Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

The image vanished. I slept. The alarm clock woke me just before three. I got dressed and walked over to collect Ethan from school. En route, I found myself once again trying to make sense of Sara's story. Once again, I failed - and instead started feeling overwhelmed by just about everything. When Ethan came bounding out of Allan-Stevenson's front door, he quickly searched the crowd of parents and nannies. Finding me, he smiled his shy smile. I bent down to kiss him. He looked up at me with worry.

'What's wrong, Ethan?' I asked.

'Your eyes are all red', he said.

I heard myself say: 'Really?'

'Have you been crying?'

'It's Grandma, that's all'.

We started walking towards Lexington Avenue.

'You'll be home tonight?' he asked me. I could hear the anxious edge to his voice.

'Not just tonight. I told Claire she didn't have to come in until Monday. So I'll also be picking you up at school tomorrow. Then we'll have the whole weekend to hang out, and do whatever you want'.

'Good', he said, taking my hand.

We stayed in that night. I helped Ethan with his homework. I made hamburgers. We horse traded: after he agreed to play two games of Snakes and Ladders with me, I granted him thirty minutes on his Game Boy. We popped popcorn and watched a video. I unwound for the first time in weeks. Only once was there a moment of sadness... when Ethan, snuggled up against me on the sofa, turned and said, 'Can we go see the dinosaurs after school tomorrow at the Museum?'

'Whatever you want'.

'Then can we all watch a movie here tomorrow night?'

'You mean, you and me? Sure'.

'And Daddy too?'

'I can invite him over, if you want'.

'And then on Saturday, we'll all get up and...'

'If I invite him over, Ethan, you know he won't be staying here. But I will ask him over if you want'.

He didn't answer me, and I didn't push the issue. As if by silent mutual agreement, we let the matter drop and returned our attention to the television screen. A few minutes later, he pulled my arms more tightly around him... his own unspoken way of telling me just how difficult he found this world of divided parents.

The next morning, after dropping Ethan off at school, I returned to the apartment and phoned Peter Tougas. Though I knew he had been my mother's lawyer for the past thirty years, I never had any dealings with him (I'd used an old Amherst friend, Mark Palmer, to handle my divorce and other judicial pleasantries). Mom didn't see much of Mr Tougas either. With the exception of her will, there was little in her life that had required legal counsel. When I called, his secretary put me straight through.

'Great minds think alike', he said. 'I had it down to call you in the next day or so. It's time to get things rolling on the probate front'.

'Could you fit me in around noon today? I'm out of the office until Monday, so I figured we might as well get together now, when there's no work pressure on me'.

'Noon is no problem', he said. 'You know the address?'

I didn't. Because I only met Peter Tougas for the first time at Mom's funeral. As it turned out, his office was in one of those venerable 1930s buildings that still line Madison Avenue in the lower fifties. His was a small-time legal practice, operating out of a three-roomed no-frills office, with just a secretary and a part-time book keeper as staff. Mr Tougas must have been around sixty. A man of medium height, with thinning grey hair, heavy black glasses, and a nondescript grey suit which looked about twenty years old. He was the antithesis of my uncle Ray, and his white-shoe patrician lawyer credentials. No doubt, Mom chose him exactly for that reason... not to mention the fact that his rates were reasonable.

Mr Tougas came out to greet me himself in the little anteroom where his secretary worked. Then he ushered me into his own office. He had a beat-up steel-and-wood desk, an old-style steel office chair, and two brown vinyl armchairs which faced each other over a cheap teak-veneered coffee table. The office looked like it had been furnished from a Green Stamps catalog. No doubt, this sort of frugality also appealed to Mom. It reflected the no-frills way she lived her own life.

He motioned me to sit in one of the armchairs. He took the other. A file marked 'Mrs Dorothy Malone' was already in position on the coffee table. It was surprisingly thick.

'So, Kate', he said in an accent with distinct Brooklyn cadences, 'you holding up?'

'I've had better weeks. It's been a strange time'.

'That it is. And excuse my directness - but it'll probably take you longer than you think to get back to normal. Losing a parent... your mother... is a very big deal. And never straightforward'.

'Yes', I said. 'I'm finding that out'.

'How's your son... Ethan, isn't it?'

'He's fine, thanks. And I'm very impressed you know his name'.

'Whenever I saw your mother, she always talked about him. Her only grandchild...' He stopped, knowing he'd made a gaffe. 'Or, at least, the only one she saw regularly'.

'You know that my brother's wife didn't... ?'

'Yes, Dorothy did tell me about all that. Though she didn't come right out and say it, I could tell just how much it upset her'.

'My brother is a very weak man'.

'At least he came to the funeral. He seemed very upset'.

'He deserved to be upset. "Better late than never" doesn't work as an excuse when the mother you virtually ignored for years is now dead. Still... I actually felt sorry for him. Which rather surprised me - given that I'm not exactly known for my benevolence'.

'That's not what your mother said'.

'Oh please...'

'I'm serious. The way she talked about you... well, I could tell that she considered you a very loyal daughter'.

'Mom often got things wrong'.

Mr Tougas smiled. 'She also said that you were very hard on yourself'.

'That she got right'.

'Well', he said, picking up the folder, 'shall we make a start?'

I nodded. He opened the folder, withdrew a thick document, and handed it to me.

'Here's a copy of your mother's will. I've got the original in the office safe, and will be sending it to Probate Court tonight - as long as you, the sole executor, approve it. Do you want to take a moment to read through it, or should I summarize everything?'

'Is there anything personal in the document I should know about?'

'No. It's all very straightforward, very clean. Your mother left everything to you. She put no stipulation on how you should disburse her estate. She did tell me, in our conversations, that she knew you'd be sensible about how you dealt with the trust. Were you ever aware of the trust's existence before your mom's death?'

I shook my head, then said, 'I've been finding out about a lot of things over the past couple of days'.

'Who told you about it? Miss Smythe?'

I flinched. 'You know her?'

'Personally? No. But your mother did tell me all about her'.

'So you knew about Miss Smythe and my father?'

'I was your mother's lawyer, Kate. So, yes, I did know about the background to the trust. Do you mind if I take you through its financial history?'

'Fine by me'.

'Well', he said, pulling out another batch of documents, 'the trust was created in nineteen fifty-six, with...' he flicked through a bunch of pages '... an opening capitalization of fifty-seven thousand dollars. Now your mom drew down the interest from the principal for twenty years. But then, in nineteen seventy-six...'

'The year I graduated from college'.

'That's right. Dorothy once mentioned that to me. Anyway, in seventy-six, she stopped drawing any income from the trust'.

'Because the trust fund was depleted, right?'

'Hardly', he said, looking at me with a certain paternal amusement. 'If your mother was only drawing down interest from the trust for twenty years, it means she never dug into the principal. In other words, the principal remained intact'.