Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  True to Bawa’s promises, monkeys scampered in abundance about the entrance, with more materializing as Fred began to walk along the marked circular pathway. He quickly encountered what appeared to be a family, a group of five, and stopped. The monkeys inspected him in return, coolly evaluating the fruit in his hands. The largest came up to his knee. Suddenly one leapt directly toward him, viciously batting at the bananas; in shock that they didn’t fear him, Fred dropped the entire bunch, which quickly disappeared into the trees with the family.

  Dejected by the experience, Fred purchased a small bag of crackers from a nearby vendor and began to toss them onto the ground. Only a few monkeys came for the offerings, with which they appeared familiar; one selected a shard and then daintily carried it intact to the trash, where it threw it into the can as a game. Fred bit into a cracker and found it tasty—salty and sweet, like kettle corn. The monkeys must live a pampered life, he decided.

  Despite his efforts to relax, he remained in a state of high agitation. Opus was undeniably an opportunity, quite possibly his Big One—the sort Harvard was supposed to have supplied in excess but instead had shown him only brief glimpses of, denying actual consummation at every turn. All that he’d plotted and dreamed, however, had involved an exit from Lion. Now it appeared the two were interlinked, at least for the short term. He was bereft at the thought of once again being reduced to a mere cog, condemned to forever churn up an endless stream of profit to the Lelands of the world.

  “Fucking Leland,” Fred muttered. “Monkeys!” he called. “Monkeys!” His voice was joltingly loud, an aftereffect of the Balinese Sky. He shoved a handful of crackers in his mouth.

  A young American mother flanked by children peered at him, the woman glancing at the tote he carried, which bore the logo of the Biasa. He called again to the animals in a pied piper singsong, shaking the bag of crackers furiously while being studiously ignored. “Fucking monkeys,” he grumbled again, and wobbled. The mother threw him another look.

  In anticipation of the day’s heat, Fred had chugged two bottles of chilled water in the van, and his bladder now roused and called with urgency. He wandered the entrance until he located a sign that looked to indicate a bathroom, only to find himself off the paved path, surrounded by trees and flora. Desperate, he unzipped his pants. As he began to relieve himself, a monkey appeared to his right, baring its teeth.

  “Get away,” Fred hissed. He suddenly felt afraid; the monkey had an intelligent look to it, and its gaze was focused at the center of his crotch. Could some species of animals possess an instinct for when humans were at their most exposed, soft and vulnerable? He thought of Ebola and the many unknown diseases that seemed to germinate from jungles or caves, and how he had felt a light scratch on his hand earlier when the bananas were swiped. He locked eyes with the intruder, willing it not to come closer. “Angry!” he called. “Very angry! Do not approach!”

  There was the sound of crackling leaves from behind, and for a moment he feared he was surrounded. He quickly zipped and in turning was confronted by a young boy, one of the three children from the family he had seen earlier.

  “What are you doing with that monkey?”

  Oh Jesus. “How long have you been here?” The last thing he needed was a citation for indecent exposure, especially on foreign soil. Didn’t the Indonesians still chop off hands?

  “What are you doing?” The boy stepped toward him.

  “Stop!” Whatever tableau the current situation presented, Fred was sure it would be considerably worsened by any narrowing of the proximity between him and the minor. “Don’t come any closer. There’s something, ah . . . very dangerous here.”

  “Danger? You mean bad? What kind? Wow!” The child’s eyes gleamed.

  “Dangerous as in not good. Bad for little boys. Super boring. Not interesting at all.”

  “Then why are you there?”

  It was a decent question. “I’m here because . . . because I’m very, very stressed.”

  The boy looked at him with doubt. Fred shut his eyes. There was a loamy, salty smell rising in the atmosphere, which he inexplicably believed had just come from the monkey’s own piss. “Oh, forget it. I have problems, okay?” He breathed in and out. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Seven,” the boy answered. A silence followed, and Fred opened his eyes, hoping to find him gone. Instead, he had inched closer. “Do you know any games?” he asked.

