The Chocolate Money

by Ashley Prentice Norton

  He lets me cry a bit, then says, “Do you want me to come out and help you with her affairs?”

  I pretend to consider it, even though of course I want him to.

  “Yes.” Then I remember my manners, and though the situation might not quite merit it, I say, “Thank you.”

  I do need him to be here. Even though I’m her only daughter, I can’t help but think he knows her better than I do.

  “I’ll be there in the morning,” he says. “Will you be all right until then?”

  I nod, but then remember he can’t hear that.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ll see you then. Thank you again, Lucas.”

  We hang up. If he will be here in the morning, I realize, he’ll be taking a plane, and I remember how much he hates to fly. This is a good sign. If he stretches himself for Babs, he might just stretch himself for me.

  That night, I decide to sleep in Babs’s room. I wear the Raffles robe she had on the morning I told her I had thrown away her matchbooks. I can hardly let myself think it, but these things are no longer Babs’s. Everything in the apartment belongs to me now.

  I put my father’s medallion in the pocket of the robe. I know it is finally time to tell him. Soon, I think. There will be no repercussions from Babs, and the worst that can happen is he will reject me. That’s a big worst, but better to know once and for all. If he does not accept me as his daughter, I can bury the idea of him with Babs, lose both my parents at the same time, just like Babs did. If she survived this fate, so can I.

  I pull up the peach satin bedspread and settle into the crisp ironed sheets that have Babs sewn on them. I feel both cocooned and lonely. I know Babs’s response to this would be You’re on your own, kid, and there would be no challenging her. After all, for the first time, I really, really am.

  Lucas arrives the next day. I’m already awake and dressed, wearing the black shift I bought in Cardiss from Wow! and a gold cuff from Babs’s jewelry drawer. I don’t really want to wear this dress, since it’s the one I got kicked out in, but I have nothing else that is black. It seems obscene to go shopping the day after your mother dies. I know Babs would have no qualms about hitting Saks were the situation reversed, Life fucking goes on, but I still have my own set of fairly conventional rules. Maybe someday I will adopt Babs’s, but not yet.

  Lucas is also dressed in black: black suit with a black tie. I know these are only worn at funerals, and realize he has been through this before. He has most likely been to a lot of these, has known many people who have died. Unlike me, this isn’t his first round with death. Thank God.

  The only thing that is off about his outfit is that he is wearing paint-splattered Converse sneakers. I know they must be different ones than he wore at the Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party, and so must be his signature footwear. I imagine that they are important because they represent the paradox that is his life: the paint marks him as an artist, marginalized from his class, but at the same time, thanks to the chocolate money, they show that he is able to wear whatever he wants, even when dealing with his cousin’s death.

  He gives me a big hug and kisses me on my hairline. Then he stands back, assessing.

  “Bettina, my girl, you’ve grown up so much since the party.”

  Yes, I think. Too bad you weren’t here to see it.

  We are due to meet with Babs’s lawyers at two, an hour from now. I’m not sure what we are supposed to do until then. I am not up for a deep talk about endings and new beginnings. I suggest we go out on the back terrace, maybe talk about his work, his family in New York.

  “Do you mind if I have a drink?” Lucas asks me.

  “What would you like?” I say, disappointed that he needs one to interact with me.

  “Whiskey, no ice.”

  I pour one for him, wonder what Babs would say. Is he not fearless, or does this day mark an exception to the rule?

  I grab a Diet Coke, and we go to the terrace, the place where I threw out the matchbooks. I still want someone to absolve me, tell me it was not my fault. But Lucas doesn’t know about these things, and I might not ever tell him. He might think I have been a defiant brat all along.

  He asks me, “Did you ever see the paintings I sent Babs?”

  “Yes, she hung them in the playroom. I used to look at them a lot.”

  “What did you think?”

  “I didn’t really understand why they were so gray, what you wanted to get across.”

  “I usually do more realistic paintings, but Babs said she wanted abstract. I rarely got to see her or you, and I wanted to have a place in the aparthouse, to remind you both I was out there. Even if it was only in New York.”

