And then what? Even though the Fund had been kind of a vague idea – I’d have it if I needed it – now the idea rapidly began to solidify: if was now when. Claude wasn’t getting better, he was getting worse. We were no longer the perfect family I’d dreamed we’d be. And there’d be no more children; that had been made quite clear.
It was ironic: I’d grown up with money, and lived surrounded by it now, but now I was scraping together what I could in secret. But then I remembered an account Claude had opened in my name when we first got married – a five-thousand-dollar investment in the Piermont Fund.
No time like the present.
On a Wednesday morning, without an appointment, I went to the Boston Guarantee Trust Bank and asked for Mr. Nelson, an officer in the private client department, although even to qualify as a customer, one had to have at least ten million. I wasn’t sure he would be in, but in order to pre-empt a call to Claude, I decided to take the chance of just showing up instead of making an appointment, and maybe catch the banker off guard. I hadn’t seen him since Claude introduced me to him three years earlier when we set up our own checking accounts; Claude had wanted to keep my household account separate from his, and we needed to sign the paperwork and provide signatures for their files.
While we were signing the papers, Mr. Nelson had mentioned the high-yield Piermont Fund – “Perfect for you. Put a little something in and let it sit,” – and Claude, clearly bored with any proceedings that did not touch directly on his work, said, “Fine,” and I’d signed the paper.
I’d had no communication with Mr. Nelson since that meeting and as I entered the bank I realized I was entering a regulation old boys’ club with high ceilings, dark, paneled walls, brass-studded green leather chairs, and urbane male voices; but my need overrode my fears. I had to have that money. Five thousand dollars – or whatever it was now – in addition to what I’d garner from the cataloguing, would move me closer to my goal and my freedom. My story for this meeting was that I wanted to do something special for Claude’s birthday, but it was to be a surprise, therefore I had to cash out the fund quietly, and I needed Mr. Nelson’s collusion.
Now, as he rose from behind his desk to greet me, he reminded me of Sydney Greenstreet in Casablanca: crisp white linen suit, banker’s paunch, sagging jowls, and a polite professional smile.
“How nice to see you again, Mrs. Giraud. You just caught me on my way out, I’m afraid,” he said.
“Oh, I know I should have called and made an appointment, but I was out anyway and thought I’d take a chance and drop in,” I said, shaking his hand.
“Please have a seat,” he said. He waved me to one of the leather armchairs in front of his desk. “And how is the good doctor?”
“He’s fine, and so busy,” I said.
“I can only imagine how full Dr. Giraud’s life must be,” he said.
“Yes, it’s unbelievably… unbelievable.”
“We are so pleased to have him as our client…”
I hoped he wouldn’t break into song.
“…He’s such a gentleman, and that’s so hard to find these days with this, this…” – he fluttered his fingers – “…dot-com extravaganza going on. Those people don’t seem to understand that there’s more to life than trying to make a killing overnight,” he said, touching his polka-dot tie. “Anyway, enough of that. How may I help you today?”
“I’d like to cash in my Piermont Fund,” I said.
“Ah, yes, the Piermont – great investment… let’s see what we have here,” he said as he pulled out a manila file from a lower desk drawer.
“You see, I’m planning a surprise for my husband’s birthday—”
“How nice, but I’m afraid cashing out of the Piermont Fund is out of the question.” He looked up and stared at me with hooded eyes.
“What do you mean?”
“Your husband transferred those funds, let’s see… yes, two months ago.”
“But how could he?” I gasped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“But wasn’t it mine? It was in my name,” I said in disbelief.
“Well, let me see… ah. Yes, it was in your name.”
“Then he couldn’t have transferred the funds!”
Nelson glanced up sharply.
“But Mrs. Giraud, I said the fund was in your name. You see,” he said, “Dr. Giraud obtained cosignatory status in June?… yes, in June. The eleventh.”
“I don’t understand.”
Nelson laid the file on his desk and put his fingertips together, and I recognized the time honored signal: I was about to have reality explained to me.
“Your husband said he needed to transfer the funds, which was problematic; but as he was amenable to adding fifty-one per cent of the invested total to the Piermont, he was allowed to reconfigure its original investment terms. It’s quite common, and all there in the fine print, I believe. And at any rate, because he assured me that he had discussed it with you, I saw no reason not to transfer the funds as he wished, for the benefit of all parties.”
He twirled his gold fountain pen and then placed it on his green blotter and discreetly glanced at his watch, then looked up at me.
“Had you not discussed the transfer with your husband?”
“Yes, of course, I must have forgotten.” I sagged back into the tufted seat, flushed and angry.
“Well, then, no harm done,” he said, as he put the file back into the drawer.
“No, none at all. You’ve been so helpful, Mr. Nelson. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my husband that I was here. As I said, I’m planning a surprise for his birthday, and I wouldn’t want him to find out.”
“Yes, you mentioned that. Don’t you worry, Mrs. Giraud. Surprise birthdays are so important. Mum’s the word, only let me know how it turns out.”
“Oh, I will.”
“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Mrs. Giraud?”