  Fred groaned. He had a renewed appreciation for his own niece and nephew, who, thanks to Linda, at least had a healthy fear of authority figures.

  “I have a game,” Fred said finally. “It’s called Mr. Hypothetical.”

  The boy frowned. “I don’t know that one.”

  “Just listen. This is a verbal game, which means all words. There are two players in our scenario, I mean game. Player A and Player B. Got it?”

  “Those aren’t real names.”

  “Jesus. Fine. Player A is called . . . Lucifer, Mr. Lucifer, and Player B is called . . . Mr. Cool. And those are their full names,” he added hurriedly. “They live on a different planet where everyone is called Mister.

  “Now Mr. Lucifer, he’s a very powerful and rich man. Because he’s been given all these advantages, you see, and he happened to be born during a time when the world they lived in was expanding, and any idiot who understood certain technology trends could become extremely rich. You follow?”

  The boy looked fascinated. “Like Lord of the Rings.”

  “Sure, whatever. Then, there’s Mr. Cool. While Mr. Lucifer is super lazy and wastes his time shopping for ugly art all day, Mr. Cool’s off working very hard. In fact, he’s been working hard his whole life. Not to mention, Mr. Cool is smarter and handsomer than Mr. Lucifer. Younger too. Compared to him, Mr. Lucifer is way old.”

  “Why don’t you like old people? My pee-paw is old.”

  “What did I say about listening? Old people are great, but in this world, they have an unfair advantage. Because by the time great dudes like Mr. Cool were born, people like Mr. Lucifer had already snatched up all the planet’s treasures. So Mr. Cool doesn’t have as much as Mr. Lucifer, but he would, if the world they lived in was fair. He’d have more.”

  “What’s the game?” The boy shifted his feet impatiently. “What do they do?”

  “You don’t want to hear more about Mr. Cool?” Fred was hurt he wasn’t more interested.

  “No.”

  “Ugh, fine. Okay, the game is this. There’s a certain princess in this world, a beautiful lady named . . . Princess Platinum. And only one man can save this princess. Princess Platinum, she wants Mr. Cool to save her. Why wouldn’t she? He’s stronger and younger and way better-looking. But the problem is, if Mr. Cool does save Princess Platinum, then he has to give her up to Mr. Lucifer. Even though Mr. Lucifer is so old and stupid that he wouldn’t know what to do with her. In fact, he’d probably ruin Princess Platinum and all her special powers!”

  “I don’t like princesses.”

  “Me neither,” Fred said, thinking of Charlene. “But this one is really excellent.”

  “Why does Mr. Cool have to give up Princess Platinum?”

  “Because those are the rules of the world they live in. But rules can be very unfair.”

  “Does Mr. Cool have any special powers?”

  “Well, he has a big brain and an earnest heart and was valedictorian of his high school class. So, that’s the game. What should Mr. Cool do?”

  “The game is answering a question?”

  Fred spread his arms. “My house. My game.”

  The boy was quiet for a few seconds. “Mr. Cool should probably give Princess Platinum to Mr. Lucifer, then,” he said. “Since it’s the rules and all.”

  “What? But didn’t we just cover that Mr. Lucifer is old and stupid? Why would you just give Princess Platinum up like that? You wouldn’t fight at all to keep her? Mr. Lucifer doesn’t deserve her!”

  The boy considered this. “But we don’t know Mr.
Lucifer doesn’t deserve the princess,” he said. “It’s just what you think. And if he really is so rich, then he probably did something to earn it. He can’t be that dumb. My dad always says that society unfairly judges those who make a lot of money, because they don’t understand the nature of risk.”

  “Do you even know what that means?”

  The boy shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  What kind of father said such things to a seven-year-old? Though the longer Fred considered it, the more it sounded like precisely the ramblings of some smug billionaire dick—a high-value attendee of the Founders’ Retreat, for example. He bent down, so that he and the boy were eye level. “What’s your dad’s name?”

