Ark (16 page)

What Rebecca wanted now was for this conversation to end. She said, “It's getting late. The bank's closing soon. Let's just go inside and start filling out the paperwork.”

“Great,” he said. “I'm ready for that, sweetie.”

VIII: MOTHER HELP ME

 

At 11 a.m. on a Friday morning, Rebecca was on her way to her father's new apartment across the street from the Morgan Library. At her father's door, she rang the bell. He didn't answer. She tried again, and then took out a spare key and went inside. As she had hoped, he wasn't there. She locked the door behind her. Next thing, she switched on the lights. She looked in the fridge and found it empty, only a water pitcher with many thin discs of lemon floating at the top and a half-eaten chocolate bar occupying the butter compartment on the door. She peeked into her father's closets, sifted through his drawers, examined the contents of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She saw the laundry basket, and checked the pockets of his dirty pants. She lifted up the cushions of the sofa, she dug her fingers under the mattress in the bedroom. There was a suitcase beside the dresser. Nothing was inside. Oliver used to hide money in record sleeves. Was there the time to look through his vast LP collection? Who knew when he would return? She should leave. She checked to make sure that she had left everything as she'd found it. Then she noticed that his living room windows looked directly at the McKim Building. One of the architectural gems of the city—a strong, Neoclassical marble container made to house and protect one of the great collections of books. From its arched entrance, flanked by lions, an elegant glass lamp hung between two soft white columns, and behind it were two steel doors. That her father was able to see this building from his window was very fortunate for him, thought Rebecca.

She went into a deli around the corner. At an ATM toward the back, she pressed for a balance on her father's account. Oliver had called her last week to describe feelings of gratitude and relief. He'd told her how, in the mornings, he had been shooting out of bed, rested, hungry for food, for art and conversation, that all his grand ambitions about his career had been inching closer to reality, that he had been employing a new physical regimen involving a strict diet, regular exercise, and a consistent sleep schedule that would leave him in better shape than ever before.

Rebecca hadn't believed a word of it.

Among shelves of pet food products, cleaning powders, garbage bags, and votary candles, she took the ATM receipt, reading $7,802.10, in her left hand. The opening balance had been fifteen thousand. She'd put in three thousand more just five days ago. How had her father spent over ten grand in such a short time? Other than the bed frame and the mattress, had he made any large purchases? There'd been the incident two weeks earlier with the toaster. Four hundred dollars. She'd forced him to return it and take a more simple model. Then they'd had to have the talk: she didn't want to have to look over his shoulder, but he had to act more responsibly. Because she was supporting him now, she bought only the very essentials and he had to do the same. Did he understand what she meant by “the very essentials”? Food, transportation, rent, utilities, and some forms of entertainment. Movies, yes. Operas, no. A record was fine, but no box sets. Her father had answered by wrapping his hands around her shoulders and kissing her on the head.

At the moment, she was wondering about his rent, though. Twenty-five hundred a month, he had told her. Perhaps there was first and last month's plus security deposit to factor in. Yes, maybe that explained it.

Rebecca started uptown on a bright but withdrawn stretch of Madison Avenue, criticizing herself for having searched her father's apartment. How was he supposed to find respect for himself if his own daughter couldn't show him any? She spoke an apology out loud, to no one, and then closed her lips over the knuckles of her right hand—a half block north, leaning against the Joseph Raphael De Lamar House, the Beaux-Arts mansion, reading the
New York Times
, was Oliver. His gray, slicked-back hair had grown a little long and he had a wispy white beard. At all the people passing, he smiled with a wrinkled, pleasant look. In the way he folded the newspaper, his eyes making a periodic sweep of the pedestrians, Rebecca sensed a sort of fraudulent majesty about him. He wore his checkered suit with a red kerchief folded neatly in the pocket. And with this outfit, he was trying to fool himself into thinking he'd gotten up this morning with a purpose? He had to get a job. But what kind? He was too old to go back into the record business. He didn't have the energy or the money for it. He could work for someone else. But who would hire him? No sensible executive would invest time and resources in a man over sixty. And yet, he had to do something with his life.

