Blood Money

by Hannah Seidlitz

My father said to me once that he learned long, long ago, when he was very young, that he was never going to get what he needed from his parents. He told me he created a mask and a fantasy world: the former for the peace of mind of others and the latter for his own. He told me this as we drove up the West Side Highway after an unpleasant family lunch, after I asked him what it was like growing up rich. It was not that I was ungrateful for the financial comfort we enjoyed, or ignorant of my own relative privilege, but his upbringing, one of wealth unfathomable, one in which his family’s tennis courts edged too near to the town reservoir to build an adjacent pool of the size they desired so they bought more real estate, so rich that by the time he made it to college he’d been kicked out of five private schools and two preparatory post-graduate programs without refund whose tuitions cost more than how much he’s taken out in loans for me, so rich that their Park Avenue apartment was worth just shy of $10 mil- lion, was an experience otherworldly. That day they had paid for our meal without glancing at the bill.

It was hot, the kind of hot you can taste—sweat, blistering street garbage, exhaust. Even taxis and apartment buildings perspired; a thick layer of congealed smog and condensation coated every surface south of Houston where I worked an unpaid internship with a literary magazine. I left after my morning shift soliciting contact info for New York’s most sought-after literati to address on my boss’s gala invitations.

In CVS as I waited in line to purchase a pack of hair ties to pull back the curls which stuck to my face the cashier summoned the manager over the intercom. A woman yelled unintelligibly when her card was declined for the fourth time. Her wiry mane formed a sort of halo about her forehead where beads of sweat swelled and dripped. On the counter before her was a marked down six-pack of Lay’s chips and a Diet Pepsi. Despite the fan buzzing directly above us, Manhattan heat slunk in through the automatic doors and settled into every corner of the pharmacy. The manager stumbled from the backroom, slathering Chapstick on his lips as he approached the register. His nametag read “Jamil.” He looked no older than twenty-five. Jamil smoothed out his greasy mustache and pocketed the tube of lip balm, putting on a smile and asking his valued customer how he could be of assistance.

On Fifth I stopped in a Dos Toros to change. Huddled around carnitas platos at corner booths and tiny round tables the diners ranged from lunching businessmen to Lincoln Center matinee attendees. Families tried to control children who dropped broken chips and wads of guacamole onto the linoleum. I sidestepped ogling tech start-up programmers to the bathroom.

The single stall reeked of urine, paprika, and Clorox. Loath to let my Fjällräven backpack touch the floor, which boasted a thin layer of inscrutable grime, I hung a strap around the doorknob. I unlaced my sneakers and slipped them off, securing each foot atop its shoe to elude the bacterial cesspool below. I followed a similar precautionary process with every successive article of clothing, stuffing my jeans and work shirt into my bag before examining myself in the mirror above the sink. Below my sharp collarbones and the ornate gold chain that hung around my neck, my breasts sat high on my chest. Light pink nipples hardened against freezing gusts from the AC vent above. Un- der the fluorescent bulbs my flesh assumed a translucent pallor. Veins spread across my sternum, over my shoulders, and onto my upper arms. Nude in a public restroom—humbling. I flexed my stomach and turned, admiring the cavity hunger carved between my ribs.

Voices of restaurant patrons filtered through the walls. Once I took note of the tumult, I could pay mind to nothing else; sounds of forks scraping plates and teeth mashing taco shells and straws sucking ice cubes dry of the last drops of soda commanded every airwave in the tiny room. Cacophony settled into identifiable conversations, snippets of which I caught with an addled ear…was going to pick up my wife from…yeah, I would probably fuck her too, but don’t tell my girlfriend…and after the show we can grab drinks at…the rice here is better than…dude, your boss doesn’t let you do anything…eat your greens, honey…The chatter sidled so near, I doubted for a moment the opacity of the sliding door and pulled the shift dress from my bag.

Opalescent sequins, the shades silver, gold, and champagne, lined the high halter. I ran my hand along the bodice, smoothing out wrinkles that had etched their way into the fabric, silk and chiffon, in transit; carelessly I had left the designer garment crumpled beneath my laptop, hefty Michael Kors wallet, and Manolo Blahnik slingbacks. I coated my lashes in mascara and smudged my mother’s plum lacquer onto my lips before a disgruntled man banged on the door, “I’ve been waiting ten minutes!” he groused.

