Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  The hour mark was nearly past, and Fred’s hands were numb. His father’s limbs felt like the chicken feet he used to love ordering at dim sum, so devoid they were of fat and flesh. Fred thought Stanley had finally fallen asleep, but then he cried out, in a weak moan, “Mary? Where’s Mary?”

  Deborah rushed over. “She isn’t here,” she told him. “It’s just us, Fred and Deborah. I’m not sure where Mary is,” she then added, in a sad voice, as if she, too, were bewildered by what task Mary could possibly be engaged in more important than her husband’s comfort. Speaking in a hush, however, because both she and Fred knew exactly where Mary was: upstairs, quietly stewing. Ever since the events of the previous afternoon, she’d been on high alert and refused to leave the house.

  A confused look crossed Stanley’s face, and he stared ahead, eventually closing his eyes. Deborah nodded sharply toward Fred. “Keep going,” she whispered. Another five minutes elapsed before Stanley’s breath transformed into the deep guttural regularity that had replaced his regular snoring.

  “She knows that we know now,” Deborah said, after she’d verified Stanley was asleep by violently waving her hands in front of his face. “She knows that we know, that she just wants the money.” It was her explanation for why Mary hadn’t already fled the house, after they’d caught her in her awful treason—why she continued to stick around like a stubborn virus, even after she’d been so thoroughly shamed. Fred ushering out Cindy the chatty hospice worker with a firm hand, while Deborah dramatically tore the transfer paperwork into pieces; Deborah’s mother-in-law flopping over on the couch in histrionics, as she bemoaned the lack of respect within the younger generations. It had been Fred’s first experience with the sort of shrieking brawl he’d always heard possible but had never before witnessed between the older female relations of his family; there was a part of him that almost respected Mary for continuing to live in an environment so openly hostile to her, as he wasn’t sure he himself could survive under similar circumstances.

  “She needs to stay now,” Deborah continued, “because she knows she is in trouble. She has to keep near Stanley, to stay in his good graces. She is afraid what he might do otherwise, if we tell him she is only interested in his money.”

  “Wasn’t that always the case?” It wasn’t as if they were ever one of those families, the sort that clasped their hands in pleasure over dear old Dad finding love in his golden years and giving toasts at the wedding, only to go into spasms when it came time to read the will. Mary’s interest in Stanley’s money had been a given, a topic openly discussed and remarked upon, like the weather.

  “Yes, but she should have followed certain rules. Every relationship has rules, especially this one. What do you think China would look like, if there were no rules? A mess! So many people! White people don’t always follow them; that’s why they’re always losing fortunes in one generation and leaving everything to strippers. Can you imagine a Chinese person doing that? If Uncle Billy even thought it, I would murder him, but at least in his sleep, so he wouldn’t suffer. And nobody would ever catch me.” She paused. “Of course by white, I don’t mean Jewish. They’re even better at following the rules than the Chinese!”

  “Okay, but you and Uncle Billy are still married. And everyone knows you’re super successful. Dad’s not exactly that. Or even close.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” Deborah grimaced. They were both recalling the sob story Mary had relayed, practically shouting at times, after the hospice representative had left and the first wave of hysterics settled. Fred had been surprised to hear that Stanley had revealed to Mary his net worth, all $7 million of it; then somewhat less so when he learned the sum no longer, if ever, existed. He’d suspected for many years that his parents sucked at money. At least Reagan had finally come through with the formal Lion consulting contract; the generous terms would help cushion the blow of a vanished inheritance.

  While Fred had sat impassively through Mary’s telling, slouched in a wooden chair with his arms crossed, Deborah had been openly contemptuous, heckling loudly as she paced the room. “Seven million?” she’d spat. “How could you ever believe Stanley had that much? Or that you deserved any of it?”

  “He promised,” Mary cried, loudly whimpering, at one point collapsing at the foot of the stairs. “He’s had the best years of my life. What more can I give?”

