Laurie Horowitz - The Family Fortune

“You can make feeling sorry for yourself into an art form if you want to, but I think you’re a coward.”

It was unlike me to be so confrontational, especially with a relative stranger, and someone so much older than I was.

He looked down at the bar, examined his stained shirt cuffs, then looked up at me.

“I always wanted to be George Plimpton,” he said.

I paid for the drinks. We slipped from our stools and walked out of the dark bar and into the dimming light of a late April afternoon. Bentley shook hands with me, and with that handshake, Evan Bentley and I became the team that would discover some of the best writers of the next decade.

Before I turned toward the trolley, he asked, “Did I tell you how pretty you are, Jane?”

“You mentioned it.”

“Well, you are,” he said. “You are very pretty, Miss Fortune.”

Finn’s hadn’t changed much in fifteen years. Its busiest nights were when the Red Sox played. This was not one of those nights and the place was empty.

Bentley and I arrived at the same time. We walked in and sat at a table.

“Hey, Finn,” Bentley called.

“Fuck you,” Finn said.

We ordered two steaks. The only thing missing from Finn’s was Mary. Fifteen years ago, she was seventy-two, so she had retired or died—or both. It took two waitresses to fill Mary’s shoes.

I passed “Boston Tech” over to Bentley. He and I had gotten into the habit of meeting whenever we had something important to discuss, even though most of our business could be done by mail, e-mail, or over the phone. We called each other the Luddites, because any time we could do something the old-fashioned way, we did. Bentley still wrote his novels (his writer’s block had finally ended) with a favorite fountain pen on expensive Italian paper.

I had bought Bentley countless drinks and meals on the foundation. Then, five years ago, Bentley stopped drinking. I didn’t begrudge him one meal or even a drink. His company, when he wasn’t plastered, was well worth the time and money I’d spent on him. And tonight I was happy to spring for a New York sirloin if Bentley would read “Boston Tech” before he ate his salad.

“Read it now,” I said.

“Right here?”

“Yes. I’ll just sit here.”

“And stare at me?”

“Not that I don’t find you fascinating, but I’ll do some work.” I pulled a sheaf of stories out of my bag.

I snatched glimpses of Bentley as he read, but he didn’t notice me. He was absorbed. He was always absorbed when he read.

When he looked up, he immediately ordered a cup of coffee.

“You liked it?” I asked. Bentley’s taste had always been important to me. Even though I trusted myself more than when we began, I still needed to know what he thought just to be sure. Our food had come and it sat uneaten in front of us. Bentley put down the story and picked up his knife and fork.

“It’s okay,” he said.

“Just okay?” Was I going insane? Had I lost my judgment? Did I want to discover a new writer so badly that I couldn’t see straight?

“It’s better than okay,” Bentley said, and smiled crookedly. He finished his salad and started in on his steak. I stared at him. “Call him.” He smiled.

“Bastard,” I said.

He continued to chew without paying much attention to me.

“You think I have to read the rest of the stories?” I asked.

“That’s up to you, Jane. I’m not your father or your guru. You’re almost forty years old.”

“I’m only thirty-eight.”

He shrugged and took another bite of his steak. His bites were huge and he chewed each piece for a long time.

“You know what it reminds me of,” he said. I knew. I took a bite of my own steak. “It reminds me of that first time, the time with Max Wellman. I mean, we’ve seen other good stories since, but this is better than most. You know, when I read Max’s story all those years ago—‘Hook, Line, and Stinker’—I was so envious, I could have spit.”

I swallowed.

“What about this one?” I asked.

“I’d like to find this Jack Reilly and beat the hell out of him.”

“Excellent,” I said.

I sat up most of the night reading the rest of the stories. By morning I was sure that I could call Jack Reilly and tell him that he’d won this year’s fellowship.

I waited until I got into the office. Tad wasn’t there. He had an early class. I took a sip of my coffee and picked up the phone. This was my favorite part of running the foundation. I loved calling people with good news. I dialed the number on the last page of the story only to receive the message that the number had been disconnected. No forwarding number was given. I held the phone to my ear and listened to the electronic message over and over again.

