The Family Fortune (8 page)

“Well, if Jane's read this Max Wellman's books, why haven't I? You know how much I like to read, Charlie. Why haven't you brought these books home?”

“We have every one of them upstairs in the study,” he said.

“The least you could do, then, is point them out if he's someone you know. How do you expect me to better myself out here in the absolute buttocks when you don't share anything with me and when you won't buy me a kiln?”

Charlie slumped. “It's boondocks, not buttocks.”

“You don't support me artistically,” Winnie complained.

“I support you in every other way.” He raised his voice and drained his glass.

“No need to be like that, especially in front of my sister.”

“Anyway, Max is here in town. He's staying with his sister in Boston. She and her husband just rented a fantastic house on Beacon Hill for the winter.”

“That's our house,” I said in a small voice.

“What?” Charlie asked.

“Brainchild, that's our house. The Fortune family house,” Winnie said. “You know very well that Father rented it out for the winter.”

“I didn't make the connection.”

“There's no reason you should,” I said.

“I feel stupid. I'm so sorry, Jane.”

“What about me?” Winnie asked. “I think I deserve an apology, too. It was my house, too. I have been shamed, by association.”

“There is nothing shameful about renting your house out for the winter,” Charlie said.

“You'd think that, wouldn't you? It is the way
you'd
think,” Winnie said.

“There's nothing wrong with the way I think.”

“You just don't know anything about the history of families.”

“To tell you the truth, I'm more concerned with my family's present than its history,” he said.

“That's because you don't have a history to speak of. Second-generation English is hardly a history.”

“And you came over on the
Mayflower,
” Charlie said, his voice infused with sarcasm.

We didn't, but we had as many generations behind us in America as you could without coming over on that particular boat. Still, what did it matter in the twenty-first century?

“Anyway, I invited him for Thanksgiving,” Charlie said.

“Who?” Winnie asked.

“Max.” Charlie seemed exasperated. “Isn't that who we were just talking about?”

“Without asking me?” Winnie said.

“My parents are the ones having it,” Charlie said.

“Did you ask them?”

“I don't have to.”

There was a small bit of skin hanging from my thumb and I began to chew on it.

“Don't do that, Jane. It will get all bloody,” Winnie said. Charlie looked over. I saw myself as he must see me—dour, dry, somber, bookish, and lacking in style.

“Anyway,” Charlie said, “Max isn't coming. He's spending Thanksgiving with his sister.” Thank God, I thought. “But he might come over for dessert.”

Something banged hard on the floor upstairs and one of the boys shouted.

“Oh, Charlie, can you see to that?” Winnie asked. She had that fainting-couch look to her, as if any movement was beyond her strength.

“I will,” I said.

“No, Jane, I'll go,” Charlie said.

He went upstairs.

“I think my husband is getting bored with me,” Winnie said. “I don't know why. It's as if everything I ask him to do is an ordeal. We haven't had sex in a month.”

I didn't like this kind of heart-to-heart. I wasn't crazy about heart-to-hearts in general, but I especially hated them when they included the subject of sex. I wasn't a prude, exactly, I just had never been one of those girls who discussed breasts, periods, and boys. My mother said
that I had never really been young, but I had been young, only in a different way.

“I'm sure he loves you,” I said.

“That's just the easy thing to say. But you've never been in a long relationship, and in a long relationship things fade.” She touched her hair. When she was younger it was a more sunny shade of blond. “You know what we need?” she said.

“What?”

“A girls' day out.”

I couldn't remember ever having had a girls' day out with Winnie. I had gone shopping occasionally with Miranda, and that was more of a torture than a pleasure. Miranda was so meticulous about her choices: everything had to be by Leonardo da Vinci, look like it had been painted on by a master craftsman, and elegant without being showy. I once shopped with her for five hours and all she bought was a pair of silk socks and a face cream guaranteed to remove every worry line she ever had.

“Now, if they could only make a cream to remove the worry itself,” I had said.

Miranda looked at me like I was mentally defective. My family never understood my sense of humor. In fact, if you asked them, they'd say I didn't have one.

“We'll go on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I'm sure Charlie's parents won't mind taking the boys,” Winnie said.

“That's the busiest shopping day of the year,” I said.

