Brad Meltzer - The Millionaires

I want to smack him across the face, but I’ve been there before. I don’t need another fistfight. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I growl.

“Really? So you think that even though you’re one of the bank’s top associates, and even though you’ve single-handedly brought in over twelve million dollars’ worth of new accounts for Lapidus just by scouring the NYU alumni magazine, and even though almost every partner in the firm went to one of the four business schools you’re applying to, it’s still possible that you’ve been rejected two years in a row?”

“That’s enough!”

“Uh-oh, sore spot! You’ve already thought it yourself, haven’t you?”

“Shut up, Charlie!”

“I’m not saying Lapidus planned it from the start, but do you have any idea what a pain it is for him to hire someone new and train him to think exactly like he does? You gotta find the right kid… preferably a poor one with no connections…”

“I said, shut up!”

“… promise him a job that’ll keep him there for a few years so he can pay off his debt…”

“Charlie, I swear to God…!”

“… then keep stringing him along until the poor fool actually realizes he and his whole family are going nowhere…”

“ Shut up !” I yell, rushing forward. I’m in full rage. My hands go straight for the collar of his shirt.

Always the better athlete, Charlie ducks under my grasp and races back toward the eat-in kitchen. On the table, he spots a B-school catalogue from Columbia and a file folder with the word “Applications” on it.

“Are these…?”

“Don’t touch them!”

That’s all it takes. He goes straight for the file. But just as he flips it open, a letter-sized blue-and-white envelope falls to the floor. There’s a signature across the back, right where it’s sealed. Henry Lapidus.

The signature on the envelope is required by all four schools – to make sure I don’t open it. Indeed, the typed pages inside are the most important part of any business school application – the boss’s recommendation.

“Okay, who wants to play detective?” Charlie sings, waving the envelope over his head so it scrapes the basement’s low ceiling.

“Give it back!” I demand.

“Oh, c’mon, Oliver, it’s been four years already – if Lapidus is locking you in the dungeon, at least this way, you get the truth.”

“I already know the truth!” I yell, lunging forward and reaching out for the envelope. Once again, he ducks and spins under the attack.

Back by the bed, Charlie’s no longer dangling it in front of me. For once, he’s serious. “You know something’s screwy, Oliver – I can see it in your eyes. This guy took four years of your life. Four years in shackles on the promise of a later payoff. If he’s bashing you in the letter – forget about the fact that all the B-schools keep it on file – he’s ruined the whole plan. Your way out – how to pay mom’s debts – everything you were counting on. And even if you think you can start over, do you know how hard it is to move to a new job without a recommendation? Not exactly the ideal situation for covering the hospital bills and mom’s mortgage payments, now is it? So why don’t we just tear this bad boy open and-”

“ Let go of it !” I explode. I plow straight at him, ready for the sidestep. But instead of ducking under, he hops backwards onto my bed and bounces like a seven-year-old. “Laaaaadies aaaaaaaaaand geeeeentlemen, the heavyweight champion of the wooooooorld!” He sings the last part, then imitates a crowd cheering wildly. When we were little, this is where I’d dive at his feet. Sometimes I’d catch him, sometimes I’d miss – but eventually, the four-year age difference would catch up with him.

“Get off my bed!” I shout. “You’ll pop one of the springs!”

Right there, Charlie stops. He’s still on the bed, but he’s done jumping. “I love you when I say this, Oliver – but that last statement – that’s exactly the problem.”

He steps to the edge of the mattress, and in one smooth move, drops himself on his butt, bounces off the bed, and springboards to his feet. No matter how risky, no matter how wild – always a perfect landing.

“Oliver, I don’t care about the money,” he says as he slaps the envelope against my chest. “But if you don’t start making some changes soon, you’re gonna be that guy who – when he hits his forty-third birthday – hates his life.”

I stare him straight in the eye, unmoved by the comment. “At least I won’t be living with my mother in Brooklyn.”

His shoulders fall and he steps backwards. I don’t care.

“Get out,” I add.

At first, he just stands there.

“You heard me, Charlie – get out.”

Shaking his head, he finally heads toward the door. First slow, then fast. As he turns, I swear there’s a grin on his face. The door slams behind him and I look through the peephole. Doop, doop, doop – Charlie bounds up the stairs. “Open it and find out!” he shouts from outside. And just like that, he’s gone.

Ten minutes after Charlie leaves, I’m sitting at my kitchen table, staring down at the envelope. Behind me, the refrigerator’s humming. The radiator’s clanging. And the water in the teapot is just starting to boil. I tell myself it’s because I’m in the mood for some instant coffee, but my subconscious doesn’t buy it for a second.

It’s not like I’m talking about stealing the money. It’s just about my boss. It’s important to know what he thinks.

Outside, a car whizzes by, thumping through the crater-sized pothole that’s in front of the brownstone. Through the tops of my windows, I see the car’s black wheels. That’s the only view I get from the basement. The sight of things moving on.

The water starts boiling – hitting its high note and screaming wildly through my mostly bare kitchen. Within a minute, the high-pitched shriek feels like it’s been going for a year. Or two. Or four.

Across the table, I spot the most recent bill from Coney Island Hospital: $81,450. That’s what happens when you miss an insurance payment to juggle your other bills. It’s another two decades of mom’s life. Two decades of worrying. Two decades of being trapped. Unless I can get her out.

My eyes go straight to the blue-and-white envelope. Whatever’s inside… whatever he wrote… I need to know. For all of us.

I grab the envelope and shoot out of my seat so fast, I knock the chair to the floor. Before I know it, I’m standing in front of the tea kettle, watching the geyser of steam pound through the air. With a quick flick of my thumb, I open the tea kettle’s spout. The whistling stops and the column of steam gets thicker.

In my hands, the envelope’s shaking. Lapidus’s signature, perfect as it is, becomes a mess of movement. I hold my breath and struggle to keep it steady. All I have to do is put it in the steam. But just as I go to do it, I freeze. My heart drops and everything starts to blur. It’s just like what happened with the wire transfer… but this time… No. Not this time.

Tightening my grip on the envelope, I tell myself this has nothing to do with Charlie. Nothing at all. Then, in one quick moment, I hold on to the bottom of the envelope, lower the sealed side into the steam, and pray to God this works just like it does in the movies.

Almost immediately, the envelope wrinkles from the condensation. Working the corners first, I angle the edge toward the tea kettle. The steam warms my hands, but when I bring it too close, it burns the tips of my fingers. As carefully as I can, I slide my thumb into the edge of the envelope and pry open the smallest of spaces. Letting it fill with steam, I work my thumb in deeper and try to inch the flap open. It looks like it’s about to rip… but just as I’m about to give up… the glue gives way. From there, I peel it like I’m pulling the back from a Band-Aid.