Who is Rich?. Matthew Klam
“I think it means I have to give them something. Let me tell my assistant the password to my bank account.”
For a long time, I didn’t think about her money. Then I thought it was ridiculous and disgusting. Although later, I just wanted to get paid. Maybe somewhere in the middle there, for a while anyway, I thought anything was possible, that we were bigger than money, that if we got together, whatever she had would somehow melt away in the heat of our passion. She didn’t wear an engagement ring or fancy clothes, and she carried up from birth a grinding Catholic guilt that equated frugality with goodness. She wore diamond earrings, although her generous earlobes made them look smaller.
She ended the call and asked how I’d slept, and I asked how her class had gone, her narrative painting workshop. “You look tired,” she said.
She looked thin. She survived for stretches on Twizzlers and Diet Coke. I studied her chipped fingernails, the part in her hair, until I recognized her, the long thin nose with a knob on the end that I’d kissed, and big gray eyes on either side of her head like an extraterrestrial.
I should’ve asked more questions, wondered how her kids were, the baby who looked like a monkey and ate bananas, the girl Kaya’s age who never remembered to wear underwear, or the oldest, who’d had a health scare but was fine now. Or maybe it was better to keep things light, so I did my impression of Beanie eating his first solid food, a Cheerio, chewing it for a minute or two before it flipped right onto his chin, entirely whole. And I told her how Kaya made a schedule of the hairdos of her favorite doll, every day there was a different hairdo, but I didn’t go into what they were.
“That’s cute.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re a good father.”
I hated this fake chitchat. Before she put the phone away, she showed me a photo of her brand-new bald-headed niece in a pink onesie, with a little pushed-up nose, surrounded by her own children and many other neighbors and nephews and other suntanned people, beside their swimming pool. It was nice to see her older daughter looking healthy, bright-eyed, and beaming.
“And who’s this?” I asked, but I didn’t care. I let her talk. There were more photos of kids on horseback in the neighbor’s paddock, and girls with juice-stained faces in fancy dresses on the beach at sunset. This one in pigtails was underweight and got gummy vitamins and a chicken leg whenever she came over to play. She lived next door. The mom ignored her but had just bought a $90,000 horse. This boy came to practice piano. He cried if you touched his towel. His dad had moved in with the CrossFit instructor. The lady two doors down had had so much plastic surgery she looked like a marionette. I recognized Amy’s garden, now in bloom, her walkways and meandering stonework. She wanted to move the trampoline so the kids could bounce into the pool, but she worried that if somebody missed the water they’d hit the patio or impale themselves on an umbrella.
“When a big kid bounces a little kid,” she said, “we call it popcorn.”
In photos the girls danced around in towels or naked; no one cared. “I just let ’em do whatever.” She’d grown up in a big family with no money and liked to pretend she still lived on the fly. She wanted me to know that she was the real thing, that all the fancy ladies in the neighborhood had been born rich and ignored their kids. One took the infant and the night nurse with her on business trips. The point was, only Amy with her fun yard could protect the children of utmost privilege from abandonment and cushy neglect. “The nannies like hanging with my nanny, they’re all friends, so guess who ends up making lunch for everyone and keeping an eye on the pool?”
“The pool boy?”
“You’re getting warmer.”
“Looks like fun.”
“Honey, I’m always having fun.” Her eyes narrowed. Seagulls wheeled over us, screeching like monkeys. A single airplane, high up, left a puffy trail.
“Your pool looks even bigger with the cover off.”
Her eyes were pale and slitted. “It’s the same.”
“And your house looks bigger. Have you been feeding it vitamins?”
“Same pool. Same house.”
There were voices coming this way, people walking to the flagpole to make phone calls. She’d spent time thinking about this very thing and wanted it settled.
“It’s not my house. It’s his. He wanted it. He wanted an even bigger place, but I said no.”
“That’s a beautiful story.”
I knew all about her lonely life in the big empty house in the woods. I knew what kind of soap she used on her son’s eczema, and the name of her husband’s investment fund, and the humiliating details of their sex life, and how many billions in assets, and his unpublished annual haul. I had a hard time imagining that there was anything left to tell me. I knew she’d played trumpet in the marching band in high school, and spit had run down her chin. She’d told me about the ex-boyfriend who stalked her, the summer after high school ended, finally cornered her, tore her clothes, beat her badly, and probably worse—and how she refused to seek justice or retaliate. She missed her father, he’d died a few months after the attack, and in her mind somehow those awful events were connected. One night, when her second kid was an infant and Amy had a bad stretch, her father appeared to her as a ghost at the foot of her bed. She had a high, hard, shining forehead. Some of her hair had fallen out after each of her kids was born.
I noticed her cracked lower lip and remembered my mouth on her salty neck, holding her smooth, bony hip. We locked eyes. I felt it zooming through me again. I heard pretty violin music in my head, the back of my throat went soft, I tried to swallow, and wanted to bury my face in her hair.
A man paced back and forth, talking with one finger in his ear. A white-haired lady stood on the other side of the flagpole in a long denim skirt. “Hello? Hello? Are you there? I’m only hearing parts of what you’re saying.”
“But you’re doing okay?” Amy asked. “And things are good at home?”
“Is that a joke?”
“But how is it for you?”
“I already told you,” I said. “I gave her everything I had.”
Amy said, “You’re a good person.”
“No I’m not.”
“I’m glad I met you, whoever you are.”
“You look beautiful. I’m glad your daughter’s healthy.”
She nodded. “She’s at sleepaway camp, hating every minute of it.”
“You got through it. I knew you were scared.”
“Yeah, well.” She glanced around. “I started to wonder.”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Huh?”
“If there was a connection.”
“To what?”
“To us. All the emails and everything.”
“You mean, like, punishment?”
She looked up, chin raised. “I’m not blaming you.”
“I understand.” She didn’t want to be mocked.
In March, a week after I saw her at her house in Connecticut, her oldest kid walked off a soccer field and puked and passed out and almost died. Texts and lengthy emails flowed night and day with no punctuation, starting in mid-sentence, referencing jargon and arguments about emergency surgical techniques to relieve swelling in her daughter’s brain. Then notes from the hospital at all hours, waiting to speak to the doctors. Her husband was in Milan, working on a deal. Then I heard nothing from her for four months, not a word.
We’d