Family Pictures

by Jane Green

  But how could he have left us with no working credit cards? I don’t write checks, but I need to find out what’s in the accounts. He wouldn’t have emptied out our accounts. We’re his family: his wife, children. Whatever else he may have done, I know he will not have left us stranded.

  Debt collectors are another issue entirely. That’s a business issue. I’m sure he has the real money, the big money, somewhere.

  Find Mark, and we’ll sort this whole mess out.

  * * *

  Today I am strong enough to start digging. Today I need some answers. This morning I will be going to his office. I am certain he won’t be there, and his employees are refusing to pick up my calls, but someone will know where he is, and I will not leave until they tell me.

  I will sit in their office all night if I have to. All week.

  After that, I’m going to the bank.

  32

  Maggie

  Usually when I go into the city, it’s with the girls for a shopping trip. Sometimes we go to the theater; more often we’re hitting Bergdorf or Barneys, leaving someone’s SUV in a garage for the day, pumped up with adrenaline at spending money, leaving our suburban lives, pretending to be big-city chicks.

  We stride confidently into stores, trying on everything, tossing expensive designer clothes next to cash registers as casually as we would buy magazines.

  We giggle and trip our way up Madison Avenue, arms laden down with clothes that must be worn immediately, the rest shipped straight to Connecticut in order to avoid the tax.

  I pass those same stores today expecting to feel a pang, but I don’t. Just as I feel no pang knowing I will not be returning to Theory to collect the pretty items so carefully wrapped, waiting in a bag on the floor behind the counter because my credit card was refused, as I said I’d be back the following day.

  I do not need them. I never did. Clothes and jewelry were interesting to me only as a passport out of my working-class life, a life of shouting, and poverty, and nothing to look forward to.

  Those accoutrements became more interesting when I married Mark, when I saw how effective they were as currency among the young families with whom we socialized.

  My insecurity was so rampant, my fear of rejection so strong, I believed that however perfect my accent, however highlighted and blown out my hair, however impeccable my manners, I would never be truly accepted unless I became more them than them.

  I grew up thinking class was the determining factor, but after moving to Connecticut, I quickly realized it was money. Nobody cared about old money. Mark coming from an old-moneyed Mayflower family was interesting only to the old guard. To the new, he was relevant only if he had the money to go with it.

  I put pressure on him, I’ll admit. My competitive nature came out. I saw the power these girls wielded simply because they had the most expensive jewelry, or the biggest house, and I wanted to feel powerful too.

  I pushed Mark to buy the company. When he finally said he had found investors, had raised the money to do so, I was thrilled. The Gazette listed him, some years later, as the millionaire CEO of Hath Office Solutions, and the only thing that would have made me happier was a b instead of an m.

  I pause outside Gucci, think of the bags I may need to sell if my worst fears come true. Not that the bags matter. Not that any of the possessions matter. They may have given me power, but in a world that is so superficial, so meaningless and narcissistic, it is no power at all.

  Oh how ashamed I am.

  I keep walking, idly wondering what I will do if Mark is there. The thought of him, so handsome, devastating in his navy suit, lighting up the room with his smile, is like a dagger, and I cannot help a sob coming out.

  I do not want to cry again. I do not want my mascara to run down my face when I have spent so much time attempting to look like I am strong, unbreakable—like I am the kind of woman who will no longer be played.

  And yet I cannot help but know that if he apologizes, looks deep in my eyes and asks my forgiveness, explains this as something that got out of hand but he cannot, will not, leave me and the children, I may not be able to resist.

  If he swore blind he would never see Sylvie again, never be unfaithful again, wanted to go back to how it was in those first, early years of marriage, would I believe him? Would I want to try again?

  * * *

  Bastard. I grind my teeth as the anger rises, imagining myself slapping his face, storming out, taking the children and making sure he never sees them again, taking the house, all his money, ensuring he spends the rest of his life paying for what he did to me.

  * * *

  I catch sight of myself in the tinted windows of the stores I stride past. I feel terrible, but I look fabulous. High, patent heels; short skirt; swingy coat; Prada bag slung over my shoulder. I am the image of city chic—you would never know I live my life in suburban splendor. I look, in short, like the trophy wife the other trophy wives aspire to be.

  How could Mark even think of being with anyone else?

  More to the point, why do I already know the answer to that particular question?

  * * *

  I march up to one of the security guards at the desk, photo ID already in hand, and give him the name of the company. He frowns.

  “Tenth floor?” I remind him. “Hath Office Solutions? Mark Hathaway?”

  The other guard leans over. “Oh yeah! They moved.”

  I stare at him. “What? When?”

  “About a year ago? Yeah. It was just over a year ago.”

  “But … that’s impossible,” I sputter. How would Mark not tell me something as big as moving his company? Why would he not tell me? I stare at the guard, attempting to quiet the questions in my head, realizing he is saying something.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “You want a forwarding address?”

  I am so grateful, I could throw my arms around him in a giant hug. I settle for the best smile I can muster given the circumstances, which unexpectedly lights the guard’s face up in return.

  “You have a nice day,” he says as I leave, and I know it’s going to be a lot better than it was looking five minutes ago.

