by Sally Koslow
“Is there some sort of hurry?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “I didn’t mean to rush you.” But the following morning someone from his firm called to arrange an appointment, which, when I awoke this morning, I was nonetheless ready to postpone. After weeks of outlying cousins and acquaintances oozing sympathy, I wanted to do nothing today but nap, walk Sadie, and spend the afternoon and evening watching Diane Keaton movies that I could now lip-synch. Then I thought of Nicola and Luey: the mother-love chip implanted in my heart was activated and I realized I had to at least try to behave like the dignified woman I never expected to be.
What did the rabbi say of “the mourning process”? Beats me. I know we spoke for forty-five minutes but I remember nothing more than that he should clip his ear hair.
“Mother, are you there?” Nicola says gently.
I look up, startled. “Make sure your sister hasn’t punked out and decided to wear a nightgown.”
“Exactly what Luey wants, another prison matron.”
“For me, darling.” I stop short of begging. “Please.” Nicola turns to leave. I know she will do as I ask.
Before I go public, I need a minute. Gray roots are winning against my dark blond. Buck up, Georgia, I tell the mirror with its hollow eyes and puffy lids. You’re a more fortunate woman than most. You’ve known long-lasting love. You have children. You want for little—the city apartment, the house on the beach, the trips, the cars, and an overload of possessions. And we’ve been philanthropic, though the donations are also the quid pro quo that has won me committee memberships. Pay to play, New York City’s bumper sticker.
“Georgia!” I hear Luey yell. “You coming?”
“I’m Mom, Mother, or Mama—I will even accept Ma,” I shout back. “Extend me that small courtesy, please.”
“Sorry, Ma.” She sounds surprisingly contrite.
The three of us wait, unspeaking, for the elevator. As we exit our building I link arms with my daughters and walk to the car. For better or worse, we will need one another. “Good morning,” I say as I slide into the back, after Nicola. Fred has been our driver for five years. I suspect he knows more about my private life than I do. He shuts the door after Luey.
“Fine day, Ms. W,” he says, taking his seat. I hadn’t noticed that it’s oddly warm for this late in the fall. I picture a polar bear stranded on a dwindling iceberg. “Where to?”
“One hundred twenty Broadway, please.”
“Tell me again what’s happening today,” Luey says.
“A formality,” I say, as I have, twice. “A lawyer will explain your father’s will.”
Luey knows that Nicola came into the first third of her trust fund at twenty-one. The big bang will occur when Second Daughter discovers that I will be her guardian until she is thirty. This is what Ben and I decided three years ago when, without consulting us, she dropped out of Stanford in the middle of her first semester to go work at an elephant camp in Zimbabwe with a boyfriend, now long gone.
Whenever I consider the august responsibility of being a solo parent, especially Luey Silver-Waltz’s, I retreat a bit more into myself. Ben weighed in on every decision for the girls. Not just Stanford or Duke, but matters most mothers and daughters resolved by themselves. Gymnastics or horseback riding? Short hair or long? Red dress or blue? Ben had a viewpoint on everything. I allowed my thirty-year friendship with my college roommate to expire when she said she couldn’t stand to see me “act like a weak cup of tea.” I never talked to Jill again until last week, one of many at Ben’s funeral, because I liked the way my marriage worked. Ben Silver had an aptitude for happiness. No matter what he said or did, he could wheedle his way back into my heart.
“Here we are,” Fred says, pulling in front of a grand tower. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“I’m guessing an hour.” I fish a twenty out of my alligator handbag. “Please get yourself some lunch and I’ll call when we’re ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, accepting the bill, then gets out, comes around, and gives me his arm as I climb out of the black Lincoln.
