We Could Be Beautiful

by Swan Huntley

“Oh, God.” This had been one of Caroline’s favorite refrains since childhood: Don’t be mean to me, Catherine, be nice to me, Catherine, love me, Catherine, be my best friend, Catherine, I’ll do anything. “Let me tell you why I’m being mean to you. I just found out—” and I told her the whole story, including the part about Ted’s funky tan. “And who knows, maybe Ted stole the money from us.”

  “Ted did not steal the money from us.”

  “Oh my God,” I said, “what if that’s what happened? That kind of thing happens all the time.”

  “No, that didn’t happen.” She traced an eyebrow—her good eyebrow, not the fucked-up tadpole. “How could you not have known about this?”

  “How could I not have known? How could you not have told me?”

  “I didn’t tell you because I thought you knew.”

  “And you’re not freaked out that we’re out of money?”

  “Catherine,” she said, “we planned for this. I thought we were all planning for this. Why do you think Bob and I went to Playa del Carmen instead of Cabo?”

  “I didn’t even think about that, Caroline. Why would I stop and think, Oh, Caroline and Bob are going to Playa del Carmen because we are about to lose our monthly deposits and Mom gave everything to charity? Why would I ever think that?”

  Caroline’s mouth looked dry, wrinkled. It looked like an asshole. Maybe she was smoking again. “Catherine, we never talk about money. That’s how we were raised. I don’t talk about money with anyone except for Bob.”

  “That’s so codependent.”

  “Please be nice to me.”

  “Oh my God, you’re like a three-year-old.” Caroline made the face of the girl in the movie who’s about to cry, so I said, “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  “It seems like William has money, doesn’t he? I kind of thought that was one of the reasons you picked him.”

  “That is disgusting, Caroline.”

  “Sorry, I just— I didn’t mean—”

  “Is this why you’ve been popping out babies? To get more money than me?”

  She actually looked pissed off in a real way then, not in a movie way, which rarely happened with her. “I love my children, Catherine.”

  “Fine, sorry.”

  “I love them,” she said again.

  “But it’s $10 million per child. And if you knew that, you had to be thinking about that. I mean really, come on.”

  “Well…” Caroline readjusted herself in the booth. “Yeah, I guess I was thinking about it, to be honest. It’s a lot of money. Why would I not be thinking about it?”

  “So you had more kids to get more money.”

  Caroline looked at me, looked at the table, looked at her split ends. She twirled them around her fingers. “It’s not that simple,” she said.

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me to have Fernando’s baby? That was only last year! I wouldn’t be broke now if you had told me to have it!”

  “You’re not broke. Stop.”

  “But I’m going to be.”

  “Would you really have had that baby?”

  “Fuck! Probably.”

  “And you’re accusing me of having babies for money?”

  “Yes, because you actually had them. I didn’t.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, because you wouldn’t have been married! And Catherine, this is not why we had kids! Have you met my husband? He’s obsessed with kids. He’s a pediatrician! Jesus!”

  “Yeah, with a pediatrician’s salary. Did he know about this special trust when you guys decided to get pregnant?”

  “Of course he knew.”

  “Well how convenient for Bob. Now he can retire early.”

  “That’s a mean thing to say.”

  “Maybe it hurts because it’s true.”

  Caroline twirled her split ends but didn’t look at them. She was looking at me. “I feel like you’re blaming me because you don’t…”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Tell me. Don’t do that. Tell me.”

  “Because you don’t want to blame yourself.”

  “I’m blaming you because I don’t want to blame myself?” This struck me as being more insightful than I thought Caroline had the capacity to be. And it bothered me because it was probably true. But then she ruined her moment of wisdom by saying, “I am your blame receptacle.”

  “My what?”

  “Blame receptacle.”

  “Is that a real term or did you just make it up?”

  “I heard it on TV.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Caroline rubbed her temples with her knuckles. “Catherine,” she said, “you are stressing me out.”

  “I’m stressing you out? I’m—what if I have to sell the shop?”

  “No, you won’t. You’ll be fine.”

  “No, Caroline, I won’t be fine. Things are not fine!”

  An old man in a light blue beanie looked over. I wanted to flick him off. If I were young and rich and flicked off an old man, I’d be a brat. If I were old and poor and flicked off an old man, there was no excuse.

  “Why did Mom donate the money from the house to charity? Why everything?”

  “I have no idea. Bob and I were very surprised. But the money’s rightfully hers. The house was left to her. We got our own houses. We hoped we would get some of that money, too, obviously, but we haven’t been counting on it. We actually didn’t find out about the living will until the house had sold. And by then she was already so out of it. I thought about talking to her, but there would be no point.”

  “Have you asked her why?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t want to upset her. You know how she is.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “You ask her if you want. She’s more likely to tell you anyway.”

  “Why did she lie and say we had more money in the trust than we did?”

  Her look said, Are you serious? “You know how Mom is always throwing numbers around. I never believed it was as much as she said.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Catherine, remember when Mom told us our horseback riding lessons cost $1,000 an hour?”

  I somehow still thought this was true.