  “You miss the point,” Deborah hurled back. “You don’t have anything to give. Your currency is worthless. That is your fate. Now get out of my face.”

  “As if Stanley ever had seven million,” Deborah said now with a sniff, recalling the memory. “We always knew he liked to exaggerate, although to be honest, I didn’t think he’d become so reckless. After paying off the house he has almost nothing left! And then these crazy ideas of his. Is it true what Mary was saying, about the foundation?”

  “First I heard of it.” Fred had initially thought Mary was lying, before he realized she could never come up with such a bizarre concept on her own. He’d never once heard his father mention anything about a foundation, or for that matter, that particular word that as of late had begun to creep into the vocabulary of his own peers: his legacy.

  “I wonder where he got the idea. Or why he thought Mary would be the best person to administer it, even if there had been any money. She’s an idiot, but I didn’t know your dad had become so foolish as well. Of course, it’s impossible. Mad!” Her voice began to creep louder, and Fred served a nervous glance in Stanley’s direction. “Oh, don’t worry, he’s asleep. When he’s out, he’s out. Ever since we were kids. We took that one cruise together a few years back, me and Billy and him and Mary, and they had this emergency drill where they blasted noise into the cabins for twenty minutes, so loud that we had to put in earplugs and cover our heads with pillows. And still it was unbearable. I blamed Stanley, you know, because he made us do the cheap deck, where it was even louder. They probably insulated it less, like the Titanic. Of course, he slept through the whole thing.”

  “I forgot you all took that trip together.” Fred studied his aunt, whose face was still youthful and unlined—a result, he suspected, of the best plastic surgeon and dermatology artisans in Beverly Hills. She was eyeing a loose thread on her Marni cardigan; in one ferocious movement, she clipped it off with her nails. “You think Mary’s surprised you’re being so hard on her? I thought she really liked you. Most people do. You’re so charming.”

  “Ha.” She waved away the compliment. “You don’t need to flatter an old lady. Mary was okay before, always quiet, knew not to discuss things she didn’t know anything about, not like your father’s friend, that fat-mouthed Shirley Chang. Does she think she has to display all the diamonds and gold she’s ever owned on her body at all times? There’s something called a safety deposit box, you know. And at least Mary always called me on my birthday and showed up to dim sum when I came to visit—unlike you or your sister.” She gave Fred a pointed look. “That’s why I was so surprised to hear about this, wanting to move your father. What does she have to worry about real estate values? Too greedy! Someone like her, a free house in the Bay Area, she should already be happy. Do you know that through your dad’s pension she will have healthcare for the rest of her life? I blame myself a little, because I was talking to her about housing that one time on the cruise, although to be fair many people ask for my opinion on the topic, so I have the habit now, to share. But Mary, she took it too far; she wants too much. There is a deal between every couple, though it isn’t between husband and wife. It is between who has the money and who doesn’t.”

  “Does that mean you have all the power and Uncle Billy has to do whatever you say?”

  “Naughty boy!” Deborah swiveled her head. “My God, for a moment I thought they were still in the house. And no, there’s a certain balance. For example, Billy’s mother is ninety years old and wears two listening aids and never responds when I ask what she wants to eat for lunch, but then she miraculously overhears every word when I’m whis
pering about her to my friends. And still I let her live with us! Of course she’s in the in-law wing, and our house is five thousand square feet, but still, she makes her presence known. Oh yes, she does. Don’t you understand this? You were married before. And I thought you have that fiancée, that white girl, the one who sells things at Saks. Hey, you think she can get me a discount? Don’t feel pressure to answer now, but if so, just pick up some gift cards. Up to $20,000. So I can buy whenever I want.”

  “We’re not engaged. She’s just my girlfriend. I assume.”

  “Ah, so you do know the rules. You think that ex of yours, the rich Korean, she would have let you get away with not proposing for so long? No way José.”

  Fred smoothed his hair and grinned, before recalling the current situation with Erika. His aunt observed him with her characteristic shrewdness.

  “You having problems? You want to call, ask her to have lunch with us tomorrow?”

