by Kathy Wang
Once there was a time when she would have wanted their friends to see all this, the portrait of Stanley’s life without her in it, how it looked when the worst instincts of his taste were indulged without a moderating influence. Now, she was glad most of them had never been over. She was loath to imagine what they might already be speculating, as estate and retirement planning were two of the group’s favorite topics; they saved a particular prurient fascination for those who had failed to save adequately, or vastly overstated their wealth, or caused family infighting over their will.
Of course this being Stanley, there was the possibility of all three. He’d represented himself as a wealthy man for decades, and Linda knew that amongst their mutual friends there was the assumption that he was at least as responsible as the rest of them; perhaps no genius in the markets, but someone who earned and saved. Only Linda understood the spectacular mismanagement he was capable of, his fondness for penny stocks and fruitless property development schemes, and on this topic she’d been the very picture of discretion, hinting only to Kate and Fred that their father wasn’t nearly as flush as they might believe. One million each? Two? Three? Each time she’d heard the figures, she’d forcefully renewed her charge that they had to ask him about his will, to pin down the facts, with evidence—a request that so far had left her sorely disappointed.
Linda knew her children’s refusal to confront their father was anchored at some level by their blithe confidence that they were still central in his mind. Though Stanley had never displayed any particular passion toward them they assumed it was related to how he regarded life in general, and not a judgment on their own relationships. They didn’t yet understand that as one grew older, as one’s own children aged and moved away, your own self came increasingly back into focus. Life became definitively finite, increasingly so, and your desire for pleasure grew each day. Mary made Stanley feel important, like a real man, a wealthy benefactor—how did that compare with Kate and Fred, who had grubbed under his roof for eighteen years, rarely giving thanks or appealing to his ego (or, come to think of it, her own)? Wasn’t it so that Candy Gu no longer spoke to her own adult children, after their vehement opposition to her young paramour? Candy saw her grandchildren—whom she had raised until preschool—only once a year, on their birthdays, and still she stated that she was the happiest she’d ever been. Linda believed her. At their age, after everything they’d achieved in coming to America, they all deserved a certain amount of reckless indulgence (she was highly enjoying her new Porsche).
The problem with Stanley, however, was that he’d never understood limits.
Linda walked over to the bed, where she loomed over Stanley’s prostrate form. He still wore the same white PARIS! sweatshirt as the last time she’d seen him; his hair was in wisps now, nearly gone. She inspected the bed configuration, which looked to be mildly comfortable. A real mattress had been placed over the hospital pallet, with a discreet layer of plastic sheeting tucked neatly from the waist down. A duvet she recognized from the house—a thin quilt covered with a blue duck print she’d sewn herself—lay over his legs. “Stanley,” she hissed. “It’s me.”
Stanley opened his eyes and took her hand. She resisted the urge to recoil; Mary might be back and lurking nearby, smiling in her simpering fashion while undoubtedly attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation. Why couldn’t that woman shut up about her vegetarian soups? Linda reminded herself not to consume any food or drink offered to her. Who knew what Stanley’s wife was plotting, what she was capable of?
Linda checked over her shoulder for Kate, who was in the kitchen, within eyesight. She lowered her voice. “Stanley,” she repeated. “Did you finish the will?”
She waited impatiently while he hacked and coughed. “I want to meet with my accountants and lawyers first,” he rasped. “I need advice . . . on how to structure things.”
“What are you talking about, accountants?” As far as Linda knew, Stanley’s closest interaction with any member of the bookkeeping profession was his yearly appointment with H&R Block, where he opted for the cheapest express service. “What do you have to structure? If you need a lawyer, go to mine, Ellen Lu. She’s very professional, speaks Mandarin, and is based out of Menlo Park. You can have lunch at Osteria after.” That had been their family’s go-to restaurant, way back when.
“Does she know how to set up a foundation? I’ve been thinking, I want to start a foundation.”
A foundation! Linda nearly fell over. It was just like Stanley to dream up such an idiotic idea on his deathbed, a final wish impossible to satisfy that would only waste everyone’s time. Who did he think he was, Steve Jobs?
“A foundation is for people who are very wealthy,” Linda said carefully. “You need to have a purpose, a cause that you believe in, and then you need to have a lot of money. A lot, like fifty million.” From the way he was still beaming, she could see she’d have to spell it out. “You don’t have nearly that much.”
“I’ve always dreamed of having a foundation in my name. So I can know a part of me will live on, for eternity.”
“Since when? I never once heard you mention one.”
“Oh, for a while now.” He waved his hands vaguely. “I’ve always thought about it—for my name to be out there. It’s what great men do, isn’t it? They have foundations, colleges, hospitals named after them.”
“But, Stanley,” Linda whispered, “you aren’t great.”
“Ah.” He smiled with open lips, and from his throat came the sound of a distended laugh. “Of course you wouldn’t think so, Linda, but you might be surprised. Many people come to me for advice. They seek my guidance. Because of my life experience.”
