Family Trust

by Kathy Wang

  Linda knew she should be thankful for the Diamond Palace, regardless of its squalor. Before its appearance she’d been so stressed by the thought of Winston staying at the house that she’d had to take a sleeping pill nearly every night. Her hands kept twisting nervously at the duvet otherwise, as she lay in the dark pondering various logistics, with the idea repeatedly implanting itself that she had to urgently empty her bladder as soon as slumber crept near. Upon returning to bed, she would then toss back and forth, before giving up and reaching for her tablet for another game of mah jong.

  She wouldn’t be able to do that if Winston were there, Linda reminded herself—she should train herself to lie peacefully still, so as not to violate the invisible boundary set in the middle of the bed. There were likely a plethora of accumulated habits that would have to be jettisoned—it wouldn’t be hospitable to hog the blankets like she usually did or inflict her breath on him in the morning, like some rotting old dragon. And she definitely would have to learn to sleep on her right side, which was her least preferred but the best in terms of snoring.

  Was it so wrong to want her own bedroom, her own space? It wasn’t as if she’d ever been a talker, the sort of wife to sit up in bed with her hair around her shoulders, recounting the petty tribulations and victories of her day. So many of her waking hours were already spent in some physically compromising position or another—shoving her body into hard restaurant chairs, suppressing flatulence in public, crossing her legs whenever she sneezed. Increasingly her only period of real refuge was at night, when she could finally lie down under whichever covers she had chosen for the day. (Linda collected duvets and blankets like other women collected handbags. She only ever bought natural fibers and excellent thread counts, and she had variations suitable for five-degree bands of temperature.)

  So when Winston announced he’d be staying at the Diamond Palace, Linda had felt immense relief. She’d made her peace with the idea of his sleeping over by then; after all, it was only a weekend. But given her anxiety, the best outcome would have been for Winston to spend his nights somewhere else, and the fact that events had naturally turned out that way, she thought, was a very good omen.

  Later that afternoon, Winston arrived at the house. He’d showered and changed to an acceptable pair of khakis and what looked to be a Ralph Lauren polo, though Linda noted that the horse appeared blotchier than what she thought was normal. They greeted each other with an easier familiarity than earlier in the day, and she felt the tension in her neck dissipate. Upon entering, he presented her with a bottle of wine and a small wrapped box. “Open it!” he exclaimed.

  Linda demurred, afraid it might be something extravagant, with all the accompanying expectations of physical affection. Instead, she led him to the garden, where they sat on her favorite bench (purchased at Home Depot and stained by Linda herself on a sunny afternoon). “This is my treasure,” she said, pointing to a Japanese maple that currently sported bright red foliage. “Every season the leaves change color.”

  Winston took the time to carefully admire the tree. “You have a wonderful sense of landscape,” he said. “It’s in the perfect spot. One day, I’ll buy us a big new house with a spacious backyard, like the ones in Kyoto. Even though I hate the Japanese, they have very elegant gardens.”

  “I don’t need a new house.” Linda used to dream of a husband who would build her a home, a tranquil retreat nothing like the deafening monstrosity she’d endured for years in Cupertino. Now, she wanted less space, not more. “I’m comfortable here.”

  Winston took her hand and squeezed it. “Why couldn’t I have met you earlier? So much misery would have been saved. I’m beginning to believe my former wife has no other goal in life but to make mine a living torture.”

  He launched into his latest grievance, the overdue payment of yet another Yale-related bill. Linda listened without input. She’d long graduated from that stage of initial curiosity, when she had prodded Winston to elaborate on his ex’s profligate spending and other associated faults; she’d been so active with her questioning, and Winston so eager to play the victim, that she felt she’d already eviscerated the poor woman to near completion. Winston’s ex now lived in a small studio in Jersey Village, having lost the five-bedroom in River Oaks he’d left her with when they first divorced. He’d purchased the condo in cash, way outside the legal obligations of their divorce agreement—another reason he was so overstretched financially.

  “I couldn’t have her homeless,” Winston had explained. “My children stay with her.” But at least he’d kept the property title in his name, which Linda approved of. Stanley would have never thought of such a clever and responsible gesture, which was why his affairs were in such ruin.

  “My ex-husband, he has been trying to contact me,” she said. “I’m sick of it.”

  Just yesterday morning she’d had to suffer through another attempt, when she’d picked up the house phone while stirring her morning oatmeal, wincing when she heard Stanley on the other end. She’d been forced to inquire about his health, setting him off on a garbled tangent about the foundation, a headache she thought she’d fully dispensed with.

  “Can you come over?” he asked. “When can you visit?”

  “I. Cannot. Hear. You. Stanley!” she’d announced, and added a “Very busy!” and hung up. Hadn’t she already wasted enough of her life ministering to his problems, both real and imaginary? She refused to go over anymore unless Fred or Kate accompanied her; she wouldn’t want Mary to get the wrong idea. That woman was unpredictable, crazy! She’d come somewhat unhinged after the whole nursing home scare, which had been satisfying initially, but now the situation had become overwrought. The latest update was that she was accusing Fred of stealing some sort of Rolex from Stanley’s safety deposit box. Since when had Stanley ever owned a Rolex?

