The Chocolate Money (27 page)

“Come in,” she sings cheerily. I half expect her to add,
Ding-dong, the witch is dead.

I open the door, though it is hard to balance the heavy box in one hand. I drop it on the floor. Sit down in front of Meredith. Holly is there too, and she faces me squarely and says, “Sorry about the news, Bettina.” She is the first person to say this to me and I think about how nice she still is. I could have used a best friend like her, but I blew it.

“I brought this for you guys, thinking you could use it.”

Meredith peeks into the box. “I hope you’re not using this as a ploy to get us put up for action.”

“Of course not.”

“Well, this time,
I
will get a good buzz before visiting Cape.”

“Cape?” I say, stunned to hear her mention his name after all he has done to her. Maybe I am not significant enough for what he and I did to count as unforgivable. “What about Lowell?”

“Lowell? Oh, we had a good time at the dance and then he walked me home like a gentleman. But that’s it. He’s no Cape.”

“So, Cape . . .” I continue despite myself.

“He’s going to take me out to dinner with his mother tonight.”

“Oh” is all I can say. I had thought he might come by to see me. Feel he owes me one last goodbye.

“Thanks for the gift, Bettina, but I have to go shower before dinner,” Meredith says dismissively.

I go back to my room. Glad that I have saved the bottle of bourbon for myself. Maybe I’m not
fearless,
as Babs deems drinkers, but I sure feel better after a few slugs. As for my getting caught, it doesn’t matter. Cardiss holds no more punishments for me. Soon, the walls start to sway. I decide to lie down on the bed. I want to go and see Cape, kiss him, have his hands run over my body. Pretend things are the way they were before we got caught. Before I told him about Mack. I stand up, but I find I can barely walk. This does not stop my thoughts of Cape. Drinking, besides blurring your senses, brings you back to your losses. Mine now stretch out and encompass me. Maybe this is why Babs doesn’t drink. It keeps her unstuck from the past. No morose thoughts about the loss of her parents. Not devastated by Mack’s death. Content with the chocolate money.

Drunk, I am sad to the point of tears that I may never see Cape again. There will be other boys, I know, but none like Cape. I lie back on my pillow and pass out.

I wake up around nine, still drunk but with a massive headache. There is drool on the side of my face, and I am desperately thirsty. I stand up and stumble to the bathroom.

On the way out of my room, I trip over a white envelope with my name written on it. I recognize Cape’s handwriting. He did come after all. Maybe he knocked on the door and in my stupor, I did not hear him. So he left me a note. I am sure it will be sweet, apologizing for getting so mad about our parents’ affair and taking it out on me. I pick up the envelope and hold it to my chest. It is surprisingly heavy. I carry it to the bathroom, determined to clean my face and drink some water to cure my dry mouth before I read it.

Back in my room, I think,
Meredith, take this!
I sit on the floor, have another swig of the bourbon. My hands are shaking from the anticipation. I slowly open the envelope and tumbles my father’s medallion. I take it in my hand and rub the crest of the Ryder School. That’s all that’s in it. I suppose he expects me to return his pennies this same way.

I’m suddenly angry in a way I have not been all day. Not angry, even. Furious.

Emboldened by the alcohol, I leave my room and walk across campus to the boathouse. I don’t even bring my cigarettes. I want what I do to be clean and decisive. I reach the boathouse.

There’s a fence blocking the river from the bench, and I take the bourbon bottle and smash it across the wood. The bottle shatters, and the rest of the bourbon sprays all over me like a slick, foreign perfume. I see the glass in the grass and feel a satisfaction that I have broken something else that cannot be fixed.

I reach into my pocket. Pull out the pennies. It’s dark and I cannot read the faces, but I can make out the marks with my fingers. I clutch them in my hand. I take off my shirt and my bra and stand before the river topless. I rub the pennies over my skin. I think of when I used them to smash. This time, I’m not aroused. I just want to feel the intimacy of the copper making small inroads, invisible tattoos on my body.

I take the pennies and toss them into the river. They arch out of my hand and make a satisfying plink as they hit the water, sink.