Mother of God, he was completely serious. Who could possibly be crazy enough to go to Stanley for counsel? It had to be Mary’s low IQ friends. Could he possibly be on drugs, hallucinatory ones? Linda looked around for medicine bottles, but Kate had taken them to the kitchen.
“Stanley, the best way for your name to live on is to honor your children. They are your legacy. And the best way to do that is to make sure you have a trust. A living trust,” she added, to make it sound more appealing.
“I am, I am. I wrote it down, somewhere. . . .” He patted up and down. “Kate and Fred will each receive a third, and then Mary the last third.”
There was a sudden brutal pounding in her temples. “So you think your two children, who you’ve known for their entire lives, who are your blood and the parents of your only grandchildren . . . you think that they are equal to your second wife, who you didn’t even know a decade ago? Stanley!” she fumed, edging closer. “This is not right!”
“Mary is my life and soul,” he countered. “She is my angel.”
“My God! I don’t know why you’ve become so stupid recently, but—”
“Ma!” Kate called from the kitchen. “What are you going on with Dad about? You know he’s not supposed to have any stress; he needs to save his energy.”
“Nothing! Just discussing the old days. We’re having a nice time, aren’t we?” Linda rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the task at hand. “Just how much is there, anyway?” She kept her voice slightly above a murmur, though Kate was running the faucet now.
“Enough, but probably not to you. You were always better than me, there.” Stanley still held her hand and now gave it a weak squeeze. His face turned solemn. “When I’m gone, I want the children and Mary to remain friends. They can visit my resting place together. You should come too.”
An even more idiotic idea. He was definitely losing his mind. “I’ll probably be dead,” Linda said. Or she would kill herself, if visiting Stanley’s grave with Mary were her only other option.
“The foundation will bring everyone together. The children and Mary can administer it. What about a college scholarship, each year granted to a worthy young man from Taiwan? Mary said it was a wonderful thought. I know you think she’s after my money, but I swear in my heart I know she isn’t. Why else w
ould she support the foundation?”
Any foundation of Stanley’s would likely only be able to pay out a semester of tuition—maybe a whole year if it was community college—before it petered out to ashes, but Linda didn’t go into that now. An idea had materialized, a sprig of inspiration. “What do you tell Mary about your money?” Linda asked. “Anything?”
Even in the hazy cradle of drugs, Stanley bristled. “She knows I’ll always take care of her. She doesn’t need to be concerned over details.”
Ah, so Mary knows nothing. Linda wondered if Stanley’s wife knew just how little he was likely worth. Of course, little was a relative term—Stanley was still a rich catch for that so-called Buddha lover, wealthier beyond belief than any man she could have captured in whatever marshy village she’d emerged from. Still, Linda knew Stanley liked to brag. She wondered just how vast a portrait he’d painted.
“If Mary is so supportive of the idea, why doesn’t the foundation come out of her share of the estate? Wouldn’t it be nice to give her a concrete legacy to remember you by, and to care for in the years to come? After all, it isn’t as if you two had children together.” And thank the gods for that, otherwise Stanley would likely be awarding the entirety of his paltry savings to this devil woman and whatever half-wit they’d managed to spawn. Linda bent closer. “Kate is having problems with Denny,” she murmured. “I think he moved out! Oh,” she said, and wrung her hands. “To be a single mother with two innocent young children. . . . Stanley, you must think of your daughter now. She could have a breakdown any moment. I am seeing the signs, everywhere.” She nodded toward Kate, who was efficiently packing vitamins. “Obsessive behavior, because she is lacking control in her own life.”
“Who? Kate? They’re getting a divorce?” Stanley looked out of sorts. “Out of her share . . .”
“Mary’s share,” Linda prompted. “Mary’s share. The foundation money comes out of Mary’s. Share.” Who knew how much of Stanley’s mind still remained? She’d have to repeat the key points as much as possible.
“Mary’s share . . . ,” he intoned. “She’s not good with money. I’d have to make sure there’d still be enough for her to live on . . . but really, she’s such an easy woman. She always said I was the one who wanted to travel; she was happy at home massaging my feet. So sweet, so simple.”
Had Stanley really been this daft the entire time they were married? Linda made another quick, surreptitious check to ensure Mary hadn’t materialized.
“You think Mary would truly appreciate the gesture?” Stanley asked. “She never mentioned wanting to manage the foundation itself.”
“Of course, didn’t you just say she is all about giving? And I know how much she loves meditation and temple; she told me herself when we had that lunch. As Confucius says, a gift to others is a gift to ourselves.” Linda had read that in a fortune cookie at China Garden the other day. “This way, your wife will ensure your name lives on.”
“It would be a true gift, one worthy of her heart. Ah, and Mary has such a big heart.” A concerned look crossed his face. “But I think that if the money were to come out of her share, I’d want Mary to have her name on it. The Stanley and Mary Huang Foundation. Do you think the children will be upset?”
“I will explain to Kate and Fred how important it is to you. I like the idea of both of your names, very dignified.”
He gave a weak thumbs-up. “Linda, you’ve always been so smart and creative. Even after all these years you’re still taking care of me.”