  The boy shook his head. “He says I’m not allowed to say to strangers. Because of too much networking.”

  Ding ding ding. “Well, what’s your name? Your full name.”

  “I can’t say either. Unless you have the special password, to pick me up from school.”

  Fred cursed to himself. “Aren’t we friends?” he asked. “Didn’t I make up a great game, because you asked me to?”

  The boy hesitated. “The game was weird.”

  “Listen, I don’t know how some people choose to raise their spawn, but—”

  The young mother appeared on the slope. “Lucas!” she shouted. “Lucas! Is that you?”

  “That’s my nanny,” Lucas said. “Bye.”

  The boy navigated through the trees with slow caution, not bothering to look back. Fred watched him go until he disappeared from sight. He remained crouched for some time before his silence was broken by a hiss. He stood and turned and saw that the monkey was still there, waiting.

  Back in the car, Bawa took in Fred’s somber mood and announced an amendment to the normal route. Instead of the usual medicine man, he said, he would bring Fred somewhere very special. A famous water temple, to experience the region’s springwater.

  When they arrived, Bawa instructed him to leave his valuables in the lockbox in the car and handed him a printed sarong. They walked together to the pools, where a dozen fountains poured at a steady, leisured pace. Fred was surprised to see people in the clear water, groups in brightly colored tees and swimsuits, wading about. “People can go in?” he asked. “Isn’t that dirty?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Why are there so many fountains?”

  “Each of them is for a different blessing. You see, look.” Bawa brought out a laminated plastic card. “Guide for success. This fountain is for career, this for healing from body injury. This one is for love, this for money, this for academic excellence. You must touch the water, to be blessed.”

  “Which one is career again?” Fred squinted to match the card’s icon to the fountain.

  “Here, take with you. Waterproof, so don’t lose.” Bawa shoved him into the shallow water.

  Fred waded forward until he located the fountain he wanted. The liquid, when he dropped under, was cool. To ensure a breadth of celestial coverage, he passed under each of the twelve and carefully wet his face and hair. He wanted to avoid accidentally drinking the water—it had to be recycled, and filthy—but when a group of teenagers knocked him forward, a few drops fell into his mouth.

  He was surprised by the taste. Its purity.

  * * *

  From: Kate@XCorp.com

  To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  Subject: Where are you?

  Fred,

  I’ve tried to reach you multiple times this week, but you haven’t replied to, or answered, any of my messages or calls.

  If you had, I would have told you that Dad is in Hong Kong right now. Yes, our father—who has pancreatic cancer and can barely walk—sat on a plane for fourteen hours and is now in Asia, away from all his doctors and against all sound medical advice. He thinks that he found a way to cure himself and so decided it was no problem for him to travel.

  Don’t you have a layover on the way back from Bali? Could you meet with him and Mary and let me know what’s going on?

  From: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  To: Kate@XCorp.com

  Subject: Re: Where are you?

  Hong Kong? Is he out of his mind?

  My schedule is already crazy busy, I’m not sure I can find the time. Let’s definitely catch up though when I’m back!

  From: Kate@XCorp.com

  To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Where are you?

  Fred,

  Make the time. Are we seriously having this discussion? Dad’s condition is a lot worse than when you last saw him. The last time I visited him, he was out of breath just talking to me. When we had lunch, he almost collapsed in the parking lot. I know you’re used to me and Mom taking care of everything, but you’re the one in Asia right now. It’ll take an hour, tops.

  From: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  To: Kate@XCorp.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Where are you?

  Right, you take care of everything. Except for when it comes to the trust, right? Then it’s me who has to do all the work, since you don’t seem to give a shit if everything Mom worked so hard for all goes to some random woman. You’re above it all; you don’t care about money. Though I’m sure you’ll still collect your share at the end.

  If you’re so worried about Dad, why don’t you fly here yourself?