  “And didn’t she tell you Sarah Lawrence cost something like three hundred grand a year?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well. And also, that was always money that was coming. From stocks. If you look at the statements, the balance is right there.”

  “Oh my God. What the hell am I going to do?”

  “If we can help you, we will, okay?”

  If you were rich and your sister annoyed you, you could avoid her. If you were poor and your sister annoyed you, you might have to sleep on her couch anyway.

  “I know. Thanks. I’m—yeah, thanks, really.”

  “I mean this in the nicest way, but maybe you should eat something. I’ll eat something, too. Not this macaroni though.” She piled her uneaten plate on top of mine. It looked like yellow maggots. “How about a salad?”

  “Fine.”

  She flagged down the waiter. “Hi. Can we have two green salads?” She looked at her empty glass. “And some more wine.”

  “No macaroni?” The waiter looked disappointed. He was probably poor. He probably commuted here from an armpit in Queens. That macaroni would probably feed his whole family for days.

  •

  I came home drunk and delirious. I walked up the stairs, muttering, “Sell the stairs, sell everything.” I yelled for William too loudly and too many times. William William William! He wasn’t there. He was still at work. Herman skittered toward me, his nails tapping on the wood. “Fucking dog,” I slurred. I got to the bedroom, popped a Xanax, fell asleep.

  •

  In the morning William sat on the bedside, freshly showered, newly dressed. A hand on my hip. Concerned gaze. Fuck. I was still
in the pantsuit, minus the jacket, which was on the floor. I reeked of cheese. My tangled hair on the white pillow like nasty dead vines, the unopened Pellegrino on the nightstand—oh yeah. My legs like metal pipes, the mucus-caked corners of my eyes, my head echoing, pounding like an empty room with rocks being hurled at the walls.

  “You weren’t here last night,” I said. My voice sounded like a bulldozer.

  “I was at the office.”

  I smoothed out the fabric on his pant leg, rolled onto my back, put a helpless hand on my forehead. “I must look terrible.” It occurred to me then that with someone else I would have said, “I must look like shit,” but with William I said, “I must look terrible.” I had a habit of adopting my lovers’ language and mannerisms. I assumed all people did this.

  “You look lovely.” He smiled. “And not a day over thirty.”

  “You always say the right thing.” I sat up and gently rubbed underneath my eyes because I imagined there was makeup there.

  “What are your plans for the day?”

  I sighed. Would I tell him? I wanted to, but I was ashamed. “I’m, uh…” I fumbled. I unscrewed the warm Pellegrino, took a sip. It tasted like cheese.

  He looked earnest when he said, “You know, Catherine, I love you very much.”

  “I love you, too,” I said.

  “The door was unlocked last night when I came home.”

  “No.” I put a hand over my mouth.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Yes.”

  “Are you certain?”

  I couldn’t seem to breathe in deeply enough. “No, actually, things are not okay. My mother—my mother ruins everything.”

  “She’s ill. I know it must be very hard.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s money. I—there’s no more money. There is no more money.”

  He looked around the room as if to say, But yes, there is money here.

  “She drained the proceeds from the house. Before she lost her mind, apparently, she made stipulations to donate almost everything. And the trust is gone. It’s gone. The art is gone, the money is gone. Caroline knew the whole time. I am such an idiot, I am such an idiot. And the shop isn’t doing well—it’s not doing well at all and I might have to sell it. And the wedding, and I am stupid, I am so stupid, and what are we going to do?”

  He listened. He held me. He put a hand on Herman, who was freaking out next to us on the bed. “There must be more. Your family has so much. She couldn’t have possibly donated everything.”

  “I think she did.”

  He inhaled sharply. I remember he briefly touched his heart, maybe to see how fast it was beating. “It must be wrong.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Do you own this house?”

  “Yeah.”

  He looked relieved. “That’s something.”

  “And there’s a loophole. Ten million dollars for every kid Caroline and I have. Oh, and we have to be married—that’s part of it. Which is so outdated.”

  “Ten?” William was stunned. “My goodness.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s a lot.”

  His shock made me proud. I was proud I came from so much, proud I could bring this to the table, proud I could provide for us. This lasted for about one second and was followed by an immense sense of dread, because I knew, deeply—deep in my body, deep in my heart—that I would never get pregnant again. I was forty-three years old. I’d had too many abortions. Nature had given me what I wanted and I had said, “Not right now, please come again later.” And nature didn’t work like that. You couldn’t make appointments with nature. When I pictured my insides, they were ravaged and dry. My period barely came anymore. I may have looked good, but I knew I wasn’t exactly healthy.

  William twirled his hair, smiled. “That certainly gives us an incentive to follow in Caroline’s footsteps.”

  “Because it’s something we want anyway,” I clarified.

  “Of course it is,” he said. “Of course. Catherine, there is nothing I want more than to have children with you.” He trailed his fingertips over my wrist. “You don’t think it’s too late, do you?” he asked, and then he seemed to be holding his breath.

  I didn’t want to tell him that it was probably too late. What if he left me? What would I have then? I would have nothing. “I hope not,” I said.

  “Me too,” he said.

  “William?” I pressed my legs into him. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything, my darling.”