  I want to tell him he succeeded, but still I am disappointed he didn’t do more. He must have intuited what Babs was like as a mother. Why didn’t we see more of him? Did he really hate to fly or was that just an excuse?

  Lucas nurses his whiskey. I can’t quite handle his apologies. As difficult as she was, Babs was always in my landscape, somewhere. I excuse myself and go to the kitchen to fix a Babs drink. I pour Perrier in a wine goblet and cut it with fresh orange juice. I smoke two of Babs’s Duchess Golden Lights, which are sitting in a silver cup by the phone. There is an Imari plate next to it that she used as an ashtray. I have not tried one of her cigarettes since the ankle burn, but smoking them makes me feel closer to her. I can’t believe she will never smoke again.

  I walk to the pantry where she has hung all of our Christmas Cards. I know the backstory to each one, of course, but in the final proofs, we look happy, united. There seems to be no diluting our duo, the way my father might if he were on the scene. Maybe Babs knew this and really wanted me all to herself. She didn’t do groups. She had only one best friend, one lover at a time, and when they were gone, she always had me.

  It is now almost one thirty and I go get Lucas. I remind him we have to go to the lawyers.

  “Okay. More time for talking later. Let’s just pull things together and get through with it. This’ll be tougher than you think. When my father died and left me all his chocolate money, that’s when it really hit me he was gone. Money should make you happy, of course, especially when you get as much dough as I did, but you never forget how you got it.”

  Babs did not seem to have this problem, I want to say, but I don’t. Lucas stands, leaving his glass, ready to go.

  Franklin is downstairs in the garage waiting, and we get into the stretcher. I’m amazed to sense that there are still some Babs particles in our car and I don’t want to disturb them. I smell her perfume and see a pack of Duchess Golden Lights tucked in the door. I decide to light up, wave the cigarette during the pauses that come between my inhales, creating a kind of Babs incense.

  Lucas and I sit there. He grabs my hand and holds it, marking a place where we should have so much to say. I want to enjoy it, but I still don’t really trust him. He seems to be trying for a connection with me, but I can’t forget the smack, the bleeding, and his ultimate resolution to the crisis: Let’s go dance to the Duch and pour pink champagne over people . . . Maybe he’s just a watered-down version of Babs: a Ballentyne after all.

  We arrive at Harris and Grasser, take the elevator to the thirty-third floor. There’s a female attorney waiting for us in the conference room. She reminds me of Wendolyn Henderson, my homeroom teacher at Chicago Day. She is fat and wearing a black suit and a red silk shirt that does little to cover up the rolls of her belly. She has on black shiny pumps and pantyhose that are just a shade too tan. The pumps don’t show off muscles in her calves, just accentuate her puffy knees. I know Babs would be horrified that such a woman will be executing her last will and testament.

  The lawyer’s name is Constance, and she takes out a folder crammed with papers. Lucas is nervously tapping his foot, and, like Babs would, I wish I could smoke. Constance stands, begins to read from one of the papers.

  “‘I, Tabitha Ballentyne, declare this to be my last will and testament. In the case of my death, I do not wish to be b
uried, but wish to have my ashes scattered in Lake Michigan.’”

  This seems completely out of character for Babs. There will be no party, no pomp and circumstance to mark her farewell. Even though no one has yet called to offer condolences, I know they all would come to the aparthouse to celebrate her life. Then I remember her standards: a theme, elaborate invitations, good music, and lots of booze. She probably thought I could not pull such a party off; that for all my efforts, I would embarrass her.

  Constance continues. “‘As for all my possessions, I leave them to my daughter, Bettina Ballentyne, to be held in trust until she is twenty-one. I name my cousin Lucas Ballentyne as trustee, and he will be paid a fee to execute his duties. Bettina will have the right to draw on her trust to pay for her living expenses as Mr. Ballentyne deems appropriate. I estimate she will receive three hundred million after taxes, in addition to my apartment and all my possessions. If she decides to sell these, the proceeds will also be held in trust to be managed by Mr. Ballentyne until she is twenty-one.’

  “Signed, Tabitha Ballentyne.”

  Lucas and I sit there silently, taking it all in.

