by Zoe Whittall
Kevin left the meeting with a slight buzz and instructions to write a two-page synopsis that would go out to publishers the following week. He walked north on First Avenue feeling drunk and high on his own ambition. He bought a copy of a Lorrie Moore book from the guy selling them on the sidewalk at East Tenth. He felt as though he could run away from his life in Avalon Hills and make up for the years of banal drudgery and failure. If his next book was successful, maybe he could move back to the city.
He wrote the pitch on his iPad on the train back to Avalon Hills. The ride, normally three hours, passed in a flash. He sent the proposal, arriving home with a few hours to spare before the family would return.
The house was empty. He poured himself another drink. He wished he had someone to high-five.
nine
joan, clara, and Bennie sat in a cubicle at the First National Bank, on plush ergonomic office chairs upholstered in uniform beige that reminded Joan of the hospital. Across the desk was a pretty South Asian woman named Mary, wearing a blinding red blouse that was giving Joan a headache. Mary was smiling at her in a pained, pitying way as she clicked on her keyboard and stared at the computer screen. She could be surfing Facebook for all Joan knew.
Bennie sat beside them, clicking on his iPhone, rubbing his left foot with his right. Joan had a motherly urge to tap his leg and insist that he stop fidgeting. Above Mary’s head were posters of happy bank customers, living various dreams of financial security. One couple stood on a beach, another in front of their first home.
Like many of the tasks required of Joan since the arrest, this one involved what seemed like an endless amount of waiting and personal discomfort.
Mary turned the computer on its swivel stand and tapped her pen at a number.
“This is the balance of George’s account,” she said.
The number was so far below what she’d assumed that her voice made a sound she’d never heard before; it was the sound of trying to speak and nothing coming out. Not even a whisper. Mary looked oblivious. After all, this could be a tidy sum to Joan.
“Where has his money gone?” she wondered aloud. “Are you certain?”
Mary turned the screen back and tapped away at the keyboard. She paused. “Yes. His other accounts are frozen. The family trust money cannot be accessed until it comes to term, so that should be reassuring. This is the money that is available to you, as his wife.”
“Perhaps this is just the tip of the iceberg,” Clara said gently. “Maybe there are other things that you don’t know.”
Mary looked at them helplessly, aware now of what was happening. Joan picked up the container of hand sanitizer on the desk and pumped it once into her palm. She felt the beginnings of what could best be called catastrophic humiliation and bewilderment as she rubbed her hands together, wriggling her fingers as the alcohol dried, the smell making her nauseated.
“Can you double-check the balance of my account?” she asked, even though she knew what it was, and Sadie had just taught her how to check her balance at home online. She was second-guessing everything. She rubbed at her eyes wearily, the sanitizer causing them to sting. “And our joint chequing account, the trust account for my daughter, Sadie, that her grandparents left for her.”
Joan always thought that her savings were modest in comparison with Woodbury money, but she felt secure with it. The joint chequing account was also relatively modest, as every month money was transferred from George’s savings account with the excellent interest rate, so that they could maximize savings.
Or so she had thought.
“If I can’t pay his bail tomorrow, what do I do?”
“You’ll get a bail bond if you have to,” Bennie said.
Joan made a face. Mary looked embarrassed to be overhearing this conversation, twirling a gold wedding ring around in circles.
“People will probably think you’re being strong if you don’t,” said Clara. “Or cruel. It definitely appears as though you’re rolling in it.”
“I’m not mortgaging the house, and I’m not cashing in Sadie’s college money or her trust fund. My retirement is off limits. I don’t want to do anything rash because, come on” — she looked at both of them — “this is going to be over soon. For god’s sake, this is just a weird roadblock. They won’t find him guilty. George isn’t a monster.”
Joan was aware of airing her laundry in a public place, in front of a stranger, in a room full of people who had read the morning’s paper. She stared up at the photo of the couple on the beach. The grey-haired woman was barefoot, smugly sunk into the sand with triumph. Joan stood up and excused herself, walking through the near-empty bank and out to the street. She held back her tears until her hand pressed against the automatic door, and she was sobbing by the time she held the door awkwardly for an elderly woman coming in, balancing on a cane. The woman had a face like her late mother, and when she smiled, Joan sobbed more.
Joan’s mother had always taught her to be practical and save a percentage of every paycheque, but the money that allowed her to feel as though nothing was ever impossible — that was the Woodbury money, the money she assumed would be there forever. Joan cursed herself for not paying more attention, for thinking that everything would always be fine.
Clara and Bennie joined her on the street, lead her to Bennie’s Lexus in the parking lot. He drove silently on to the small municipal jail where George was being held until the hearing. When he pulled into a spot, Joan put her hand out and touched his arm.
“Did you know, Bennie, about the money?”
“No, no, I didn’t.”
“Where could it have gone? I know how much we had when we got married, I’ve checked it over the years. It’s practically gone.”
“Thirty years ago a lot of money was quite a different amount, and our memories, you know, don’t stay the same. Plus all the trust funds are still there, for the kids at twenty-five, thirty-five, and yours. You’ll still get more when you retire, of course. If you, uh, stay together.”
