The Wrong Kind of Money

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “Thanks,” Carol says. She consults her watch. “But we’ve really got to be going, Noah. We mustn’t keep these people waiting.”

  He sighs. “No, I suppose not.” He stands up slowly. “I guess you know how much I’m dreading this.”

  “I know. So let’s just go and get it over with.”

  At first it was very hard for him to reconcile the appearance of Melody’s parents with her descriptions of them. Paul Richards was a short, slightly built man in his early fifties, with a receding hairline and graying at the temples, and a small mustache. Where was the tall, well-muscled bronzed Adonis that Melody had described? He looked more like what he was—a scholar and translator or, as his letterhead proclaimed him, a foreign affairs officer.

  His wife, to Noah, seemed almost incredibly chic. Celeste Richards, slightly taller than her husband, wore a navy Chanel suit with paler blue piping at the collar and cuffs. Her long, dark bangs were parted precisely at the center of her forehead to reveal a perfect oval face and wide, dark eyes.

  Noah had not wanted to have this meeting. But we must,” Carol said. “They’re coming to New York to take her home. We’ve got to see them after they’ve come all this way. After all, she was our houseguest. We were supposed to be taking care of her. We were supposed to be—”

  “Her surrogate parents.”

  “Yes.”

  “At least that’s the way we advertised ourselves,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  And so then the question became: Where would be the best place to have this meeting? It did not seem quite right, Carol pointed out, to invite Mr. and Mrs. Richards to River House, where it had all happened, even though the apartment was now for sale. To meet them at a restaurant, or in a hotel lobby, or even at a private club, seemed inappropriate as well. Finally Carol had a suggestion. “They have these small, private rooms at Frank Campbell’s,” she pointed out. “They’re more like little sitting rooms, for smaller services, or for families to wait in, before going into the main chapel. Let’s see if I can arrange to get us one of those. They’re really very pretty, very quiet, very private.…”

  “I’ll see that you have one of what we call our slumber rooms,” the man at Campbell’s told her.

  “Just a small room. There’ll only be the four of us. And we won’t need it for much more than an hour.”

  “I know exactly what you want, Mrs. Liebling.”

  And so that is where the four are sitting now. That morning Carol thought to have two small arrangements of white summer flowers sent over for this room. The people from Campbell’s placed them on two Chippendale side tables. In its hermetic stillness, the room smells of lilies and tea roses and a single lighted Rigaud candle.

  The afternoon uniform of Campbell’s staff—dark flannel trousers and dark blue single-breasted blazers—made them look more like English university dons than mortuary attendants. And after ushering them into this room, the Campbell’s man excused himself briefly, and then returned with a small walnut box with a bronze plaque bearing Melody’s name and dates. He placed this on a low table in front of the sofa where her parents sat. “We wish her a safe journey home,” he said softly. Then he quietly withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  Now Melody’s mother reaches out and touches the box. Her father does the same, and their fingertips meet, then withdraw.

  Carol is the first to speak. “We’re both just so terribly sorry,” she says. “There’s really not much else either of us can say.” Without looking at Noah, she says, “We were both terribly fond of Melody. Anne has always been—well, a little flighty and impulsive and high-strung. We liked Melody so much because she seemed to be such a stabilizing influence. We’re going to miss her very much. That’s just about all I can say.”

  Celeste Richards says, “Perhaps the way to think of this is as Kami no Michi, as the Japanese say. The way of the gods. And in Japan we say, yao-yorodzu-no-kami. There are eight hundred myriad deities.”

  “You speak Japanese?”

  “Oh, yes. I teach English three mornings a week at a Japanese school. It’s a fascinating culture. Having lived as long as I have in the Far East, I don’t think I could ever live anywhere else. Even here, in New York, where I was born, everything seems strange now. Neither Paul nor I can wait to get home.”

  Noah says, turning to Paul Richards, “I understand you have regular meetings with the emperor at the imperial palace.”

  Paul Richards looks briefly confused. “No,” he says. “In fact, I don’t think there’s anybody on the embassy staff, including the ambassador, who’s actually met the emperor. Most Japanese have never laid eyes on the emperor and empress. It’s not like England. The Japanese royal family almost never appears in public. They’re very cloistered. It’s part of their mystique.”

  “I see,” Noah says.

  “Still, that’s part of the excitement of living in that culture,” Celeste Richards says. “Unfortunately, our daughter never felt that way. She couldn’t wait to come to America. You see, it’s been quite a few years since Paul and I have felt really close to our daughter.”

  “We used to be close,” her husband says. “But then, when she was eleven or twelve—”

  “She changed.”

  “It was as though she suddenly grew up too fast. Became an adult too fast.”

  “She became—so ambitious.”

  “One minute she was a little girl. And the next minute she was—this ambitious young woman. Almost a stranger to us.”

