Cynthia D'Aprix Sweeney - The Nest

The only person who could access the funds early was Francie and in spite of her casual allegiance to Leonard while he was alive (or maybe because of it, she married her second husband practically within minutes of shedding her widow’s weeds), she abided by Leonard’s wishes to the letter. Her interest in her children, anemic when she was actually responsible for them, dwindled to the occasional holiday brunch or birthday phone call. Leo was the only one who had never petitioned Francie for a loan using The Nest as collateral. Jack and Melody and Bea had all asked at one time that she consider an earlier dispersal, but she stubbornly refused.

Until Leo’s accident.

The day Leo was released from rehab, a few days before the family lunch at the Oyster Bar, he went straight to his Tribeca apartment hoping to broker some civil temporary living arrangement with his about-to-be ex-wife, Victoria. That she had other plans became clear when his key no longer fit in the lock of the front door.

“Don’t bother fighting this one,” George told him over the phone. “Just find a hotel. Remember my advice. Lie low.”

Leo didn’t want to confess to George that Bea had taken his wallet the night of the accident. He’d arrived at rehab with nothing more than his house keys, his iPhone (which was immediately confiscated and returned to him the day he was released), and sixty dollars in his pocket (ditto). Standing at the Franklin Street subway station, paging through the contacts on his phone, he realized with deflating clarity how few people in Manhattan would be happy to lend him their sofa. How many friendships he’d let wane and diminish over the past few years while he and Victoria indulged each other’s miseries and spent money as if it were somehow magically regenerating. How few people would be sorry to hear he’d had some trouble and would hope for his recovery or return. He’d lived in New York for more than twenty years and had never not had a place to go home to.

The small piece of paper with a cell-phone number on it, pressed on him by his rehab roommate “just in case,” felt like a squirming minnow in his back pocket. He took the paper out, punched the numbers into his phone, and left a message before he had time to think about it, which was exactly the opposite of what he’d been incessantly lectured to do during his stay in Bridges, the recovery center where his family had dumped him for twelve endless weeks. He’d hated every minute of it. Individual therapy hadn’t been half bad; he’d vented practically nonstop about Victoria and had almost exhausted his bitterness over her avarice. He almost felt like getting rid of her was worth the enormous price tag. Almost. But he should have negotiated something about the apartment for the next week or two.

The wool jacket he was wearing was not nearly warm enough. The day was unusually cold for October. He was vaguely aware of an ominous weather report. The New York Post headline at the subway newsstand screamed SNOWTOBER! As Leo stood waiting for a return call on his phone, he watched two panhandlers at the subway entrance compete for change. On one side, an elderly homeless guy was holding a knit cap in his hand and exuberantly addressing passersby with a hearty Hello! Stay dry! Cold one today! And in what Leo thought was a particularly brilliant marketing move, exhorting all the small children to Read a book!

“Did you read a book today, young man?” he’d say. “Don’t forget to read a book!”

The kids would smile shyly and nod, chew on a finger while dropping a parent-supplied dollar bill into the paper bag at the guy’s feet.

On the opposite side, a young bareheaded musical student ( smart, Leo thought, his head of streaked blond curls was impressive) had a violin tucked under his elongated chin. He was playing popular classical riffs, lots of Vivaldi, a little Bach, and was very popular with the ladies not pushing strollers; the older ones in their fur coats, the younger ones wearing headphones or carrying reusable shopping bags.

The pelting rain that had been falling all morning was changing over to sleet. Whoever was on the other end of the phone number hadn’t called him back yet. He didn’t have an umbrella, didn’t even have a hat, and the shoulders of his expensive jacket were soaking wet. He paged through the contacts on his phone again, looked at Stephanie’s name for a few seconds, and hit “call.”

“THINGS MUST BE WORSEthan I’ve heard if you’re begging to cross the bridge to Brooklyn,” Stephanie said to Leo. She picked up after only the third ring.

“I’m not begging. I need to spend time with somebody normal, somebody I actually like.” Stephanie didn’t respond. She wasn’t going to make this easy. “What have you heard anyway,” Leo asked, “about my situation.” He braced himself. This was another reason he needed to see Stephanie, to figure out how much of the story was out there, see if George had done what he promised.

“Hardly anything,” Stephanie said. “I heard you checked into Bridges. That’s it. Your consigliore is doing a good job. So how was it?”

“How was what?”

“The Carnival cruise,” Stephanie said, trying to decide how far she could push on the phone. Probably not very far.

“You are still not quite as funny as you think,” Leo said, trying to decide how much he’d have to cede before she invited him out. Probably not much.

“How was rehab, Leo? What else would I be asking about?”

“It was fine.” Leo’s fingers were starting to go numb in the cold.

“Are you all beholden to your higher power? Working through the steps?”

“It wasn’t really that kind of place,” Leo said.

“What kind of place was it?”

“Steph, I don’t know if you’ve looked out the window recently, but I’m standing outside in a monsoon of freezing sleet. I’m soaking wet. It’s really cold.” He stomped his feet a little to try to warm his toes. He wasn’t used to being in this situation, waiting on a request.

“Come out. You know where I live.”

“What subway do I take?” He cringed, hearing himself sound so eager and grateful.

“My lord,” Stephanie said, laughing. “Brooklyn and not via town car? I guess the mighty really have fallen. You know there aren’t tokens anymore, right? You have to buy something called a MetroCard?”

Leo didn’t say anything. Of course he knew about the MetroCard, but he realized he’d probably never bought one.

“Leo?” Stephanie asked. “Do you have enough money for a MetroCard?”

“Yes.”

“Come then.” Her voice softened a bit at the edges. “Take the 2 or 3 to Bergen Street. I’m roasting lamb.”

WHEN STEPHANIE’S PHONE RANG THAT AFTERNOON,she’d been throwing fistfuls of rock salt down her front stoop ahead of the purported storm. She knew before she answered that it was Leo. She was not a superstitious person, did not believe in second sight or premonitions or ghosts, but she’d always had an intuition around all things Leo. So she wasn’t surprised when she heard his voice, realized that some part of her was waiting for him to call. She’d run into his wife some weeks prior at a bistro in Soho and found herself on the receiving end of Victoria’s vituperative torrent — light on details, hard on recriminations.

“Good riddance to that narcissistic sociopath,” Victoria had said, sliding her arm through her apparent date’s, a television actor Stephanie recognized from one of those police procedurals. Victoria was vague when Stephanie asked why Leo was in rehab.

“Because he’s a coward?” she said. “Because he’d rather sleep it off in Connecticut and hope everyone forgives and forgets? As usual.”