“Of course,” Linda said, and made herself take his hand. “I’m happy if you’re happy. And remember, to make sure it all happens smoothly, you have to get the trust done. After that, you can rest easy, hopefully enjoy many more years. I’ll have my lawyer call Kate tomorrow, how about that? And then she’ll work with you to determine a plan.”
Then Linda forced herself to do the thing she really didn’t want to do, which was bend over and give his forehead a kiss. Stanley sank his head back into the pillow as she knew he would, sighing a small noise of delight.
Linda was fairly certain that all of Stanley’s assets combined, much less one third, wouldn’t be enough for even the most miserably funded of foundations, but she’d leave that unpleasantness for her attorney to deal with. Ellen Lu, after all, could bill Stanley directly; in all of Linda’s years with him, when had she ever received even a cent for all her helpful guidance?
* * *
The women in Linda’s circle gathered easily. A few quick phone calls, and a date and time were set, a location bickered over and agreed upon. It was one of the few perks of retirement, the mutual assurance of the desire to fill calendars in advance, which suited Linda perfectly. She’d always been a planner—never the sort to dither on making engagements until the last minute, in case a better option came along.
When the get-togethers included husbands, however, they became more problematic. Even though the men were mostly retired, they all still had to invent reasons for why they were busy, off doing important tasks. To admit their calendars were as empty as their wives’ seemed to be an open invitation for death to come trotting along and scoop them right up, so instead they had consulting businesses to tend to, doctor’s appointments to wait on. Whenever men were involved, the events had to be scheduled at least a month out and usually ended up as dinners. Given the considerable hurdles, it was considered a major loss of face for one’s partner not to show after a positive RSVP had been registered, which was why it was absolutely imperative that Winston behave flawlessly two nights from now.
In hindsight, it had probably been too hasty for Linda to sign Winston up for dinner just twenty-four hours after he was due to arrive in San Francisco. Better, she thought now, for them to have earmarked some time to settle into each other a little more, become adjusted to the physicality of each person. Because while Linda felt as if she already knew Winston, understood his story far more than she’d ever Stanley’s—whose family secrets and demented personality she’d had to unravel over decades, by which point she didn’t even care—she and Winston were still missing the key knowledge of each other’s bodies. Not in a sexual way (though that was a topic she’d been pondering with ballooning interest and apprehension) but in a comfortable, grown-together sort of fashion. When she’d hovered over Stanley’s frail form and he’d lifted her hand, she’d known instantly what his body used to be and what it had become, and Stanley had shown no surprise when he touched her dry and papery skin. They’d lived together for thirty-four years and shared a bedroom for thirty; he’d been with her naked, heard her fart, assisted her with her colostomy bag after surgery. Seen her as she’d aged, as he passively observed the gradual softening of her body.
Now Winston would arrive, a man with no memory of Linda as a young woman, nor vice versa, a situation that along with its crippling insecurities introduced a whole host of other problems. Their lack of physical familiarity, for example, would be obvious when they walked. Would he take her arm? Hold her hand? Yvonne and Jackson always did that, Jackson making a big flourish about what a gentleman he was. Would a ray of light harshly illuminate her face as she sat next to him, and could he successfully hide his surprise at angles previously concealed? When the check came, would Winston attempt to pay, and would he know how to read the situation, when to obstinately press forward, and when to retreat?
It was all so very stressful, and Linda ardently wished she hadn’t invited him to dinner to begin with. It’d been that goddamn Shirley Chang who’d set the calamity in motion, she and her incessant bragging about her new husband-to-be. She’d met him on Tigerlily, of course, come right out and announced at the last group luncheon that she was once again going to be married. Another lap in her life’s victory tour.
“Married!” Yvonne exclaimed. “We didn’t even know you had a boyfriend!”
They had been seated in a circle, so everyone could see the shock on her face and satisfaction on Shirley’s. Only groups of ten were technically allowed at t
he round tables at China Garden, but the owner had obsequiously made a show of seating the four of them at one anyway, insisting it an honor due to his “good friend Shirley.” The rumor was she was a silent investor (another poor post-Alfred investment decision). And now here she was announcing yet another, looking as smug as a well-fed Persian cat.
“Where did you meet him?” This from Candy Gu, she of the younger husband, who was always jealously scanning for competition to her status as the group’s resident Sexual Adventuress. “How old is he?”
“He’s my age, my real age, and we met online. Oh, don’t give me that look, Candy, you know everyone is doing it these days, even graduates of Princeton and Yale! There’s even a separate site just for surgeons to meet other surgeons; these are the sort of highly qualified people who are internet dating now. I know for some of you the concept is very shocking, but what does it matter now that we are going to get married? I will bring him to the next get-together we have with husbands, so that you can all be introduced.”
“Why did you keep it a secret?” Yvonne asked. “We would have wanted to meet him earlier.” She darted a look to Linda, who kept her face impassive. Inside, she was roiling—that Shirley could just announce she was dating online with such brazen aplomb, whereas she’d suffered under such a heavy cloak of shame for months! Why hadn’t she thought to control the conversation from the beginning? But then, she was a very different person from Shirley.