Six heels clack up the steps and shoot straight through the marble lobby. A man in his thirties rubbernecks in our direction, though surely I am invisible next to my daughters. Once, I had a phalanx of admirers. Then along came Ben. When we met, I was less polished and far prettier. As I walked the sidewalks of Providence, I, too, turned heads, and even when I was with friends, I knew and they knew the stares were for me. My hair, with its shaggy bangs and layers, fell obediently into place to reflect the sun. My teacup breasts were round and high, which was enough, this being decades before implants inflated bosoms and expectations. My hips were slender, as were my legs; my skin, the creamy sort that you have no idea will crinkle with faint crow’s-feet before twenty-nine, and beyond forty, betray you with a crush of wrinkles.
Time is history’s bulldozer. I am no longer a glorious bloom in the ecosystem. I can almost hear people saying behind my back, You should have seen her in college—Georgia Waltz . . . a knockout. I try to evaluate my daughters as the rubbernecker must, gliding with the posture of ballerinas. “Stand up straight, shoulders back.” Every time I said it, I heard my mother’s voice. At least Nicola and Luey listened, though they’re tall enough to get away with a little slouch. When you’re like me, every quarter inch counts.
At the end of the lobby, a concierge asks for identification. “Luey, do you have yours?” My tone is freighted with impatience. She scowls at me as she presents her driver’s license and the three of us ride an elevator to the thirty-fourth floor, which, along with the floor below, is occupied by Fleigelman, Kelly, Rodriguez and Roth.
I expect to have to wait—we are early—but when I check with the receptionist, I’m told that Mr. Fleigelman is ready. She escorts us to a corner office with windows facing north and west. As we cross its threshold, Wally marches toward me on slightly bowed legs. He is wearing a somber dark suit and a white shirt. As I notice his stubby arms, I see a penguin.
“Georgia,” he says, pulling me toward his barrel chest. Wally Fleigelman must shower in eau de toilette. I fight the reflex to squinch my nose. He can’t see the gesture, but Nicola and Luey can; I respect Wally and want them to as well. “You brought your daughters?” He seems surprised.
“Of course,” I say, as I allow him to lead me to a black leather couch under the window. Nicola sits by my side, Luey on an Eames chair facing the taller wooden armchair where Wally takes a seat. “We have no secrets.” How can I make such a disingenuous remark? By not letting my glance drift toward the girls. “This is Nicola,” I say, and the two shake hands. “And Louisa.” She only nods and Wally doesn’t press it.
“Pleased to meet you, ladies. Coffee?” he asks. “Fiji water? Scone? Berries? Help yourself.” He gestures toward a platter on the coffee table as well as a bar against the wall.
Luey slathers what looks like cherry preserves on half of a scone as I say, “No thanks.”
Let the fun commence.
“So, Georgia, girls,” he says, puncturing the anticipation. “We’ll talk tachlis.”
My daughters look baffled.
“Getting down to brass tacks,” Wally, the portable Yiddish dictionary, explains. “And let me say, this is hard.”
Shame on me. I am forgetting that my loss extends to Wally, who also adored Ben. In his way, Wally, too, must be grieving. This time it is I who lean forward and put a hand on an arm, which feels far meatier than the sinewy male limb I am used to touching. Tufts of dark hair creep out from Wally’s pristine, monogrammed cuff.
He clears his throat. “What I mean is that this is going to be tough for you, Georgia.” Wally stares into my eyes. “Very tough. And I’m deeply sorry about that. I am.”
I shudder. There is finality to this protocol like nothing I have yet experienced. I have been so thoroughly focused on putti
ng one foot in front of the other, day by endless day, I haven’t considered the future. I have no close contemporaries who are widows, only never-marrieds or divorcees, women who despite their careful, chirpy behavior, are marked by a bindi establishing that they are of a lesser caste of the lonely and needy, or so we think in condescending moments, as they walk amid the wedded. The thought of joining their ranks brings on the tears. My eyes fill and nose drips.
Wally is fast with a tissue. “Go ahead. Don’t mind me.” I succeed in smiling.
“Georgia, dear,” he says. “I’m so sorry, so truly sorry, but, well, here it is.” He takes a deep, audible breath. “I’ve found an account that contains, as of yesterday, $38,392.”
“Yes,” I say, waiting for the rest.
