The Wrong Kind of Money (45 page)

“Taxi, sir?” the elevator man asks him.

He has regained his composure. “Yes, please,” he says.

Riding back to River House in her own taxi, Carol is thinking: Is it really such a far-fetched idea—me, Carol Dugan Liebling, being invited to serve on the board of trustees of the Metropolitan Museum of Art? Me, Carol Dugan Liebling of Rumney Depot, New Hampshire, who always wanted to know, but never actually did meet, the glamorous McClaren sisters? Yes, it is farfetched. It is utterly outrageous. And yet it is not impossible. Nothing is really impossible if you have a plan. And energy.

To serve on the board of trustees of the Met. There are only thirty-five members, and of course Carol knows who all of them are. Two have announced their plans to retire in June. They will need to be replaced. A third member, Brooke Astor, though still going strong, is already well past her ninetieth birthday.

To serve on the Met's board of trustees is nothing short of gaining the absolute apex of social, intellectual, and artistic position in the United States of America. Talk about cachet! There is absolutely nothing to equal it. To serve on the Met's board is to help preside over a combination of the Vatican, Versailles, the Sultan's Court, and the Cave of Ali Baba. It is to follow in the footsteps of people like Frederick W. Rhinelander, Henry Gordon Marquand, J. P. Morgan, Horace Havemeyer, and any number of Rockefellers. The public impression of the Met trustee is of a person of high and privileged rank, moving in a serene and elegant world of impeccable manners, one devoted to the encouragement of beauty and taste and the public weal. What would having a Liebling on the board do for the public's perception of Ingraham brands? Hannah had been quick to see it.

But it is an impossible notion. Carol had known this when she threw it out to Hannah, almost in desperation, as a bargaining chip. But now, as her taxi waits for a light on the street of dreams, Park Avenue, she thinks: Is it?

Being on the Met's board has always been about money, but it has been about Old Money, about money that has been aged and refined by time, like good whiskey, with all the rough, raw edges worn off the fortunes that were made by those early robber barons, who were never accused—what is Hannah's word?—of probity. The Lieblings' money is barely one generation old. Still, it is money, and there is quite a lot of it.

The taxi moves forward, and Carol asks herself: Do I want the cachet of trusteeship for myself? Oh, yes, she thinks. I'd be a liar if I tried to deny it. But I want it also for other reasons. I want it for Noah, and for Noah's family. And I want it because I want to see the Van Degan porcelains at the Met.

Georgette Van Degan has been trying to manipulate me, and I am not a woman who enjoys feeling herself being manipulated, particularly by another woman. She has come up with this notion of a party for the girls, which nobody else particularly wants, because her husband wants the contract to manufacture the bottles for Ingraham's new label. How much would that contract be worth to Truxton Van Degan? She has no idea, but she supposes it would be worth quite a bit—particularly if the label is a hit, since Ingraham purchases its bottles on a royalty based on sales—the greater the sales, the higher the royalty percentage. And what if Ingraham were to offer to purchase bottles for all its labels from Van Degan Glass? How much would that be worth to Mr. Truxton Van Degan? She will have to discuss all this with Hannah, of course.

I can be a manipulator, too, she thinks with a smile, as her taxi turns left into Fifty-second Street and her plan forms in her mind. After all, as old Jules Liebling used to say, doing business is just a tit for a tat.

I'll tit if you'll tat, Georgette, she thinks.

15

Piss-assed Drunk

“… And so now,” he is saying, “before we all adjourn to the social room next door, to sample Mr. Angus Kelso's whiskey—
and
his fresh springwater—I just have one more announcement to make. Our company will award a prize of ten thousand dollars to the individual who can come up with the perfect name for this whiskey and this water. Obviously, we can't call it Ballachulish—nobody would know how to spell it, much less pronounce it. So we need the
perfect
name. This contest, incidentally, is open to anyone connected with our company, from the boys in the mail room on up, and husbands, wives, and even children over the age of eighteen can submit entries. All entries should be submitted by the first of March. Then, to keep on schedule, we'll need three months to work up an advertising and promotion campaign. Three more months to test-market, and then the plan is to introduce the label nationally right after Labor Day, in time for the holiday season. Thank you all … and now let's go next door and try some Ballachulish. I think you're going to like it.”