Rebecca followed him west, toward Fifth Avenue. He entered a bistro at the middle of the block, ordered at the bar, and began talking with the waitstaff. A young woman with dark hair and olive skin and a nice smile indulged him. But what could they be discussing? Was he not boring her? Did she not speak to him out of pity?

Rebecca watched from behind a parked pickup truck, her dark, tremulous eyes narrowed and her tongue bent back against her top teeth. But to tell your daughter you were waking up early every day to figure out your life and then to sleep till noon instead. To have hardly a dime to your name and still spend the midday hours reading the paper and lunching and socializing with waitresses. To give up and feel comfortable with it. While being supported by your child.

Rebecca asked herself how long she could let this go on.

Sitting down on the rear bumper of the pickup truck, she dialed her father's wife. It was time they spoke. On the side street, shaded from the sun by tall buildings, Rebecca heard the phone click.

“I was just about to call you,” Sheila said, as a greeting.

“Oh, were you?”

“Yes. I wanted you to know Doris is being served with papers today.”

Placing her hand across her neck, her skin sending heat back through her fingers, Rebecca said, “Well, this seems a bit hurried, don't you think? Does my father even have a case?”

“Yes.”

“A winnable case?”

“The attorneys say the odds are at least seventy-thirty in our favor, and that we're not even going to get into a courtroom. We're looking for a quick settlement. Everyone has a life to get back to. We don't want to be doing this forever.”

“Then you should know that these things take forever, Sheila.”

“Yes. I was thinking it would go faster if you helped us.”

“I don't know estate law.”

“Talk to our lawyers. They might have ways of making use of you.”

“Sheila, what I was thinking was that my dad would go back to Los Angeles and take a respite from New York. Some distance will be healing for him.”

“I'm in the process of closing the last store, Rebecca. I had to sell my home to pay off my debts.”

“Okay, but—”

“There's no room in the motel where I am. And with the two dogs.”

“So you've got space for your dogs, but not your husband?”

“Hey, listen! I love your father, but I didn't sign up for all this shit, okay? I mean, can you imagine marrying a man, and the next thing you know, having done nothing at all, his sister's suing you because she's whacked and has nothing better to do? And suddenly you're embroiled in a lawsuit, paying for lawyers, because you must, or else? And now with Doris stealing your father's inheritance.”

Rebecca apologized. Defending herself against Sondra had cost Sheila a lot of money. Her aunt's legal complaint? That Sheila had put
Shout!
records on sale at her boutiques. Just three or four, near the register. Not one copy had even sold. But Sondra had sent a spy. The records had been seen, and Sondra had accused Sheila of stealing
Shout!
inventory.

Originally Sheila hadn't even thought that she would marry Oliver, already fifty-seven by the time they'd met and having lived without a husband all her life, along the beach, with her dogs, never lonely. Besides, during the first two years with Oliver, a long-distance relationship had worked well for her. Together one month out of every three, and the rest of the time speaking by phone—no, she had never required more of him. But after her heart attack, Oliver had come to California and taken care of her, and she had asked him to stay.

“I didn't know that I had married into a whole family of psychotics.”

“You've faced a lot these last three years,” Rebecca said.

“You bet your ass I have.”

“But we have to put distance between my father and all of this grief. It's been strictly funerals and strife since he returned to New York. Can't you rent an apartment or get a larger motel room and just let him stay with you for a couple of weeks?”

“With what money, Rebecca? I'm broke. Those boutiques killed me.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I spend my days on eBay, auctioning off everything just to pay the debt.”

Rebecca swept her thumb beneath her front teeth, deciding to change subjects. “The lawyers you're considering, how are you going to pay them?”

“I don't know,” Sheila said. “We'll figure out a way. But that sociopath Doris wants to ruin your dad's life, and we can't let her get away with it.”

“But you don't even know how you'll pay for this.”

