The Unfortunates (33 page)
Firing Victor was the worst.
“As you can see, we’re making lots of changes,” she said, opening her palms to the sparse great room, avoiding his eyes. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you.”
He was kind. To avoid her sadness, they discussed unimportant things: he had a key and would bring it by next he remembered; they’d see each other at the gym maybe; he and Bill loved their house and had painted the upstairs bedroom an olive green that you’d think would look terrible, but in the morning sun was the warmest color. That the vibe at Kingsgate was still weird, transition pains maybe, not exactly neighborly, but okay. Abruptly, he hugged her goodbye.
“Wait! I found your book!” She ran upstairs, returned, and handed him
The Bluest Ribbon.
“Did you finish it?”
“No, it’s yours.” As if this were an explanation. She’d discovered it wedged behind the bed, cleaning for the first time after firing Erika. It hadn’t occurred to her to read the rest, as if by losing it she’d given up her right to the end of the story.
They hugged again and he closed the front door gently to avoid 3D’s nose, as 3D followed him, expecting a walk, Victor saying, “No buddy, not today,” finally pushing the dog back in by the rump. As the door shut, 3D gave her such a pitiable look that Iris put her head down on the kitchen counter and cried. George emerged from his office saying, “Who was that? Victor?” Quickly, she wiped her tears, because there wasn’t room for two people in one house to be unhappy, two unhappy people in one house would be the end of them. She’d called CeCe a few times, but heard nothing back.
“I paid the cast and the crew—I wanted to pay all the real-live people before the collection agencies. But, yes, it’s bad.”
“How much?”
“Hard to know, exactly. George isn’t much help. Not right now. I mean, I never had money. I know how to be. I don’t mind. But George won’t be any good at being poor.”
“You mean to tell me you married our boy because you
liked
him?” Bob says in a voice meant to lighten the mood.
“Of course I did.” Too forceful. She is insulted. “It’s just, he doesn’t have sense—to keep records. I have to go by what the creditors are telling me, and the best I can figure is it’s eight hundred thousand, maybe nine. He got it from so many different places! There are a lot of cards.”
“What was he thinking? When did this happen?”
“I don’t know. I only noticed the money was gone when there wasn’t any left.”
“You paid the crew from your personal assets?”
“We had the retirement accounts and Treasury bonds I cashed. And some joint savings.”
“Equity in the house?”
She shakes her head. “The house belongs to CeCe and to George.”
Bob whistles. “Shit’s creek. What does George say?”
“I asked him, if it’s a flop, you don’t owe the backers, right? Isn’t that the deal? It’s their risk? And it’s not like the type of people who back opera hurt if they lose the money. He kind of goes ‘Yeah, yeah.’ So at first I think maybe he’s disorganized, because he’s devastated. Then I take over and … he didn’t have any backers. He paid for all of it. I’m fielding these calls, and they’re saying every kind of thing to scare me, about us going to jail and sending people by and finding our relatives and asking them to pay and lawsuits and—”
“Well, what about that?”
“What about what?”
“Your mother-in-law’s not exactly lacking.”
“That’s the problem. They’ve stopped speaking. He won’t tell me what happened. She won’t return his calls. Or mine. I don’t think it’s true, what they’re saying about him.”
“A very lot’s happened in a very little amount of time here, hasn’t it? What a perfect fuckstorm. Isn’t there a sister? I remember from school. Nice hair. Could she help?”
Iris shakes her head. “That wouldn’t work. Bob, please don’t, I don’t want you to think less of George.”
“Listen. There was a time I took Martha’s money—it was Martha’s money then, eh—and in four years I spent it all on coke. She’d just married me, and that’s what she got. I foreclosed on a building taller than this one. Although, it was in Florida. I mean, fuck Florida, right?”
“It’s nice of you to share that,” she says, suddenly holding back tears.
“Her parents still do not adore me.” He laughs.
“I’ve been so worried,” she whispers.
“Poor Iris is handling all this by herself?”
“Yes.”
“And how the hell are
you
holding up?” He reaches across the desk to take her hand. She looks at the corner of the Monez behind him, at the tiny oil rig in the ocean.
“I’m fine. I’m a strong person.”
“One in a million,” he says, releasing her.
