The Nest

by Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney

  Hands shoved in his pockets against the cold, Leo felt like a character from an Edith Wharton novel as he lifted the latch of the black iron front gate and walked past the gas lamplight in front of Stephanie’s house. The wooden shutters lining the curved bay window were open, and as he climbed the stoop, he could see into the living room where she had a fire going. He should have stopped to buy flowers or wine or something. He stood before the massive mahogany and glass front doors. Stephanie had hung life-size plastic glow-in-the-dark skeletons in the two center panes. He hesitated a minute and then rang the bell—three short ones, two long—the buzzer code they used for each other back in the day. One of the doors swung open. The skeletons clicked and swayed in the stormy breeze, and there she was. Stephanie.

  He always forgot, when he hadn’t seen her in a while, how attractive she was. Not standard-issue beautiful, better. She was nearly his height and he was almost six foot. Her coppery hair and tawny skin made her a peculiar brand of redhead: no freckles, quick to tan if she ever spent time in the sun, which she didn’t. She was the only person he’d ever met who had one brown eye and one that was flecked with green. She was wearing admirably fitted jeans. He wished she would turn around so he could become reacquainted with her ass.

  She greeted him by raising her hand, blocking him from crossing the threshold of the foyer. “Three conditions, Leo,” she said. “No drugs. No borrowing money. No fucking.”

  “When have I ever borrowed money from you?” Leo said, feeling the welcome blast of heat from the house. “In the last decade, anyway.”

  “I mean it.” Stephanie opened the door wider. She smiled at him then, offered her cheek for a kiss. “It’s nice to see you, asshole.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  That Leo had messed up so enormously was disturbing but, his siblings reluctantly agreed, not surprising. That Leo’s fuckup had activated their disengaged mother to exercise her power of attorney and nearly drain The Nest, however, was shocking. It was the one threat to The Nest none of them had imagined. It had been, simply, unthinkable.

  “Obviously it wasn’t unthinkable because I thought of it and your father set it up that way,” Francie said, the day she finally agreed to meet them, briefly, in George’s New York office, while Leo was still in rehab.

  “It was our money, too,” Jack said. His voice wasn’t forceful as he’d intended, more whiney than outraged. “And we weren’t consulted or even informed until it was too late.”

  “It’s not your money until next March,” Francie said.

  “February,” Melody said.

  “Excuse me?” Francie looked slightly taken aback to hear Melody, as if just realizing she was there.

  “My birthday’s in February,” Melody said. “Not March.”

  Bea stopped knitting and raised her hand. “I’m March.”

  Francie did the thing she always did when wrong, pretended not to be and corrected whoever had corrected her. “Yes, that’s exactly what I said. The money doesn’t become yours until February. It’s also not completely gone. You will all get fifty thousand, more or less. Is that correct, George?”

  “In that neighborhood, yes.” George was walking around the conference table pouring everyone coffee, clearly uncomfortable.

  Melody couldn’t stop staring at her mother; she was starting to look old. How old was she? Seventy-one? Seventy-two? Her long, elegant fingers trembled a bit, the veins on the back of her hands were dark and prominent, the slackening skin marred with age spots, like a quail’s egg. Francie had always been so vain about her hands, demonstrating the reach of her fingers by bending them forward and touching the tips to the inside of her wrists. “Pianist’s hands,” she used to tell Melody when Melody was little. Melody noticed now that Francie consciously placed the left (which was slightly less mottled) atop the right. Her voice had thinned, too; the slightest difference in treble had crept in, not a rasp or a scratch, but a waver that troubled Melody. Francie’s decline meant they were all declining.

  “You are still receiving a sum of money,” Francie continued, “that would make most people incredibly grateful.”

  “A sum that is ten percent of what we were expecting. Is that correct, George?” Jack asked.

  “Sounds about right,” George said.

  “Ten percent!” Jack said, practically spitting across the table at Francie.

  Francie removed a slender gold watch from her wrist and placed it on the table in front of her, as if putting them all on notice that their time was nearly up. “Your father would have been horrified by that amount. You know he meant the fund to provide a modest assist, not a true inheritance.”

  “That’s entirely beside the point,” Jack said. “He set up an account. He deposited money. George managed it—very well. Now the deadline is approaching and it’s supposed to—wait a second—” Jack turned to George. “Leo still isn’t getting fifty thousand, is he? Because if he is? That is truly fucked.”

  “Watch your language,” Francie said.

  Jack looked at Bea and Melody, mouth agape, and spread his hands wide. Melody wasn’t sure if he was gesturing in frustration or beckoning them to join in the conversation. She looked over at Bea who was intently counting stitches on whatever it was she was knitting.

  “We’re following the terms,” Francie said.

  “Your mother is right about that,” George said. “Leo can refuse his share, but we can’t refuse to give it to him.”

  “Un-believable,” Jack said.