Seated cross-legged on the sofa with the script in her lap, Melody claps her hands. “Perfect!” she cries. “Absolutely word perfect. You won't need the script. It'll go over so much better if it seems extemporaneous.”

He winks at her. “I don't have your theatrical training,” he says. “What if I get stage fright? Forget my lines?”

“You won't,” she says. “But let's go through it one more time, from the top. Remember—look straight out at the audience.”

“Okay. ‘For me, it all began in the tiny Scottish …'” He presses the remote control for the slide projector, but just then there is a knock on the door. The two exchange quick looks, and Noah looks at his watch. It is nearly ten o'clock. “Who is it?” he calls out.

“It's me. Frank. Can I come in a minute?”

Melody whispers, “I'll hide in the bedroom. If he needs to use the bathroom, have him use the one off the kitchen.”

“Hold on a sec,” Noah calls back, and Melody tiptoes out of the room and silently closes the bedroom door behind her.

Noah goes to the door, which is on the chain, and opens it.

“I know you had your sign up, Do Not Disturb,” Frank says. “But I gotta talk to you, Noah. Jeez, I gotta talk to somebody, Noah. Can I come in?”

“Sure, Frank.” He turns off the slide projector. “Just going through my Ballachulish pitch for tomorrow afternoon.”

“I need a drink,” Frank says.

Noah studies his friend, who looks a little windblown. “My old man used to say that there's a difference between a man who says, ‘I'd like a drink,' and a guy who says, ‘I need a drink.' It looks like you might have had a few already, Frank.”

“Okay, cut the sermons, buddy. I still need a drink.”

“Ballachulish okay? I've got quite a lot on hand, as it happens.”

“Whatever you got,” Frank says.

“I'll join you,” Noah says. He steps into the kitchen and fixes drinks for them both. When he returns to the sitting room, a glass in each hand, Frank is slumped on the sofa, staring at the opposite wall.

Noah hands him his drink. “Well, what's up, Frank?” he says. “You look a little—well, not quite in the pink.”

“Lousy,” he says. “Fuckin' lousy.” He takes a deep swallow of his drink. “Yeah, this is good stuff. This is really good stuff. Be a hit, I can guarantee, buddy.”

Noah sits in one of the club chairs across from him. “So? What's wrong, Frank?”

Frank Stokes stares at his shoes. “Jeez,” he says, “you're not gonna believe this. I can hardly believe it myself. It's Beryl.”

“Beryl? What's the matter with Beryl?”

“She called a coupla hours ago. She wants a divorce.”

“Well!” Noah says, and for a moment that is all he can think of to say. Then he says, “That's a hell of a note. I mean, I thought you two were—well, pretty happy.”

“That's what I thought, too,” Frank says miserably. “I thought so, too. That's why this has hit me like—like a ton of bricks. Ton of bricks. But that's what she says she wants. A divorce.”

“Any idea why, Frank?”

Frank looks up at him. “That's the thing,” he says. “I don't. She says things like—like I just don't do it for her anymore. She says I've failed to recognize her needs. She says she needs to rediscover the child within her. Jeez, I thought she was trying to tell me she was pregnant, for God's sake, when she told me that! She says it means she needs to get back in touch with her real self. She says she needs to remake contact with her center, whatever the hell
that
means. She says she needs more personal space. How can she need more personal space than in an apartment at River House? She says she needs to vent.”

“Sounds like she might be seeing some sort of shrink. Has she been?”

“Not that I know of! Wouldn't I know it if she were? Wouldn't I have been paying the bills for it?”

“Well, I just don't know, Frank,” he says, sipping his drink.

“Anyway, she wants me to move out of River House. Wants me to be out by tomorrow night. She's gonna pack my things. Wants me out. Move to University Club. Someplace like that.”