As I strode back through the restaurant I noticed heads turn to inspect my metamorphosis. A frumpy pupa had entered the bathroom and emerged a monarch.

Crossing the street a man working construction told me I had nice tits. A wave of nausea reached across my chest and I hastened, pretending to hail a taxi with its lights off. As I hurried away blisters burst where my strappy heels polished the flesh below my ankles.

The shoes were a gift from an ex boyfriend’s mother. She’d worn them once, to some philanthropy event at the Met, and since she’d been photographed in them she could not dare sport them in public again. Ivory with a rose print and crystal buckle, fit for an Upper East Side archduchess. They scarcely fit me, my feet a few half sizes too small, but I suffered them with pride. Pride and discomfort.

I ached to remove them as I approached the upscale bistro. The exterior of the converted speakeasy boasted gold railings and a balcony adorned with rows of ornamental jockey figurines. Cast iron gates contained a kempt garden, tall grasses and greenery anomalous in industrial midtown. I wondered whether they were there to insulate the diners or exclude the passersby. I wasn’t sure there was a difference. My father and brother stood side by side in the foyer, hiding awestruck glances behind aviators as they devoured the gaudy interior. Their sport jackets and derby shoes camouflaged them among the other 21 Club patrons. Billionaires slurping oysters and dry gin accepted them as two of their own; courtly hosts offered them wine; I looked on, amused.

My father’s sisters, Jane and Anne, arrived minutes later. Jane, the eldest sibling, resembled a witch without stage makeup, the wicked Wizard of Oz sort. Even as a child her nose grew crooked and bulbous, with sharp edges and a mole above her left nostril. Her coarse black hair could not be brushed nor plaited. Harsh features, but never a striking beauty, she was, as I projected internalized anti-Semitism, the Jewess I never hoped to be. Anne shared these traits, but to a lesser extent. Neither woman was particularly attractive, nor were they affable. At holidays my brother and I selected seats at the far end of the mahogany dinner table, suspicious of their hideousness catching, and keen to avoid their conversation. Jane, an adolescent psychologist and practicing Buddhist, never seemed to lack an hour- long anecdote about her latest trip to India, during which she had again met with the Dalai Llama and cleansed herself of egoism. Her Pekingese purebreds both had traditional Buddhist names, Jangchub and Boddhicitta. Boddhicitta, named after the Sanskrit term for the pursuit of absolute enlightenment, was blind in both eyes.

Despite Jane’s outstanding unpleasantness, my father fostered a far more hostile relationship with Anne. Neither the baby nor the firstborn, Anne struggled to win my grandparents’ reticent affection. A manic-depressive narcissist who as a child planted tacks along the stairs for my father to step on, she adopted a yappy Dachshund and came around only for gift-giving holidays, though her own presents dependably disappointed the recipient. The ugly discount socks or wallets she picked up at novelty shops Christmas morning tossed into plastic grocery bags she knotted off did not quite meet the standard for close kin. I do not think she had many friends.

The five of us were seated with my grandparents, whose sixtieth anniversary was our pretext for assemblage. After my grandfather sent the wine back having complained twice about its temperature a new waiter delivered everyone’s drinks—Riesling for each of us except my grandmother who slurped a neat martini. My grandfather slipped a note from his breast pocket. He struck his knife against his glass. The crystal screeched under the blade. We quieted, listening to the lung cancer ravage his chest as he cleared his throat. On the paper he had typed a speech, an ode to his beloved, Doris, the woman whom he is so grateful to wake up with each morning, the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. A very bleak institution it must be, that the only prevailing marriage at the table was theirs. 1957 saw Sputnik, the Suez Canal crisis, Viet Cong terrorism in Saigon, and a Seidlitz wedding.

