The Things We Keep(20)

I scoop up the paper and scan it quickly. I’ve probably got only another minute or so before Mother calls and tells me what it says anyway. And with the way Mother exaggerates, I’m better to read it direct.

RICHARD BENNETT’S ACCOUNTANT TO PLEAD GUILTY IN SCHEME

This was new. Ever since this whole thing blew up, Richard’s longtime tax accountant, David Cohen, had denied knowledge of Richard’s scheme. Most people were skeptical, but I’d given him the benefit of the doubt—after all, I’d shared a bed with Richard and had no idea what he was up to. Or did I? I’d been asking myself this lately. Is it possible that, on some level, I did know? Not the details, of course, but that something was up? Did I ask enough questions? Or had I been afraid that, if I did ask, I might uncover something I didn’t want to know?

The funny thing is; I still haven’t cried. I’ve started to—plenty of times—even set the stage for a proper weeping session, with wine and a warm bath and memories of good times. But the tears just don’t come. And before I know it, I am thinking of the bad times, reminding myself of irritating habits, turbulent fights. The way he used to say yes to everything in the moment, and then come up with last-minute excuses when the time came. That, in particular, drove me crazy.

“If I had known you were going to work late,” I used to cry, “I wouldn’t have said we’d both be there! They’ve probably catered for you!”

“I’d like to be there,” he’d reply stiffly, “but this is business.”

And business, of course, trumped everything.

I finish the article and the surrounding stories. Tales of people who lost money next to pictures of Richard boarding a private jet. Pictures of angry investors. Financial records. In one corner is a tiny studio shot of me. The media favors this photograph—young, doe-eyed, stupid—the kind of woman who doesn’t notice that her fraudulent husband is running the biggest Ponzi scheme since Bernie Madoff.

On cue, my phone rings. I shove the newspaper into a drawer where Clem won’t see it. “Hello, Mother.”

I picture her at the hall table in her apartment, twisted around her phone, which, amazingly, still has a cord. “Have you seen the newspaper?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Are you all right?”

I fall back into a squeaky armchair. “I’m fine.”

Mother is quiet a moment. “Good. And was your first night at the apartment … tolerable?”

I can tell Mother is thinking of the house Clem and I just vacated—its six bedrooms, its saltwater pool, its 1.5 acres of lush grounds.

“Perfectly tolerable,” I say.

There’s a short silence; a sharp inhalation. I brace myself.

“Oh, Evie, it just makes me so angry! You and Clem stuck in that awful place when you two are innocent in all this! I swear if I could get my hands on that man I’d—”

I tune out. I can’t bear to listen to it all again. While Richard did some terrible things, I still feel surprisingly uncomfortable hearing her slam him, particularly after she’d allowed Richard to move her and Dad over from England and set them up very nicely. I also feel uncomfortable since she spent a decade kissing his ass so wholeheartedly that even Richard felt awkward. (And Richard never felt awkward around adoring women.)

“Thanks, Mother, but we’re fine. Really.”

“You’re hardly fine, Evie. You’ve taken a job in a residential care facility! I must admit, I still don’t understand why. Even if you didn’t have the experience to become a head chef at a restaurant, surely you could … I don’t know … open a little catering business or something?”

I don’t bother to point out that in order to start any kind of business, I’d need money, something that was in desperately short supply for me right now. Instead I remind her that if we don’t want Clem to be moved to Buttwell Elementary we need an address in the area. When I finish talking I notice Clem standing in the doorway of the bedroom, holding her tatty pink bunny by the ears.

“Clem’s awake, Mother. I have to go.”

“Hold on a minute,” she says. “Your father wants to speak to you.”

There’s a shuffle, and then I hear Dad clear his throat. “Saw the paper. You hang in there, baby. People will realize that you were dealt a rough card, too. The only one who should be suffering is your low-down scumbag of a husband.…”

Clem climbs onto my lap, and I smile brightly. She watches me intently, her radar for knowing when people are talking about her father in perfect working order. “Don’t worry about me, Dad,” I say brightly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a special girl, Evie,” he says softly. “More special than you know.”

It’s a sweet sentiment, but all the same, it makes me cringe. “It takes a special kind of person to make someone else great,” Mother said to me in the early days with Richard. “To lift them up and help them achieve their dreams.” I wonder what it says about me that the person I was supposed to be “helping” and “lifting up” is dead.

*

As Clem and I arrive at Rosalind House in the morning, Rosie, the night nurse, is scampering down the front steps. Even in an obvious hurry, she grins. “Sorry,” she pants. “Gotta flight to catch.”