  “Or so it seemed,” his wife says.

  “She was determined to go to school in America.”

  “And you were opposed?” Noah says.

  “Oh, no. We wanted her to choose her own life.”

  “She told me how she applied for the full scholarship at Ethel Walker,” Noah says.

  “Scholarship? No, there was no scholarship,” Celeste Richards says. “She wanted to go to Ethel Walker because she’d heard it was fashionable. The same thing with Bennington. She wanted to go to school with rich people.”

  “So ambitious,” her husband says again.

  “I thought she mentioned—a scholarship,” Noah says.

  “Perhaps she meant that the State Department paid for her transportation,” Paul Richards says. “They often do that for children who want to go to school in America.”

  “It was a toss-up between Walker and Farmington,” his wife says. “We’d applied to both for her. She chose Walker.”

  “So ambitious.”

  “To become a great actress, I suppose,” Carol says.

  “Well, perhaps that was part of it,” Melody’s mother says. “She wanted success. Fame. Money. Power. All those things. She became a stranger to us. We tried. She was never deprived.”

  There is a little silence, and the Rigaud candle on the table between them flickers, sputters. Paul Richards sighs. “Still,” he says, “it’s tough to lose your only child.”

  Noah studies his fingers. “I thought she mentioned an older sister. Cassie?”

  “No, there was only Missy.”

  “Missy?”

  “We named her Melissa. But she complained that there were three other Melissas at her school. So she started calling herself Melody.”

  “Again, that was when she was eleven or twelve,” Paul Richards says.

  “I guess she thought the name Melody sounded more—”

  “More suitable to the stage?” Carol suggests.

  “Well. It was the name she chose for America,” Celeste Richards says. “More dramatic perhaps. More unusual. More memorable.”

  Noah says, “Was there ever a boy named—” But he leaves the question unfinished.

  “No, there was only Missy. And we were a very close-knit little family, until she suddenly became so—”

  “Ambitious,” her husband says. He presses the thumb and forefinger of his left hand against his eyelids.

  “Yes,” his wife agrees. “She wanted the sun, the moon, the stars, everything.
Nothing was ever good enough for her.”

  Noah turns to Paul. Clearing his throat, he says, “She told me about how you and she used to go scuba diving together.”

  Celeste Richards laughs softly. “She may have done some scuba diving, but certainly never with Paul. Paul’s terrified of the water.”

  Paul Richards looks sheepish. “I’ve never learned to swim,” he says. “That can be a bit of an embarrassment when you live in a small island nation. I get teased about it.”

  There is another silence, and then Celeste Richards rises, smoothing the front of her skirt with the palm of her hand. “I want to take home just one of these,” she says. “May I?” And she plucks one small white rosebud from one of the pair of flower arrangements, and drops it into her Chanel bag.

  Outside on the street again, Carol says, “Well, we got through that. If we got through that, we can probably get through anything.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I think so. I hope so. What do you think?”

  “I hope so, too. I’m going to try.”

  “I’m going to try, too. I’m going to try very hard, Noah.”

  “Thank you, Madame Museum Trustee.”

  “And thank you, Mr. President and CEO.” She tucks one hand into the crook of his elbow. With the other she shades her eyes from the sun. “It’s such a pretty day,” she says. “Shall we walk back home? After all, sometimes it’s just a question of putting one foot after the other, as your father used to say. We can’t promise what’s going to happen to us, can we? But in the meantime—”

  “In the meantime we can walk,” he says.

  And so the clock ticks on, and our story comes to no real end here. Daylight fades into dusk, and night brightens into dawn, as the days pass, and the years rise up swiftly and speed on, and the earth spins on its axis and makes its endless circlings of the sun. The past moves relentlessly forward with us at the same speed and leaves us in its shadow, never moving away, but never quite catching up, and men and women circle each other, reach out, touch hands, draw apart, make love, and draw apart again. And in these tireless circles, we wonder why we care. All we know is that we do care.

  Yes, that’s enough.

  About the Author

  Stephen Birmingham is an American author of more than thirty books. Born in Hartford, Connecticut, in 1932, he graduated from Williams College in 1953 and taught writing at the University of Cincinnati. Birmingham’s work focuses on the upper class in America. He’s written about the African American elite in Certain People and prominent Jewish society in Our Crowd: The Great Jewish Families of New York, The Grandees: The Story of America’s Sephardic Elite, and The Rest of Us: The Rise of America’s Eastern European Jews. His work also encompasses several novels including The Auerbach Will, The LeBaron Secret, Shades of Fortune, and The Rothman Scandal, and other nonfiction titles such as California Rich, The Grandes Dames, and Life at the Dakota: New York’s Most Unusual Address. Birmingham lives in southwest Ohio.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1997 by Stephen Birmingham

  Cover design by Angela Goddard

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-2634-5

  This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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