A Good Family

by A. H. Kim

  Visions of Michael Milken and Ivan Boesky dance through my head.

  Several years and life changes later, I’m in the library of our Princeton house. I’ve got a thick stack of statements in front of me from our brokerage account, the joint account I opened for me and Sam because that’s what happily married couples are supposed to do.

  “Sam, do you know why our account is down, like, fifty thousand dollars?”

  Sam looks like a puppy with his tail between his legs. Almost everyone I know finds this look “completely adorable,” but it makes me want to rip his head off.

  “Uh, yeah, I’d been meaning to talk to you about that. Alex gave me a tip about an IPO that he promised was going to go through the roof,” Sam says. “I mean, who doesn’t love frozen yogurt? With mix-ins? And having it delivered to your home or office?”

  “Go on,” I say.

  “Well, it turns out the company had some issues,” Sam says. “Food safety, I think. Anyway, I decided to get out before the stock went to zero.”

  “How many times have I told you not to listen to Alex?” I tell Sam. “He’s a poseur. A fraud. Don’t you remember that fiasco with the Tiffany by Marla Maples jewelry collection he convinced you to get in on? I don’t even want to think how much that disaster cost you. I’m telling you, Sam, don’t listen to Alex’s bullshit. Don’t believe his get-rich-quick schemes. And whatever you do—don’t give him another dime of our money.”

  As usual, Sam does as he’s told. Sam doesn’t listen to Alex, believe his schemes or give him any of our money. Still, Alex somehow manages to screw us over.

  I should have told Sam to just keep his damn mouth shut.

  hannah

  twenty-two

  Spring is finally upon us, providing welcome relief from the long, dark days of winter. Claire’s Easter break from school falls early this year, and the girls are eager to make the drive from Princeton to Alderson to visit their mother.

  “Where did you put the extra Bureau of Prisons forms I brought back last time?” I call out to Sam. I’m standing at his desk in the library of his Princeton home, rummaging through piles of paperwork and stacks of unopened mail. I want to make sure to fill out the BOP forms ahead of time so we can maximize our time with Beth.

  “They’re in the filing cabinet,” Sam shouts back from the kitchen.

  I pull open the top drawer of the filing cabinet and discover dozens of manila folders. They have neatly typed labels and are arranged in alphabetical order: AAA MEMBERSHIP, BANKING, BIRTH CERTIFICATES, CABLE SERVICE, COUNTRY CLUB MEMBERSHIP, DENTAL RECORDS and so on. The second drawer is similarly organized, and so is the third. When I open the last drawer, there’s a jumble of handwritten folders in Sam’s messy scrawl: BMW service records, secret passwords, Beth’s birthday gifts. There, among Sam’s files, is the purple folder with the printed label BOP FORMS that I gave him last December.

  As I pluck the purple folder and close the drawer, I remember that Lise was Beth’s personal assistant. She must have been the one responsible for maintaining Beth’s files. I think back to the last time I saw Beth in prison and what she said about the prosecution’s witness list. The final witness list included the whole family—Eva and Alex, Martin and Karen, even Sam. The prosecutors were ready to haul everyone into the courtroom. My lawyers said they do that to rattle us into settling. I open Beth’s file drawers again and scan the folder labels. No Alex or Eva or Martin or Sam, but there is a folder for Karen O’Sullivan—Martin’s wife’s maiden name. Why would Beth have a folder on Karen?

  Inside the folder is a pile of invoices in reverse chronological order, with the most recent invoice on top. “For services rendered,” they all say. Attached to each invoice is a Filofax daily schedule page, with various names and phone numbers handwritten in red ink. I recognize most of the names from the reams of documents I’ve read in Beth’s whistle-blower case file: Andreas Magnusson, CEO of God Hälsa; Stellan Starck, Senior Vice President and General Counsel; Mark Fischer, Vice President and Head of Clinical Trials; and so forth. Most of the services last an hour, but some last ninety minutes or two hours. All are stamped in crisp, red ink: “PAID—God Hälsa Accounts Receivable.”