Noah takes another swallow of his drink. “Now, I'd be a little careful about that,” he says. “At least until you've talked to a lawyer. Somewhere I read that in a divorce, if one party moves out on the other, it can be considered abandonment. She could claim ownership of the apartment, and that apartment is worth a hell of a lot of money, as I'm sure you know.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“So don't give in to her on that one, Frank. You and Beryl own that apartment jointly. You've got as much right to be there as she does, at the moment. So don't move out. Move to the guest room. At least until you've talked to a lawyer.”

“But the thing is—why? Why does she want this? All of a sudden, like this. Why?”

“You still love her, Frank?”

“Hell—yes! Sure! Of course I still love her!” He rattles the ice cubes in his empty glass. “Mind if I have another?”

Noah stares at his own glass. “This stuff we're drinking is one-oh-five proof,” he says. “So I'd take it a little easy, Frank. This is old Angus's private stock.”

“Skip the lectures, Noah. Tonight I feel like getting good and drunk. Okay?”

“Okay.” He rises to refill their glasses.

“You ask me, do I still love her,” Frank says when he returns. “Christ, you never knew her, Noah. When I first met her, I mean. When I first met her, she was so sweet. So pretty. So innocent. A virgin, too. She taught school, you know. Grammar school kids. She was like a little grammar school kid herself. Naive.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “You see, that's the thing, Noah. She thought I was big stuff. I mean, I had this great job. Making lots of money She was real—I mean, she was like real
impressed
with me. Maybe that's the thing. You think so, Noah?”

“I'm not quite sure I follow you,” he says.

“I mean, maybe she wasn't cut out for this kind of life. People like you. Your family. Rich people. River House. I mean, maybe she should have stayed a little spinster grammar school teacher. She'd have been happier maybe. You think that's it?”

“Maybe.” Noah nods absently. “Maybe.”

“Or you think maybe there's maybe another guy?”

“I dunno,” Noah says. “What do you think?”

“I dunno, either. But the thing is, Noah—did she ever mention anything to Carol? About some other guy. I mean, sometimes women tell each other these things. Carol ever mention anything to you?”

“No. But it's been a couple of days since I talked to Carol.”

“I mean, I know that sometimes Beryl can be—well, a little bit flirtatious. With other guys.”

“Yeah.”

“You noticed that?”

“Yeah, I've noticed it.”

“She ever try to come on to you?”

Noah says nothing, merely stares at the drink in his hand.

“You mean she did?”

“Yeah. Once. I didn't take it seriously. She'd had a few drinks.”

“That's what I mean. There was never anything serious about it. It was just Beryl being flirtatious. Just Beryl being Beryl. So what do you think?”

“I think—” he begins, and breaks off. “A beryl is a semiprecious stone,” he says.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Hell, I don't know what I meant by that. It just popped out.”

“You mean you don't like Beryl?”

“I sure as hell don't like what she's doing to you right now,” he says.

“But, Noah, this is serious business. She's packing my things. She's moving me out!”

“But I thought you weren't going to do that, Frank. At least until you've talked to a lawyer. She can't force you out of your house. There's no way she can—”

“Shit,” he says. “I guess it doesn't matter. It's still a hell of a way for me to have to go home tomorrow night. All my things packed.”

“I think you ought to call your lawyer first thing in the morning, Frank.”

“Yeah.” He wipes another tear from his eye. “Like a ton of bricks,” he says.

The two men sit in silence for a while, nursing their drinks.

“Use your john,” Frank says, rising a little unsteadily.

“Use the one off the kitchen,” Noah says quickly.

He uses Frank's absence to fill his drink, a little darker this time. Somehow he feels things are spinning out of control. Bring it back, he tells himself. Bring it back under control.

“You ever cheat on her, Frank?” he asks as Frank comes back into the room.

“Never. I swear to God I've never cheated on her, Noah, not once in twelve years of marriage. Oh, I've thought about it, of course. I wouldn't be normal if I hadn't thought about it, I mean. And I've had opportunities. I wouldn't lie to you and say I haven't had opportunities, when it would've been a pretty easy thing to do. But I've never done it, Noah. I swear to God.”

“Maybe it would be better if you had.”

“What d'you mean by that?”