  Melody wanted to speak up, but she was stuck on how to address her mother. Her older siblings had started calling Francie by her first name in their teens, but she’d never been able to do it and something about saying “Mom” in front of Jack and Bea embarrassed her. Also, she was a little scared of her mother. Her mother was a little mean. For years, the Plumbs had told one another that their mother was just a mean drunk. If she would just stop drinking! they’d say, She’d be fine! Shortly before Leonard died, she developed some out-of-the-blue alcohol intolerance and did stop drinking. Cold turkey. (Years later, they would realize Francie’s sudden sobriety had to do with Harold, the conservative, teetotaling businessman and local politician she swiftly married after their father died.) They eagerly awaited her transformation only to discover that they already knew her true nature: She was just a little mean.

  “Here’s the thing,” Melody said, clearing her throat and waving a little in Francie’s direction to get her attention. “We’ve been counting on the money and have made plans and—” Melody hesitated. Francie sighed and clanged her spoon around her coffee cup as if she were stirring in sugar or cream. She let the spoon drop and rattle a little on the saucer.

  “Yes?” Francie said, gesturing for Melody to wind up. “You’ve made plans and—”

  Melody froze, unsure of what to say next.

  “This is a blow,” Jack said. “This is a financial blow on top of several financial hits over the past few years. Is it unreasonable to expect you—as Leo’s parent and given your means—to absorb some of this financial loss?”

  Melody was nodding as Jack spoke and trying to gauge her mother’s reaction. There was a part of her, a tiny, contracted part of her, that thought maybe she could get her mother to help with college tuition.

  “Leo’s parent?” Francie said, nearly looking amused. “Leo is forty-six. And you’re not the only one who has taken a financial hit over the past few years. Not that any of you bothered to inquire after us.”

  “Why?” Bea asked. “Are you and Harold okay?”

  Francie had folded her hands in front of her and was looking down at the table. She started to speak and then stopped. Bea and Melody and Jack looked at one another nervously. “Harold and I are fine,” she finally said.

  “Well, then—” Jack started, but Francie put up a hand.

  “We will be fine, but most of Harold’s money is tied up in commercial real estate, which is a soft market right now. Obviously.”

  “And the money Da
d left for you?”

  “It’s long gone. We used it to shore up Harold’s business until we’re on an upswing.” Francie straightened her shoulders and raised her voice a little, like a teacher reassuring a room of students during a fire drill. “Everything will be absolutely fine when the market corrects the way it always does. In the meantime? We’ve had to cut back, too. Harold has his own children to consider. At the moment, our liquid assets are negligible, and that will be our situation for quite some time. We’ve all had to readjust our expectations and plans given the recent economy.” Francie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, appraising her offspring. “Besides, Leo is your brother. It never occurred to me that you would not help him out of this dire situation—”

  “A situation entirely of his own making,” Jack said.

  Francie pointed a finger at Jack. “Your father set the conditions of the account so that I could tap into it in case of an emergency for this exact reason. This was a family emergency.”

  “Which part qualifies as an emergency?” Jack said. “Leo’s years of no work and all play? His marriage to a world-class spendthrift? Crashing a Porsche he couldn’t afford because his dick was in a waitress’s fist?”

  Across the table, Francie put the tips of her unsteady fingers to her eyelids, which were creased with a violet shadow making the lids look more bruised than anything else. “I don’t want to have this conversation again.” She opened her eyes and looked around the table, surprised, as always, when face-to-face with her children.

  Francie knew she wouldn’t win any prizes for motherhood—she’d never aspired to any—but she hadn’t been this horrible, had she? What had Leonard wrought with the money he thought would just be a small dividend later in their lives? How had they raised children who were so impractical and yet still so entitled? Maybe it was her fault. She’d wondered that often enough, what mother hadn’t? She’d been twenty-five and married less than a year when Leo was born, and Jack and Bea had followed so quickly. She’d been overwhelmed to the point of being listless. And just when she felt she was coming back to her old self, gaining control of the situation—Leo was six, Jack four, Bea months away from three—everyone finally sleeping—and surprise! Melody. She was bereft when she found herself pregnant with Melody and for many years after, counting down the hours of the days until she could have a drink to dampen her anxiety. These days, she supposed, she’d be diagnosed with postnatal something and given a pill and maybe it would be different. Harold—solid, confident, reassuring Harold—had rescued her.

  Maybe the fault was with her marriage to Leonard; their relationship had been fraught, disconnected (except for the sex, she still thought about having sex with Leonard, his unlikely voracious exuberance, her ability to be yielding and attentive in bed in a way she wasn’t anywhere else; if only they’d been a little more careful about family planning), and probably their parenting had suffered as a result, but had they really been different from anyone of their generation? She didn’t think so.

  “Mom?” Francie was jolted back into the conference room by Melody’s voice, away from the pleasant memory of Leonard and the unlikely places they would couple when the children were little and everywhere and wanting her constantly. The laundry room with its locked door had been a favorite, the whirring and thumping of the washer and dryer giving them a certain auditory privacy. She still had a Pavlovian type of arousal when she smelled Clorox.

  And here they were—her children. Three of them, anyway. Jack, who had emerged from the womb aloof and self-contained. He was always trying to sell Francie some inferior kind of antique for her house, something from his shop that was overvalued and overpriced. She didn’t know if he was dumb or if he just thought she was.

