Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney - The Nest

Jack was winded when he ascended the stairs after arriving at the Bergen Street stop in Brooklyn. How could he be so out of shape? He’d been to Stephanie’s once before, years ago, right after she moved in and she and Leo were doing whatever it was she and Leo did on and off for all those years: fucking, teasing, staging their hetero melodramas. He and Walker had casually considered buying a brownstone once, but Jack didn’t want to live so far from his shop, and reopening in Brooklyn was unthinkable; he believed he’d lose too many customers, which was probably no longer the case now that Brooklyn was unaffordable and unrecognizable. Jack remembered Stephanie’s street as being fairly derelict. Today it seemed as if every third house had a construction Dumpster out front. He stopped in front of one brownstone under renovation. The doors were open and the curving mahogany staircase with freshly painted white risers was visible. He could see straight through into the rear open kitchen where two workers were laboring to fit a massive stainless-steel refrigerator into a cutout in the back wall.

Another lost opportunity, Jack thought. Well, that was the story these days if you were a longtime New Yorker and hadn’t jumped on the real estate carousel at the right time. No matter where he looked lately, the city was mocking him and his financial woes. He picked up his pace and soon he was standing in front of Stephanie’s building. A light in the upstairs hallway went off. Good. Someone was home. He hoped it was Leo, but if it wasn’t, he’d sit there until Leo returned. He had all day. It was a Monday and his store was closed.

“Three months,” Leo had said that afternoon in the Oyster Bar. “Give me three months to present you with some kind of plan.”

And so he had. Three months and seventy-two hours to be exact and Leo wasn’t answering phone calls or e-mails and he’d better have a fucking plan. Jack was in a near panic. He’d barely slept since the meeting with his old friend Arthur, the one who had helped him obtain the homeowner’s line of credit.

Jack was concealing an enormous debt from Walker, a tangled thicket of money and deception. Walker knew that most years Jack’s revenue barely covered his expenses, but he never objected because Jack loved what he did. But Walker was completely unaware of how Jack’s rent had risen (dramatically, precipitously) during the last five years and that Jack was keeping the store above water with a home equity line of credit taken against the small weekend property they owned on the North Fork of Long Island. At the time, it had seemed a logical solution to what he hoped were temporary financial woes, a welcome bit of magic, when his old friend Arthur had proposed the opportunity over drinks one night when Jack complained about his balance sheet. He and Arthur had gone to Vassar together and shared an apartment the first year they lived in Manhattan.

“As easy as opening a credit card!” Arthur worked for an Internet mortgage lender and claimed he helped friends “put their equity to use” all the time. “Won’t cost you a cent!”

Jack knew he wasn’t alone in the mid-2000s, falling prey to this gilded logic, but he realized with a sickening heart that he’d been among the last before the financial system nearly buckled under the weight of its own greed and folly. Worse, he knew better. He’d listened to Walker rail against the loans for years, had heard him discourage their friends and acquaintances and neighbors and his clients from participating in the feverish, implausible extending of credit. “It’s not just foolish,” Walker had said over and over about the swollen mortgage industry, “it’s bordering on illegal. It’s fraud and it’s completely unethical.”

Unethical . The word rang in Jack’s brain— unethical would also describe how he’d taken advantage of the signatory authority he and Walker had given each other years ago for all matters relating to the weekend cottage so they both didn’t have to drive out to Long Island whenever papers needed to be signed for anything regarding the house or property.

The cottage they’d owned for twenty years was nothing lavish or fancy, but it was on a lovely piece of property with a stream running through a wooded area and a short walk to the beach. It was going to be their retirement home, a place to go when Walker could scale back his practice, relax, take more time to do the things he loved: cook, read, garden. After The Nest became Jack’s favorite expression. After The Nest, they’d winterize the cottage, renovate and expand the kitchen, buy a car, maybe add a guest room; the list went on and on. Walker used to gently mock Jack. After The Nest, world peace! he’d say. After The Nest, the lame will walk and the blind will see! Walker was dismissive of The Nest. He’d spent too many hours with clients who showed up at his door outraged because something they thought they’d inherit didn’t materialize. Walker didn't believe in inheritances, which he thought were nothing more than a gamble, and a shortcut; Walker didn’t believe in shortcuts or gambling.

The entire time (all of ten days) that Arthur was processing the loan, Jack expected somebody to stop him. But no. It had proved frighteningly easy to tap into the property’s equity. Whenever he voiced a hesitation, everyone — from Arthur to the bank manager who handed him a credit line of $250,000—told him how smart he was being, how wise it was to consolidate his debts and take advantage of the low-interest payments. Jack told himself he’d only spend a little, just what he needed. But every year he needed more, and some years he used the funds to upgrade the retail space and attempt to lure in more customers. Better lighting. Fresh paint. A new computer invoicing and inventory system. He told himself they were capital investments. Who wanted to shop at a pricey store that didn’t have fresh flowers on display? An espresso machine up front? His initial fear about using the card waned because he’d be able to pay it off after The Nest . He’d have to confess his scheme then, but Walter always told Jack the money from The Nest was his, a gift from his father to do with as he liked. So when he did confess, the loan would be paid, there’d still be ample money left, and the weekend cottage would be safe. If it wasn’t? Walker would never forgive him.

“Extension?” Arthur had said a few days ago, frowning. He gave a long, low whistle and shook his head a little. Jack’s fingers went numb; his heart pounded so hard he was sure if he looked down he could see it through his shirt. “That, my friend, is an impossibility.” He hit every syllable of impossibility to stress his refusal. “We set up the loan in 2007,” Arthur said, squinting at the paperwork in front of him. “Another place, another time. Prerecession. I couldn’t get you this kind of loan now, never mind an extension. I see a few late payments and—” He shrugged. “Is this really a problem? Are you in some real trouble here?”

“No trouble. Just exploring options.” Jack wasn’t going to confide in Arthur who had a big mouth. He’d spent the last few nights tossing and turning and silently rehearsing his plea to Leo for immediate help. He climbed Stephanie’s stoop and rang the bell a few times. Timidly at first and then with more duration and persistence. He knocked. Nothing. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Leo’s cell. No answer. He wanted to call the house phone but realized he didn’t have Stephanie’s number. He descended the stoop and backed up onto the sidewalk, trying to get another look at the upper floor where he was sure he’d seen a light. He imagined Leo inside, watching him, smug and safe behind the still curtain. At the garden level, Jack spotted someone tall and male moving about inside. Leo! Jack let himself through the gate at the sidewalk. He walked up to the street-level window and rapped, hard and insistent. He peered through, hands cupped around eyes, nose pressed to the glass that slightly fogged from his breath.