  “No, that’s okay.” But then Fred reassessed and determined that it might not be such a bad idea. Erika always loved meeting his relatives. To her they were like bowling pins—each additional one she managed to win over inched her that much closer to ultimate victory. Stanley’s sister would be a big get, and there was still the present he had yet to give.

  “Let me grab my phone.” And then he found it, and his breath slid to a halt.

  * * *

  From: ErikaV@xmail.com

  To: Fred@Lion-Capital.com

  CC: serenahchang@xmail.com, ryan828@gmail.com, Kate@XCorp.com, noravarga@gmail.com, bhorowitz@a16z.com, rohing@drapercarlyle.com, charles@greylock.com, suzanne.goldstein@morganstanley.com, jdoerr@kpcb.com, will@tatapacker.com, tom.g@googleventures.com, 5bot2@goldman.com, Mchang@tencent.com, Shane.west@xmail.com, fnevins@bloomberg.com

  BCC:

  Subject: Fred Huang

  To whom it may concern,

  My name is Erika Varga, and until last week, I was Fred Huang’s girlfriend and assumed fiancée. You may be wondering why I’ve emailed you. Perhaps we’ve never even met.

  My purpose in writing today is this: to expose one Fred Huang, venture capitalist and liar. I believe that by doing so, I will have cleansed my soul and done society a useful favor.

  Let me first assure you that I am not a foolish woman. I have a degree in legal studies and have traveled internationally and dated numerous powerful and high-net-worth men. For years, I believed Fred to be a man who kept his promises and treated the women in his life with respect, gratitude, and chivalry. Unfortunately, recent events have proven me 100% wrong.

  Please be warned, ladies and gentlemen: this man is despicable. And my eyes are now open to his true nature.

  The proof? Fred’s decision to abandon me, alone and defenseless, in a third-world Asian country known specifically for its high Triad population. His refusal to propose marriage, after countless delays and promises (please reference the attached photo of myself and Fred at the French Laundry on my last birthday, where you can clearly read the cake as addressed to the “love of his life”). His reprehensible disrespect toward my parents, both esteemed professors of the Détente School of Diplomatic Science, an internationally recognized and accredited university in Budapest. Not to mention the naked photos of his ex-wife, still stored in a file cabinet in the back of his closet. Surely none of this indicates the behavior of a gentleman? The woman in question, though at least a decade older than myself, is now a mother, after all!

  Additionally, I personally know of and can provide evidence for several occasions where Fred has returned used clothing to a luxury department store (including one Tom Ford tuxedo, retail value of $5,600, worn to a wedding with tags then reattached, and returned). He has also referred to his superiors and colleagues on many instances as “fucking imbeciles,” “retards,” and “dumb cunts.”

  These disturbing facts have left me with no choice but to come forward and share with you all my knowledge of this wolf in sheep’s clothing. As I send this email, please know that I feel peace, as my intentions are pure.

  God bless.

  Yours truly,

  Erika Varga

  A Concerned Party

  PS: Fred also has a deep obsession with pornography which I believe to be of moral and possibly even legal concern. I personally have verified that Fred has several videos on his computer that show instances of potential unwanted train groping in Japan. If any of you are acquainted with the women in these videos (I have attached screenshots), please direct them to this email address.

  * * *

  At first, he was certain he was having a heart attack. All the signs he remembered were there: nausea, shortness of breath. A severe, crushing pain in the chest.

  He forced himself to put down his phone and count to twenty. Then, he read the message again. The second round the pain was even more acute, and he thought he might pass out but for the beating logic of self-preservation. He knew he had to immediately face the worst of it, to begin damage control. Starting with: Who was on the distribution list?

  At initial glance, he was largely relieved to see friends and family. Serena Chang, the luxury goods–obsessed wife of one of Fred’s few close friends, with whom Erika had hit it off at a dinner party. Kate, though thankfully not Linda. Nora, Erika’s sister, whom he didn’t care about at all.