I put my bra and top back on. I stare at the river to see if they will float back up, like dead bodies, but nothing.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, I wake up around nine thirty, hung over. I make my bed and check that all my things are packed. The next task is to make travel plans to leave Cardiss. This is the only item on my agenda. There’s nothing of mine in anyone else’s dorm room. I have no more goodbyes to say. I’m just a girl hanging about.

I go to the dean’s office to set up my itinerary, since it is almost impossible to make long-distance calls on the Bright rotary phone. The dean’s secretary is named Sallie. She has a pronounced Boston accent and is on the larger side. The type to accessorize with scarves and brooches to distract from her fat.

Babs thinks brooches are stupid. Real jewelry should hit the bare skin. Necklaces, bracelets, rings. Babs would even prefer a navel-piercing to a brooch.

I shake Babs out of my head, remembering that even though Sallie might not be at the apex of fashion, she is still making an effort, and, more important, she’s always been nice to me the few times I have been in the dean’s office. She never forgets anyone’s name.

She looks up from her newspaper. Sees me waiting to get her attention.

“Bettina, I’m so sorry. You’ll be missed.” No one else has said this to me. I am grateful. Even if she might not really mean it.

“Sallie, thank you,” I say. Then I explain the reason for my visit. “I need to use the phone to make travel plans home.”

“Sure,” she says. “It’s right over there. I’m about to go on break, so please remember to keep your calls as brief as possible.”

The phone is silver and has real buttons to push. I reach in my wallet and pull out my American Airlines frequent-flier card and a platinum AmEx. Babs gave me the card for emergencies, she said, but mostly so I could buy her expensive clothes in the south of France.

I dial American Airlines. I am placed on hold, and I see Sallie get up from her chair. She discreetly waves at me. Heads out for her coffee break.

I wait for about ten minutes before a female voice answers. She helps me book a three
P.M.
flight, Boston to Chicago. It is terrifically expensive, but so is an aborted year at Cardiss. I then call the cab company and tell them to get me at twelve thirty. I am leaving the same way I came: with a small bag and no parents.

Sallie is still not back. I have made my calls, but I’m disinclined to leave. Something keeps me there. After about two minutes, I grab the receiver and dial 411. I am not really ready for this but I do it anyway. I don’t know why I have waited so long; maybe because still, after all these years, I have no real plan.

I get the operator and say, “The number for the Ryder School, please. Concord, New Hampshire.” As Cape told me, my father’s alma mater.

She spends a minute looking, then spits out seven numbers. Ryder is in the same area code as Cardiss.

I hang up. Stare at the phone number. Need to act, one way or another. Sallie will be back from her break in about five minutes. To dial the number has the impulsive feel of calling a boy you’re not sure likes you. Not to seems like throwing away a good book you haven’t read. Maybe Ryder doesn’t have records of Latin prizes. It’s just a call, after all. I’m not committing to anything.

I dial. Ask for the Latin Department. A chummy-sounding male voice with an English accent answers the phone.

“Hello?”

“Um, my name is Meredith and I’m a student at Cardiss. I found a silver medallion at a tag sale the other day. The front has Ryder’s emblem, and the back has ‘Latin Composition One, 1958.’ It seemed like it might be important to the winner and so I hoped you could tell me who it belongs to so I could return it. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Trouble? Not at all. I have all of the winners for the past seventy-five years painted on two wooden tablets hanging on my wall. What year did you say it was? Okay, just a second.”

Just a second? This is going way too fast. Should I hang up?

“Here it is,” says Latin Scholar.

“Wait.” I stall. “Is it a hard prize to win? I mean, there can’t be that many students taking Latin. Not that many contestants.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right. But some years we don’t give it out because the work isn’t outstanding enough.”

“Does it always go to a senior?”

“Usually, yes.”

“Do most students study Latin before they get to Ryder, or do they pick it up while they are there?”

“We have both.” Latin Scholar is beginning to tire of this conversation. Finds my questions strange. Why all the interest if I just want to send back a medallion to an alum?

“Do you want the name or not? I don’t have his address but you can check with the alumni office for that.”

