The Wrong Kind of Money

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “There is insanity in the family, you know.” Where had he heard this? There were supposed to be two crazy aunts, his father’s sisters, who were considered “strange.” But what the nature of their strangeness was he never knew. He had never met these aunts. Both his brother and his sister had spent years seeing psychiatrists. “Do you want to see what an erection looks like?” his brother asked him when Noah was eight or nine, walking into Noah’s room to show him. “My psychiatrist taught me how to do this.” Crazy.

  The carousel of color slides turns in his mind, along with the white, yellow, and blue lights from the pulsating sign outside the window. Come with me to Ballachulish, Melody, or somewhere, anywhere that’s been lost in time and isn’t on any map, and we’ll make the population grow by two more people. We’ll go to Ballachulish, where no one knows us or anything about us, and we’ll start a whole new life together. We’ll swim naked in the limestone caves, and we’ll make love on a thick mattress of smooth, golden, silky, slippery pine needles. Because Ballachulish is a magic place, and only appears out of the mists for one day every hundred years, each day for us will last a hundred years, and in a thousand years we’ll be the same age. Perhaps I’ll work in Angus Kelso’s distillery, under a different name, of course, and we’ll leave everything else behind—my wife, my daughter, my family, my career. Does that make any sense to you? Crazy. He is a man of forty-eight who has been having sex with a child, but he is the one who is thinking like a child. He is Errol Flynn. He is Roman Polanski. The names of men like him fill the crime stories of the newspapers day after day.…

  It’s no use. A memory as simple as the small, flat brown mole just above her navel fills him with yearnings more huge and harsh and overpowering than all the vastness of Carol’s trust and love. With tears in his eyes he reaches out and touches her soft, dark hair with his fingertips. Lifts it. Smells it. Presses it against his lips, and her dreaming arm falls across his chest, producing almost an electric shock of feeling.

  “I still have this funny dream,” he said to her before they came to bed. “It’s something I started thinking about in college. It would be that whenever I get my inheritance—the money, the stock in the company that I’m supposed to get—that I’d like to do something really moral with it. Take the curse off it, as it were.

  “You see, from the time I was a little kid I was aware that my family’s money wasn’t made in a very moral way. People looked down their noses at the way we’d made our money. It was considered dirty money. I used to think: Why couldn’t we have made our money in some other way? Banking! Real estate! Railroads! Publishing! Coming up with some medical discovery that would cure some terrible disease. But no, our money was made in booze. We made it from skid row winos and Bowery bums. We called it the Distilled Spirits Industry. But we were nothing but a bunch of tummlers—that’s all we were.”

  “What’s a tummler?”

  “Someone who’s paid to make a lot of noise to keep the party going—a guy who runs around the room with a lamp shade on his head, trying to make people think they’re having a good time. A professional buffoon. My old man used to say that the liquor business was a part of show business, part of the entertainment industry. What do you do when you entertain? You bring out the booze and pour it down people’s throats until everybody’s laughing and feeling better. My old man said that drinking was like going to a Broadway show, only the ticket was cheaper, and the sensation lasts a little longer. Okay, I’ll buy that. But how do you feel when people from an organization like MADD march up and down in front of your building with pickets calling you a murderer?”

  “So tell me about your dream.”