  As I skim through the invoices, there’s only a single female client among the many male ones: Charlotte Von Maur, Senior Account Representative. She also seems to be the only one who isn’t a vice president, senior vice president or CEO, and the only one whose name doesn’t appear in any of the whistle-blower case documents. The last document in the Karen O’Sullivan file folder is a God Hälsa Corporate Security Department request form. It seeks to provide Karen with access to God Hälsa’s corporate offices. Karen’s title is listed as “Private Wellness Coach.” In the section marked “Requested Access,” someone has checked off the highest level, described as “Complete Access, including all common spaces, conference rooms, employee offices and executive suites.” At the bottom of the form is Beth’s signature, but it’s clearly fake. Beth’s signature is like her: big and bold. This signature is small and cramped. Someone’s forged it.

  “Did you find it?” Sam asks, walking into the study.

  I close the Karen O’Sullivan folder quickly and place it under the purple BOP folder.

  “Yeah, I did,” I reply.

  * * *

  “This room is smaller than last time,” Claire announces as she enters the large hotel suite. Like the rest of The Greenbrier Resort, our suite is tastefully appointed in shades of sage green and dove gray. Claire’s sniffy assessment reminds me of the old Helmsley Hotel advertisements, where Leona Helmsley would point out the one flaw in an otherwise flawless room. I seem to recall that Leona ended up in women’s prison, as well.

  “And it’s only got one bedroom,” Claire says. “Where’s Auntie Hannah going to sleep?”

  “The couch pulls out into a bed,” Sam responds. “You girls can either sleep with Auntie Hannah in the king-size bed and I’ll sleep on the couch, or else Auntie Hannah can sleep on the couch and I’ll sleep with you in the bed.”

  “Oh, Daddy, you need to sleep in the bed with us,” Claire insists, and Ally nods. I can’t deny that, after spending so much time with the girls, it hurts my feelings just a little that they still prefer to sleep with their father. And at what age does it become inappropriate for a father to sleep with his daughters?

  “Why didn’t we get the same room as last time?” Claire asks. “It had two bedrooms and a kitchen.” I resist the temptation to remind her it also had a formal living and dining room, deluxe built-in wet bar and hot stone sauna. That hotel suite was twice as large as my condo, and the daily rate was almost the same as my monthly mortgage payment.

  “We have to start economizing, Claire,” Sam says. I can tell by the way he’s enunciating that the message is intended for me more than for the girls. I’ve been badgering Sam to cut back on his spending.

  “What does that mean?” Claire asks. “Economizing?”

  “It means we can’t always stay in the Governor’s Suite,” Sam explains. “Sometimes we have to stay in a regular room.” Sam doesn’t understand that most people visiting Alderson stay at the donation-only Alderson Hospitality House or maybe the Motel 6 in the next town over.

  “Speaking of economizing,” I whisper to Sam. “Have you told Princeton Country Day that Claire won’t be attending next year?”

  “I hate to do it,” Sam says. “I mean, she’s really thriving there.”

  “Sam...” I begin.

  “I was thinking of applying for a scholarship,” he says. “I already downloaded the application and everything. Maybe you could help me write the essay. You’re so good at that. You know that I wouldn’t have even gotten an interview at Princeton without your help.”

  My face burns with the memory. I know I shouldn’t have rewritten Sam’s college admissions essay. I honestly just intended to fix his spelling errors, but bef
ore I knew what I was doing, Sam’s simple story about being a three-sport varsity athlete turned into a thoughtful meditation on what it means to be an Asian American male in a country with few masculine role models.

  “If she doesn’t get a scholarship, I promise to pull her out,” Sam says.

  Sam doesn’t have a great track record of keeping promises, but I don’t want to ruin the night by nagging him any further. I distract myself by unpacking Claire’s and Ally’s suitcases and placing their clothes carefully in the drawers. At my request, Karen recently mailed us a box of hand-me-downs. Her daughters are growing like weeds, and it seems a shame to let all their nice clothes go to waste. Claire and Ally don’t even know the difference.

  “Are we gonna visit Mommy now?” Claire asks. She climbs onto the elegant bedspread and begins jumping up and down. Ally struggles to join her big sister on the bed, but the force of Claire’s jumping catapults Ally backward and onto the floor. Ally lands with a heavy thump on her butt.