  I know I should be thrilled, but somehow I’m not. What the hell am I going to do with all this money? It seems very scary. I’m no longer just a girl who lives in an aparthouse with a chocolate-heiress mother who is often mean but, in the end, never boring. Away from her, I could nearly pass as normal. But Babs had no choice. Almost everyone in Chicago knew about the chocolate money. She had to play the part: buy jewels, have parties, go speed shopping. It was just expected, whether she wanted to do these things or not. No wonder she came unhinged.

  Now that I was the fucking chocolate heiress, would I have to do the same?

  Three days later, Lucas and I walk to the edge of Oak Street Beach. The lake’s small waves lap at the shore, instead of crashing into it. It’s dark. We didn’t want to have to explain to anyone what we were doing, so we chose this time. Lucas carries the red polka-dot tin box that holds Babs’s remains. I find it bizarre that Babs would want her ashes scattered here, since she never came to this beach, considered it middle class. Why not the Côte d’Azur? Portofino? But since she’s dead, I guess it doesn’t really matter. Maybe she was afraid she would end up sitting on the mantel of the aparthouse until I could execute such a trip.

  Lucas takes off the top of the canister. Among the ashes, there are tiny chips of bones, pieces of her arms, legs, skull. Lucas slips his hand into the ash and sifts it through his fingers, fishing for the bones as if they are seashells.

  “Bettina,” he says, “do you want to throw Babs in the water?

  I can’t quite believe the woman who ripped up my Brooke Shields cocktail napkin and made me clean up the mess naked is now just a pile of ashes that we call Babs. I take the box from Lucas’s hand and say, “Yes.

  “Should we say something?” I ask.

  Lucas thinks a moment, and then says, “Here’s to Babs, who had the best of times always . . .”

  I’m disappointed by this. Seems to indicate that Lucas doesn’t really understand what life in the aparthouse was really like.

  I want to add something but can’t think of anything to say with Lucas there.

  It seems too intimate to hurl insults at Babs in front of a man I barely know.

  Instead, I just toss the ashes, watching as they arc into the lake. It takes a few throws before the tin is empty and she’s finally gone.

  Lucas puts his arms around my neck for a hug. A real one that lasts longer than five seconds.

  “Let’s go back, sweetheart. It’s getting cold.” We are bundled in sweaters and jeans, but they are no longer adequate against the chill. I start to cry again when he calls me sweetheart. It seems deliberate, directed specifically at me, not a generic moniker that’s less intimate than my name.

  “You can tell me everything back at the aparthouse. I’m not going anywhere. Actually, I’m taking you with me.”

  I will. Tell him everything. It’s about time somebody, some other person besides Babs and me, knew.

  We go back to the aparthouse and Lucas says he’ll cook dinner.

  “I’m not much in the kitchen, but I can always manage pasta.”

  I’m not really hungry, still really spent from the day, but go along with him anyway, showing him where the pots are and setting the table. When all is ready, we sit across from each other. Given the circumstances, the air in the aparthouse is not light enough to carry small talk, and we eat for a while in silence, as if we’re on an awkward date.

  I use the time to look at him closely. With his blond curly hair and brown eyes, he looks nothing like Babs, or even Mack. His hands are large and he doesn’t have delicate fingers. I can easily imagine him holding big paintbrushes, pulling swaths of color across his canvases. When he reaches for his glass, I notice he is left-handed, like me. He’s handsome, but not in an obvious way. You would have to get to know him to see this. But because I, too, am understated, easily overlooked, I understand his looks at once.

  We continue to eat, and as nice as it is in many ways to not be alone, to have a grownup on my side for once, I start to feel angry. Why do I get his help only at the end? He might think this is when I most need it, but of course it really isn’t. Why didn’t he come more than that one time and stand up more forcefully to Babs over the years? If she told him not to, couldn’t he at least have come up to Cardiss with Poppy and taken me out to lunch? Is that too much to ask? It would have promised nothing but given me so much.

  Finally, emboldened by these thoughts, I decide to talk to him about the One Big Thing. I don’t know if Babs told him or not, but I have to know the specifics. All of them. I pick up my wineglass and take a sip before proceeding. Lucas seems lost in his pasta, but fuck it, I think. Why should I give him time to check his fly, smooth down his hair, and get ready?

