Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  Stanley had let slip the number exactly once, his net worth. He normally refused to divulge details on anything financial—he was so mistrustful in that way, even with his own wife!—but there’d been that one time, at Charles Schwab. He’d taken Mary there before, and each instance she’d waited in the lobby. But for some reason, on this occasion, he motioned for her to join inside.

  The advisor, an elegant white woman named Patricia, had worked with Stanley for decades. They sat in her office on the other side of the desk, Stanley in the chair closest to Patricia, since he was the actual client. Just a few minutes into their small talk, she remarked, “You know, your ex-wife was in here just the other day.”

  “Oh?” Stanley was always attentive when it came to news of Linda, though he tried to hide it. “How is she?”

  Patricia assessed Mary with a cunning look before she slid her gaze back to Stanley. “She’s doing great. You know how capable she is.”

  “What’s she invested in?”

  “Now, you know I can’t divulge that sort of information.”

  Stanley took the bait. “Well, how’s she doing, overall?”

  Patricia made him wait while she opened a pouch of sugar and tapped its contents into her coffee. “Very well, in my opinion. Someone her age, we usually don’t advise that they have so much of their portfolio in the stock market. We like to see more diversification—CDs, bonds, good old cash. You know the rule. Take one hundred, subtract your age, and that’s what percent of your portfolio should still be in equities, roughly. But Linda’s one of the very few clients I have who’s the exception. She has one of the greatest natural talents for portfolio management I’ve ever seen.”

  “Ah.” Stanley coughed. “I’m so happy for her. Happy for all of us, that we can live so well. Of course, I’m not doing so poorly myself.”

  “Oh yes. You’re doing a fine job.”

  “I’m the sort of man who likes to make his own decisions.” He stretched his arms over his head.

  “I completely understand. It’s your life, your money. Just remember that I’m here for guidance should you need anything. And keep in mind what I said about the market and retirement. As we both know, you like to get a little daring yourself.” She winked, the crow’s-feet prominent around each eye. This woman might be rich, Mary thought, but even at her age wealth couldn’t make up for a lack of injectables.

  Though she’d said they should stay for as long as they wanted, offering to fetch them more coffee and tea, it was obvious Patricia wanted to return to her daily schedule. They passed her next appointment on the way out, another Asian couple near Stanley’s age, the woman primly dressed in one of those St. John suits Mary occasionally imagined herself wearing one day. As soon as Stanley shut the car door, she could see the red beginning to web its way across his face. He sat in the seat facing directly forward, not yet turning on the ignition. “Who does she think she is?” he seethed. “Talking like I don’t know anything. I know what I’m doing, more than that old bitch.”

  “She probably meant to insult you.” Mary had been perversely cheered by Stanley’s bad mood; she hadn’t liked how the advisor felt she could just bring up Linda in front of her, as if she weren’t even there. “Maybe Linda put her up to it, planted the idea in her head.”

  “Linda wouldn’t do that. She’s very discreet.” At this Mary had been ready to finally snap; she’d had quite enough of Stanley’s refusal to ever utter anything negative about his ex—as if Linda had been such a saint!—but then he went on. “Patricia doesn’t know how much I have now, what I’ve done with real estate. You see, I’ve done some flipping, made a lot—” He stopped.

  Mary was quiet. She was used to Stanley starting conversations like this, dangling the prospect of tantalizing information in the air, only to snatch it away.

  This time, however, he continued. “My net worth is almost seven million now. Seven million! And growing fast. Never in my lifetime did I believe I’d have so much. Shirley Chang always says money just brings problems, but that hasn’t happened to me.” His voice softened. “It’s only brought me happiness. Someone like you. You know that I’ll take care of you, right? I’ve been meaning to tell you that when I pass—though I’m sure that is decades from now—you’ll be in my will, as long as we’re still married. Fred will have a third, Kate another, and you the last.” He turned toward her. “What do you think?”