  “It’s that when I get my inheritance, I’d like to use it—or a lot of it—to establish a foundation to support something I decided to call the American Experimental School of Parenting. You see, there’s a lot of talk in the press these days about the deteriorating quality of education in this country—crowded classrooms, poor teachers, lack of funds, guns and knives in the schoolyard, drugs, gangs, sex, and violence. My theory is that by the time a kid reaches school age, it’s too late to do much of anything to change him. Any behavior patterns—good or bad—are pretty much set by then, and any attempts to change them should have begun long before that—at birth, or even before. Minority groups may cry ‘racist’ at this, but I really think men and women should be licensed before becoming parents. After all, it’s a lot harder to learn to be a parent than to learn to drive a car, and you need a license to do that. At least some sort of training in parenting should be required. But no adult education programs in this country have really addressed this. Instead, parenting has gone out the window. Parenting is becoming a lost art. Instead, kids are dumped in malls or stores while their parents do something else, or they’re placed with grannies and sitters or in day-care centers, or dumped in front of TV sets where we fret that they’re seeing too much sex and violence. ‘Get after the networks,’ we say, but that’s not the answer. The answer is ‘Get after the parents.’ My foundation would look into ways that parents could be coerced—or shamed—into education, to show them that parenting just doesn’t work without some sort of preparation. Of course, none of this is going to be easy. It’s a lot harder to educate an adult than it is a child. But I think that’s the only solution to the mess our society is in right now—to try to teach parents how to raise better children. If we could only do this—train mothers to be better mothers, and fathers to be better fathers—I think a lot of the questions we argue about, including abortion and race relations, would become moot. Sound like pie in the sky to you? Maybe it is, but I think we’ve got to start somewhere, and my foundation could offer some kind of start. I even like the acronym I’ve given it—AESOP, because every Aesop’s fable had a moral at the end. Anyway, that’s my little speech.”

  She looked thoughtful for a moment. Then she said, “Do you hate your job, Noah?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Not right now, but sometimes.”

  “Did you ever discuss this dream of yours with Carol?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Why not?”

  “I mentioned it to my mother once. Needless to say, she was horrified. She thought it was sheer craziness.”

  “Do you still want to do this?”

  He laughed. “Maybe. If the day comes when I finally get the company stock I’m supposed to get. But that day seems to be getting further and further and further away—along with the dream. My magnificent obsession.”

  She said nothing.

  “So what do you think of the idea, Melody?” he asked her.

  She thought a long time before answering him. “Well, it’s a lovely idea,” she said at last. “It really is a lovely dream. But it still seems to me like throwing away everything you’ve done with your life so far.”

  “I don’t see it as throwing it away,” he said. “I see it as redeeming it. Salvaging it somehow.”

  There was more he could have told her. He could have told her about the considerable number of books he had collected on the subject—that shelf full of books “by authors with Jewish-sounding names, all with Ph.D.’s after them.” He did not tell her that two years ago he had hired an outside researcher, an associate professor from the University of Pennsylvania’s Department of Human Resources—yes, a professor with a Jewish-sounding name and a Ph.D. tacked onto it—who regularly provided him with new statistics, new materials, new studies on the subject. Or that his literature on the subject now filled five fat filing-cabinet drawers in his office at the Ingraham Building—files under such headings as “Self-Improvement and Psychotherapy,” “Anxiety,” “Theories of Change,” “Education and Religion: Paths Toward Excellence,” and “Why We Fear Our Children.” Or that the more his future with the company seemed to recede before him, the more time he spent annotating, updating, and cross-referencing these files.

  “Of course, it’s always something you could do as a hobby,” she said.

  “As a hobby
,” he said. “Like collecting stamps? Building model airplanes?”

  “It just doesn’t seem very practical. I mean, if parents are going to need licenses to have children, who’s going to give out the licenses? The federal government?”

  “I was just using that as a metaphor,” he said. “I just meant they could be offered some sort of job training. Look—your own parents are something of a case in point, don’t you think?”

  She looked at him steadily. “If my parents had needed a license to have me, I wouldn’t be here,” she said. “And if your parents had needed a license to have you, you wouldn’t be here, either. But here we are. Two illegals. Do you consider yourself a good parent, Noah?”

  “Listen,” he said, “I didn’t ask you to follow me down here. I didn’t ask you to crawl into bed with me.”

  “Crawl?” she said. “Is that what you think of me? As some kind of crawly creature? Like a worm?”

  He threw up his hands. “This conversation isn’t getting us anywhere,” he said.