Winnie was undaunted. “Why should I worry about the busiest shopping day of the year? A master shopper never has to worry about the little people.”

“Why don't I stay home and take care of the boys,” I suggested.

“That wouldn't be any fun.”

I was flattered that Winnie thought I might be good company on a shopping trip. I'd never given her any reason to think so.

Charlie came downstairs. “The boys are fine,” he said. “Barely. Theo was close to popping Trey's eye out with one of those plastic mega-
monster things, but he'll survive. I have to go out to the office for the rest of the afternoon. Max is thinking of moving back to this area and I told him I'd pull some listings. He says he's ready to settle down in a rambling farmhouse. That's what he said, ‘a rambling farmhouse with a stone wall and a brook and maybe a swing hanging from a tree.' He thinks he's ordering from a catalogue. Who knows? Maybe I can pull it off.”

“What will we do for dinner?” Winnie asked.

Charlie looked at Winnie as if she might manage to get off her ever-increasing behind and arrange dinner, but he said, “We'll figure it out when I get home.”

Charlie put on his coat, pecked Winnie on the cheek, and went out to the car.

“I noticed some laundry when I was in the laundry room. I think I'll just throw it in so it can be going while we're sitting here,” I said.

“Thank you, Jane. You're an angel. That's such a good idea.” One she might have had herself. “I wonder why Marion hasn't come over this morning.” Marion Maple was Winnie's mother-in-law. “I thought she'd at least invite us over for dinner on Wednesday night when the girls get home.”

“I thought we were going there Thursday for Thanksgiving,” I said.

“We are.”

“That means two big meals in a row.”

“No difference to her. We're family,” Winnie said. “Besides, she has help.”

Charlie got home at about five, and before he had even taken off his coat, Winnie called out to suggest that we have Chinese take-out for dinner.

Out in the hall, Charlie mumbled something I couldn't catch. Then I heard, “Chinese food it is. I'll go out and get it. Jane will go with me.”

“Oh no, Jane, stay with me.” Winnie grabbed my arm as if she had just been thrown off the
Titanic
and I was the only lifeboat. This was a little much, considering I was only going on a short errand, but as weird as it was, it did give me the sense that I was vital to Winnie's very existence. Though I knew it
wasn't true, I liked the feeling. I wasn't accustomed to being vital to anyone.

“I won't be long,” I said.

Charlie and I got into his Navigator. It was dusky, almost dark, the gloomy hour. The possibility of running into Max again disturbed me. He would certainly be toting some high-fashion girl, and I'd feel dowdy and disregarded.

The evening was crisp but not too cold. Some Christmas lights were already up—too early in my opinion. Christmas was beginning to bleed into Thanksgiving more every year, and I refused to shop in any store that put up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving. Time passes quickly enough: there's no need to hurry it along, especially in the name of commerce.

After we had been driving for about five minutes, Charlie said, “Jane, your sister is driving me insane.”

“Really,” I said. I kept my voice neutral.

“I don't know what to do about it. It's both better and worse when you're around.”

“How do you mean, Charlie?”

“You're so pleasant, so helpful. You make me see what I could have had. Someone who could help me instead of being so dependent.” I tried to resist the urge to feel flattered but was unsuccessful.

“You should talk to her, Charlie.”

“I've tried. I don't know what to say anymore. She doesn't discipline the boys. She hardly pays attention to them. My mother is practically bringing them up.”

“It couldn't be that bad,” I said, but from what I'd seen that morning, it was very likely that bad.

“Couldn't you talk to her?” he asked.

“I probably shouldn't.” I was sure that I shouldn't. Winnie didn't take criticism with grace.

“I guess not,” he said. “It really is my problem.”

“Look,” I said, “I'll be with you until Christmas. I'll do what I can.”

“I know you will, Jane.” He turned toward me and put his hand over mine. “You're the best.”

His hand did not feel like it was supposed to be on mine: there was something all wrong about it. He was my brother-in-law and he was just expressing himself, but still I wished he would find some other way to do it. I didn't like to be touched, except when it was socially necessary, and this didn't feel necessary at all.

A light snow was beginning to fall as we approached the restaurant. Charlie maneuvered into a spot in front of a nearby doughnut shop.