  Winston didn’t respond, and the silence dragged. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned Stanley, Linda thought. Was he jealous? When she looked over, he was staring off at some undefined point in the distance, eyes glazed. Jet lag, maybe.

  “Do you feel like some wine?” he asked. “I think I’ll take an afternoon glass.”

  “I’m fine. But feel free to serve yourself.” She kicked up her feet on her wicker stool and enjoyed the simple beauty of the day. Certain things were just better with a partner. When was the last time she’d come out to this bench without a book or newspaper to occupy her?

  When the sky grew dark, they went inside and shared a simple dinner of dumplings and spicy cucumbers and beef noodle soup. She asked Winston questions she already knew the answers to about his time in Hong Kong, which was how she preferred to envision him—as a young man who’d endured a series of unfair hardships and who would ultimately persevere. Afterward she opened her present, a diamond Cartier pendant in the shape of a bird that could be removed from its chain and turned into a brooch, far more ostentatious an item than anything she would have chosen for herself. She felt a flush of annoyance that Winston had purchased such an expensive gift.

  “Are your finances better?” she asked, and it was soon clear from his evasive explanations what the answer was, and she insisted on writing him a check. The resulting squabble over payment felt entirely transactional by the end, and Linda chastised herself for spoiling the moment. She was never good at receiving gifts; she and Stanley had struggled for too many frugal years to indulge in surprise luxuries. And afterward, when she could finally afford such things for herself, it was better to have the money in her bank account.

  In the kitchen after dinner, once she’d put away the clean dishes, Winston approached from behind and kissed her neck, which she assumed was an awkward introductory push for sex. She hadn’t known how to transition—didn’t want to come off as frigid, or, even more horrifying, inexperienced or disappointing. So she begged off to pour herself a glass of wine from the bottle he’d opened earlier, extricating herself from his hold, and because Linda almost never drank, the sensation of relaxation it carried arrived as
a pleasant surprise, and she quickly downed her glass and poured another.

  And finally in the end it was Linda who took Winston by the hand and led him to the bedroom, tired of the frightful agony of waiting. By then the alcohol was coursing through her body in such a way that she completely forgot about the ecru slip, which she’d conveniently hung on the other side of the bathroom door. They’d simply undressed underneath the covers and then, well.

  It was over with and better than her worst nightmares and lesser than her greatest fantasies. After an appropriate amount of time, Winston rose and departed for his hotel room, leaving her the privacy of her bed.

  * * *

  The next afternoon they went to visit an acquaintance of Winston’s, a former colleague turned property developer in San Jose. “You will love Arman, I’m sure of it,” Winston said. “A very high-quality person.” As they approached his rented Jaguar he rushed forward to open the passenger-side door, and Linda was temporarily startled. She recovered and descended into the seat delicately, swinging her legs together in one smooth movement. This was something she could get used to, she thought; after a few times it would be like second nature, and she would automatically adjust her stride as she neared the door. That was how relationships were formed.

  Arman met them at his latest work site, a mixed-use residential and commercial project a mile off of Guadalupe Parkway. Winston had made several references to the development before his trip, chattering about his fantasy of one day living there. Though Linda had mostly tuned out these musings; she considered the daydreams of others to be the least interesting form of conversation.

  The short Armenian greeted them with iced coffee and grappled Winston in a bear hug. “This guy,” he announced to Linda. “This guy!” He insisted on giving them a tour, boasting about occupancy and making brash claims about build quality. Afterward he and Winston took a short walk, leaving Linda to drink her coffee alone at a table, though she didn’t feel excluded. It was gratifying to observe Winston in his natural habitat, among friends—he appeared younger somehow, more dynamic. The jocular patting, hands in pockets, confident posturing—these were all reassuring indicators, to be considered when he lapsed back into sappy extravagance.

  At 5:30 p.m., they left for dinner. She wasn’t familiar with the part of San Jose the development was in (why would she be? Such bad school districts), and the drive took longer than expected. By the time they arrived at China Garden, everyone else was already seated, and to Linda it felt as if each pair of eyes immediately locked on their entrance. She saw Candy take in Winston’s navy blazer with the gold buttons and his ascot tie, which he’d insisted on foppishly tying in the car. She had thought it made him look like an aspiring yachtsman, someone who scrimped to buy a country club membership, but she’d seen no way of informing him of such without hurting his pride.

  There was a charged quality to the air: two women were debuting new partners, more gossip than the group usually saw in years. Linda was satisfied to note that Teddy, the alleged future husband of Shirley Chang, was at most the same height if not shorter than Winston and had the same pitch-black pomade hairstyle—it must be a trend with older Asian men, she thought, just like how all the women simultaneously emerged with the same enormous perms after sixty. Teddy was quiet and self-effacing when badgered about his much-touted-by-Shirley Princeton teaching credentials, and Winston largely took the same cue, except for spontaneous moments of ardor: intertwining his hand with hers, rubbing her shoulders at the table, swiveling her head to meet his for a lip lock. “I love you,” he kept whispering in her ear, which despite her best efforts she was only able to respond to with a smiling grimace. Did they look ridiculous?