  He decided to allow himself a moment of respite before turning his attention to the remainder of the list. Closing his eyes, he tried to summon some gratefulness for being alive.

  And then there it was, as he knew it would be. Marching one by one, a nightmarish procession of the most prominent names in his industry. Kleiner Perkins. Greylock. Tata Packer. Andreessen Horowitz. The BCC line, its very presence a blank void to fill in with the worst of his imagination.

  A deep intake through his nostrils, which were quivering. How had Erika procured all these emails? He didn’t even have most of them! It wasn’t as if she regularly mingled with the financier crowd. . . . Was there a chance they could be fake? Fred took a closer look, suddenly hopeful. Everything looked to be spelled correctly, the names looked real—

  And then in a vicious burst he recalled the pile of business cards she’d amassed over the years, the creams and ecrus and occasional clear vinyls, all stacked in a corner on the dresser. Her persistent diligence in asking whom she should be impressed by, as she skimmed Wikipedia profiles. Collecting and researching and sorting—for him, he’d assumed at the time. Jesus! Fuck!

  His phone chimed in his hand, flashing a name he knew he couldn’t ignore.

  “Dirty dog. Good morning from Bangkok.”

  Fred did a quick, desperate scan of the message but didn’t see Reagan’s name. The fucking BCC line! “The email?” he asked. His voice came out quaking, too high.

  “I’m afraid to say it’s making the rounds in Asia. It’s been a slow morning.”

  Fred’s heart began to beat with extreme violence, as if attempting to untether itself from its doomed accommodations. “How bad? Did you see there’s a Bloomberg reporter on copy?”

  “And the Wall Street Journal. Freelancer.”

  “OhmyfuckingGod ohmyfuckingGod.” He had to sit down. In the bathroom where he’d secluded himself, the toilet lid made a loud slamming sound. The noise attracted Deborah, who poked her head in. Fred made a shooing movement with his hands, mouthing sorry. She shot him an annoyed look but closed the door.

  “Don’t worry, I don’t think the Journal will pick it up.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Until the very recent past, the reading and dissemination of such emails like the one he’d just received had been one of Fred’s preferred sources of entertainment. Each time another celebrated name was dethroned, felled by a neglected mistress or nosy board member, the schadenfreude was near orgasmic. “If two reporters were on it, my life is over.”

  “That was before, when Gawker was still operational and there was less concern over libel suits. Top-tier media are more cautious now, especially with what I assume are, ah—unsubstan
tiated and untruthful claims.” Reagan cleared his throat. “It’s actually early morning here; I’ve got a whole list of things to take care of. So let me get to the point. I’m calling to check on the reaction from your management. Any blowback? I didn’t see anyone I recognized from Lion on the email. Any problems at home base?”

  Fred scanned the recipients list again. “No, I don’t think she sent it to anyone at work. She doesn’t have their contact information.”

  “Good, good. That’s the most important thing. Don’t worry about anything else.”

  “But what about the next few days? What if this goes”—nearly choking on the next word, releasing it in a gasp—“viral?”

  “Oh no.” Reagan chuckled. “I don’t think so. Don’t get me wrong, it’s definitely making its way through a certain circuit, but it won’t hit the mainstream. You’ll be fine. You know Jack and I think the world of you, but you’re not exactly a public figure. And Lion isn’t nearly as sexy a name as, say, Motley or Goldman Sachs. Without those elements, the email is dead in the water.”

  Reagan’s words were calming, rational. Fred pushed against them, to eke out any last scraps of reassurance. “Maybe not the mainstream, but what about everyone else? You got the email. What about all the other people who were on it, and the people they’re going to forward it to?”

  “You know, all of us really do sympathize with you. The stuff your ex is accusing you of—and again, I’m not saying you did any of it—even if you did, well, it isn’t as if a good portion of us aren’t guilty of the same, hmm? What was her name? Erika? How would she like for her internet browsing history to be published, I wonder? Right. This will be done and forgotten in a few days.”