in my face so he’d find out and I could stop pretending.” She grabbed my hand and shoved it down farther, directing the operation. She made a lovely noise. Her other hand went to my elbow. I found some spot on her that made her go out for a minute and leaned down and sucked her nipple. She came like sneezing, then rested, yawned, ran her hand through my hair and said, “How many other houses are you planning to visit on your way home?”

  “I don’t even have time to brush my teeth, I’m so busy answering your emails.”

  We had eleven minutes. I lay there, considering ways to get her pants off. I could ask politely. I could say, We’re old and sad and this is our only consolation, or, from the other angle, Let’s celebrate our youth, we’re not done yet, let’s romp. There was the legalistic approach, citing spousal shortcomings and violations, and redundancies among the various approaches. I tried to think, but as I did she started to fight with my belt, then got onto her knees. “Here,” I said. “Let me.” She looked at me with pity and clawed at my pants and yanked them open. I guess I just exploded. It might’ve been the best blow job in my life, except maybe it didn’t go on long enough to count, like in professional bull riding, where the judges need at least eight seconds for a qualified ride.

  “Do you feel better?”

  “No, I feel violated.”

  “Sorry, I’m out of practice. I don’t do that for my husband.”

  We gave up on the couch and rolled onto the carpet. Her bra hung loose, unhooked, under her chin, and her sweater was bunched up around it. Five minutes. It was important that we not dwell on him. “I missed your face,” I said.

  “I forget you sometimes,” she said, “but when it’s quiet you come back to me.”

  “I always wonder where you’re going, what you’re doing.”

  “Even though you were busy in Boston, I knew you were close by. You were more mine. Now you’re heading home.”

  “I’m yours,” I said. “I’ve felt that way for months.” Robin was younger and lighter and had finer bones.

  “If anyone downstairs asks, I’ll say you’re my cousin.” Amy was bigger and taller, but laid out against me she fit perfectly into my arms.

  “Do you have a lot of cousins?”

  “Tons.”

  “Do you have sex with them on the floor in your closet?”

  “This is known as my dressing room.”

  “I bet you’re fun at holidays.”

  “I bet you’re fun, too.”

  “Not anymore, not even on Christmas. Now all I do is work. That’s why Robin hates my guts.”

  “Mike thinks I sit on my ass all day popping bonbons.”

  “I don’t want to work anymore. I’ve got other things to do before I die.”

  “It would be different with us.”

  “We’d stick our hands in each other’s pants.”

  “I’d take care of everything,” she said. “I really would.”

  “Come home with me,” I said. “We’ll tell Robin you’re my cousin.” I felt her go slushy in my arms, losing hope. I tried to let my weight crush her, but she wasn’t fragile and didn’t mind. What was I supposed to do now, spirit her away in my barf-stained Toyota wagon?

  “I have nothing against your wife, but every time you mention her it makes me want to puke.”

  “I drove all this fucking way to see you.”

  “I’ll be sad when you go.”

  “I’m sad now.”

  “I hate this,” she said. “Although it’s nice to be with someone who doesn’t act like he wants to kill me every time I open my mouth.”

  What could I say to that? “We’ll have fun this summer.”

  “I guess.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I hate cheating,” she said. “I hate lying and planning and scheming.”

  We lay there, trying not to do that.

&nbs
p; “Hey,” I said. “What if we meet somewhere else?”

  “How is that better?”

  “Somewhere less public.”

  She gave it some thought. “I have a meeting in Anguilla next month.”

  I’d had in mind somewhere near the Amtrak station in Wilmington. The longer we lay there, the worse I felt. Even if I could afford the plane ride, I’d have to get someone to cover. Our babysitter worked part-time. Who would do drop-off in the morning and pickup at Molly’s at night? I’d need an excuse. And I’d have to tip the Caribbean bellhop for incidentals.

  “I know it’s harder for you,” she said. “Mike doesn’t give a shit. I’ve exchanged six words with him in the last thirteen days.” I didn’t want to hear about that bald-headed fuck. “He’s in Holland.”

  “Good for him.”

  “I think he had to go buy some clogs.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “I wish I could help you.”

  “Help me what?” I asked.

  “I’d like to make it easier for you.”

  “So I can meet you in Anguilla?” We were still having fun.

  “I don’t mean that. I didn’t think you even cared about money.”

  I didn’t want her pity, or her dough, if that’s what we were talking about, but as I lay there I thought about hers, and mine, and had the sense that we’d begun blindly feeling our way into a conversation that was not entirely contradictory to my interests.

  I said, “I live on sunshine and candy.” She told me to shush. You’d think there’d be some formal presentation or specialized language, or explicit demands on those targets she largessed, since it was one of her many jobs now to give money to losers.