Ginny falls back from the tour to find her mother. She wants to sit on Marion’s lap, which is now soft and large. Marion at thirty looks into her older daughter’s face and thinks about being somewhere else. While Ginny rests her small head on Marion’s chest, Marion opens an online savings account for herself. She transfers her money (and it is her money; the effort she puts into stealing it means it belongs to her) from the joint checking account into the new account. She kisses her daughter on the forehead and sends her outside again. Go tell Daddy that he should stop talking forever.
Over the next year, Marion transfers small sums into the account, and they are designed to be unnoticeable. She then realizes that she wants the cash in her hands, so she adds small withdrawals to her routine. When Ginny’s at school and Nathan’s in his office, she takes Jane down to the basement. She settles Jane into an old playpen of Ginny’s and hides her money. She makes it into a game, and Jane helps her decide where the money belongs by clapping her hands. They work together. When they’ve found the perfect place, sometimes they sit in the basement together for a while, even though it smells like cat piss, and Marion tells Jane stories about the ocean.
Board of Trustees
There’s been, as they say, a development.
Finally.
Clarissa was able to get something out of the younger child. It took some coaxing, but the girl eventually opened up. She said something about the ocean. She said her mother had gone to the ocean.
Oh, yes, very helpful.
I’m not finished. She said Marion had taken a train that was underground and then went aboveground.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. This is nothing. Why are we here?
Well, I told the PI and he was quite heartened by the news. So it’s not nothing.
He asked for more money, didn’t he? He’s a con artist.
I think Marion Palm is still in Brooklyn, that’s all.
Wild conjecture.
The PI agreed. And he has an idea. We can place missing-person ads in some neighborhood newspapers. Very subtle. Very “Have you seen this woman? Her family is concerned.” We’ll offer a slight reward—
With what money? Everything is sunk to pay off our back taxes. I’ll kill Marion if I ever see her again.
I’ll handle the money. I’ll handle the ads.
This is hopeless.
I miss Eugene.
Shut up, Barbara.
Marion Embezzles from the Russians
It’s been small amounts she’s taken. The amounts are what a teenage girl would spend in an exciting, expensive new city. She’s even managed to make the transactions look like they involve real New York businesses. There’s nothing here that would raise any red flags, or a Russian bank manager’s eyebrow.
She still doesn’t know how to get it from the international account. She’s only embezzled domestically before, and needs to educate herself in order to gain access to her money. She needs to move quickly when the time comes. This, however, is not that time. Patience, patience, she whispers to herself, but she also considers her history of timidity. Lately it’s been difficult to trust her instincts.
She has avoided checking to see if anyone is looking for her, but now she should. Her instincts tell her that, and she’ll trust them on this. She Googles her name, and all she finds is a brief police report with an unflattering photograph of herself from her fattest days. Of course Nathan would choose that one. There is nothing from the school. There is nothing about her daughters. There is only the man in the suit from the train. Marion! he called out. Marion Palm!
Then she Googles her husband and finds his blog. Nathan is growing a beard. He’s renovating their house, still, still. Jane’s hand reaches out in one of the falsely beautiful and bright photos. Nathan and Jane are cooking together. She scrolls down and types a comment. What a very precious whole family. She writes that, and clicks Publish. She would write more, perhaps to enlighten Nathan to the hypocrisy of a lifestyle blog when his lifestyle is funded by embezzlement, but she doesn’t have the right. She also doesn’t have the time.
She Googles, once more, “women who embezzle.” She looks at all the small crimes, the same small sad mad women. She will become one of them unless she does something drastic. Don’t become one of the little people, Marion says to herself. You are better than them. You are smarter than them.
She prepares to drain the girl’s account entirely. This theft will be noticed. She must be able to disappear immediately after she acts. She looks up at the Grace Kelly skirt and prays.
Nathan Tells the Comments the Truth
Nathan’s blog gets a rave review from an online Brooklyn magazine. The reviewer says it’s charming, informative, and handsome. Nathan has a light touch but a compelling one. She asks, “May we have permission to use a photo of Nathan with Jane and a homemade margherita pizza with fresh basil?” and Nathan says absolutely. He is giddy with the popularity. He reads his comments late into the night. However, the absence of Marion is conspicuous. The comments are asking questions.
Dude, where’s your wife?
>So are you a single dad or what?
>>Did she die?
>Are you lonely?
>So SWEET you’re taking care of them on your own #heartbreaking >>SO SWEET that he’s just doing his job.
>Guys, guys, guys, we don’t even know if his wife is gone—he just hasn’t mentioned her.
>>Dude, his wife is totally not there.
Nathan feels that keeping something this significant from the comments is akin to being dishonest, and he wants to be transparent, because transparency is essential to the blog’s tone.
Hi folks—some of you have been asking questions about my current marital status, and the truth is, my wife is out of the picture. Just me and the girls! We’re doing fine, thanks for your concern. It means so much to me.
And it does. The faceless mass who read his work care about his and his daughters’ well-being and happiness. Nathan publishes.
>Dude—she left you. What a whore.
Nathan laughs out loud. It’s been decided: he has a valid grievance. Then:
>He probably cheated on her.
It cuts, the truth of it, but he resists responding. He’ll let this play out.
>>Why? Maybe she cheated on him.
>>>She obvs wouldn’t leave the kids behind then.
>>>>Who says that’s what happened?
Out of the picture, the fuck you think that means? We’re not talking alternate weekend. Bitch is gone.
>How unfair. Those poor girls.
>>The poor man.
Nathan watches all this happen and finds himself holding his neck, craning toward the screen, hitting Refresh, Refresh, Refresh. The comments eventually taper off, having discussed and exhausted all reasons why Marion might have left. Nathan’s possible infidelity fades as a motivation, and the blame comes to rest squarely on Marion’s shoulders. Nathan wants to tell them more.
He writes a post on quick ways to ecologically and ruggedly clean a bathroom. He’s discussing the ratio of vinegar to water to lemon juice when he slips in that not only has his wife left, he’s not even sure where she is. She’s not coming back. But back to the toilet. Don’t forget to clean the handle.
We need more, the comments say. We don’t understand. As Nathan plans his next post, he appreciates how good honesty made him feel. He opens the last anonymous email. He writes to [email protected] that he’s sorry about what his wife did. He really is.
Poetry