  “Claire, look what you’ve done,” Sam bellows. Claire stops jumping and starts crying. She is quickly joined by a sobbing Ally, although it isn’t clear whether the younger girl’s tears are due to pain, surprise or sisterly solidarity. I pull the girls’ swimsuits out from the suitcases. They’re part of the Karen hand-me-down collection and still have their tags on them.

  “Girls,” I say, “remember last time, we didn’t bring your swimsuits because we didn’t know they had a pool here? How about we go downstairs and swim a little bit? That way, we’ll be plenty hungry for dinner and we can burn off some of that extra energy from sitting in the car all day.” Plus, I think to myself, it would give Sam some time to unwind. Claire’s and Ally’s tears vanish as quickly as puddles on a hot summer’s day.

  “Did you bring your swimsuit?” Ally asks as I help her wiggle into her suit.

  “Why, yes, I did,” I answer. I walk over to my weekend bag and pull out a navy blue one-piece with modest scoop neck and shirring at the waist. “Flatters while hiding imperfections” was how the suit is described on the Lands’ End website.

  “Get naked, Auntie Hannah,” Ally orders. “I want to see you naked.”

  I’m surprised by how my young niece’s words affect me. No one has expressed interest in seeing me naked in a very long time. I think back to those nights with Owen at Harvard. It feels like a different life, a different person, altogether.

  “I can’t get naked here,” I explain. “Your daddy’s here. I’ll go into the bathroom and get changed.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Ally says. “I see Mommy naked all the time.”

  “No, Ally, you can’t come,” I reply. I look over at Sam in the hopes he’ll tell Ally to give me some personal space, but he’s reclined on the bed, a glass tumbler in his hand and two minibar bottles of Tanqueray lying empty on the floor. He’s watching a Warriors basketball game on the wide-screen TV, but his eyes are already heavy. He must be tired from a long week of work and an even longer day of driving. Claire is cuddled up by his side, her swimsuit on, watching a video on her iPad. I walk quickly toward the bathroom, but Ally follows close behind.

  “Why not? Why can’t I see you naked?” Ally asks.

  Why not, indeed. What am I afraid of?

  “Ally, I need my privacy,” I say. “Adults need privacy.” I dart into the bathroom and slowly close the bathroom door, taking care not to crush Ally’s fingers. The lock on the door makes a distinct click.

  “But mommies don’t need privacy,” Ally says. She’s talking into the tiny crack between the door and the door frame. I hear her panting on the other side. I look at myself in the bathroom mirror and take a deep breath. And then I let her in.

  The following morning, the visitors’ line is short when we pull into the Alderson parking lot just after dawn.

  “I’ve got the money, Auntie Hannah,” Claire calls out. “Don’t forget your license and forms!” Claire grabs the Ziploc bag and bolts out of the car.

  “Wait for me!” Ally screams as I unbuckle her seat belt. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly children adapt to change. Although they’ve only been to Alderson once before, Claire and Ally seem happy—even comfortable—with their new surroundings. As they take their place in line and smile sweetly at the two heavyset Latino men standing in front of them, I have to wonder: What do they tell their friends about Beth? Do they say she’s at camp? In prison? Do they understand the difference? When will their classmates stop being innocent and start being cruel? When will Claire and Ally begin to feel ashamed of their mother?

  I tick down my mental checklist for prison visitation: driver’s license, BOP forms, empty pockets. The parking lot of a federal prison is probably the safest place to leave a purse in plain view, but I make sure to cover mine with Ally’s favorite blanket just in case. One of the corners of the blanket is worn and gray from Ally’s constant thumb sucking and rubbing. Glancing over at Sam, I notice he also looks worn and gray. I lost count of how many drinks he had last night. Now that I think about it, he didn’t eat much dinner either. Lately, he seems to be getting most of his caloric intake through alcohol. We need to work on that.

  “Daddy, Mommy, hurry up!” the girls shout back at us. Did the girls really just call me Mommy? It feels nice and wrong at the same time. The two Latino men have already gone into the visitors’ building. It’s almost our turn.