Clara snorted in the back seat, opening her door. “I think you need to remember, Joan: Bennie is George’s lawyer, not yours.”
Bennie ignored Clara’s comment and led them to the front door, holding it open for them. The Avalon Hills police station looked a lot like the post office that neighboured it — standard bureaucratic decor, unchanged in generations. Joan had been here once, for what she couldn’t remember. They talked to the front desk clerk, who signed them in. “The mayor is in with him now. It will be a few minutes,” the clerk said.
“The mayor?” Clara said.
“They’re old friends,” explained Joan. “Their families go way back, generations, in fact.” After a few more stale minutes she began to resent the mayor, taking up George’s time when his family was waiting. When the mayor came out, his voice boomed her name across the room, and he held his arms outstretched for a hug.
“This is just awful, Joannie, just awful. We’ll get it sorted.”
She pulled back and looked at him, his face red from a drink or two at lunch, his hair a uniform silver, stiff with product. “Thanks so much,” she said, unsure if she really felt appreciative.
Clara was bug-eyed at this, incredulous. “It’s not a traffic ticket,” she muttered under her breath as the mayor walked away. She grabbed Joan’s hand as they waited. They were going in first, and then Bennie would meet with him privately.
When she finally got into the meeting room, Joan was surprised to see that it was nothing like on tv — no glass partition, no shackles. It was a simple room with a table and three chairs, with a uniformed policeman at the door. George wore the same clothes.
“Oh, Joan, I have never been so happy to see you in all of my life,” he said, embracing her in a hug. When they pulled back, he looked to Joan’s sister. “Thanks so much for being here for us, Clara. It means a lot.”
“We have a lot of qu
estions for you, George,” Clara said evenly, as she sat down across from him.
“I didn’t do it. It’s all lies. All of it. Someone is out to get me. You know me. You know I’m not like that.”
“Why would anyone want to do this to you?” Joan fought to keep her voice steady.
“I haven’t a clue, Joan. I haven’t a clue. I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, you know that, right? I’m not a pervert.”
Joan nodded, didn’t say anything out loud.
“The bail, has Bennie spoken to you about that?”
“We’re about to talk about it. Your personal assets have been seized. I still have my accounts, and a portion of our shared money. I’m not sure how I’m going to do it, unless I take a mortgage out on the house, and I couldn’t do that.”
“There’s the children’s trusts.”
“George …” She took a deep breath. “Legally, the trusts can’t be touched. And you are innocent and this will all be undone shortly. We can’t go broke in the meantime.” She wasn’t sure she believed her own words but knew that they would help the situation. In her mind all that she had access to was their shared emergency money, their money to use in retirement when her nurses’ pension paid out something comparable to welfare. She didn’t tell him what she had found out. Yet something clicked in her gut that said something isn’t right. But that’s all she could decipher. Not what wasn’t right, but that something wasn’t adding up. For the first time in almost thirty years of marriage she questioned how well she knew the man she’d shared a bed with since she was practically a girl.
“I need to know …” she began, hesitating. “I need to know why those girls said what they did. All of them. Some of them don’t even know each other, George. Why would they all be lying? Why?” Her voice came out like a strangle. She didn’t want to bring up what had happened at the bank. The possibility of what it meant kept her from mentioning it just then.
“I haven’t the foggiest, Joan. I really don’t know. I feel like I’m in a nightmare, a conspiracy, that everyone is suddenly against me.”
“Tell her the fucking truth, George,” Clara insisted.
“Clara …” Joan said. “Let him talk.” She was surprised by the desperation in her voice, the only time she’d heard it like that outside the hospital, where it came in handy when motivating a patient to calm down.
“I’ve been framed, Joan.”
Joan wanted to believe him. There were so many details, specific details, compelling details. But who was she to trust? The man who had never let her down, not even once, in their entire marriage? The one who promised to love her, grow old with her? Or faceless police and children she didn’t raise?
They were silent for nearly a minute before she blurted out, “Why is there so much money missing from our bank account?”
George withdrew his hand and rubbed it along his jawline. “What do you mean?”
“I just came from the bank. There is significantly less than I expected.”
“That’s because I moved some money into investments, trying to maximize what we had. I didn’t tell Bennie. I’ll let him know.”
“What investments?”
“Honey, you’re asking a lot of me to remember all these details right now. I’m in jail. We’ll figure out your money questions when I’m out, okay? We’ll be fine. We always are. Money isn’t an issue.”
The guard at the door motioned to them that their time was up.
“What is the mayor going to do for you?” Joan asked as she stood.
“I don’t know,” George said, “but he’ll do what he can. He’s promised. He trusts me.”
Joan reached out and grabbed his hand. Clara was already outside, waiting by the locked exit door. Joan squeezed his hand and his eyes lined with tears.
“I love you, my Joannie.”
She turned and left, chest heavy, axis off-kilter. One eye seemed more open than the other, and she felt as though she were on a boat, the floor moving uncontrollably.