  * * *

  I have never felt unsafe in New York, but I have always stayed in neighborhoods I know well. Striding down Madison Avenue, Fifty-seventh Street, hitting restaurants on the Upper East Side, I am confident, safe. I belong.

  This is not a neighborhood I have ever been to before. I step gingerly over the legs of a homeless man who is leaning against an overflowing garbage can, his hand outstretched as I avert my eyes, only to see a line of grimy people shuffling through a doorway marked FREE METHADONE.

  Slipping my left hand in my pocket, I work off the diamond rings, instantly feeling better with bare fingers as I pull my jacket a little tighter and look back down at the piece of paper in my hand.

  I stop outside a dingy building sandwiched between a cell phone store and the kind of convenience store you go into only if you’re a tourist, a drug addict, or desperate.

  Even as my brain computes that the information on the piece of paper must be wrong, I am pushing open the door, kicking a cigarette butt aside to study the black board on the wall that lists the companies in those white plastic letters that can be pulled out and rearranged in seconds.

  In other words, temporary.

  There it is. Second floor. Number 203. Hath Office Solutions. I’m not nearly so confident as I step into the elevator, all rehearsed speeches having flown from my mind, and I’m pretty certain I have a look of horror on my face. The corridor is also dingy; there are several bulbs missing, and the carpet saw better days about thirty years ago.

  I knock on suite 203, moving my ear close to the door, pausing but hearing nothing. I knock louder before grasping the handle and tentatively opening the door, taking a deep breath as I prepare to confront, if not my husband, then the people who know where he is.

  33

  Maggie

  The door is not lock
ed. It opens smoothly, but there is no one inside.

  No one has been here for months.

  There are desks and phones and dozens of boxes, all covered in a thick layer of dust. Even without the dust, this is the kind of grimy hellhole that would drive a person insane.

  It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense. Why would Mark have moved offices? Why would he ever have moved to an office like this? There must be a mistake. Or at least an explanation.

  I wander to the window, taking in the cracks in the wall, the yellow, damp patch on the ceiling, and I know I’m about to throw up. I grab the wastebasket and retch, but nothing comes up other than painful, sharp bile.

  I prize open a box, to find it stuffed haphazardly with papers. Order forms. All genuine. All Mark’s company. Huge orders. So it isn’t all lies.

  Then I pull a letter informing Mark of impending legal action for nonfulfillment of a paid order. I reread it before placing it back in the box, stacking the boxes together, and taking them all downstairs, where I pile them into a cab and take them back to my car.

  * * *

  They know me well at the bank. Not because of financial dealings, but because we attend all their social events, and when Ray, the manager, had a baby, we sent a basket of personalized bibs.

  Ray is on the phone when I pop my head around the corner. His face lights up when he sees me, gesturing to sit down as he attempts to extricate himself from his conversation. I exhale as I sit. Surely if there were a problem, he would have phoned me. He has known me for years. If there were no money, Ray would not have kept quiet.

  “How are you, Mrs. Hathaway!” He puts the phone down. “It’s good to see you!”

  “Busy, busy, busy,” I reply, as I always do. “How’s Janie? And the kids?”

  “They’re grrrreat.” He rolls his r’s, as he always does.

  “Nina must be in fourth grade now?”

  “Fifth!” he exclaims proudly, turning round a photo frame on his desk for me to see how big they are.

  “Oh, Ray, they’re adorable!” My eyes mist slightly, remembering when mine were that young. “I can’t believe how quickly it goes.”

  “I know!” He smiles before leaning forward and shuffling some papers. “I’m glad you came in, Mrs. Hathaway. I’ve been leaving messages for your husband. We really need to get hold of him.”

  I stare at him. Do I tell him Mark’s left me? What if he then refuses to give me information about our finances? But it’s a joint account. Surely I’m entitled to know how much money is in there.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask first.

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” He pulls a file from a cabinet behind his desk, flicking through, then frowning. He goes back to the beginning and reads through again, this time more carefully.

  He clears his throat, then stands up, the file in his hands. “Mrs. Hathaway, would you mind waiting here a minute? I just need to speak to my assistant manager.”

  I watch through the blinds, but I can’t see anything. The assistant manager is explaining something, Ray listens, says something, they both look at the file.

  Ray comes back, his brow still creased. “We really do need Mr. Hathaway to come in,” he says, attempting to disguise, with little success, the slight panic in his voice. “I know he travels a lot, but he needs to at least phone us today. It’s actually rather urgent.”

  I can’t not tell him. “Ray, I don’t know where he is. He’s left me.”

  His face takes on a mask of shock as he stumbles over his words. “I’m … I’m so sorry.”

  “Here’s the thing, Ray. I presume he’s left me. He seems to have another family in California. All I can tell you is that he’s disappeared. None of my credit cards are working, and I’m down to about a hundred and twenty-six dollars, which is nothing with two children to feed, and I have no idea what to do.”

  I burst into tears.

  * * *

  There is no money in any of the accounts. The various accounts Mark has opened over the years—based on his good standing, long relationship, and, at some point, large amounts of money—and there are many, are overdrawn.