“I still have the cars. A tiny inheritance from my mother. And I made a little commission on Kingsgate. That’s the last of it. Not nearly enough, and if I use it, it will all be gone forever. Then I had the idea”—she forces herself to look steadily, directly at him and smile brightly—“I thought, Our very best friend is the most talented broker in town. Why didn’t I call you right away?”
“Investment adviser.”
“Oh, right?” She doesn’t know the difference. “The best, whatever you call it!”
“You must already have financial management.”
“They don’t want to work with us anymore.”
“Okay, let’s think out loud together for a minute here. How much do you have left to invest?”
“Thirty thousand.”
He looks at her and shakes his head, puts his fat palms flat on his desk. “Tryphon starts investors at a five hundred thousand minimum. And I don’t take on anyone. Half the guys that come in here begging to work with me I turn down.”
“Sure. I understand.” How had she convinced herself she could fix this? Stupid idea. All she’s managed to do is humiliate herself. And George. Stupid to think she’s the kind of person who is clever and brave and well-connected enough to vault over all that debt without having to—five hundred thousand. Waltzing in here, acting like she knows something. Her last good idea.
“Now, don’t cry! What kind of asshole do you think I am? Look, but you’re not just anybody, are you?”
“I
am
. That’s exactly what I am. It’s okay. I totally understand. This is your job. Your office is so big!”
“Where are the—I don’t have any tissues? Listen, how about this. I’ve got something coming up I’d bet the house on. Big and stable and already halfway home. Your timing couldn’t be better, actually. How about I front you part of the principal, fat up your thirty-K nest egg. Anything we make over the initial investment, you keep. I’ll only take back what I loaned you.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I like you. I like you a lot, Iris. We’re friends. You and me.”
“I can’t take your money. It doesn’t seem right.”
“I won’t notice it’s gone. That’s the truth. What, now you’re making me beg to do you a favor? That is fairly fucking unbelievable. I’m onto you, lady. Just like a woman. You’re quite the ace.”
“No! I don’t mean to be—”
“It’ll take a little time. But if you hang in there, we’ll catch a nice big one for you. Probably not as big as you need. No one makes that kind of return on a short. I’m not Superman. But big enough to stop the bleeding.”
His phone rings again, again he ignores it. She hears his assistant pick up in the outer office, her murmured response. In her mind’s eye she sees the door of a bank vault being opened by a guard and behind it a silver heap of fish.
“This would be me advising you personally, privately, you understand. Not as a client here. I can’t justify thirty grand.”
“You really won’t notice it’s gone?”
“Nope.”
“Can you please take your—is it a fee? A percentage? However you do it. I don’t believe in something for nothing. I couldn’t live with myself.”
“However you and George want. Talk it over.”
“That’s the other—the thing I need to say. George isn’t himself. He can’t tolerate much, right now. He doesn’t know everything I’m doing. To help us. He’s not able—it’s stressful, when I try to involve him. It would be hard. He never would’ve asked you. I’ll tell him, but maybe after I’ve taken care of more of the debt. He doesn’t know I’m here today. I mean, obviously.” She’s exhausted by this attempt at discretion. At conveying why George can’t know, without exposing how fragile George is, how bad it is at home.
“A man’s pride is the castle of his soul. Say no more.”
A cell—one of three arrayed between them—begins to skitter and hum on the white desk. She recognizes the ringtone. The theme to
Star Wars
.
“Listen, I have to take this.” He grasps and squeezes her hand. “But we’ll fix it up. Don’t you worry. I’ll call when I have a sense of the timeline. Gretchen! Show Mrs. Somner out.”
The woman steps into the room and Iris stands. She hasn’t properly thanked Bob, but he’s swiveled his chair around and is already on the phone, studying his Monez, saying, “Well, he’s a prick, that’s why. Get a new cellie then … Because, I have to tell you because?”
Just like that, she’s past the glowing gryphon at the reception station and back out on the street.