Joan loved to be in control. She could orchestrate and delegate and be a leader. This was the first time in years she wished someone could just tell her what to do, what was right. She wasn’t able to understand and then organize her thoughts and make a plan. She got back into Bennie’s car. He drove fast. Why does everyone think they’re in a race? It’s so aggravating, nauseating. She gripped the edge of her seat when he turned the corners too quickly. The heat was on so high she thought she might throw up.
“Can you let me out, please?” Her voice came out in a squeak. Bennie was startled and pulled over to the gravel shoulder.
“Are you sure, Joan? It’s still quite a ways.”
“I’ll come with you,” Clara said, unbuckling her seatbelt.
“No, I need to be alone,” she said, exiting the car, taking deep inhales of fresh air. Maybe she’d go into the woods and burrow there. Maybe that’s what she needed. Her head was a thick ball of yarn. She walked down into the ditch and up the other side, pressing her fingers into the tiny rocks to help herself up. She was a few rows of trees in when she was startled by a red fox that darted past. She held on to the trunk of a teenaged maple and caught her breath. She pulled away some bark, dug a heel into the dirt, gently and then forcefully making a hole.
joan got home an hour later. To avoid reporters, she’d gone to the public dock behind the Coffee Hut and taken one of the tourist rowboats. John, who manned the dock, waved from his chair inside the little hut where he spent most of his days in the off-season. She yelled that she’d return it, and he nodded. She rowed slowly around the curve of the lake, close to shore, before tying off at her own dock. She walked barefoot up the hill, startling Andrew, who was looking out the kitchen window. She put her shoes back on and let the cat inside the back door.
Andrew was sitting in the kitchen with Clara.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I took the rowboat home,” she said, noticing that Clara was fixating on his laptop. She walked over to read the headline on a blog: perversion runs in the family.
“You can’t just take off right now, Mom. We were getting worried.”
“What are you reading?”
Andrew turned the laptop away. “Don’t bother.”
“No, I need to know everything.”
He turned the screen to face her.
Infamous high school teacher George Woodbury’s son attended Avalon Hills preparatory school and started a gay-straight alliance club while protesting the school’s reluctance to allow him to bring a male companion to the prom. Former school secretary Milicent Yardrow told the press it was believed Andrew’s opinions were tolerated because of the Woodburys’ long-standing financial support of the school. He has since graduated from nyu law school, with a thesis exploring legal issues surrounding the decriminalization of prostitution in America. “I think leftist kooks like this family can hide in all of their money,” said the president of the Values Council.
“Values Council? How did these types of organizations gain credibility?”
Clara nodded her head. “Totally. Thank god you got out of this town, Andrew.”
A megaphone outside yelled, “Can we speak to the son? Is Andrew Woodbury there? Just a few questions and we’ll leave you alone.”
“No, they won’t,” said Clara, continuing to tear up a head of slightly wilting lettuce. “Don’t speak to the press at all. They will spin you all to hell, as evidence.” She held up the paper and read, “‘Wife Joan Woodbury is a nurse at the Avalon Hills trauma centre and is a respected member of the community. But how could a wife of over twenty years not know her husband’s predilections?’”
“Stop reading, Clara,” Joan said.
“I think the only way to deal with this is to look at it as a problem we need to solve,” Andrew said.
“It’s not like we’re capable of being
objective,” said Clara.
“But you can hear the facts, or what appear to be the facts, and have an instinct. And I understand that all human beings are capable of exercising bad judgement, of behaving immorally. Dad is not exempt from that reality, but I’m too astonished by this. It’s too odd.”
Joan leaned against the kitchen cabinets, her chest filling with what felt like sparks of hope. If Andrew, someone with a complicated understanding of criminology and the law, in addition to loving and knowing his father, could feel this, then maybe she wasn’t deluded. His stance fuelled her intense leanings towards denial, already ripe for expansion. She and Andrew would fight this.
“What did the bank say?” Andrew asked.
“He’ll have to stay in jail until the trial. We’re broke,” she said. “Basically, we’re fucking broke, and I have no idea why.”
Andrew ran his hand under his chin for a moment. “I have the money. I’ll get him out. I just have to call my broker.”
Joan shook her head. “No, Andrew. That money is for your future, and I won’t allow it.”
“He could be in for a long time. I can’t let him stay there.”
“How long could it be? He’s innocent.”
Clara, holding a glass of red wine, went outside. Andrew joined her and they watched the sun sink behind the mountains across the lake. Joan sat at the kitchen table making lists of things to get done, anchored by tasks, her jaw clenching and toes tapping against the floor.
Monday Evening
ten
Andrew half-heartedly scooped the winged insects and various detritus floating atop the pool with a long net, banging the metal pole against the grass to empty it. Clara watched, holding a glass of wine, taken from a bottle in the off-limits cellar in the basement.
“I don’t know how to help your mom, kid,” Clara said to Andrew, who paused mid-skim to look at her and then kept at it. “Joan is usually the one conspiring to help me out.” She laughed. “I’m not sure what anyone can do for her that will make any difference.”