Life and Other Inconveniences(56)

That turned out to be a big fucking mistake. April spent the money—just about all of it—on an experimental treatment for her mother at the Mayo Clinic, and for about a year, Joan felt better and could walk again. But she gradually slipped back, and when they tried the treatment again, it didn’t work, and Joan was back to dying and the money was gone. Clark guessed he could see why April would do that—desperation, whatever—but it was a waste just the same.

Another trip was required for sure. And another after that, and another after that. Since he’d lied and given her the money, April wasn’t as suspicious, so why not? Plus, she’d spent the money the way she wanted to . . . on her mother. It was his turn now.

The women . . . God! The tennis moms from the club were one thing, but he’d have to see them again, and it could be awkward. But the Portuguese woman who’d stayed in the suite across from his and knocked on his door, stark naked? The French woman who came up to him at a bar and said, “Would you like to fuck me?” in that dead-sexy accent?

Maybe he’d write a travel column for the New York Times or Condé Nast. “Where to Get Laid in Europe.” “The Best Places to Eat in Scandinavia.” “The Most Beautiful Women in the World.” “Best Cocktails on the Continent.” Hey, that last one was a good one. He’d have to pitch that to an editor or something.

When Clark took the occasional look at his trust fund, he’d flinch a little. Traveling first class to, say, Australia could run in the tens of thousands of dollars, let alone doing all the things he liked to do. Five-star hotels and restaurants. Spas. Golf. Scuba diving. Sometimes he’d make friends or be invited to join a group of people, and he loved picking up the tab. He’d rent a boat and throw a party, and it felt so good, having friends. Sometimes he’d “entertain” a woman (his little term for cheating) and sometimes, sure, he paid for it. Nothing like a high-class whore.

But the money, which had once been self-sustaining because of royalties or interest or other financial things he’d never tried to understand, was shrinking with alarming speed.

Well. There was always more if he needed it. Genevieve wouldn’t let her son and grandchild live in squalor. She wouldn’t expect him to travel coach. Maybe he’d even work for her. Sales or something. The fact that he’d already failed at that wasn’t important. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it.

When Clark was home, he tried to be a good father, but it really wasn’t for him. He read a few books at bedtime, gave Emma piggyback rides, bought her a trampoline for the backyard, which April made him take down when Emma cut her head falling off it. The kid was cute and nice, though she really did look like April’s side of the family. She had blond hair, at least. That she got from him.

But April . . . Jesus, she was kind of a train wreck. Her mother got worse and worse, her father was heartbroken and trying not to show it, and April was a mess. He told her to go to a shrink, get on some meds, whatever she needed. He’d sit with her on the couch every night for a few weeks between trips, watching stupid television shows, fold the laundry to show he cared, take her out for dinner, and she’d cheer up a bit. Or not. Then the itch would become too great to ignore, and off he’d go again.

“Babe, I have to. It’s important.”

He couldn’t wait to get out of there. After all, he was Clark London. He grew up in a mansion on the water. Their little neighborhood had lost its charm and become boring. Ordinary. And he wasn’t. He was his father’s son, or so he liked to think. Garrison London would’ve wanted Clark to have everything, see everything, especially because of what happened to Sheppard. Clark deserved the best things in life. His father would’ve insisted.

Joan got worse, in and out of care facilities. It was sad. One time, she got pneumonia and almost died, and let’s be honest, Clark was kind of hoping it would just end. His father-in-law was stoic, at least. But April would go wild with grief, crying, literally pulling out her hair, and it was fucking scary.

“Honey, you know she’s going to die,” he said, and she punched him in the face. Why? What was wrong with her? Joan would die. April had to get used to the idea.

He sent her away to a spa in Arizona that had yoga and shit and told her to rest and relax, then called his mother and told her April had been checked into a psychiatric facility.

“Good,” Genevieve said. “She worries me.”

“Can you come out, Mother?” he asked. “Emma would love to see you.”

“Fine. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

She was horrified by the state of the house, the mess, the grubbiness that Clark had stopped noticing. By the end of her first day there, she’d hired painters, a garden service and a cleaning lady, and had ordered meals from a local caterer. Clark couldn’t help thinking this was exactly what April should’ve done with the money he gave her.

He told her the facility was expensive. “I’m sure it will be worth it,” she said, and thank God, she wrote out a fat check.

In a rare moment of admiration, he said, “You never fell apart like this, and things were a lot worse for you.”

She gave him an inscrutable look. “Thank you,” she said. “But we’re not all as strong as we’d like to be.”

Translation: Your wife is weak and useless. Clark agreed.

After two weeks, April came home, Genevieve left and things were a little better. But there was still something off. They hadn’t had sex in ages. Maybe more than a year, now that Clark thought of it. He’d had sex, of course. Just not with April.