  My face got hot. I almost said, “Never mind, I’ll ask you later.” But I was desperate. I had to know. I remember looking at his hands. I remember he was fidgeting. He was straightening his tie, he was twirling his hair again. I remember my eyes losing focus in the detail of his charcoal suit. I remember his cuff links were simple silver squares that day. It took me a long time to say it. “Are you going to love me no matter what?”

  “Catherine,” he said, as though surprised I had asked. “Of course I will love you.” And then he leaned down so his face was touching my face and said exactly what I wanted to hear. “It’s only money,” he whispered. His minty aftershave, his smooth cheek. “It is only money.”

  “What about the wedding?”

  “Don’t worry about the wedding. I’ll take care of it. I will take care of everything.”

  “You will?”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “I’ll get us a joint credit card.”

  And then I just blurted it out. “How much do you make a year?”

  “Only three hundred thousand.” He scrunched his face. “Not nearly enough.”

  He was right. That was not nearly enough. But it might be all we would have later. If, years from now, we sold the house, spent the money, ran out of everything, this would be all we would have: his measly three hundred grand a year.

  “Will you stay home with me today?”

  “I wish I could, but I really should be at work.”

  “Please.”

  “Maybe you can go to the shop this morning. It might make you feel better.”

  “I don’t think I can.”

  “You can. You will go in, you will find all the records pertaining to the finances of the shop, and you will bring them home and I will take a look at them.” He didn’t say this sternly, but like it was the only obvious thing to do.

  “Okay.”

  “Good. And then tonight you and I can spend a romantic evening together. If we want a child, we should start trying now, don’t you agree?”

  I punched the air with my fist like a tired cheerleader. “No more condoms,” I cheered. “Hoorah.”

  “Hoorah.” He kissed my forehead. “We have a plan. We have a perfect plan.”

  As I watched him walk out of our bedroom in that expensive suit, I felt almost spiritual. Maybe I had prayed for disaster. People had cancer and car accidents and awoke clear-eyed, happy. Those people understood how lucky they were. They were awake. They were together. Disaster had brought them together. Maybe this was why I had always dated poor, chaotic men. I had thought their deprivation would rub off on me and save me from my silly life. But it was never equal. They were deprived, they siphoned off me. I had this power I didn’t understand. It always became me saving them. But William was different. William was strong. William, I knew, would save me from my silly life.

  16

  We were early. We stood, browsing the wall of pamphlets, waiting for Evelyn. Caroline braided her arm into mine and I let her.

  The Avalon smelled like wet moss and dryer sheets. Yellow-and-white-striped chairs, thick with padding and upholstered in sateen, dotted the waiting room. Yellow diamonds made patterns on the grass-green carpet, and large photographs of smiling old people (youthful-old, not sad-old) in sunny, manicured parks hung on lemon-yellow walls. The fan of magazines on the white table—Redbook, AARP—looked like it had never been touched, and the potted plants with their dome
d hedge tops stood with a whimsical pride like lollipops in a wonderland.

  The plan was to stay here for lunch instead of going to the Italian place. Mom might be less disoriented if we stuck to her regular routine. I hadn’t seen her since the engagement party. Caroline had. Once a week and sometimes more. I would have felt guilty, but I reminded myself of how horrible she had been at the party and how stressed I had been about the wedding. It wasn’t personal. I’d barely seen anyone. So, okay, I felt a little guilty. And nervous. I checked my purse again. Yes, there it was: a copy of the living will. Ted had e-mailed it to me and I planned to show it to Mom if it came to that.

  “Ladies.” Evelyn looked tired. Evelyn always looked tired. She strained her neck back to see us under the heavy hoods of her eyelids. The bright colors of her scrubs suggested we should be on an island: magenta pants and a manic floral top. Her shoes used to be white but had now taken on the coloring of an old, scratched-up dolphin. She had tied her long braids up in a purple scrunchie, but she had missed a lot of them. The loose ones dripped all over her shirt like a mess of electrical cords.

  She motioned for us to follow with a sluggish hand, the nails of which were expertly painted in a zebra pattern, which was too perfect—those had to be stickers. “Come with me.”

  We followed her down the yellow hall, past the few offices and into the residential area. The bronze placards on the doors said Community Room, TV Room, Bingo Room.

  “Oh, how was bingo?” Caroline asked.

  “No bingo today,” Evelyn said.

  “Did they play a different game?”

  “No games.” Evelyn did not explain further.

  Caroline accepted this with a nod. “How’s Mom feeling?”

  “Mrs. West has turned on me again.” Her voice became animated. “Thinks I stole her earrings this time.”

  “Oh no,” Caroline said.

  “Which earrings?” I said.

  At this Evelyn turned. “You, too? You accusing me now, Catherine?”

  “No, I’m not. I was just wondering which ones.”

  Evelyn didn’t answer. When we got to the placard that said Dining Room, she said, “Ask her yourself. She’s right there,” and pointed to our mother, who sat alone at one of the round tables. It was a large room with a white tile floor and columns that attached to a very high ceiling. The other tables were sprinkled with residents and caretakers in paler scrubs than Evelyn’s. One wall was all glass. The light poured in on that side.