  Soon dinner reverted to a version of their usual gatherings: a smattering of Taiwanese politics mixed with vague plans of an undetermined future group trip to Guangzhou; gossip of the various financial and moral misdeeds of mutual acquaintances. Flitting through the air was a certain excitement—the tacit understanding that fortune was smiling, had selected each of them to participate in pleasures that were already being denied to many of their contemporaries, sometimes permanently so. The heady atmosphere amplified by the two bottles of Syrah Winston had insisted on opening, which everyone had taken an initial sip of to be polite but now was consuming in steady amounts.

  No one ever brought alcohol to a Chinese restaurant, Linda had informed Winston, at least not in California and at the sort of establishment they were going to, but he’d been emphatic, maintaining that the vineyard was a hidden treasure. The waiter had looked nonplussed when presented the bottles—at first Linda was afraid he thought it a gift for the staff—but then he’d consulted with the manager, who brought over eight water glasses. She made a note to check whether they dared charge corkage when the bill arrived.

  During the course of dinner Linda noticed that Winston was relentless in his hovering over the beverages, zealously refilling teacups and glasses seconds after they became empty. The habit touched her. It was obvious he had never been taught proper table manners and had instead memorized rules by rote. Due to his vigorous attentions, she soon had to visit the bathroom, an event she’d originally wanted to delay until they were back home. Leaving Winston alone, she felt, would be like abandoning a talkative goldfish in the middle of a pond inhabited by hungry piranhas. But eventually her weakened, aged bladder betrayed her, and by the time she returned, Winston was indeed holding conversational court over the table.

  “It’s a fantastic investment,” he was saying. “Very modern. Green is the new trend. Renewable energy, right? And there are so many young people in the area, big companies moving in. I would be putting money in myself, if I had the available capital. I’ve been telling Linda that at the very least she should buy a condo. Perfect timing! What do you think, my love?”

  “What sort of mixed-use development?” Jackson leaned forward and settled his elbows on the table. “Do you know what companies yet? Is this the new Amazon Silicon Valley office?”

  “What do you mean, if I had the available capital?” Shirley asked.

  “Where did you go to college?” Candy Gu interrogated. “And what year did you say you graduated?”

  Linda’s stomach gave an unpleasant flip. The building again. Despite Winston’s vocal enthusiasms, she hadn’t found much to like about the development. The location in downtown San Jose was less than ideal—investors had been trying to wring cash out of the area for decades, with paltry success—and the lessees so far were underwhelming: small businesses she’d never heard of, without a single anchor tenant of the sort needed to attract and sustain traffic to a center of its size. And she’d been far from impressed by the model condo, though Arman had repeatedly given his assurances that the cheap carpet and countertops could each be upgraded, that a full selection of flooring options was available. “Of course you’d want something better,” he’d crooned. “It’s because you have taste.” But then she’d walked onto the balcony and noticed how flimsy the bearings were, alarming on a two-hundred-unit complex. Eventually a few would give way, and then they’d all have to be redone to code. Didn’t these people know anything?

  Cut it out, she wanted to scream. She already knew none of her friends would invest. If there existed a single topic local Taiwan University graduates were universally expert on, it was high-quality Bay Area real estate. But she and Winston hadn’t yet developed that inner code between couples for when it was time for the other party to shut up, so he prattled on for nearly five minutes, to the point where even Shirley Chang looked bored, having ceased mining the diatribe for interesting morsels of gossip.

  Finally, Yvonne intervened. “Winston,” she said. “I’m such a dummy with real estate; Jackson takes care of everything. Maybe we can discuss another topic I can actually contribute to. Otherwise, I’m sure to feel bad about myself. Help this dumb old lady out, will you?”

  Afterward, when it seemed as though the conversation was deliberately being kept away from Winston and thu
s her, volleyed between the other parties by unspoken agreement, Linda sat in rigid silence. Waves of humiliation over being the least popular group at the table warred with the relief of no longer having to engage. Despite her agony, Winston, the social butterfly of the two, seemed utterly unaware of their banishment: stroking her hand, whispering tender words; continuing to pepper himself throughout the conversation, the few instances he could. At one point in his excitement he knocked over her wine, spilling its contents into her lap. “Oh no!” he cried, as he clutched for a napkin. “I’m so embarrassed! I’m a clumsy fool!”

  Yvonne materialized beside her. “Do you need a stain remover pen?” she asked. “Here’s mine; you can take it to the bathroom.”

  “There’s no need,” Linda replied calmly. The red blotch continued its merciless progress on her cream Akris skirt—given the delicate fabric, she already knew it was a goner. She had watched Winston for some time as he waved his hands in conversation, observing the path his palm made with each gesture, its narrowing proximity to her glass. Had understood the inevitable conclusion, yet done nothing.

  After all, how could you stop an event already fated to happen?

  Chapter 20

  Fred

  Just over eight weeks earlier—as he had sat hunched over in his leatherette seat, two rows from the back of the plane on the four-hour connection to Bali from Hong Kong—Fred had opened his Smythson journal and scrawled out his goals for the year: