The Wrong Kind of Money

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Then, directly across the street, she sees the figure of a young man. He is wearing tight black spandex running shorts, and he is standing on one leg, braced with one hand against the trunk of a tree. His other hand grasps his ankle, and he is flexing his knee up and down, as though to relieve a cramp in a peroneus muscle.

  Recognizing him, Melody bangs on the windowpane for his attention, but he is too far below her on the street to hear her.

  She flings open the window and leans out. “Hey, Luckman!” she calls down to him. “Hey, Luckman!”

  He puts his other foot down and, shielding his eyes with a bandaged left hand, looks upward, into the sun.

  “Hey, Luckman!” she calls again. “How’s your hand, asshole?”

  Then she raises her fist and gives him the finger. She slams the window shut, and then, laughing, runs down the hall to the yellow guest bedroom, knowing exactly what she is going to do.

  As the limousine enters the Lincoln Tunnel, heading for the New Jersey Turnpike, Frank Stokes turns to Noah and says, “You’re kind of quiet this afternoon. Something on your mind?”

  “Thinking about Friday’s presentation,” he says.

  “B-Day, huh?” Frank is one of the few people in the organization who know about the new label, and B-Day is what they have christened the day when it will be unveiled.

  “That’s right.”

  “Don’t worry. Something tells me we’re going to have a hit on our hands.”

  But of course Noah is not thinking about Friday’s presentation, or B-Day, or about anything remotely connected with that, though perhaps he should be. He is thinking about Melody.

  He has been aware for some time that Melody has developed some sort of schoolgirl crush on him, and he is ambivalent about what to do about it. There is something about the way she looks at him, and then, of course, there was this afternoon. It is not an unflattering situation. What man Noah’s age would not be flattered to have a beautiful eighteen-year-old—no, not even eighteen, because Melody’s eighteenth birthday is still five months away—form a schoolgirl crush on him? The very phrase “schoolgirl crush” probably dates him, he thinks. Do college-age girls have crushes anymore? They certainly don’t call them that. They have affairs—light, casual, uncommitted affairs, with no consequences expected or even considered. Has Anne had affairs? He hopes not, but he cannot be sure, and if she has, it would be hard for him to condemn her for this, in today’s atmosphere, with condoms being freely dispensed in boarding school infirmaries. Today a teenager’s parents are expected to roll with the punches, or else go back to the dinosaur age.

  Anne must have been eight or nine when Carol decided to explain the facts of life to her, and Carol had told him about it later. “I was trying to tell her as honestly as possible about what happens when a man and a woman make love,” she said. “And I was trying to describe it in a way that was—well, you know, both scientific and poetic. And she suddenly turned to me, and said, ‘Mother, are you talking about fucking?’”

  “And zen what did you say?” he asked her with a grin.

  “I couldn’t believe my ears. I think I turned red as a beet, and I know I fought a terrible impulse to slap her across the face. But then I laughed and said, ‘Yes, I’m talking about fucking.’”

  And so here he was now, in this situation, or Situation, capital S, as in Seduction. He had seen it beginning to happen—oh, perhaps eight months ago, when both girls were home from Ethel Walker on spring break. There had been a bowl of peanuts on the coffee table, peanuts in their shells in a silver bowl. Odd, the way details stand out. He had noticed Melody shelling peanuts, cracking the papery husks between her fingertips, dropping the husks in an ashtray, then carefully removing the brown skin from each nut, taking care not to let the two halves of each nut fall apart. Then, when she had a handful of perfectly shelled, perfectly skinned nuts in her hand, she extended her cupped palm and offered them to him. That gesture, the outstretched hand, the offering of the nuts, and the faint smile on her lips when she offered the nuts to him, told him everything. There were no words needed, and his heart opened like a door. “Thank you” was all he had been able to say.

  In the days of his bike, there had been plenty of easy sex. Girls loved his bike. They loved the speed, and they loved the noise and the wind in their faces as they clung to his waist from the buddy seat behind. These were the town girls, of course, the townies upon whom his brothers at Delta Chi Epsilon looked with undisguised disdain. The “nice” girls from Wellesley, Smith, or Holyoke were either too prim or too timid to accept bike dates. Or perhaps they knew what bike dates usually led up to. Bennington girls, of course, were always a little different. They enjoyed their reputation of being a little wild, a little Bohemian. They even called their campus The Left Bank—the Left Bank of Pownal Creek. But even Bennington girls would not accept bike dates. Why had they sent Anne to Bennington? Because that was where she wanted to go, naturally, and one reason she wanted to go there was because that was where Melody, her best friend, wanted to go.

  There was one town girl he remembers in particular—Loretta, or Lorena, or Louella, or something like that. If he ever knew her last name, he has forgotten it now, but she worked as a telephone operator for New England Bell, and he had made her acquaintance while placing a long-distance call. Sight unseen, she had agreed to a date on his bike.

  As they sped through the soft spring night, she gripped his waist from behind, clutching the waistband of his jeans, her thumbs hooked under his belt. Then one hand moved below his belt, and then with the other hand she was unbuckling it. And then came the point when there was nothing else to do but to slow down the bike, pull off into a dark country lane, cut the engine, turn off the headlights, and dismount. And that was that. No words were spoken. Loretta, Lorena, Louella, Louisa, whoever you were, where are you now?

  And why is he suddenly also thinking now of his brother? Cyril, who caused so much trouble for the family over the years, is rewarded by being free to do whatever he chooses, by being free to fuck whomever he wants. Cyril has been handed a totally carefree life. While Noah, who always tried to be the dutiful son—who tried to do his father’s wishes and to fulfill his father’s dynastic dream, even long after he lost the respect he once had for his father, because that was what he saw as his duty—now finds himself lashed—no, chained—to that duty for the rest of his life.

  The limousine enters the toll plaza.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters, Frank?” he asks him now.

  “No, I was an only child. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “You’re sure in a damned funny mood,” Frank says.

  The limousine speeds south on the turnpike. NO HITCHHIKERS, NO MOTORCYCLES, a sign warns. That is the story of Noah’s life.

  And, he thinks, if I hadn’t spent all that time dithering, waffling, trying to decide whether or not to pack the goddamned swimming trunks, I’d have been out of the room and out of the house long before she even came to the door, and what took place this afternoon would never have taken place at all.

  And now he can’t even remember whether he ended up packing the goddamned swimming trunks or not.

  Shit, he thinks.

  It is nearly four o’clock when Carol Liebling gets home from a meeting across town, a Friends of the Museum meeting at which very little seemed to get accomplished, and the apartment seems strangely quiet. Noah, of course, has left for Atlantic City, and Anne is still at work. “Melody?” she calls, dropping her gloves and bag on the bench in the front hall. “Melody?”

  Mary appears. “She left here in a real hurry, Miz Liebling,” Mary says. “About an hour ago. Packed a bag and everything. She left this for you.” She hands Carol an envelope.

  Carol opens the envelope and reads:

  Dearest Carol … and Anne …

  Guess what! I got a call from the stage manager of a play that’s trying out at the Shubert in New Haven, and he offered me a job! It’s not
much of a job—assistant to the prop manager—and, frankly, it doesn’t sound like much of a play, but they’re hoping to bring it to Broadway, and at least it’ll mean working in the theater. So that’s where I’m off to. Will call in a couple of days to let you know how things are going.

  Yours, in haste,

  With love,

  Melody

  Carol slips out of her mink jacket and hands it to Mary.

  “Miz Stokes called three, four times while you was out,” Mary says. “She says it’s real important.”

  “Okay,” Carol says. “Thanks, Mary.” She steps into the library and dials Beryl’s number.

  “Well, hello … stranger,” Beryl says, and Carol detects a note of resentment in Beryl’s voice.

  “Hi, Beryl,” Carol says brightly. “How’re you?”

  “Funny you should ask,” Beryl says in the same voice. “Funny you should ask, because I’m feeling—well, I’m pretty well ticked off at you, if you want to know the honest truth.”

  “Really, Beryl? Why?”

  “Frank said I shouldn’t call you about this,” Beryl says. “Frank said, ‘They can have anyone they want for dinner. They don’t always have to invite us.’ But now Frank’s gone to Atlantic City, and I just can’t be in denial about this any longer. I’ve just got to let you know what my true feelings are about this, Carol. And my true feelings are that I’m terribly, terribly hurt. And I thought you were my best friend.”

  “Now, wait a minute,” Carol says. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do,” Beryl says in a distant voice. “No, that would be just like you. Not even knowing how deeply you can hurt another person. Not even caring. Well, maybe someday you will care about your friends. Maybe someday you’ll try getting in touch with your friends’ feelings and not just your own.”

  “Please, Beryl,” she says, beginning to be annoyed. “Please tell me what it is you think I’ve done.”

  “You had a dinner party for William Luckman. I know, because I read it in Roxy.… And you didn’t invite Frank and me.”

  She sighs. “Now, Beryl,” she says. “It wasn’t a party for Bill Luckman.”

  “Roxy’s column said it was. Roxy Rhinelander said honoring William Luckman.”

  “She got it wrong. She gets a lot of things wrong. It was our annual family New Year’s Eve dinner—Noah’s mother, his brother and sister. Anne’s friend Melody, who’s—or was—staying with us, brought Bill Luckman along. It was a last-minute thing. That’s all it was.”

  “And Frank and I were home alone, right on the floor below you, and you never even asked us up. Me, of all people.”

  “Why you of all people, Beryl?”

  “William Luckman was my star pupil.”

  “What do you mean—your star pupil?”

  “I taught him English in the eighth and ninth grades. He was my star pupil. I’ve told you that.”

  “Honestly, Beryl, I don’t think you told me that.”

  “Well, I did. I know I did. But obviously you’ve forgotten. That would be typical of you, I guess, to just forget how much William Luckman meant to me. Oh, well. Frank told me not to make this call, but I just couldn’t stay in denial about this all my life.”

  “Beryl, I swear to you I didn’t know you had any connection with that young man. If I’d known, I would’ve—”

  “Oh, well. It probably doesn’t matter. Now that he’s so successful, and so famous, and all over the TV talk shows, he probably doesn’t even remember little old me, who was his eighth and ninth grade English teacher. But I like to think that some of that success, just a little bit of it, may have been due to little old me.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he’d remember you, Beryl.”

  “Well, I just thought I should let you know how you hurt me, Carol,” she says. “How you hurt your best friend.”

  Sometimes Carol wonders who appointed Beryl Stokes as her best friend. Personally, Carol finds Beryl a terrible whiner. But Noah has great respect for Frank Stokes, the two men work closely at the company, and so Carol always tries to be nice to Frank’s wife. “Look,” she says quickly, “what are you doing Wednesday night?”

  “Wednesday? Day after tomorrow? Frank’s out of town, of course. But—nothing. Why?”

  “Come up and have a drink. I’ll invite Bill Luckman. I know he’s finished touring for his book.”

  “Really?” Beryl squeals. “Really? Oh, that would be super-super-super, Carol!”

  “Good. And I’ll ask Georgette Van Degan, too. She wants to meet Bill Luckman, and he wants to meet her, and you want to see him again, so it works out perfectly. Come around six.”

  “Three women and only one man? Will he like that?”

  “And Anne will be here, too, of course. But I have the impression that Mr. Luckman doesn’t mind being surrounded by admiring women. On the contrary.”

  Beryl giggles. “While the boys are away, the girls will play, huh? And he’s grown up to be so handsome!”

  “He’s a good-looking fellow, yes.”

  “And he was always so bright! Are you going to tell him I’m coming? Because he just might not remember—”

  “Suppose I just tell him I’m having a mystery guest—a woman from his past?”

  Beryl squeals again. “Oh, that would just be super-super-super. Can I bring anything? Want me to stuff some mushroom caps?”

  “No, no. Just bring yourself.”

  “And I’m going to get to meet Georgette Van Degan, too! Oh, this is so exciting. What shall I wear? My pink Adolfo, I think, with the lace. Oh, this is the sweetest thing you’re doing, Carol. I forgive you now. I forgive you for everything.”