“And that’s it. From what I can tell, virtually all of the money—your money—is gone.” He spreads his palms.
Wally is speaking a language I do not understand. I say nothing.
“Georgia.” His tone as gentle as fingers caressing an infant’s skin.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Sweetheart,” he says, moving to the couch, wedging himself between me and Nicola, who leans away. Wally puts his arm on my shoulder and speaks slowly, as if I am deaf or dumb. “Let me explain this as simply as I can. I’m having a hell of a time finding assets. Your accounts appear to have been emptied.”
That can’t be. I know Ben’s will like I know The Owl and the Pussycat. “They took some honey and plenty of money / Wrapped up in a five-pound note.” We reviewed the document every year, on the day before our anniversary. Ben always said that if he died first, he wanted me, the merry widow, to take a few years to travel, maybe sell the beach house and buy something cozy with shutters and an herb garden in the Berkshires, where I used to go to summer camp, a location that made him snore. “I’m going to provide for you, so promise me you’ll have some fun before you settle down with some other lucky schmuck,” he said. “But remember, I’m leaving you plenty. You won’t have to remarry unless you want to.” Half the point of his generosity was to make sure I never loved another man.
“I don’t understand,” I say to Wally. “This has to be a mistake.”
“Georgia,” he murmurs. “I wish it were.”
My tongue turns to cotton but my speech speeds up. “Was Ben losing cases? I thought things were going well at his firm. Did he make a bad investment?”
With each burst of words, my voice gets higher and Wally shakes his head no.
“Is something happening Ben thought I was too fragile or ignorant to understand?” Was my husband going through a hell from which he thought I needed to be protected? Darling Ben.
“None of that, from what I can tell.” Wally, too bulky to squirm, shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
Ben was a softie. “Did my husband give everything away?” Before Wally can answer that question, I zing another. “Where did all the money go?” Tough customers brought out Ben’s machismo, but maybe the last laugh was on Ben, who had tried to play in leagues where a code was spoken that he couldn’t understand.
Wally extends his hands and shakes his head. “Georgia, Jesus. I don’t know. I’ve been on the trail for weeks. God knows I hope I’m wrong, but I didn’t think it was ethical for me to keep this to myself any longer.” The edges of his mouth tremble and his inflection is that of a dentist saying, You may feel some slight discomfort, before he yanks a tooth without Novocain.
“I just can’t believe it. I can’t, I can’t. This is impossible. You can’t be telling the truth.”
I hide my eyes. I am whimpering, not unlike Sadie when I refuse to give her a third treat. What about life insurance? Ben had two policies, both borrowed against, Wally informs me. The accounts receivable at his firm? Not much there.
“Ma, don’t worry.” I glance up. Luey is streaming tears. “There’s my trust fund. I’ll take care of you.”
Wally turns in her direction. “Are you Louisa or Nicola?”
“Louisa.” She glares. “We met five minutes ago.”
“Sweetheart, I’m afraid your future portfolio is also, at the moment, compromised. You, too, Nicola. Your father managed your accounts, you see.”
“But Daddy said I’d be getting stipends until I’m thirty-five,” a peevish Nicola answers.
“That was then.” This is now.
Luey balls up her cloth napkin and shoots it across the room “So Daddy was just another dick?” Her face curdles into a grimace. “Why should he be different? Why didn’t I see this coming?”
Why didn’t I? But I snap, “Nicola! Louisa! Hush! I forbid you to defame your father this way. We’ll get to the bottom of this. There must be some grievous errors.” Please, please, please. I search Wally’s face. That was then, this is now. Maybe all I need is a different lawyer.
I feel like a moth batting against a wall. That was then. This is now. But I am no fool. The investments may be gone, but we have other income. Surely, I cannot be poor. I have never been poor.
“What about our apartment. I could sell it. We own that free and clear.”
“Mortgaged—to the hilt. Though, of course, you’d still get a little if you sell.”
“The beach house?”
“Sorry. Same.”
