the Cheshire Cat. Barton, a big man who smoked cigars and laughed outrageously, always wore a vested suit. He was a man of American appetites, and that’s where he went to play, renting a suite at the Pierre and entertaining impressionable actresses. Harry remembered being asked to read aloud at the breakfast table from a newspaper article that outlined one of his grandfather’s charitable acts: “Barton McClary Donates Land to Church.”
He had made much of his money in real estate, a fortune built on luck (and perhaps some bribery, it was never clear) when the corporate boundaries of the city expanded to include farmland he had bought for a horse operation. The city engulfed the last of his rural properties, increasing their worth twentyfold, but he didn’t have any other tricks. The various enterprises he got into after that had mixed returns. There had been some nasty business in New York as well, a girl he had gotten into trouble, who may or may not have died while having an abortion. Part of the family mythology.
“So I had the house,” his mother said. She poured a little more of the wine. “When I married your father, we both had the expectation of a substantial sum being passed down. Instead,there was the house. Dale had some money, of course. But most of what we had he earned. We were a pretty good couple. Better than you remember, I’m sure. We weren’t good at the end, of course. And we weren’t good at times in the middle. When we divorced, I kept the house for the simple reason that it was mine. Dale gave me some money, but not as much as you would think. Everyone assumed I had my own money and I was only going after Dale out of spite. But I needed the support. Even then, it wasn’t enough. So I sold the house.”
“What did you get for it? I would put it at somewhere near three million, what with—”
“No, Harold. I mean I sold the house seventeen years ago.”
Harry sat stunned for a moment, then took a sip of his wine. “Seventeen years ago,” he repeated dully.
“The market was still flat. That lull after the housing bubble burst. I sold it for $760,000.”
“My god. But you’ve been living in it.”
“I was renting.”
“From …”
“Dick Ebbetts. He bought it and rented it back to me for $3,000 a month. At least, that’s what I was paying when I left. It was less at the beginning.”
“Ebbetts. Jesus.”
“He was in love with me. He’s always been in love with me. He knew he couldn’t have me. Not even with a gesture like that. But it was the next best thing for him. A boy from East York who now owned a house in Rosedale and the heiress in it.”
So the house had been long gone. Harry attempted a quick calculation of what she had paid in rent over the years. In utilities. What did it cost to heat that pile of stone? “Did Dad know?”
“No. Dick would never have told him. And I certainly didn’t.”
“You said Dick was a thug.”
“He is.”
He mentally went through his lunch with Ebbetts.
“So I’ve got the proceeds from the Clarington’s sale,” his mother said.
“The Pratts.”
“The Pratts were a disappointment.” Felicia took a sip of her wine. “Harold, I have enough money to live comfortably if I’m careful. Frankly, to be rid of that world is a relief. I’ve been holding my breath for the last decade, and now I feel like I can breathe.”
His father’s money was gone, and his mother’s money had never existed. The hum of his debt was suddenly louder, high-pitched, a car being driven too hard, the engine singing on the red line.
But his mother could still be charming company. Their second bottle of wine was a modest Chilean Merlot. They chatted for forty-five minutes. She liked going for walks in the ravine, she said. She was going to Italy in early spring. She opened a third bottle of wine as a precaution.
“Harold,” she finally said, “I told you this so you can make the appropriate plans. I know Dale’s estate was a
He had made much of his money in real estate, a fortune built on luck (and perhaps some bribery, it was never clear) when the corporate boundaries of the city expanded to include farmland he had bought for a horse operation. The city engulfed the last of his rural properties, increasing their worth twentyfold, but he didn’t have any other tricks. The various enterprises he got into after that had mixed returns. There had been some nasty business in New York as well, a girl he had gotten into trouble, who may or may not have died while having an abortion. Part of the family mythology.
“So I had the house,” his mother said. She poured a little more of the wine. “When I married your father, we both had the expectation of a substantial sum being passed down. Instead,there was the house. Dale had some money, of course. But most of what we had he earned. We were a pretty good couple. Better than you remember, I’m sure. We weren’t good at the end, of course. And we weren’t good at times in the middle. When we divorced, I kept the house for the simple reason that it was mine. Dale gave me some money, but not as much as you would think. Everyone assumed I had my own money and I was only going after Dale out of spite. But I needed the support. Even then, it wasn’t enough. So I sold the house.”
“What did you get for it? I would put it at somewhere near three million, what with—”
“No, Harold. I mean I sold the house seventeen years ago.”
Harry sat stunned for a moment, then took a sip of his wine. “Seventeen years ago,” he repeated dully.
“The market was still flat. That lull after the housing bubble burst. I sold it for $760,000.”
“My god. But you’ve been living in it.”
“I was renting.”
“From …”
“Dick Ebbetts. He bought it and rented it back to me for $3,000 a month. At least, that’s what I was paying when I left. It was less at the beginning.”
“Ebbetts. Jesus.”
“He was in love with me. He’s always been in love with me. He knew he couldn’t have me. Not even with a gesture like that. But it was the next best thing for him. A boy from East York who now owned a house in Rosedale and the heiress in it.”
So the house had been long gone. Harry attempted a quick calculation of what she had paid in rent over the years. In utilities. What did it cost to heat that pile of stone? “Did Dad know?”
“No. Dick would never have told him. And I certainly didn’t.”
“You said Dick was a thug.”
“He is.”
He mentally went through his lunch with Ebbetts.
“So I’ve got the proceeds from the Clarington’s sale,” his mother said.
“The Pratts.”
“The Pratts were a disappointment.” Felicia took a sip of her wine. “Harold, I have enough money to live comfortably if I’m careful. Frankly, to be rid of that world is a relief. I’ve been holding my breath for the last decade, and now I feel like I can breathe.”
His father’s money was gone, and his mother’s money had never existed. The hum of his debt was suddenly louder, high-pitched, a car being driven too hard, the engine singing on the red line.
But his mother could still be charming company. Their second bottle of wine was a modest Chilean Merlot. They chatted for forty-five minutes. She liked going for walks in the ravine, she said. She was going to Italy in early spring. She opened a third bottle of wine as a precaution.
“Harold,” she finally said, “I told you this so you can make the appropriate plans. I know Dale’s estate was a
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