  Mary had thought it wonderful, of course. More than wonderful. Seven million. And growing. Even a third of that was an unimaginable fortune: it meant that were something to happen to Stanley she could keep the house and have enough left over so that she didn’t have to work again for the rest of her life.

  She took his hand, placing it between both of hers. She knew what he wanted to hear. “My life is only worth living with you in it.” It was the truth, anyway. Stanley was so strong, so capable; infallible, especially when compared to her own flimsy existence. He kissed her hair.

  In the days after the conversation, Mary had the feeling that Stanley regretted his outburst. She felt him studying her, watching for some undefined action. So she meticulously maintained her normal routine, taking care not to startle him. Which was easy, as nothing had really changed, except for the fact that she now knew of the money, which she wished she could have told him meant more to her at that point than the money itself. Because just the knowledge of it enveloped Mary with a warm security, a constant glimmering reminder of how lucky she was to have married a man of means who loved her.

  Mary didn’t want to tell Jeylin and Grace any of this, because she didn’t know what they would do with the knowledge. The problem was she didn’t know how not to tell them either, so in the end she compromised.

  “He has millions.”

  “Millions,” Jeylin repeated. The envy that seeped from her voice was surprisingly delicious. “How many? That makes a difference, you understand. If it’s not just one.”

  “What does it matter to you?” As if Jeylin had ever seen even a million dollars, much less more!

  “I want to make sure you are taken care of, big sister. Do you think I want it for myself? I can manage my own affairs, thank you. But it would be nice if there was some extra, to use for our mother. She’s getting older, like your husband. She could move to California, since there’s better medical care here. The air in China is getting worse every day.”

  “If Stanley says I’m taken care of, then I am. He trusts me. He even took me to meet his advisor at Charles Schwab.”

  “Schwab?” Grace piped up. “I saw that one.”

  “Leave it alone!” Suddenly Mary wanted everyone gone. The conversation was spiraling out of control; she was afraid of what might follow next, the extraction of promises that upon Stanley’s death she’d take in their mother, dooming herself to decades more of familial obligation right as the intoxicating rays of financial freedom were beginning to shine through. “Leave everything alone! This is none of anyone’s business!”

  “Don’t you at least want to take a look?” Jeylin asked. “You used to complain that Stanley never let you into his office. This is your chance. Who knows if it’ll come again? You’re right; Stanley may very well recover with all that special medicine you’ve been preparing. But either way, don’t you want to know?”

  Grace already had a binder open. “It says $14,000 for the balance here,” she chattered, trailing a nail down the page. “For Schwab. And then another $4,000 at Chase.” Mary snatched the binder before she could stop herself.

  “Guess we know how you truly feel now,” Jeylin crowed.

  Mary barely heard her. After she went through each of the statements, she climbed up on the stool and took down another binder. Then another. She was three hours late to the hospital that afternoon, which she told Stanley was the fault of the internet repair technician. He was half out of his mind on drugs anyway, he didn’t care, and in fact he returned to sleep shortly after lifting his head to register her arrival. She sat in the hard plastic–
backed chair next to the bed until nearly midnight. The nurse on call, the black one she suspected secretly hated her, asked at one point if she wanted to move to the couch. “Much more comfortable,” she commented pointedly.

  Mary ignored her. Long after her lower back had begun to cramp in protest, she remained still, posture erect.

  Afterward, a mental line was crossed for her, one that, once stepped over, could be revisited at will. The lawyer had been Jeylin’s idea—some cheap hack Nicky knew from his so-called construction work, who he claimed could quickly draw up documents for a reduced fee.

  Even though the lawyer was white, with a perfect American accent, the first time they met even Mary could tell he was unsuccessful. He had a shaped beard and looked as if he only wore suits when forced to for show; he did his work, however, and rustled together a will that stated Stanley would leave a set amount to Mary of $1.5 million, as well as the house (worth another million), with any remainder to be split between Kate and Fred. Mary figured it a good gamble, since so far her research had led her to believe there was going to be considerably less to his estate than the promised seven million. Of course, there was always the chance there was more—there were all sorts of ways to hide cash, and Stanley had made it clear that when it came to the topic, he was worlds above her in education—but Mary wasn’t willing to bet her future on it.