  “We’re coming!” I shout back, shoving Sam to get going.

  Although they’ve only visited Alderson once before, Claire and Ally already know the visitation drill. At the guards’ desk, they smile politely and turn out their pockets. They skip into the back room to reserve our favorite table by the window, then raid the Ziploc bag of change to buy a can of Diet Coke and bag of Life Savers Gummies—Beth’s favorite treats. When they see Beth make her way down the hill, they run to the front room to wait in the two chairs by the unmarked door.

  After a few hours, Claire and Ally complain of being bored. The coffee table is littered with the detritus of our vending machine snacks. We’ve played countless rounds of hangman and tic-tac-toe, Uno and gin rummy. It’s raining outside, so the playground isn’t an option.

  “Sam, the Children’s Room is just about to open. Why don’t you take the girls to do an Easter project?” I suggest. “Beth and I will just stay out here, if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t think you’re fooling me,” Sam responds. “I know you’re just trying to get some private time together.” He smiles good-naturedly and takes the girls away.

  “What?” Beth asks eagerly. “Have you got any new information for me?”

  “I don’t really have new information—just something I discovered in your files.”

  “What is it?”

  I tell Beth about looking through her filing cabinet to find the extra BOP forms and accidentally coming upon the Karen O’Sullivan folder.

  “I know Karen didn’t graduate from college,” I say, “so I’m wondering what kind of services she can provide at such a high hourly rate. I mean, it’s as much as my law firm charges for paralegal work.”

  “As much as paralegal work? And most of her clients were male?” she asks. Her face looks concerned. “And the services usually lasted an hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wow, that is interesting,” Beth says.

  I don’t know what I was expecting Beth’s reaction to be, but this isn’t it.

  “Don’t you already know about this, Beth?” I ask. “I mean, the invoices are in your files. Your company paid for them.”

  Beth looks at me wide-eyed and then bursts out laughing.

  “Of course I know about them,” Beth says. “Oh, Hannah, sometimes I forget just how innocent you are.”

  beth

  twenty-three

  Before I got to Alderson, I hardly ever worked out. With my busy job, traveling and the girls, I didn’t have time. Tha
nks to the BOP, I’ve become a full-on exercise junkie. Most days, there’s Zumba or spinning in the morning, Ballet Barre or Pilates in the afternoon, with the occasional pickup basketball game or 5K fun run on the weekend thrown in for good measure.

  “You sure you want to go to the gym today?” Juanita asks. “You’re looking so skinny these days. I’m getting worried about you.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, “I’m perfectly fine. Besides, I need to work off that cheesecake we demolished last night.”

  Juanita’s chocolate peanut butter cheesecake is epic. Her recipe calls for an entire wheel of Laughing Cow cheese and jar of Skippy peanut butter, which she spreads on a bed of crushed Oreos and margarine topped with a layer of melted Hershey’s bars. How can anything so bad be so good?

  Juanita and I stop by B Unit to pick Deb up on our way to the gym. Deb is practically bursting with excitement.

  “Did ya hear the news?” Deb asks.

  “About what?” I say.

  “About Meatloaf. How she died.”

  “No,” Juanita and I both say at the same time.

  “I guess the BOP was tryin’ to keep it hush-hush,” Deb says, “’cause it don’t look good for an inmate to die in prison, but someone in the West Virginia coroner’s office leaked the info and now it’s all over Twitter.”

  Deb dives in with the gory details.

  “Remember when the COs searched our cubes a couple days before Meatloaf died?” Deb begins. Juanita nods, but honestly, I can’t remember anything anymore. It’s like my brain’s been short-circuited.

  In addition to our daily counts and inspections, guards at Alderson conduct random searches of the living units to make sure inmates don’t have any contraband. Once the search begins, word spreads like wildfire. Book and magazine hoarders like Juanita and me scatter our possessions among our less well-read neighbors so we don’t get caught exceeding the BOP’s five books and five magazines per person limits. Meanwhile, drug dealers like Mary have to be even more ingenious. I’ve seen guards slice through their pillows and mattresses in search of hidden caches of drugs.