I slipped my hand out from under his and got out of the car.

Inside the restaurant, waiters ran up and down steps that led to different levels. Behind the counter a man was taking phone orders and nodding his head with vigor, as if the person on the other end of the line could see him.

Two giant brown bags were set in front of us and Charlie paid with a credit card. We each hauled a bag back to the car. Charlie opened the door for me and waited until I got in. I put my bag on the floor. As Charlie set the other one on my lap, he looked at me—a moment too long.

Maybe I'd figure something out. Perhaps with a series of small shifts, I could turn Winnie into someone else. Not likely. Could I make her a little less selfish? Even less likely.

But Charlie had married her. He must have seen something in her. Though the flush of new love might be over, something else must have come along to sustain them. If not, life would simply be a series of meals, chores, and petty aggravations. True, I didn't have much experience with marriage, but what I'd seen of it with my own parents had not been especially inspiring.

Charlie was quiet on the ride home.

“Food smells good,” I said.

“They have really good food there,” Charlie said. “I just wish they delivered it out to our house, but we're a bit off the beaten path.”

“That's what's nice about it,” I said.

“It's an inconvenience, though,” he said. “Still, I wouldn't live anywhere else.”

Charlie was a man who would always be happy to live in his parents' backyard.

“It's worse when it's Jorie's day off,” Charlie said. “Things get done when Jorie is here. You think maybe Winnie is depressed?”

“About what?” I asked.

“I don't know. She has everything a woman could want. A nice house. A couple of good kids and I'm not so bad.”

“She wants a kiln,” I said. He laughed and shook his head. “You're a great husband, Charlie. I'm sure she just isn't feeling well.”

“She's never feeling well. I have married the greatest hypochondriac who ever lived.” He smiled, then laughed again. It wasn't exactly a happy laugh.

When we got home, the table was set and ready for us, as if Winnie knew just how far to push Charlie without pushing him over the edge. The boys were in their pajamas and sitting in front of the television in the family room watching a cartoon about a big yellow sponge.

It was the picture of domestic happiness.

On Tuesday morning, I drove into the city from the suburbs to close the office for the period between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Tad was leaving to spend time with his family in Colorado.

Jack Reilly's story was sitting on my desk, even though everything else had been tucked away by Tad's organized hand. I fingered the pages.

“Jane,” Tad asked, “what are you really looking for? Is it Jack Reilly or is it something else?”

“Jack Reilly, of course,” I said. “What's so hard to understand about that?”

“I think you're looking for something else,” Tad said. I tapped my nails on the desk.

“You did a nice job of cleaning up the place,” I said. “The office has never looked so good.” Tad ignored me.

“You're looking for the feeling you had when you were just starting out, when you thought the world was full of possibility.”

“I still think the world is full of possibility,” I said. I could feel my whole body tense, from my teeth to my toes. He was right. There was something I still wanted, some level of success, some public acknowledgment. Even me, with my shy ways. I wanted a new discovery and, ideally, a new love.

Max might show up at the Maples' for Thanksgiving and I needed him to think that I had done something important with my life. In my head, I knew that I had. I had evidence of it. But in my heart, I felt unimportant, unpolished, and somehow lacking. A woman who doesn't leave home until it is absolutely forced upon her could hardly have something to offer a man who catapulted early into a world of fame and glamour.

“Well, we can't find Jack Reilly,” Tad said.

“You can find anyone these days.”

“Maybe you should hire someone,” Tad said.

“Like who?”

“I don't know. A private detective.”

“A private detective? That sounds so silly. It sounds like something you'd do if you were a character on TV.”

“People do it. If they didn't, there wouldn't be all these names in the yellow pages.” He took the telephone book from the table behind his desk. He'd marked a page with a Post-it. He opened the book and put it in front of me. “I checked it out,” he said. His smile was shy, as if he wasn't sure how I would take this. He ran his forefinger over the listings. “This is my favorite,” he said. “Hope Bliss Investigations.”

There couldn't be too many people with that name. Could this be my childhood friend? We had fallen out of touch years ago, though I couldn't remember why.

Maybe Hope Bliss was a sign.