“The cars?” Besides the Lincoln, we drive an SUV to the country, where we keep a Jeep.
“Leased. But the furniture, the antiques, your art, your silver, your furs, your jewelry—all that you still own.” He says this brightly, as if I could live in an armoire and auction off an earring at Sotheby’s whenever my stomach growled.
“The property I inherited from my father?” When Ben and I moved Mother to a nursing home, we sold her house in Chestnut Hill, but there’s a small office building in Philadelphia.
“Ben unloaded that last year. He forged your signature, I’m afraid.”
I pictured Ben signing my name, with a long, swishy tale on the uppercase G of Georgia. You can be sent to jail for that—if you’re alive. “Where did all this money go?” I could have asked the question fifty times, shrinking smaller as I repeated each word.
“At this point, I don’t know,” Wally says. “It’s going to take some heavy lifting to find out. This is a long story, with footnotes.”
To my surprise, I don’t want to kill the messenger. I sense that if Wally Fleigelman could have stopped Ben, he would have. What could Wally truly know?
Then a second Georgia rises within me, ready to blow. Am I simply transferring my naïveté to a different man? I search the room for a steady focal point, but the painting on the wall across the room, with its scramble of angry reds, taunts me. I am afraid that if I get up I’ll stumble, yet I find the courage to speak. “For today, Wally, just tell me what I absolutely have to know. What’s the next step?”
He returns to confident sage. “If you’re careful and conservative, you have enough to live on for a couple of months. Providing you can pay your debt service, you won’t be foreclosed, and of course, in the worst-case scenario, you could eventually file bankruptcy. But none of this needs to or will happen instantly. I’m not saying you don’t have plenty to sort out, but for now, Georgia, as your attorney and your friend, what I want you to do is take a deep breath.”
You tell someone tottering on the edge of a cliff to take a deep breath?
“I wonder if I could have a minute . . . alone?” His eyes bounce from daughter to daughter.
All I have to say is, “Girls,” and the two of them flee the room, and perhaps the country.
After the door is shut behind them, Wally says, “Your daughters are young, with their own concerns. They might not be your best confidantes. Do you have a sister you can speak to?”
“Only a brother. Stephan. Perhaps Ben has mentioned him. We aren’t close.”
“Right, Stephan Waltz.” When Wally sees me shaking my head at the menti
on of Stephan’s name, he continues, “How about a parent?”
“My father is dead, my mother isn’t well.”
“A trusted woman friend?”
I have a phone loaded with email addresses and numbers. Yet among the first- and second-tier of women I see with regularity at meetings, the gym, or lunch, did I have any genuine cozy-beyond-cordial, for-richer-for-poorer friends? I’d ordered four hundred notes in delicate ivory—which read, Your thoughtful presence and kindness have touched our family deeply and will always be remembered with love. The family of Benjamin T. Silver—and planned to send them to the hordes who’d shown up to mourn. Many people had made contributions. A shame they hadn’t started the Georgia Waltz discretionary fund.
Suddenly I’m emptied of emotion, milk poured down a drain. My posture caves, but somehow I am standing, and moving toward the door.
Wally blocks my way. He kisses me on the cheek, saying, “I know this is a lot to take in. We’ll talk. Next week is soon enough. Get some rest.”
I say nothing, as ghost-Georgia floats past the receptionist and finds her daughters, who are sitting demurely. “Ma—” Luey starts.
“Not now,” I say, surprised to see my own child.
“Shall we still have lunch?” Nicola asks. “Fred’s downstairs.”
I hadn’t yet thought about him, or Opal, virtual family members. Fred is young and could probably find another job, but Opal is five years older than I am. How do I explain? I pull my daughters close. I do not want to release them.
“We need to go home,” is all I can say.
In the sun, I feel illuminated as if by the light a bad detective has shined into the eyes of a crook. What is my crime? Trusting my husband while I played the dilettante? I slip into the car. Luey rests her head on my right shoulder, and on the other side, Nicola holds my hand. No one speaks for the length of the ride.