  It was funny, about the money. She’d always viewed Stanley’s finances differently than her own. While with her personal means she was exceedingly careful, begrudging every expense, when it came to Stanley’s she was relentless in her encouragement to spend. His wealth sprung like water from the tap, supplied by a limitless source many degrees of separation away, one where she never saw the bill. When it came time for Stanley to buy a new car, she nudged him toward the most expensive models, endorsing every option he expressed interest in. When they traveled on vacation to China—one of those $99 package holidays during which the tour operators forced lengthy shopping visits—she strolled him past the cheap tchotchkes and shoddy silk garments to the displays of Grade A jadeite (and netted a bracelet for herself out of it too). When they dined out, she always ordered a special drink from the menu, usually plum tea or wine or, once in a while, even a cocktail. The depletion of funds never concerned her. She never thought, I am spending my future money.

  Until Stanley had gone ahead and released a number in the air, made a promise, become sick. Then it became a reality, and she felt its loss as keenly as one of her own treasured possessions. Mary mourned her one third of seven million and growing. It was her right to recover as much of it as she could. So she wanted the will. She wanted it signed and witnessed. And as soon as that was done, she was sure she could return to her normal existence, fully inhabiting her authentic self as a devoted wife. Which would be a relief.

  The lawyer wasn’t allowed in. When he arrived Kaiser said he wasn’t on the list of approved visitors, and Stanley—either out of confusion or deliberate obstinacy—refused to add him, though the man still collected his $400 fee.

  “Call me when he’s out,” he drawled, and proceeded to provide a phone number which he never answered. Afterward, Jeylin chided her for writing him a check in the first place. “You only pay for results,” she said in a superior tone. “That’s how these things work.”

  But by then it didn’t matter. Because Stanley was coming home.

  The days after Stanley’s release were filled with a sort of euphoria. His condition improved markedly—within a day he was able to sit propped against pillows and was demanding to watch their favorite TV show, a Chinese drama set in the Qin Dynasty. Mary made him special egg drop soup, soft foods like the lamb dumplings he liked so much (she adapted them to have less meat and more cabbage), and allowed a small piece of dark chocolate with dinner. The palliative care team who set up Stanley’s medical equipment were friendly. They helped him in the shower and monitored his vitals.

  “We’re always happy to see situations like this, where there’s an energetic spouse who cares,” one of the nurses, a Filipino-Chinese named Paolo who spoke Mandarin and who’d visited twice so far, said to her. He murmured quietly to avoid waking Stanley, who was lightly dozing, and bent over and delicately wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Stanley’s arm. “People often think that having their kids nearby is enough.” He grimaced. “It rarely is.”

  To be fair, Kate had visited regularly since Stanley’s return. Mary had followed nervously the first time she went barreling upstairs—it still irked her that Stanley’s children felt entitled to charge through the house as if it were their own, never asking anyone’s permission before entering a room—but Kate had given the office a cursory glance and didn’t mention if she noticed anything out of place, just straightened a few papers and located a laptop charger. Still, Mary had been relieved when she left. She had tried to re-create the setting as it was earlier, but she knew she must have missed a few details.

  Kate spent most of her time in the kitchen or by Stanley’s bed, watching TV with him. Mary had been surprised by the sheer number of hours she was able to dedicate, though she’d gathered in snippets that there was a new nanny at her house, and there was also talk of Kate’s husband occasionally taking the children overnight. That was confusing. Where did he take them? And why didn’t she go too? But Kate was tight-lipped and Stanley incoherent on the topic whenever pressed.