I knew I was more disappointed than I should have been. It was only a story, but I couldn’t lose Jack Reilly, not after he’d entered my fantasy life, which at the time was none too rich. The rational thing to do would have been to go to the next story, but I wasn’t interested in the next best.

Maybe this time, with the discovery of Jack, I’d even let myself be interviewed. The two of us would be interviewed together from the house where he would be working, the house with a view of the ocean and the bay. Maybe Max Wellman would be flipping through Poets & Writers and read about us. Even though I hadn’t seen Max in years, I’m ashamed to say that sometimes I compared my life with his. And when I did, it left me feeling even more stunted than usual.

I had to find Jack Reilly. Maybe he was my second chance. For all I knew, he was twenty years old, gay, or married. Still, when my imagination took hold of something, it wasn’t likely to let go until the fantasy had played itself out.

Tad came in while I was still staring at the phone.

“Jane?”

“His phone’s been disconnected,” I said.

“Whose?”

“Jack Reilly’s.”

“On to the next.”

“I don’t want the next person. I want Jack Reilly.”

“Jane, you look feverish.”

“I’m going to find him. You want to come?”

“Cool—an adventure.” He grabbed his jacket.

My car was garaged at a place on Beacon Hill, about three blocks from our house. I didn’t use the car often. There wasn’t much need for it in Boston and parking was always a problem. Our house didn’t have much garage space. When it was built, cars weren’t an issue.

I took the story and put it in my bag. I was now seeing everything through the eyes of Jack Reilly, a man I didn’t even know. The bag looked dingy.

“I’m going to have to change my clothes,” I said. I was wearing one of my usual outfits, black wool pants, a gray turtleneck, and black sneakers. It wasn’t that I had no fashion sense exactly, it was just that I didn’t care.

I remembered once going into the old Ritz with Priscilla before it was renovated. We had tea and I noticed that the arms of the chairs in the lounge were worn. The furniture was good and expensive, but shabby.

“Old Bostonians like that,” Priscilla had said. “It makes them feel comfortable. The Ritz has a tattered grace.”

I was like the old Ritz. I had a tattered grace. I was indifferent to what was modern and fashionable. I liked fine things, but I was happy to keep them until they crumbled in my hands.

“We can shop on the way,” Tad said.

“I can go home and take something out of my closet.”

“No you can’t,” he said. “Let’s shop on the way. We’ll take a cab to Newbury Street and walk from there.”

“You don’t think I have anything appropriate?”

“Jane, I’ve known you for six months and I’ve never seen you wear something that would be appropriate for anything other than a funeral.”

What I was wearing was not appropriate for a funeral. I’d never wear trousers to a funeral. I was embarrassed to think that I was so somberly and carelessly dressed that a young man would notice it. Still, I figured he was doing me a favor. We stopped at Alan Bilzerian’s, a boutique on Newbury Street, where I picked up a forest green suit with a crisp white shirt. In the back of the store there was an array of expensive shoes and bags. I checked over the shoes and chose a brown pair of flats that were made in Italy. The price of the shoes could have been used to take a chunk out of the national debt, but I bought them anyway. I had the money because I rarely spent any. My own trust had barely been used and I had never touched the principal. I also got a stipend from the foundation, enough to support the average schoolteacher. I lived at home and had few expenses, so I could splurge occasionally.

Since I don’t like to shop, my excursions are over quickly. We were out of there in half an hour. I wore the suit out of the store and carried the clothes I’d been wearing in the Bilzerian bag.

“Major improvement,” Tad said.

I looked down at the green suit.

“Feels good,” I said.

“Still pretty conservative,” Tad said.

“It’s simple and elegant.”

We picked up my car from the garage. I had the Mercedes 460SL that had belonged to my mother. It was ages old and Miranda hadn’t wanted it for that reason, but I liked it. The car was barely used and still reliable.

Tad was impressed by the car. “This is awesome,” he said. There was that word again—awesome. Yes, it was a lovely car, but awesome?

We drove north toward Lynn. Tad navigated. I knew how to get to Lynn, but we needed a map to find the exact address. Lynn is a run-down city that is always preparing for a renaissance that never arrives. We followed the map to 61 Kennedy Ave. I found a parking spot on the street. Tad looked around when we got out.