“Let's think about it over the holidays,” I said, ever the girl to grab the bull by the horns. This was something I really wanted and still I held back. Maybe I just had to drag it out a little longer, let the fantasy linger. Besides, I planned to go up to Vermont during the holidays to check out the address that was tucked in my wallet. Wouldn't it be more fun to come face-to-face with Jack Reilly and offer him the fellowship than to let someone else find him?

I pulled an envelope out of my canvas tote and gave it to Tad. Inside was a very large check, a Christmas present.

“We could call now,” Tad pressed, without opening the envelope.

“Let's wait. Maybe he'll turn up.”

“Not likely.”

I shrugged. “Come on. We're finished. Get out of here. Start your vacation.”

“Are you sure?” He held the envelope but still didn't open it.

“Absolutely.”

“Well, I guess I won't see you, then, until after Christmas.” He reached under his desk and pulled out a box. It was wrapped in Christmas paper and had a lopsided bow perched at the corner. “I wrapped it myself,” he said.

I smiled. “You didn't have to get me a present.”

“I know.”

I looked at it.

“Aren't you going to open it?”

“Now?”

“Of course now,” he said.

I picked at the tape with what was left of my chewed fingernails.

“Rip it,” he said. I looked up. “Come on. I know you can do it.”

I made a special point of shredding the wrapping paper with gusto. I opened the box and separated the tissue paper. Inside was a brown leather tote. The leather was so buttery I could have used it as a pillow.

“This is elegant,” I said, which was the highest praise I knew how to give any type of clothing or accessory.

“My mother helped me pick it out when she came to visit,” he said. “We thought it was perfect for you.”

I stood up and put it on my shoulder. “I wish we had a mirror.” I thought for a second. “Wait, I do have one.” I dug around in my old bag and found a small compact with a cracked mirror. I opened it and tried to hold it away from me so I could see myself holding Tad's present. It didn't work. In the end, I held the bag to my face and rested my cheek on the soft leather. “I'm overwhelmed.”

“It's only a bag,” he said, but he looked pleased.

He was wrong. It was so much more than a bag. It was a gesture. I felt a little teary but turned away so Tad wouldn't see it. I think he knew, though, because he smiled and kissed me on the cheek.

When he walked out the door, I realized I'd miss him. Funny that it never occurred to me to miss Teddy, Miranda, or even Priscilla.

 

Winnie's mother-in-law, Marion, came over to the house that afternoon. She bustled over with a basket of homemade cookies like an ancient Red Riding Hood. While she was there, Winnie let the boys eat all the cookies, except for the few we managed to hold back for the adults. Trey spilled a bottle of cranberry juice on the kitchen floor and Theo kept walking through the room like a soldier, saying, “I want a scooter for Christmas. I want a scooter for Christmas.”

When Winnie went in to clean up the juice, which I was afraid she wouldn't do—she sat in the family room sipping tea long after we heard the crash—Marion turned toward me. “The children are wild animals. She doesn't discipline them at all.”

It was at this moment that Theo came in shouting, “I want a scooter. I want a scooter.”

“Theo, get over here, young man,” his grandmother said. He came toward her with a look of expectation, but she grabbed him by the front of his collar and pulled him toward her with a rough fist. “Stop it. Stop it right now. We heard you. Do you understand? Go up to your room—
now.” He reached for the last cookie, but Marion slapped his hand. “You've had enough.”

Theo went upstairs. He wasn't as upset as I would have been at his age. He seemed accustomed to Marion and took her in stride.

“They are wild animals,” Marion said again, but she was smiling. “Your sister is horrible with them.”

I didn't know what to say to this, because while it was so obviously true, it wasn't up to me to pound more nails into my sister's domestic coffin. I took the last cookie without offering it to Marion—something I would not normally do.

After that whole scene, I could understand why Marion didn't come often. To make it worse, for the whole time Marion was there, Winnie insisted on keeping the television on. The TV was enormous and dominated the family room.

“I can't turn off Dr. Phil,” Winnie said when I reached for the remote control. “I look forward to hearing him every day. He is the true voice of common sense. The world would be much better off if everyone listened to Dr. Phil.”

Marion turned to me and rolled her eyes. Marion was apparently no fan of Dr. Phil.

I didn't know much about Dr. Phil, but if Winnie would listen to anyone—even to Dr. Phil—it couldn't hurt.