Mar 7 (12 minutes ago)
hey you not answering your phone? are you ok? i read about your opera. ooooooooof. i don’t get it but i’m feeling for you brother. remember that trick of waiting i taught you when we were kids? wait long enough, things get okay again? i want to run something by you. after we had douglas, mother sent me the most incredible letter. a real letter very serious on that stationery that must date to the eisenhower administration about how grandchildren are new beginnings and how she wants us to bring douglas to booth h. blah. she apologized for being rude all these years to lotta. i mean she REALLY apologized. super-paraphrase: my life’s mission, the foundation, has always been against inequality and here you are GAYS right in my own family and i wasn’t accepting of your lifestyle choice. she used the phrase lifestyle choice, which would be very forward of her if it was still 1990. which for our mother, very forward. it’s hilarious and so CeCe how her letter mixes us in with her causes like you could substitute lupus or landmine for lesbian. it still made me super emotional. we’ve had some phone calls. not bad. to be honest i always suspected it was less of a gay thing and more that I dared have my own life. that and she probs can’t stand another woman mattering more than her, right?
point is, i’d like to visit but i get the idea you guys aren’t speaking? i had this thought maybe she wrote to me only because you’re fighting. i’m afraid of coming all the way out east just to get my heart broken again. tell me what you think. and tell me you’re okay, okay?
love & abracos to esme and iris,
pat
Mar 7 (2 minutes ago)
ps!
pls thank Iris for Runaway Bunny and the jammies. i’ll send her a proper note as soon as i come up for air. having a 6 week old is nuts.
Lately his life, George recognizes, has come to resemble an endless chamber of revolving doors through which he passes and passes and passes and passes and passes and passes, as one might in a nightmare, for when he isn’t, what—sleeping or staring into nothing or crashing around the house with chemically induced purpose that so fast disintegrates, leaves him all alone again, either too heavy and raw to move or too suspicious of the world to sit still—he’s aimlessly on the Internet, seven, ten hours at a time. How many screens can a person pay attention to at once? Is it unwell of him to have read Pat’s self-congratulatory, sparkling flatulence of an e-mail with the page beside it open to a paused video of a woman being rigorously and impersonally fucked over a leather recliner shaped like a giant baseball glove?
He’s hardly left the house since the opera closed. All his days are of this nightmare pattern. Today, no different. He woke once when he heard Iris drive away, and again at noon. (Like most nights, he’d lain awake until dawn, his eyelids twitching.) Finally up, though not dressed, he slumped into the club chair in his office to read the newspaper; dissatisfied with the doom of the world, he shifted to the computer so he might for several hours monitor and rebut the slanderous comments made against himself and
The Burning Papers
. The collective interest has moved on, though. The commentary’s dwindled, almost to nothing. To have an enemy that doesn’t care—a different problem. Still, there are repostings and lesser weeds to root.
He closes his e-mail and trolls around some music sites. In the comments section of a minor classical blog, he writes anonymously,
But the Magic Flute has the wicked Moor, and you don’t see Mozart being stoned to death!
Moving on, he rereads some windbag’s comment at opera-ra.com who calls the score
pretentious, phony Dada
. Into the empty office he cries, “It’s not Dada. It’s the opposite of Dada!”
After the article in the
Post
came out, alerts had alerted him to his presence not only on music-related sites but also on a website called angrywaitress.com, where an anonymous server asserted George to be a crap tipper and a belligerent back-sender of a totally decent lamb shank. It hadn’t seemed important, a few weeks ago, when there were worse accusations to address. Now he begins,
To the contrary, I am
—No. It’s beneath him, and the woman being fucked over the baseball glove is still being fucked over the baseball glove, only waiting to be unpaused. Next he looks, it’s three o’clock. How is it he’s
hours
into an anxiety-reducing porn bender? Fleeing the ugly reflection of himself in the mirror of the Internet, then finding he must flee again, that he is on the run, one site to another. But even porn—dirge delight, inexhaustible undead, tireless companion to all and none—has come to exhaust him, though his exhaustion has not decreased the amount of time he devotes to it, nor to the amount of dextroamphetamine and amphetamine-based concentration-boosters he consumes between clicks—new interventions, so easily procured—to keep the exhaustion at bay. Against logic, in fact, the exhaustion has increased his commitment, intensified his quest for some eye-smacking shock of video that will bring him back to life, that will, if not bring him pleasure, at least remind him of what happy future was once possible, like smelling the clothes of the dead.