  Beatrice had seemed like the easiest of the four, but then she wrote those stories. Francie was proud when the first one was published, ready to buy dozens of copies and show them to her friends—until she read the story with a character who was meant to be her, a mother described as “distant and casually cruel.” She’d never mentioned the story to Bea, but she still remembered bits—a woman who “viewed the world through a prism of bottomless desire; her sole fluency, disappointment.” Luckily, her friends didn’t read those kinds of magazines anyway; they read Town & Country, they read Ladies Home Journal. Bea’d always had her secrets, always. Francie wondered what was going on in that bowed head now as her hands flew with needles and yarn.

  And Melody. Maybe she would slip Melody some cash, enough for some Botox or a facial or something to brighten her pallor. She was the youngest and somehow the most faded, as if the Plumb DNA had thinned with each conception, strong and robust with Leo and each child after being—a little less. She couldn’t claim to be close to Leo, but he was the least needy and, therefore, the one she thought of with the most fondness.

  She’d helped Leo because Harold had insisted she take care of the situation as swiftly as possible. He didn’t want any of his multiple business partners, already skittish in the current financial environment, to associate him with a publicly humiliating and possibly financially gutting lawsuit. George’s connections, the family’s long-standing reputation locally, and a fat check got the job done. But she’d also taken pleasure in her magnanimous gesture. She’d felt, for a change, capable and maternal. She liked being able to wipe the slate for Leo and offer him a second chance. She believed in second chances, sometimes more than first chances, which were wasted on youth and indiscretion. Her second marriage was the one she deserved even if it was a little staid, a little lacking in drama and the physical connection she had with Leonard. But Harold was good to her; she was taken care of; her “bottomless desires” satisfied.

  And still she had to contend with this execution squad of her own children, complete with Madame Defarge at the head of the conference table. Who was casually cruel now? This was how it had always been: Nothing she did was good enough; what she did for one disappointed another. She couldn’t win. When would it end? She searched their faces again, looking for some sign, some small indicator that they’d come from her and Leonard. Aside from physical traits, the easiest mark to hit, she could see nothing. Nothing. All she could think was, I don’t recognize a single one of you.

  “Mom?” Melody said again.

  “This is a conversation you need to have with Leo,” Francie finally said. “I’m sure he will be able to repay you as soon as he’s settled with Victoria. I understand he’s selling nearly everything—the apartment, the artwork. Isn’t that right, George?”

  George cleared his throat, made a little steeple with his fingers, and squinted as if a bright ray of sun had suddenly appeared in the windowless conference room. “He is, but I have to tell you that most of it is going to Victoria.”

  “What do you mean by most of it?” Melody said.

  “I mean, pretty much all of it. There will be some left, enough to tide him over for a bit, help him get settled until he finds a job.” George paused, knowing he was delivering more bad news. “As you can imagine, Victoria could have made things quite difficult and this was how it shook out.”

  “What about Leo’s insurance?” Melody said. “Shouldn’t he have some kind of liability coverage?”

  “Yes, well, that was another unexpected complication. It seems Leo had lapsed payment on quite a few bills, including insurance.”

  Jack massaged his temples as if tending to a migraine. “So let me recap. Essentially, all Leo’s assets are going to paying off Victoria to get rid of her, keep her quiet, whatever, and all of our money is going to the waitress because of Leo’s mess.”

  George shrugged. “I would phrase it in a more nuanced fashion, but essentially? Yes.”

  “Matilda Rodriguez,” Bea said.

  Jack and Melody looked at Bea, confused. “Her name,” Bea said, impatient. “You could at least use the waitress’s name.”

  “Are you humming?” Jack said, turning to Melody.

  “What?” Melody startled. She was humming. It w
as a nervous habit, something she did when she was worried or anxious. She was trying not to think about the accident. “Sorry,” she said to the room.

  “You don’t have to apologize for humming,” Bea said. “For God’s sake.”

  “It’s that song from Cats,” Jack said. “I want to scream.”

  “Before we wind up,” Francie said, cutting off the all-too-familiar bickering, “I’d like to acknowledge all George’s work. I won’t get into the specifics, but suffice it to say that getting Leo to rehab, negotiating the settlement, doing what needed to be done—at the local level—to take care of this, keep it out of the paper, was a superb effort and we’ve been remiss in not thanking him yet for his truly excellent effort, the speed and the efficiency and so on and so forth.” She nodded at George, like a monarch recognizing a loyal subject.

  “We were lucky,” George said, avoiding looking at Bea, whose hands had stilled. “Things broke our way. And your mother is right. This could have been much, much worse. I file this one under ‘best-case scenarios.’”

  “I guess we have a slightly different filing system,” Melody said.

  “This is in all our best interests.” Francie stood and pulled on her coat. Melody had to stop herself from reaching over to touch the rich navy fabric. “We don’t want this all over the East End.”

  “I don’t care what’s on the East End,” Jack said.

  “Me neither,” said Bea, aware that the meeting was about to wrap up and maybe she’d been just a little too quiet.

  Francie was wrapping a lavender scarf around her neck. Melody stared. The scarf was so light and diaphanous it reminded her of a passage from a children’s book she used to read to the girls when they were little, about a princess who had a dress that had been spun by moths from moonlight.