“No, I don’t think so, Mr. Nelson. I’ve already taken up too much of your time.”
“Not at all.”
We both stood, and he escorted me to the door.
“Oh, just one last question,” I said. “Just out of curiosity: if my husband wanted to take money out of my checking account – to invest, or whatever – could he do that, too?”
Nelson’s face went cold.
“Certainly not, unless the account was in both of your names.”
“I see,” I said, reading the lie in his eyes.
I walked back out through the cool dark bank and into the unforgiving sunlight, then stopped and leaned for a moment against the limestone of the bank building. Liar – liar. They were all liars. Who could I even ask about this – and what would be the point if I did? Men in suits walked by, on their way in or out of the bank or other places of business, where money changed hands easily over handshakes and smiles. Clearly Claude had decided it was a bad idea to let me have access to significant funds. But he had given me a bag of cash for the Island, so I guess he trusted me that far – and I had turned it to my advantage.
I returned home and to life as I knew it, skimming a little money from my household account from week to week, and terrified that Claude would find out. But the money I earned from working for Victoria was adding up.
*
Gillian called, breathless and giggly. “I was going to tell you something when I saw you, but it’s taking forever for me to get a day when I can actually take some time off, so I’ll tell you now.”
“What is it?”
“Oh, maybe I made it sound like it’s something bad, but I didn’t mean to.” (More giggling.) “I guess I’ll just say it. I’m in love!”
I was more than startled. The last I’d heard her life among the male sex was restricted to those wearing white coats, and her trainer, who barely spoke English.
“Wow, who is he?” I asked.
“His name’s Cooper Wiggins – isn’t it funny? Right out of Dickens. He’s in his last year of a psych
iatry residency, and…” She was quiet for a moment and then blurted out, laughing, “He’s just perfect!”
We instantly agreed that instead of trying to juggle schedules and have lunch, we would have a couples dinner, Gillian and Cooper, and me and Claude. “That way you can meet him and tell me what you think,” she said, “and maybe when the men are talking, you can fill me in on what’s been happening with you. I miss you, and I hope things are okay.”
“I miss you, too!”
On the night of the dinner, Claude stood before the mirror in our bedroom and knotted his tie. “Remind me again why we need to see these people.”
“Daddy, you look fancy,” said Rose, who’d come into the room, and he smiled down at her.
“We don’t need to see them,” I said. “But Gillian’s my best friend, and I’m happy for her. I really want to meet her boyfriend.”
There was a casual, friendly feel to the restaurant Gillian had chosen: blue-and-white checked tablecloths, ships’ lanterns glowing romantically, a wood-beamed ceiling recessed in the dim overhead, and Billie Holliday softly playing in the background. We sat at a table in the front. Through the window fall leaves blew around the street as people hurried past in coats with turned-up collars, holding bags of groceries, or wearing backpacks undoubtedly filled with student papers and books, or carrying briefcases filled with work from the office – life, it looked so right. We ordered drinks; Claude had his neat bourbon, and the three of us sipped our wine.
“So, how did you two meet?” I asked, taking a good look at Cooper, a tall, dark-haired man with deep-set eyes and a great smile. He reminded me a little of Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life. And of Nathaniel in real life.
“In the cafeteria at the hospital.” Gillian laughed. “We were standing in line at the checkout.”
Cooper said, “It was such a long line, and I noticed this beautiful woman right in front of me, holding a tray with a tuna fish sandwich on rye.” He smiled adoringly at Gillian.
“And you had a ham and cheese,” Gillian said, smiling hugely, blushing and taking up the somewhat comical chronicle. “Which you had most days, because I’d seen you there before.” She turned to Claude and me and said, “He was so cute. He looked like a fifth-grader in line at the school cafeteria.” She put her hand up to his chin and gave it a little caress and giggled.
I’d known her for nearly twenty years, and I had now heard her giggle three times – all in the period of a week.
“And she looked like a sixth-grader,” said Cooper. “So I tapped her on the shoulder and asked her if she’d like to join me. To my amazement, she said yes.”
“And we’ve been together ever since,” Gillian said.
“That’s so wonderful,” I said. “How long ago was this cafeteria encounter?”
“Three months next week,” said Cooper.
“We’ll have to plan something special to celebrate,” Gillian said. “We’re trying to work out our schedules so we can go away together for Thanksgiving. Where was that place you wanted to go, babe? It was somewhere warm.”
“Saint Croix.”
“Well, that’s where we’ll go, schedules permitting. What are you two doing for Thanksgiving?” Gillian asked me.
“Well, I wanted to go up to Nantucket with Rose and do the tree lighting over the weekend, but Claude doesn’t—”
“It’s one of my busiest weeks, so we can’t go,” Claude interrupted. It was one of the few contributions he’d made so far. He gestured to the waiter to bring him another drink, and I felt a stab of apprehension. It was never good when he had several drinks in quick succession.
“But Claude,” said Gillian, “It’s not until Christmas vacation that you get flooded with all the school kids wanting new noses, is it? Surely Thanksgiving is manageable.”
Claude just glowered at her from across the table and didn’t say anything.