  She had been sitting tailor-fashion on the bed in her short nightie. Now she uncrossed her legs, stood up, and stretched her arms high into the air toward the ceiling. “Nothing is getting us anywhere,” she said. “Nothing is going to get us anywhere. I don’t like the way this whole scene is going. Let’s run through this whole scene again. Take it from the top.”

  “I don’t think you feel anything for me at all, Melody.”

  “Tell me what a tummler is.”

  “A tummler is—”

  “Tell me something else. Were you ever in love with Carol?”

  “What?”

  “Were you? Ever? Really in love with her?”

  “I think—I don’t know.”

  “I think—I know you never were, Noah. Why have you just told me things you were never able to tell her—important things?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know. Because you’re in love with me. And don’t ever say I don’t feel anything for you, because I do feel—deeply. I’m in love with you, Noah. I think I have been since the day I met you. It can’t be a brief encounter anymore, can it? It’s gone too far. It’s too late now, and we can’t turn back the clock. We’re in love with each other. It’s as simple as that. There’s nothing more to say. Admit it, Noah—that it’s true.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Marry me, Noah. I want you to marry me, Noah.”

  It has been another long and busy day, and Frank Stokes sits by himself at the bar, nursing an Ingraham’s and soda. A blonde in a tight black mini-dress that appears to have been made of Naugahyde hops onto the stool beside him. “Hi,” she says. “What’s your name?”

  “Puddin’ Tane,” Frank says.

  “Mine’s Estelle,” she says. “Care for some conversation?”

  “I guess I don’t mind,” he says.

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “What friend?”

  “We seen you both in the elevator Monday night. Me and my girlfriends. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes,” he says.

  “He’s in suite seventeen-fourteen, your friend.”

  He looks at her. “How did you happen to know that?” he asks her.

  She giggles. “Days, I work here at the hotel. In housekeeping. I’m not supposed to be here. They don’t like us hanging around here after hours, socializing with the guests. But I say what they don’t know won’t hurt ’em—right? I thought he was kinda cute, your friend. What’s his name?”

  “Puddin’ Tane.”

  “Same as yours? Aw, come on, You’re kiddin’ me.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Suite seventeen-fourteen is one of our deluxe suites. Five-ninety a night. He must be pretty rich, your friend. What’s he do?”

  He hesitates. “Executive v.p. of the company,” he says.

  She whistles. “Gee whiz,” she says. “That sounds pretty important. What about you? What’re you?”

  “Janitor,” he says.

  “You kidding? You look, like, too well dressed to be no more than a janitor. Aw, I’ll bet you’re kiddin’ me again. I bet you’re pretty high up, too.”

  “Well, maybe I am,” he says.

  “Who’s his girlfriend?”

  “Whose girlfriend?”

  “Your friend’s.”

  “He hasn’t got a girlfriend.”

  “He’s with his wife, then.”

  “We don’t bring our wives to things like this,” he says.

  “Well, then it’s gotta be a girlfriend. She’s staying in seventeen-fourteen with him, that’s for sure. And she’s a lot younger than he is, I can tell you that.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “I seen her. When I came in to do the room yesterday morning, she was there. Brunette. Long, dark hair. She was working at a typewriter, typing something.”

  “Probably some kind of secretary,” he says.

  “Oh, yeah? She asked me to come back later. I did, and she was gone, and so was the typewriter. But there was a woman’s things in a couple of the bureau drawers, a nightie and all that. And there was woman’s things hangin’ in the closet.”

  He looks at her again. “Do you make it a point to rummage through a guest’s things when you do up a room?” he asks her.

  She purses her lips. “It’s my duty,” she says primly. “We got to see if a guest’s checked out or not. Sometimes a guest will try to check out without checking out, if you receive my meaning. I got to check on things like that. Anyway, she was still there again this morning. When I first come in, I heard her singing in the shower. When I come back later, she was gone again, but her things was still there.”

  “I think you’ve got the wrong room,” he says.