“Yes,” I say. “Please.” I’m not quite ready yet. But I won’t ever be.

He tells me.

“Thank you,” I say slowly, and then quickly hang up the phone. I am sure he says, “You’re welcome,” but I don’t want to hear it.

B
ABS AND I SIT
in the dining room of the aparthouse. We’re having dinner or, more accurately, smoking and not eating. Despite my trepidation about returning home, Babs has been surprisingly nice. She doesn’t apologize or explain her departure from campus, but she’s called Miss Porter’s and they will gladly take me in January.

I don’t tell her that I know who my father is. I’m afraid of her reaction. She did give me the medallion after all, an easy way to find out, but maybe she thought I would never follow up. In any case, I don’t want to do anything that might upset our relationship. She seems to have new respect for me. Because I have finally had sex? Because at my age, I’m so little work? But neither of these things promises any continuous stability between us. So I keep my discovery a secret.

I wonder what I’m going to do in the meantime. Get a job? I won’t be sixteen until March. Hang about the aparthouse and chitchat with Lily and Franklin? Something will come along, I tell myself, and until it does, I will just enjoy the company of what appears to be a new, subdued Babs.

That night, Babs provides me with a project. After Lily serves our coffee, straight black in demitasse cups, Babs takes a sip, lights up another cigarette, and begins to talk in an upbeat voice.

“Bettina, now that you’re home, I have an idea of something we can work on together. I am fucking sick of Tally’s success with all of these inane books she cranks out. I know I could do better with a book of my own.”

Tally is still writing her Diary of an Heiress series but has also branched out in her subject matter. She has ventured into self-help. Her latest book,
The Libido Effect,
argues that if readers channel their sexual energy into pursuits outside the bedroom—office work, exercise, or even tennis—they’ll have enormous success. Tally gets invited on talk shows and even leads retreats. Even though Babs is famous in Chicago, she’s never been on TV. I know this pisses her off.

“What did you have in mind, Babs?” I ask. I imagine the worst. A sexual handbook with a chapter devoted to each of her top ten fucks
.
She would write about how every man had different needs. List the activities she performed for each, perhaps in menu format. There would most likely be an exhaustive section on masturbating.

She continues. “I know people are curious about my life as a chocolate heiress. Rather than write a memoir, which is passé, I thought I would show the reader all of the places I have been. With matchbooks instead of pictures. I will annotate them, and they will give my readers a detailed account of not only how I live, but also how rich people in general live.”

Babs doesn’t really think that memoirs are passé. She just doesn’t have the sustained attention required to write one. I encourage her nonetheless. It sounds like she might even sell a few copies. No real plot or conflict, but interesting just the same.

“Great idea, Babs. You could have it published in a scrapbook format, which is rarely done, and call it
The Matchbook Book.
Instead of a paperback with regular pages, each book would be laid out in a leather scrapbook with facsimiles of each matchbook. The readers would feel like friends of yours, reminiscing with you about the restaurants and clubs they have also been to. And there are would-be fans who are eager for a thrilling peek inside the daily life of a chocolate heiress.”

“Brilliant. I love it!”

I am fairly sure that some publisher like Rizzoli would take it on, or maybe Babs will decide to publish herself. But I know deep down she couldn’t give a fuck if anyone buys it. She could throw a huge party and give the books away as favors, if it came to that. She’s just badly in need of a project.

“What I want you to do, Bettina,” she continues, “is to put all the matches in chronological order. I’ve written the dates in the inside cover of each matchbook so you know what follows what.”

I can do this,
I think. Maybe I’ll even get credit as a coauthor. Babs and I haven’t worked on something together since the Hangover-Brunch Cruise Party. And this time I will have real responsibility. There’s the possibility that Babs really is different now that I am older. Unlike when I planned my dance number, I know I can do a good job. Finally please her after all this time.

Babs pushes her chair away from the table and walks up the spiral staircase to her room. I follow as if these stairs are just like any other. We go into her shoe closet. It isn’t a closet, per se, more of a room with at least three hundred shoes. Organized by color in specialized racks. It looks like the shoe department at Saks, only with more offerings and all in Babs’s size.