“Sorry. Sorry. I haven’t noticed it. I suppose I’m not that worried. It’s winter and it’s bleak outside so everyone’s drinking more than usual, and Pres has such a high tolerance. He’s coming to my birthday dinner at the Colony in a week and I promise I will watch him. I’m so sorry you’ll be in Indianapolis for it. Did I tell you Camilla’s doing a tropical theme? It sounds wild.”
Charlotte looked upset. “Yeah, I’m sure it will be. Oh, right. He gave this to me to give to you. I guess he thought I’d see you before he did, which, obviously not. That’s why I came by tonight. I’ve been carrying this around for weeks.” Charlotte pulled something out of her bag. “Your Whiffenpoofs CD.”
“The Poofs! I’ve been waiting for its safe return for months. Will you play it? My computer’s on.”
“Yeah.” Charlotte walked to the sideboard, where Evelyn’s desktop sat tethered to the Internet at an awkward height, flanked on each side by an upright Slim Aarons photography book. Charlotte shoved over one of the books and placed the CD in the drive. As it whirred and the Yale men sang “Rainbow Connection,” she picked up Evelyn’s checkbook lying face down on the sideboard. “Evelyn Beegan, don’t tell me you still use checks.”
Evelyn had no idea how long the checkbook had been there. Weeks? When was the last bill she had paid?
“You don’t do online banking?” Charlotte asked.
“It’s too complicated. Do you want some water? I’m parched,” said Evelyn, trying to get Charlotte off the subject.
“Yeah.”
As Evelyn filled up two glasses from her Brita, she could hear the fast clack of computer keys from the living room. “Char, what are you doing?” she asked.
“Just checking something online,” Charlotte replied. Evelyn remembered that Charlotte had bought herself Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing and learned touch-typing during a summer Evelyn spent at tennis camp, a skill that was apparently still in full effect.
Evelyn returned with the water, and Charlotte, standing over the ancient IBM, was nearly beaming. “Look, I’m so helpful that I’m setting you up now. Your account number was on the check. You just need a username. What should we use, ‘EvBeeg’?”
“Charlotte, I don’t want online banking, okay? Can you back off?”
“Easy, Ev. I promise, it will save you time. Here. Just choose a username and a password.”
Evelyn set Charlotte’s water glass down hard and slid it over to her, watching the water marks it left on the sideboard and not bothering to wipe them up. “Do you have to bring all your, like, workday hustle to my apartment, Charlotte? I have zero interest in this.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Remember at Sheffield when you refused to get a debit card? You were still writing checks at the Seven-Eleven and waiting for your mom to send cash via U.S. mail. Look. It’s super easy. Here.”
If only her mother would send cash via U.S. mail, Evelyn thought, taking a tiny sip of water. It tasted tinned, and she returned to the couch, exchanging it for her wine. She knew she had to get hold of her money stuff. Maybe Charlotte could help. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as she thought. All those letters from Con Ed and Time Warner Cable and her credit-card companies were sitting, silently threatening, in her silverware drawer, and she had so not wanted to face them that she had been using plastic takeout utensils lately when her Thai or her sushi was delivered, so she didn’t ever have to open the drawer except to wedge more envelopes in.
Evelyn poured herself another glass of wine and stood up. “Okay. ‘Evie98,’” she said, using her Sheffield graduation year. She leaned over Charlotte’s shoulder and entered her standard password, “maybefaraway,” from Annie.
“Good. Okay. Security questions,” Charlotte said.
Evelyn scrolled through the dropdown menu: What was the make of your first car? Who was your childhood best friend? Who is your hero? Where did you meet your spouse? The cursor stood blinking at her, needling her for an answer. She couldn’t pass this test. She had never had a car, being at boarding school when other people were getting their licenses. Her childhood best friend was, more or less, her mother, but she wasn’t going to put that down. And who had a hero in this era? Who did this bank think it was, trying to fit Evelyn Beegan into the neat segments that defined its mass-market customers?
“Ev?”
“This is a stupid exercise, Charlotte.”
“You’re being impossible. I’ll answer it for you. Hero: Brooke Astor.”
“Very funny.”
Charlotte typed in the socialite’s name and began rifling through the mail on Evelyn’s silver tray, but it was invitations and appeals for charity donations. “Where are your bills, Ev?”
Evelyn pulled at her hair, trying to think of the answer that would freak Charlotte out the least. “Dunno.”