  “Huh! Not me. Think I don’t know my deluxe suites? If your friend’s in seventeen-fourteen, he’s got a girl there with him. So what? I say. So what if she looks young enough to be his daughter? It takes all types to make a world is what I say. So what about it, Mr. Tane? Care for a little companionship? Nothing wrong with a little companionship is what I say.”

  “No, I don’t think so, Estelle,” he says.

  “Care to buy a girl a drink? But in your business I bet you get all you want for free.”

  “As a matter of fact, we don’t,” he says. “Look, Estelle—why don’t you go up to the hospitality suite? I think you’ll do better business up there.”

  “Business! Hey, just what the hell do you think I am?” she says, “I’m a self-respecting girl is what I am! Besides, I was just up there. The place is dead.”

  “Come back Friday night,” he says. “There’ll be plenty of action then, when this conference is over. The hospitality suite should be jumping for you then.” He starts to rise.

  “Hey, you givin’ me the brush-off?” she says.

  “That’s right, Estelle,” he says. He slides a ten-dollar bill across the bar in the direction of the bartender. “Good night, Estelle. Sweet dreams with whoever you wind up with.” He steps off the stool.

  “Snob!” she says. “Stuck-up snob! Think you’re better than the next one. Think you’re better than seventeen-fourteen and his teenage floozy. Or are you gay? Is that it?”

  He leaves the bar without looking back at her.

  “Gay! Gay!” she shouts after him. “Gay-faggot-gay!”

  “Not having a good night, eh, Estelle?” the bartender says.

  “Shuddup,” she says. “Gimme a tequila sunrise.”

  “I can’t believe this, Billy,” Beryl Stokes is saying. “I can’t believe that you actually remember me from the eighth and ninth grades, when I was Beryl Price. You were only thirteen, fourteen years old.”

  “I remember you vividly,” he says. “You were considered one of the finest teachers at Horace Mann. You were—inspirational, actually.”

  “Really?” Beryl squeals. “And I was only a sub!”

  “You’ve had a career, dear?” Georgette Van Degan says. “Oh,
how I envy you. When I was growing up, I so wanted a career. But Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. He said, ‘No woman in this family has ever worked,’ and so, after my debut, there was nothing left for me but Truck Van Degan.” Mary passes hors d’oeuvres. “Oh, yum-yum-yum,” Georgette says. “I’m going to try one of these yummy-looking little cheesy businesses.”

  “A sub?” he says.

  “A substitute teacher. But you were my star pupil.”

  “That’s why I remember you so vividly. We always used to hope that one of the regular teachers would get sick, so we could have you as a sub. Let’s see, the regular teachers were—”

  “Mrs. Espy and Miss McCracken.”

  “Of course.” He beams proudly at her.

  “Oh, Billy, you really do remember,” Beryl says. “I can’t believe it. And now you’re so rich and famous. But I always knew you would be.”

  “And you haven’t changed a bit,” he says. “You’re just as beautiful as ever.”

  “Oh, Billy. I am a few years older now.”

  “It doesn’t show.”

  “Is that an Adolfo, dear?” Georgette asks her.

  “Yes.”

  “I had to give up on Adolfo,” she says. “I felt he was spreading himself too thin.” She turns to Bill Luckman. “Mr. Luckman, I want you to mark the date of June seventeenth on your calendar. It’s a Thursday. That’s the night that Carol and I are having a coming-out party for Anne and my daughter, Linda. At the Piping Rock. We’re going to insist that you be there.” She turns to Anne. “Aren’t you excited, dear, about the party?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Now, Georgette—” Carol starts to interrupt.

  “But I’m not sure I remember Linda from school.”

  “Nonsense, dear. You were the best of friends. Inseparable.”

  Carol Liebling clears her throat. “Georgette, I think that all this talk about a party is a little premature,” she says. “I haven’t had a chance to talk to my husband about all this. He’s out of town this week, and—”