“I'm working on it, Rebecca, every second of every day. You understand that the whole thing is very sad to us, don't you? Your aunt, Sondra, suing your grandfather…your grandfather had a huge debt to his lawyers. A million, easy. Those fucking devils.”

“Right. Yes. I do.”

“Your grandfather bullied your dad, tricked him into giving him most of the money he'd made when he sold his apartment. It was all your father had left. And your grandfather told your father that he would get the money back.”

“My father's said as much.”

“But that wasn't what happened.”

“No. It wasn't.”

“Your dad has been fucked too hard to stand by and do nothing”

“I know.”

“So then you see why we have to do this. Now really, if you want to help your father, what you should do is go to him, talk to him, take him to dinner, make sure he's getting out. Your dad loves you. You're his only family. There's no one else now.”

Rebecca said, “Okay, Sheila.”

“Be a good daughter.”

“Right. Thanks. I will.”

Rebecca got off the phone. Then she watched her father eat a bouillabaisse. After which a digestif and an espresso were set down before him on the counter, and he drank them both. Next he retired to the bathroom for nearly fifteen minutes. He left the bistro with a glowing sweaty presentiment, his pants pulled up higher than when he had entered, and went home—to nap, presumably—while Rebecca returned to her office.

 

September 21
^st
, 2015

Dear Mom
,

I know you're busy. When the film is done, though, I'd like to come visit. It's a strange time. My dad is broke and I've been supporting him to the tune of half my salary. He also happens to be suing his sister Doris over their parents' estate. I'm not sure what to do about any of it. But I'd like to tell you all these things in person, if it works with your schedule. Let me know
.

Love, Rebecca

October 1
^st
, 2015

Dear Rebecca
,

Darling, I'm sorry to hear about your father. You know my sister Ella has caused me more problems than I care to discuss. I thought all those years ago when I moved to the West Coast that she would stop showing up at my door with her bags. Wrong. She did it three months ago, for the second time this year. I turned her away, and I suggest you do the same with your father. Now if you like, you're welcome to come stay with me in Los Angeles. But it doesn't mean I'd be available all that time, and I don't want to disappoint you. Let's figure something out
.

Love you, Mom

October 18
^th
, 2015

Dear Mom
,

Don't be so hard on your sister, please. I know she's a strain. But I'm telling you firsthand, it could be much worse. She's never sued you. She's never stolen from you. She isn't a bad person. Treat her right. I'll watch from a distance and be encouraged by it
.

Love, Rebecca

November 7
^th
, 2015

Dear Rebecca
,

I apologize it's taken me this long to get back to you. My shooting schedule has made it impossible. Don't ever compare yourself with my sister. You're nothing like Ella. You are a highly intelligent, extremely competent, successful person who has worked hard to get where you are. Ella is an emotional tyrant who takes advantage of people who don't have the stamina to combat her. You are a hundred times the person she is. So don't compare yourself to her. You're dissatisfied with your place? That's nearly every person. Now here's some tough love: do something about it. Throw yourself into new territory. Get to it. I love you. I believe in you
.

Your Mom

November 18
^th
, 2015

Dear Mom
,

I didn't compare myself to your sister. I said that you should treat your sister better. Slow down and read what I write, please
.

Love, Rebecca
.

P.S. I like my life
.

November 30
^th
, 2015

Dear Rebecca
,

I am sorry, honey. I didn't mean to upset you. Are you all right? If you want to come and stay with me, you should just do it. Get away from New York and this situation with your father. I can't promise that I'll be available. But you'll have the whole house to yourself. You can swim in the pool and the beach isn't far. If you want, I'll rent you a car and you can take a trip up the coast. There are beautiful places to see. The offer stands. You don't have to decide right now. I might even have time around the New Year, so that I could spend part of that trip with you. Tell me, sweetheart, how much money are you giving your father? I remember how important it was to you that you saved for an apartment. Don't compromise your future, not for anyone. You have to take care of yourself and your needs. I know it sounds cruel and selfish. I just don't want you to jeopardize the things that are important to you. I certainly don't want you to hurt your life in any way
.