  From: Kate@XCorp.com

  To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Where are you?

  Fred,

  When I first read your email, I wrote a response and decided to sleep on it. Then I wrote another one and called you, but of course you didn’t pick up. This is my third attempt, and I’m going to finish it and then press Send no matter what.

  First, I’m sorry for insinuating that you’re not doing your share with Dad. I was wrong. Please accept that this is a high-stress situation. All I ask is that if you do have the time, meet with him for an hour, or even a few minutes. Anything would help, just so we could check in. Dad has already skipped one chemotherapy appointment, and another one was supposed to be scheduled for tomorrow.

  On the will—of course I’ve considered it. It’s the sort of thing nobody wants to admit they think about, but everyone does. Mom thinks that he might have made the trip to Hong Kong to close out his accounts there. Please let me know how I can help.

  As for my finances, not that it’s any of your business, but at the moment I care very much about money. Knowing the amount of our potential inheritance would be a massive relief, as there’s currently a decent chance that I might be on the hook for spousal support, for a man who I very recently learned may not take his employment too seriously.

  From: Kate@XCorp.com

  To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Where are you?

  Fred,

  Why aren’t you responding? Can you please tell me if you met with Dad?

  Also, I drank too much Pinot before I wrote that last email. Please don’t mention anything I said about spousal support to Mom. Please?

  * * *

  “I just pooped,” Stanley said. “Did I already tell you that?”

  They were seated across from each other in the open food court of the Elements mall in Hong Kong, from which Fred could take a train directly to the airport afterward. A steady stream of foot traffic surrounded them; Mary was off somewhere, meeting a friend she said had connections for acquiring rare and coveted Chinese herbs. His father looked so old—ancient, really—although Fred couldn’t remember if he’d always appeared this way, just a little younger, or whether it was the disease that had brought it all to the surface. His face was gaunt, and the skin seemed to hang from his face and hands, as the formerly taut flesh receded.

  “Are you pooping?” Stanley asked.

  “Jesus. Yes, Dad, I’m pooping.”

  “How often?”

  Fred rummaged his memory and discerned the last time had been back in Bali, the morning after the alcohol-fueled debauche
ry of the closing night of the Founders’ Retreat. The event had been held at KoKo’s, the trendy fusion bar–cum–restaurant starting to meander past its prime. The food had been gross, the lighting garish, and Don Wilkes had given a super boring speech, but that was the end of what Fred was able to recall coherently or chronologically. The rest was a series of blurred scenes: shots with Jack and Reagan, as they cheered the future of Opus; his promises to extract Lion’s full cooperation, as he shouted, “Fuck Leland!” over and over. Jack disappearing sometime during the night; Reagan shoving a model slash actress slash Instagram influencer against him on the dance floor. The streaks of self-tanner on his new linen shirt, which he hadn’t discovered until the next morning.

  “Often enough.”

  “It’s very important that you go regularly. I think Kate goes at least once a day, which was my own pattern until very recently.”

  “I highly doubt that. Kate eats like crap.”

  “She has access to all that healthy organic food at her company. So many fruits and vegetables. All free! Whole Foods–quality too.”

  Fred experienced the familiar twitch of jealousy that surfaced whenever his parents brought up Kate’s job. He made more money than her (and would have for a long time had it not been for X Corp’s ridiculous run-up in the equity markets) and possessed a far more glorious title (not to mention whatever lofty honorific he was going to employ on his Opus business cards), yet his parents never let up that X Corp had free food and dry cleaning. It annoyed him to no end that their approval came so cheap, just a few bags of chocolate-covered almonds and some dried apricots. Though from her last email, it appeared as if Kate was going through some major issues. He felt a brief thrill at the possibility of being the superior sibling; then he considered to whom Kate might actually turn should she have a financial emergency and be in need of funds.

  “We didn’t meet to talk about poop, Dad. How is your health? Weren’t you supposed to start chemo again? How could you possibly think it was okay to travel so far?”