The Chocolate Money (29 page)

At the bottom of the box is her white bathing suit, captain’s hat, and blue stilettos. I think about the makeup she wore that night, the sparkly blue eye shadow, the gashes of rouge. I am strangely sad not to find the makeup in the box. This was the best part of the evening for me: watching Jasper put it on Babs while Frances and I sat on the floor. Babs looked so beautiful when they were done, more so than anyone else at the whole party. And then it was all ruined because she was so worried Mack wouldn’t come. She might have smacked me, but maybe it was because she was angry at Mack. And the bleeding had nothing to do with Babs, it really didn’t. I was the one who was stupid enough to fall down the stairs.

The day’s ending and no one has called to offer condolences, see if there is anything to do. I know it is early, and people probably still don’t know. But I take inventory and wonder who would call: Who would want to assume the role of the weepy best friend? Or even be in the inner circle, someone who brings lasagna and helps me write the obit. All this makes me sad for Babs. Despite all the chocolate money, she had no real friends. But even though I don’t have any either, I still have one person to call. Lucas.

He is probably the only one who will care that Babs is dead. He answers on the fifth ring. This is the first time I have ever called him, and I don’t quite know what he will say, hearing from me out of the blue. But he has always been nice to me, even if it’s in a haphazard and distracted way. Despite everything, he’s her cousin, after all. I will tell him this news, and then let him take the lead, see where it goes.

“Lucas,” I say without preamble, “Babs is dead.”

There is a pause on the line, then:

“Bettina? Jesus, what happened?”

“She was hit by a car crossing Michigan Avenue. This morning.”

“Oh, fuck. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say succinctly, the way I think a grownup would. Then I start to cry. I want to tell him everything. Getting kicked out of Cardiss. The matches. How it was really all my fault.

“I think it was my fault, Lucas. I messed up . . .”

“No, Bettina. No more than anyone else.”

“But I slept with a boy, got kicked out of Cardiss . . .”

“I know. She told me on the phone.”

So that was him on the other end of the conversation that day. I am disappointed that it seems he did nothing to stick up for me. But now that Babs is gone, maybe things can be different.

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 buried, 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.