  “Thanks,” Carol says a little drily. “Do the pink Adolfo.”

  “When I first knew Bill Luckman, I was just a frumpy little old schoolteacher. That was before I landed Frank. He’ll hardly recognize me now, will he? Oh, I’m so excited I can’t stand it! I can hardly wait. Thank goodness Frank is out of town. Oh, and by the way, that’s exciting about the coming-out party you’re giving with Georgette Van Degan for the two girls. Of course, don’t feel you have to invite Frank and little old me to that.”

  “Roxy jumped the gun on that, too,” Carol says. “Nothing’s been decided. I haven’t even discussed it with Noah, or with Anne. And Noah’s mother will have something to say on that, too, if I know her. It was Georgette’s idea, and it’s still very pie-in-the-sky for now.”

  “Well, don’t feel you have to invite Frank and me to that,” she says. “We’ll understand.”

  “Oh, you’ll be invited, Beryl. If we have it.”

  “Goodness, now that you’re moving up on the social ladder like this—with people like Georgette Van Degan, Patsy Collingworth, and Pookie Satterthwaite and all that crowd—you probably won’t have time for little old best friends like me. Don’t worry. I’ll understand.”

  “Now, Beryl,” Carol says carefully, “I’ll always have time for you.…”

  Now Anne is home from her job, her cheeks pink from the January cold outside, wearing jeans, fleece-lined boots, a down-filled parka, a stocking cap, and carrying a backpack. Girls don’t dress for the office the way they used to, Carol thinks, as Anne unslings the backpack from her shoulders. Right at the moment Anne certainly doesn’t look like a debutante.

  “What would you think of having a coming-out party in the summer?” her mother asks her.

  “A coming-out party?”

  “Yes. Being a debutante.”

  “Do girls still do that, Mom?”

  “They’re coming back. Or so I’m told.”

  “Gee, Mom, I don’t know. But it might be—well, really neat. I guess.”

  “It would be with Linda Van Degan.”

  “Linda Van Degan? Who’s she?”

  “Don’t you remember her from Brearley?”

  Anne frowns, wrinkling her nose. “Was she—kind of fat, with big boobs?”

  “She’s slimme
d down a lot lately,” Carol says, hoping this is true.

  “Gee, Mom—like I say, it could be—well, really neat, I suppose.”

  “We’ll have to see what your father thinks about it. This was Mrs. Van Degan’s idea. It strikes me as a little silly.”

  “I’d rather it could be with Melody. Where’s Melody?”

  Her mother hands her Melody’s note.

  “I must say Carol Liebling didn’t turn handstands at my idea for us giving a party together,” Georgette Van Degan is saying to her husband that evening as she sits at her dressing table, preparing her face for the night ahead—another benefit.

  “Party? What sort of party?”

  “Oh, just a little party,” she says vaguely. “Co-hosting a party with me, you’d think she’d be thrilled.”

  “Yeah. Nothing too expensive, I hope.”

  “Just a few friends. But she didn’t exactly turn handstands when I offered to go halvesies on it with her, which you’d think she’d be thrilled. The bitch. And I picked up the lunch check, too.”

  “Maybe you oughta suggest something else.”

  “What? You mean and cancel this? I can’t cancel this now! Roxy’s already had it in her column. If I tried to back out now, I’d be publicly humiliated. It was you got me into this, remember.”

  “Maybe you oughta suggest something that’s more down her alley than a party. Some people, parties aren’t everything. Think of something else, Georgette.”

  “Like what? What could be more glamorous than cohosting a party with me?”

  “Yeah, you’re the bee’s knees, Georgette. But didn’t you say she’s big with the Met? Like on the board or something?”

  “The board of trustees? Her? Never! Though she’d probably like to be, the little climber. She’s just some sort of volunteer.”

  He gestures around him. “Like tell her we’re ready to give this Chinese stuff to the Met. They want it, you know, and I could use the tax break right now.”

  “Never! That collection stays with me!”