That little bitch Gillian.
I changed the subject.
“How’s your work going?”
“Incredible,” she said, but her eyes lingered on Claude’s face for a moment. “And so many fascinating cases with your father. He’s amazing even at his age. A real dynamo. I can’t imagine him ever stopping. What about you, Katie? How’s your job with Victoria Langley?”
My heart stopped. Shit. I looked down into my glass of wine, wishing it was a pool I could dive into and keep swimming forever. I’d casually mentioned my work with Victoria to Gillian when we went to the ladies’ room before we sat down. But in the excitement and fun of seeing her, I’d neglected to tell her that the job was a secret from Claude.
“What job is this?” Claude now looked quite alert.
“Oh, it’s not really a job – that’s an exaggeration,” I said with a false and slightly hysterical laugh.
“Then what is it?”
“I’m just doing a bit of cataloguing,” I said. “Victoria – uh, Mrs. Langley has a magnificent art collection, and I’m helping her out.”
“Is she paying you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quietly.
“Well, then, it’s a job,” said Claude. “And this is the first I’ve heard of it. I’m always the last to know.”
“Claude, we could discuss this later—”
“You see, this is why you two should never get married,” Claude said to a visibly uneasy Cooper. “Instead, you should just keep dating. The minute you get married, your wife starts to keep secrets from you, and then you barely know what’s going on in your own home.” He faced me. “What else don’t I know, Katie? Any lovers on the side? Any other children?”
No one laughed at his snide joke.
“Well, I think it’s great that Katie’s using her talents,” said Gillian. “I’m sure you must be very proud of her, Claude. She’s smart and she’s gifted.”
Claude gave her an icy look, then turned to Cooper again. “I suppose you two operate together?”
“Oh, no. I’m not a surgeon – quite the opposite.”
“What does that mean?” Claude said flatly.
“Well, I only meant that I find my way inside people through different means,” Cooper said. “I’m a psychiatric resident at Boston General.”
“Oh. Psychiatry. Well, at least you went to medical school, unlike the great unwashed majority of so-called helping profession nitwits.” The waiter set Claude’s bourbon in front of him, and he lifted it as if in a toast. “Now that Freudian psychology is dead and antidepressants have taken over so-called talk therapy, we live in a culture of zonked-out, hypnotized drones, while you psychiatrists rake in the dough.”
“Whoa, Claude, that’s quite a criticism,” Cooper said, clearly taken aback but smiling and undaunted. I felt a stab of envy for Gillian. “But you’re right: I did attend medical school, so that must count for something. Where did you go to school?”
“The Sorbonne.”
“Oh, hey – I studied in Paris, too.”
Gillian and I exchanged a quick, relieved glance: common ground would get the dinner back on track.
“Where?” Claude asked. He idly swirled his drink.
“Well, actually I trained at Columbia, but I did a fellowship in Paris, at Sainte-Anne Hsospital. I studied neuroscience with Marcel Belanger and did a year’s research.”
“Oh. Yes, Sainte-Anne. Good reputation.”
“The best,” Gillian said, grinning and giving Cooper’s arm a squeeze.
“But,” Cooper said, also smiling, “I still detect a good deal of animosity coming across the table. Surely you don’t believe psychiatry is all bunk, Claude – or all talk. Or just a matter of pills and prescriptions.”
“Spoken like a true psychiatrist,” said Claude. “Telling me what I should think. Well analyze this. Most of the psychiatrists I’ve met have more problems than their patients. They are socially maladjusted people who are afraid of blood and who prefer to sit in a cushy office all day and doze off while half listening to people’s sob stories instead of actually changi
ng the quality of people’s lives. And as for their patients, why can’t they just solve their own problems? My mother took sporadic ‘vacations’ in sanatoriums when life was too much for her, and then both my parents were killed in a plane crash when I was a young man – killed, their bodies mangled and burned to death, and I received a phone call in the middle of the night with this news.”
“Well… Jesus, of course that’s horrifying,” said Cooper. “That shouldn’t happen to anyone, and I’m sorry that it happened to you, Claude. What was your father’s name?”
Claude waved his hand. “The point I’m trying to make is that I didn’t need to go see some full-of-shit psychiatrist in order to ‘get over’ the news.” His voice rose, and people around us began glancing our way. “Instead I had to just get on with it, right? That’s all that any of us can do. If we cry into our beer and say, ‘Woe is me, life is so hard,’ then we’re all just a bunch of sissies. Everyone’s parents will eventually die. We ourselves will eventually be dead. It’s la condition humaine, n’est-ce pas? And there isn’t a psychiatrist in the world who can change that.” Claude took a long swallow of his bourbon, his eyes bright and hard.
“Oh, this is a typical surgeon’s point of view,” said Gillian. “Your idea of dealing with a problem is to cut, not analyze. But Claude, Cooper has broadened my view and shown me how beneficial good therapy can be.”
“Really?” Claude said drily. “This must be quite the romance. Do you lie on a couch together and tell each other sad stories about your childhoods? Or about the time you skinned your knee when you were five, and the resulting emotional scars?”
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