In the eighties when my grandfather, aptly known by friends and associates as “Dick,” pulled seven figures at Morgan Stanley, he slept with every woman in midtown. In the nineties he cornered his daughter- in-law’s sister at a holiday party and thrust his tongue through her protesting lips. When I was thirteen he told me he could tell I was growing up, that the dress I was wearing complimented my figure very nicely, very nicely he said. Listening to his romantic drivel now heaved bile through my throat.

The waiter delivered menus to our table in the “Bar Room,” an expansive dining space with low ceilings from which dangled glorified collectibles: model automobiles of every type, pro football helmets, toys donated by John Kennedy, Salvatore Ferragamo, Walt Disney. Paintings by famous artists whose names I cannot remember decorated maroon walls and mahogany furnishings. A banker’s man cave wet dream. “This room is an eyesore,” Anne spat against my ear.

“You look well, did you lose weight?” said my grandmother. “Hannah, sweetheart, when I die do you want this watch?” said my grandfather, thrusting his Rolexed wrist across the table. “Your internship,” began my father.

“Anne, did you dye your hair?” Jane said, noting the absence of her sister’s characteristic gray streak.

“What’ll it be for the lady?” the waiter asked.

I glanced at the menu in my lap. The gilded font spun across the page. Thick cursive letters shouted jumbled offerings. Clayton’s Jumbo Lump Crabmeat with traditional mustard sauce. Octopus Carpaccio with citrus, Kalamata olives. Duck Pâté with tarragon mustard, crispy baguette. The Wedge with blue cheese, hardboiled egg, bacon, fried tomatoes. Beef Cheek and Foie Gras Terrine with fermented corn, Pecorino, truffle oil. Boiled Lamb Bolognese with picholine olives, crushed red pepper, cold cream. Creamy Chicken Hash with mornay sauce, Bloomsdale spinach, Gruyère crust. Veal Tongue with golden ossetra caviar, crème fraîche,

“I’m sorry,” I replied, “I don’t eat meat. Is there any way the chef could prepare a house salad?”

He stared at me for a moment. Sweat moistened my upper lip. “Make it for her. It won’t kill you,” my grandmother slurred, now drunk off her second martini. Blood bubbled against my cheeks. He scribbled onto his note pad and retired to the kitchen.

He placed before us plates teeming with animal parts, internal organs, slaughter by-products, smothered in chunky creams and tor- rid sauces. Something gelatinous oozed from a hunk of steak tartare. Grandma asked grandpa for a bite of his burger and it crumbled in his hands as her mouth closed around it, chunks of cooked beef littering the white tablecloth. Oil drenched the greens in my bowl. I had hardly lifted my fork when the waiter returned. “How was everything?” he asked.

“Well,” Jane squawked, “my truffle mac and cheese could have been, more…truffley.”

“I apologize, madam, but I was sure you requested fewer mushrooms in your dish.”

“Uh-huh, yes, and considering the esteem of this establishment I assumed you would compensate with more truffle oil instead. I didn’t come here to order Kraft.”

“It is a side dish, ma’am. If we were to prepare it as you’re describing it would be far more expensive than an à la carte side. Nearly one hundred dollars, certainly. And it’s not. It’s a side dish.”

The flesh on my face again grew hot.

Despite the fraught exchange, Jane insisted on ordering dessert. Baked Alaska. (Meyer lemon semifreddo, Cointreau.) It was delivered atop a porcelain platter with a silver spoon. She stabbed the tiny utensil through the meringue, lifting a dollop to her mouth, which, once agape, revealed that residual cheese from her entrée coated the back of her tongue, where she dumped the sweet, singed egg whites. “Mmm.” Her eyelids fluttered. She sucked the spoon dry before swallowing.

Then, she gagged. Her brow furrowed and she reached her fingers past her lips, pressing into the depths, coughing wildly, and extracted a long, blond hair.

“Excuse me,” I gasped, and thrust my chair from the table. Sprinting through the ostentatious main hall past aristocrats and those paintings I did not recognize and the asshole server and Bill Clinton’s RC aircraft I felt saliva line my throat and did not wait a moment to lock the bathroom door after entering. I knelt before the toilet in prayer, sprays of vomit splashing water against my face.