  The total overdraft amount is $764,483.33.

  “I don’t understand.” I am staring numbly at the papers in front of me. “How can the bank let someone reach an overdraft of this magnitude? This is three quarters of a million dollars. Why … how does this happen?”

  Ray looks worried. “I don’t understand either. I’m going to have to start an internal investigation. I had authorized an overdraft feature last year when there was a significant amount of money in the accounts. But it was two hundred thousand. I’m not sure how…” He sighs, and suddenly I realize his job is on the line too. He may not know how this happened, but he’s the manager here, and therefore responsible.

  “Ray?” I set the papers down on the table. “How do these things happen? How do accounts empty? How are overdrafts allowed to grow to this? Are you telling me there’s no money whatsoever? Nothing? Everything’s empty?”

  He shuffles repeatedly, delaying the inevitable, but the expression on his face says it all, and when I stand to leave, my legs are wobbly, and I forget to say good-bye. Or thank you. Or tell him to send my best to Janie. It’s all I can do to get to the door.

  34

  Maggie

  You would think I would be completely numb, but as I head to the car, my brain goes into overdrive, frantically trying to find a way out of this mess.

  This is, after all, what I am good at. I did not run all these committees because I have pretty clothes. Although that helps. I am, as my children relentlessly complain, controlling, organized, superefficient. I am resourceful and determined.

  Look at the life I have been able to build out of nothing.

  The life I now need to save.

  With no access to credit cards or money in the account, I need cash, and fast. The fridge is empty, I have four mouths to feed, and in my purse, right now, is $126.32.

  I take inventory of what I can sell. We have valuable paintings, furniture, jewelry, clothes. So much stuff. I shudder at the prospect of hosting a closet sale, becoming one of the women I have pitied. There must be another way, and right now, with under two hundred dollars to my name, I need to find it.

  I pull the car into the parking lot of the grocery store. I know we have pasta at home, and if I buy a can of tomatoes and cheese, a lettuce, I can at least throw together an inexpensive dinner for the kids tonight.

  A shard of sunlight glints red off a stone, sparking a memory. Four years ago, Mark gave me an antique ruby necklace for our anniversary. It is beautiful, and one of a kind, but it is so ornate, the gold chain so heavy, I have never done more than admire it in the closet.

  I didn’t tell Mark. When he asked why I never wore it, it was easy enough to tell him I wore it all the time and if he were home more, he’d realize that.

  The night he gave it to me, we were at a restaurant having dinner. The Meyers were with us, and Ginny spent the whole evening drooling over the necklace. On the way out, we ran into Kim, and of course, she noticed the necklace immediately.

  She swooped like a vulture, scooping it up to examine the diamonds and ruby, knowing it was real, knowing it must have cost a fortune.

  I saw how she coveted it, enjoyed her disappointment when Mark told her it was from an antiques dealer in New York, was one of a kind.

  Lara told me Kim was obsessed with my necklace for months. She spent months trawling the Internet trying to find another, or one similar. She was planning to go to the dealers in New York to see if they could find her one, had even asked Lara to get her a photograph.

  I wore it once, deliberately, for the ladies’ tea at the tennis club. Even I recognized it was a little over the top, but how could I not, when Kim was going to be there. She made a beeline for me, pointing out the necklace to all her girls, who had heard all about it.

  “If you ever get sick of it,” she said, “I’ll buy it from you. I’m ser
ious.”

  “I doubt I will,” I laughed, “but I’ll keep it in mind.”

  I was sick of it already, but I would never have sold it to Kim.

  The thought of having to phone her is horrifying, but it’s the lowest hanging fruit. How much is the necklace worth? I vaguely remember it being valued at eight thousand dollars.

  Eight thousand dollars is a fortune. To think Mark could spend that amount on a gift without even thinking. If I am careful, it could last awhile, at least until I manage to sell some other stuff, find a job, figure out what to do next.

  I pause by the canned goods and whip out the phone, scrolling to Kim’s number, shuddering at the mock sympathy in her voice.

  “Maggie!” She picks up almost before the phone has even rung. “I’ve been so worried about you. I’m so glad you called. I wanted to know how everything is. Have you heard from Mark?”

  “Everything’s fine.” I keep my voice as light and breezy as possible. “I’m actually phoning for a different reason. I was going through some stuff today and realized I really have to get rid of the things I don’t wear or use. I was about to take some of the jewelry to Sotheby’s, when I remembered you quite liked one of my necklaces, so I just thought I’d let you know in case you were int—”

  She actually gasps. I hear it. “The antique ruby necklace?”

  “Yes.”

  “I love that necklace. I’ll take it. Seriously. How much do you want for it?”

  My mind starts whirring. I had thought the full eight thousand, but what if she loves it so much, she’d pay more? That would be wrong … but I’m destitute … and God knows she can afford it … and the price of gold has gone up … really, I should have it valued … but I haven’t got time … but but but but …

  “Maggie? Are you there? Hello?”

  “I’m sorry. You dropped out. What did you say?”

  “How much do you want for the necklace?”

  “I don’t know.” I falter, embarrassed now. “It was valued at eight thousand?”