  Stanley was out of sorts a lot lately, a recent development. His waking hours now seemed to flit between a normal lucidity and a cloudy dream state, though Mary knew that if his attentions were truly required, he could still rouse a focused response. She’d made the monumental error of underestimating his faculties earlier, the first time she broached the topic of his will.

  Stanley had been flat on his back as usual, and she’d sat in a chair by the bed, massaging his feet. His hands tapped gently at his side, and from his throat a weak purring sound occasionally rasped, in pleasure from the sensation.

  “Stanley,” she said.

  “Hmm?” He craned his neck.

  His benign expression bolstered her. “Remember when you told me what you were going to do with your will? The seven million, split three ways?”

  “Hmm.” His fingers continued to tap. Then after a pause: “After we went to Schwab.”

  “After the Schwab visit, yes! Exactly. And the seven million.” She emphasized the last part. “Stanley, where is that money? I know some of it is the house. But the rest, where is it? Where are the accounts?”

  He fell still. She thought it was another break, a brief hiatus for air, until a hand rose and pointed at her. “You’ve been poking through my business,” it said.

  “No!” She was horrified. “Of course not! Stanley, I just want to understand, so that in case something were to happen, I can help with the details. . . .”

  “I don’t need your help.” His voice was like sandpaper. She rushed to find his water bottle and raised the straw to his lips.

  “Of course not, you’re so good at these things. I would never think I know more than you. I just wanted to understand for my own information, and of course Fred and Kate have been asking. . . .”

  “Stay out of my business,” he said with venom.

  Mary had wanted to flee then, far away to the relative safety of the other side of the house, but she’d feared stopping the massage. So she remained at the foot of the bed, kneading his legs and feet. After a few minutes his fingers resumed their tapping, and it was only when they once again stopped that she dared cease the activity in her own aching limbs and peer at his face.

  He was awake, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were milky, and he wore the death face, the one where his mouth hung ajar and loose skin pooled around his mouth. Mary knew he was alive, though. Heard the breathing, in and out. Steady.

  The interaction terrified her. She already knew he had a nasty temper—they’d fought often enough in the past, and there’d even been screaming rows once or twice, which always ended in her tears and his
stony silence. But he’d never before spoken to her in that tenor, which his children referenced and she’d previously always dismissed (killing a bird? It was too outlandish to be true). It was a voice that stated unequivocally that a conversation was over, not to be discussed further, that hinted at a barely controlled violence. Normally it would have been enough to dissuade Mary from ever approaching the topic again, to definitively demonstrate that her questions had been a one-off, an innocuous mistake to be quickly forgotten. But this was the most money she would ever see in her life, she knew that much, and each move counted. Every mark in her favor meant the potential of yet another comfort to enjoy the rest of her years—a better car, a new dining room set; two yearly holidays, instead of one.

  And time was important.

  Stanley, she understood now, was going to die, no matter how many herbal concoctions she made. Each meal she had to try harder to find foods he was willing to eat—she’d given up on the green juices and fresh fruit and had returned to his old favorites, cream puffs and chocolate pudding pie. And still he would push the plate delicately aside, shaking his head. He only had bowel movements every few days, and he no longer attempted to shuffle to the guest bathroom, instead opting for the sitting toilet next to his bed. The last time he’d used it, Kate had been over, arranging his medicine. She’d discreetly turned her face away, and then as soon as her father had grunted his satisfaction, she called to Mary to clean him up.

  “And I think we should toss out the . . . feces as soon as possible,” she said. “For sanitary purposes.”

  It had taken all of Mary’s resolve not to slap her hard across the cheek.

  A few days passed before she attempted a second salvo, this time aided by a magenta lace silk robe Stanley had gifted her at the beginning of their courtship. He had told her it reminded him of some movie with a Vegas showgirl, but Mary always felt whorish when she wore it, so once they were married she’d hidden it in the back of the guest closet. When she retrieved it, she’d had to spend a precious hour ironing out wrinkles; as she pressed the fabric, she rehearsed the conversation, testing various lines.