  “Lucas.” I look at him intently and say in a low voice, “I know.”

  He stops chewing and meets my eye. Stares. At least he doesn’t insult my intelligence and respond, Know what?

  Instead, he says, “Did Babs tell you?”

  “No, not really. She gave me your Latin medallion from Ryder and I didn’t follow through on the information on it until I was leaving Cardiss. I was afraid to know. I also didn’t want to piss Babs off. I always thought she gave it to me as a dare.”

  Lucas’s face is slack, taking it all in. At last he says, “We always promised we would keep it a secret. Of course, the whole thing was an accident. I had had too much to drink, and you know Babs liked to push the envelope. When she told me, I never thought she would have you. The whole thing was just so indecent. In addition to our being cousins, I was married to Poppy with JoJo on the way.

  “I thought she would take care of it, figured she did not want children yet. But she was furious at me and not only had you but had her tubes tied, so you would be the only one. We would always be linked by this, and her lack of fertility would be all my fault. Not that I thought she especially wanted more kids.”

  “So you wanted Babs to get rid of me?” I want to hear him say it again, not sure he realizes the implications for me sitting across the table for him.

  “Well . . . at first, of course. But once you were born . . .”

  “You loved me as your own and were upset Babs wouldn’t let you see me.”

  “Well . . . no, not exactly, but I did think about you a lot and wonder how you were doing with Babs.”

  “Gee, thanks. Did you tell Poppy? Does she know? Especially since I will be coming to live with you?”

  “No. Look, Bettina, it’s complicated.”

  “Oh, right. For me or you? Look, I don’t expect some kind of weepy reunion between us. I don’t really even want an apology. Babs certainly never told me to expect those. I’m not sure what the fuck I want. Don’t worry, I’m not going to call you Daddy. I’m not going to tell anyone. Just don’t feel sorry for me. Maybe someday you will get to know me and regret it, but if not, I
don’t really care.”

  Lucas tries to reach out and take my hand. I pull away and stand up. I throw my napkin down on the table and tell Lucas, “Maybe you could do the dishes. That would be just great.”

  I go back up to Babs’s room, where I decide to spend my last night at the aparthouse before leaving for New York the next morning. My whole body is shaking. I didn’t really mean most of what I said to Lucas, but his opening gave me no choice. I am through with begging, trying to prove to someone that I am worthy of love. I will just go to live with him in New York, put that idea away, and pretend I am an orphan with a dead mother and a lot of money.

  I change into one of Babs’s nightgowns, put on her Raffles robe, crawl into bed, and fall asleep quickly. All the emotions of the evening have drained me, left me spent.

  Later that night, I feel a soft touch on my shoulder. I slowly open my eyes: Lucas. He leans down and kisses my cheek. I can’t help it; I start to cry. Hard. He tries to catch my tears with his hands. We say nothing, and after about ten minutes, he leaves.

  Poppy fusses over me when I get to New York. She’s constantly hugging me and always gets up to make breakfast for JoJo and me. She takes me to Saks to round out my wardrobe and never once comments on my body.

  I find her gestures somewhat earnest and naive, as if she thinks I cannot do such things on my own. But I know she is trying to accommodate my arrival in her life. Thankfully, she says nothing about my smoking. She must think it is my way of grieving, my way of staying connected to Babs. I don’t disabuse her of this idea, even though my smoking is not symbolic; it no longer has anything to do with anyone but me.

  I go to Brearley, then Williams. I make friends, but they are always the quiet, bookish type that Meredith would have made fun of. Despite her ebullience when I got kicked out, I still miss her. Even though I have a clean slate to reinvent myself at these prestigious schools, I never manage to transform myself into the bitchy blond girl who people fight to be friends with, who makes her own rules, no matter how mutable they are. I ask myself What would Meredith do? when confronted with difficult situations, but I can never bring myself to execute the solutions I come up with. Meredith’s is a petty form of power, I know, but I still aspire to have it. I even have the absurd notion that someday she will seek me out. Maybe she even included a tiny picture of me on her senior yearbook page. I know this is an idea I have made up, so I never allow myself to check.