Noah Hawley - Before the Fall

Just him? she asked.

So far. But we’re looking.

She woke Doug and told him they had to go to a hospital on Long Island.

Now? he said.

She drove, putting the car in gear before Doug, his fly undone, sweatshirt half on, had even gotten the door closed. She told Doug there was a plane crash somewhere in the ocean. That one of the passengers had swum miles to shore, carrying the boy. She wanted him to tell her not to worry, that if they survived, then the others had survived as well, but he didn’t. Her husband sat in the passenger seat and asked if they could stop for coffee.

The rest is a blur. She remembers jumping out of the car in a loading zone at the hospital, remembers the panicked search for JJ’s room. Does she even remember hugging the boy, or meeting the hero in the bed beside him? He is a shape, a voice, flared out by the sun. Her adrenaline was so high, her surprise at the magnitude of events, at how big life could get — helicopters circling wave caps, naval ships deployed. So big that it filled the screens of three million televisions, so big that her life was now a historic mystery to be discussed, the details viewed and reviewed, by amateurs and professionals alike.

Now, in the conference room, she makes her hands into fists to fight off the pins and needles she’s feeling, and tries to smile. Across from her, Larry Page smiles back. There are two lawyers on either side of him, split by gender.

“Look,” he says, “there’ll be time for all the minutiae later. This meeting is really just to give you an overview of what David and Maggie wanted for their children in case of — in the eventuality of their death.”

“Of course,” says Eleanor.

“How much?” asks Doug.

Eleanor kicks him under the table. Mr. Page frowns. There is a decorum he expects in dealing with matters of extreme wealth, a studied nonchalance.

“Well,” he says, “as I explained, the Batemans established a trust for both children, splitting their estate fifty — fifty. But since their daughter—”

“Rachel,” says Eleanor.

“Right, Rachel. Since Rachel did not survive, the entirety of the trust goes to JJ. This includes all their real estate holdings — the town house in Manhattan, the house on Martha’s Vineyard, and the pied-à-terre in London.”

“Wait,” says Doug. “The what now?”

Mr. Page presses on.

“At the same time, their wills both earmarked a large sum of cash and equities to a number of charitable organizations. About thirty percent of their total portfolio. The remainder lives in JJ’s trust and will be available to him in stages over the next forty years.”

“Forty years,” says Doug, with a frown.

“We don’t need much,” says Eleanor. “That’s his money.”

Now it’s Doug’s turn to kick her under the table.

“It’s not a question of what you need,” the lawyer tells her. “It’s about fulfilling the Batemans’ last wishes. And yes, we’re still waiting on the official pronouncement of death, but given the circumstance I’d like to free up some funds in the interim.”

One of the women to his left hands him a crisp manila folder. Mr. Page opens it. Inside is a single piece of paper.

“At current market value,” he tells them, “JJ’s trust is worth one hundred and three million dollars.”

Beside her, Doug makes a kind of choking noise. Eleanor’s face burns. She’s embarrassed by the clear greed he’s showing, and she knows if she looked he’d have some stupid grin on his face.

“The bulk of the estate — sixty percent — will be available to him on his fortieth birthday. Fifteen percent matures on his thirtieth birthday, another fifteen percent on his twenty-first. And the remaining ten percent has been set aside to cover the costs of raising him to adulthood from this point forward.”

She can feel Doug beside her, working out the math.

“That’s ten million, three hundred thousand — again as of close of market yesterday.”

Outside the window, Eleanor can see birds circling. She thinks about carrying JJ from the hospital that first day, the heft of him — so much heavier than she remembered, and how they didn’t have a booster seat so Doug piled up some blankets in the back and they drove to a Target to buy one. Car idling in the parking lot, they sat there in silence for a moment. Eleanor looked at Doug.

What? he said, his face blank.

Tell them we need a booster seat , she said. It should be front facing. Make sure they know he’s four.

He thought about arguing— Me? In a Target? I fucking hate Target —but to his credit he didn’t, just shouldered the door open and went in. She turned in her seat and looked at JJ.

Are you okay? she asked.

He nodded, then threw up onto the back of her seat.

The man to Page’s right speaks up.

“Mrs. Dunleavy,” he says, “I’m Fred Cutter. My firm manages your late brother-in-law’s finances.”

So , thinks Eleanor, not a lawyer .

“I’ve worked out a basic financial structure to cover monthly expenses and education projections, which I’d be happy to review with you at your convenience.”

Eleanor risks a look at Doug. He is, in fact, smiling. He nods at her.

“And I’m—” says Eleanor, “—I’m the executor of the trust. Me?”

“Yes,” says Page, “unless you decide you do not wish to carry out the responsibilities afforded to you, in which case Mr. and Mrs. Bateman named a successor.”

She feels Doug stiffen beside her at the idea of passing all that money on to some kind of runner-up.

“No,” says Eleanor, “he’s my nephew. I want him. I just need to be clear. I’m the one named in the trust, not—”

She flicks her eyes toward her husband. Page catches the look.

“Yes,” he says. “You are the named guardian and executor.”

“Okay,” she says, after a beat.

“Over the next few weeks I’ll need you to come in and sign some more papers — and by come in , I mean we can come to you. Some will need to be notarized. Did you want the keys to the various properties today?”

She blinks, thinking about her sister’s apartment, now a museum filled with all the things she will never need again — clothes, furniture, the refrigerator filled with food, the children’s rooms heavy with books and toys. She feels her eyes well with tears.

“No,” she says. “I don’t think—”

She stops to collect herself.

“I understand,” says Page. “I’ll have them sent to your house.”

“Maybe somebody could collect JJ’s things, from his room? Toys and books. Clothes. He probably, I don’t know, maybe that would help him.”

The woman to Page’s left makes a note.

“Should you decide to sell any or all of the properties,” says Cutter, “we can help you with that. Fair market value for the three combined is around thirty million, last time I checked.”

“And does that money go into the trust,” says Doug, “or—”

“That money would fold in with the current funds available to you.”

“So ten million becomes forty million.”

“Doug,” says Eleanor, more sharply than she intended.

The lawyers pretend not to have heard.

“What?” her husband says. “I’m just — clarifying.”

She nods, unclenching her fists and stretching her hands under the table.

“Okay,” she says, “I feel like I should get back. I don’t want to leave JJ alone too long. He’s not really sleeping that well.”

She stands. Across the table, the group stands as one. Only Doug is left in his chair, daydreaming.

“Doug,” she says.

“Yeah, right,” he says and stands, then stretches his arms and back like a cat waking from a long nap in the sun.