“I’d rather not say,” Marion says. “I have cash.”
“You’ve mentioned that. It makes me somewhat nervous.”
“I can pay up front.”
“Why don’t you want to say where you come from? It’s a simple question.”
“I’m from Brooklyn.”
“Then you have family here.”
“Not anymore.”
“Why not?”
“May I have a cigarette?”
“Of course.”
Marion pulls the cigarette out of the pack on the table. She hasn’t smoked since the first weeks she was pregnant with Ginny and didn’t know.
“I’m hiding from my family. My husband. He was abusive. Physically abusive.”
“You have not gotten very far. Why do you stay in Brooklyn?”
“I don’t want to leave. Brooklyn is a large place and my home. It isn’t fair. Besides, I’m not much of a driver.”
“Will your husband find you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he wouldn’t look here. I’m sure of it. He can’t even see beyond Prospect Park.”
“I don’t know. This makes me very nervous.”
Marion reaches for Sveyta’s left hand, which lies on the table next to her teacup.
“Please. If there is any trouble, I’ll go. But I love the room. I need the room.”
“Do you have children?” Sveyta says after a long pause.
“No,” Marion says. She instructs herself to believe this. “I am childless.”
Sveyta slips her hand out from under Marion’s. “That will be three months up front.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Sveyta does not say that Marion is welcome, but Marion feels welcome anyway.
The Missing Boy
Now New York commuters wrestle daily with how easy it is for some to disappear.
They’ve read the fine print of the posters. They’ve made mental notes of the boy’s features. They’ve imagined themselves finding the boy, rescuing the boy, and becoming brief New York heroes. The mayor would shake their hand. They look into the faces of all the young people on the train, temporarily aware. A quiet boy becomes a person of interest in New York, and all the quiet boys and young-looking men of the city are now responsible for speaking up and telling strangers that they are neither lost nor autistic. It’s an unusual thing to declare about oneself.
The commuters peer into the faces of these adolescent boys and, after imaginings of heroism, have differing reactions. Some feel nothing besides faint curiosity; some feel pride—they remembered to look and therefore have committed an act of service; some think about their own quiet and lost adolescences; others think about their children or their brothers. Those with their own missing people remember them. The commuters become the mother of the boy. They all fail to protect. The commuters become the boy. They find themselves utterly missing. Then they reach their destination, and their days either begin or end.
Board of Trustees
Thank you. I’d first like to say how glad I am everyone could make it here on such short notice.
It’s fine.
It’s important to me that you understand my gratitude.
Can we for once begin and end on time, Eugene?
Duly noted. Well, as you may or may not have heard, the Marion issue has become more…well, urgent.
Good Lord.
It just hurts.
This is not a personal matter.
Then why does it hurt? We welcomed her into our community.
Yes, and you all did an incredible job of making her feel right at home, absolutely.
Was that sarcasm?
No.
Because it sounded like sarcasm.
It was unintentional.
Can we stay focused? Can we? Thank you. It took some digging, but it seems that before Marion left, she transferred the entire Wing Initiative fund into a personal account. That account has now been closed. The good news: it only held roughly four thousand dollars. Thank God the initiative hadn’t begun in earnest.
Why did she do it? I don’t know what more she wanted. She was invited to the cocktail hours, the barbecues, the block parties. We gave her a job when she asked for one.
The lawyers say that we must go to the police.
Well, I don’t know. The Palm family was very generous after the fire.
That was a hundred years ago.
This is not up for debate. We have to initiate an official investigation.
Our ability to honor our past sets us apart—it’s what makes us great. We have a history.
Please, listen to me. We have to act fast or we could be liable. I suggest we hire a forensic accountant on our own, although the NYPD may have someone they want us to use.
Excuse me?
We’ve reached the limit of our accounting capabilities. Marion appears to have been skillful at covering her tracks. We need a professional, a specialist.
Ahem.
But we don’t want the NYPD to have full access, considering our donors.
May I interject? Is that necessary?
What do you mean?
This isn’t the first time Marion has done this sort of thing.
She’s the reason we are being audited.
The Palms owe us what they stole.
Yes, I’m not arguing that point. My only concern is that we are rushing to inform the police because we are scared and upset.
We need a course of action, urgently.
We need to get our money back.
From whom?
Well, from Nathan. Right?
Well.
Yes, the lawyers think that eventually we will need to prosecute. There’s also a civil case to be made.
Let’s put aside the lawyers, put aside the audit, let’s breathe, and remember, we expect the Palms to make a considerable donation to the Wing Initiative.
So?
Perhaps we don’t want to accuse a Palm of stealing a comparatively small amount when the family might pledge a much larger one.
Won’t it come out eventually? That Marion’s been embezzling?
Let’s not use that word. I propose we find Marion on our own.
Why?
If we find Marion, we can say that she has been at the bedside of a sick relative or something. She can explain whatever the hell she was doing with our taxes to the auditors—and we all know that Marion is good at that sort of thing. Meanwhile, the Palms will fully fund the Wing Initiative, and no one needs to know that a part-time employee has been swindling us for possibly a decade.
It’s risky.
I still think we should call the police.
I agree. Put the cunt behind bars.
Give me a few days. I’ll explain to the lawyers. I’ll put off the auditors. Trust me.
Any ideas on how to start? Where to look?
Some. Some. We’ve been monitoring her email account, but so far we haven’t found anything that would pinpoint her location.
Has Nathan called the cops yet?
I don’t know.
Well, that seems important, don’t you think?
What about the children? The daughters know more than they say.
Perhaps if the Palms were more inclined to trust us. At least one of us. Perhaps in a different setting, a less official capacity…
Okay, not a horrible idea.
Leave it to me. For the time being.
For the record, I still say we should go to the police.
What record?
Dinner Party