Chapter 15 - WHAT TWO HUNDRED DOLLARS COULD NOT BUY
Julian turned twenty-four in October.
Twelve million dollars transferred into an account under his control that morning.
Not fifteen.
Not half of thirty-one exactly.
Market values had changed.
Vance-related holdings had fallen during the restructuring.
Taxes and trust allocations affected the final amount.
Julian stared at the balance on his phone.
$12,483,611.27.
Then locked the screen and went to work.
Maya looked at him.
“Birthday.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“Because Thursday.”
“You have serious psychological issues.”
“Apparently hereditary.”
Luis brought cupcakes at lunch.
Grocery-store cupcakes.
Chocolate.
Julian ate two.
At three, Nora called.
“Funds settled.”
“I saw.”
“Do you want to discuss allocation?”
“Tomorrow.”
Silence.
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m working.”
Nora laughed.
“Your mother would be unbearable.”
“Everyone says that.”
Vance Urban survived.
The company sold Chicago.
Richard hated that.
He watched the closing from his smaller apartment on West End Avenue and did not speak for almost an hour afterward.
Then he ordered Chinese food.
Paid himself.
The Midtown sale followed.
Debt came down.
The company’s headquarters shrank from four floors to two.
Fifty-one positions were affected.
Thirty-three employees transferred with sold properties.
Others received severance.
Eighteen lost their jobs without another chair waiting.
Julian did not allow himself to turn restructuring into an elegant success story.
Numbers belonged to people.
He had finally learned that.
Richard lost majority voting control after refinancing brought in new preferred investors.
For the first time since Julian was a child, another executive ran some daily operations.
Richard hated that too.
It was probably good for his heart.
Charles resigned six months later.
He sold part of his stake.
He and Richard spoke only at board meetings for a while.
Julian did not repair that relationship for them.
Another lesson.
The Seventy-Second Street townhouse sold to a technology executive with three children.
Rosa cried during the final walk-through.
Richard pretended allergies.
Julian took the brass measuring marks from inside the pantry door after getting permission from the buyer.
He cut out the narrow strip of wood himself.
His mother’s handwriting showed:
JULIAN — 10.
JULIAN — 11.
JULIAN — 12.
Richard watched.
“You’re damaging a fifteen-million-dollar house.”
“Not ours anymore.”
Richard smiled.
“Good answer.”
Rosa moved to a smaller household position with Richard three days a week.
The rest of her time, she spent with grandchildren and informed everyone this was called having a life.
Julian stayed in Queens longer than anyone expected.
Including himself.
After his trust distribution, Elena raised his rent twenty-five dollars.
“Why?”
“Market.”
“You know I have money now.”
“I knew before.”
Julian stopped.
“What?”
Elena looked annoyed.
“Your security man is terrible at being invisible.”
Julian laughed.
“Did my father tell you?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“I Googled you.”
Of course.
“Why rent to me?”
She shrugged.
“You looked scared.”
“You said I looked like drugs or police.”
“Also scared.”
“Why didn’t you treat me differently?”
Elena stared.
“Rent still due Friday.”
Fair.
Julian eventually moved.
Not to Tribeca.
Not back uptown.
A one-bedroom in Astoria.
$3,100 a month.
Expensive by the standards he now understood.
Affordable by his salary if he was careful.
He paid rent from earned income.
Trust distributions went into a diversified portfolio managed with an independent adviser.
No Vance family office.
Nora approved so enthusiastically Julian became suspicious.
He kept working at Arroyo.
People thought that was symbolic.
It wasn’t.
He liked the work.
After a year, Luis offered him a small profit-sharing arrangement tied to commercial accounts Julian helped build.
Julian paid fair value for a minority interest later.
Not millions.
Not rescue.
A business decision.
Maya eventually left for a larger distributor.
They remained friends.
Nothing romantic happened.
This irritated Elena, who had developed theories.
“She likes you.”
“She likes competent coworkers.”
“So you had no chance at first.”
“Exactly.”
Richard’s valve held.
His pride was less cooperative.
Father and son saw each other about twice a month.
Sometimes dinner.
Sometimes a Knicks game.
Once at Richard’s apartment, Julian opened the refrigerator.
Eggs.
Bread.
Peanut butter.
He looked at his father.
“Seriously?”
Richard shrugged.
“Nostalgia.”
Their relationship did not return to what it had been.
That was the one part Julian still did not know how to mourn.
Before the two hundred dollars, Richard had been the first call.
Problem?
Dad.
Good news?
Dad.
Need something?
Dad.
Afterward, Julian hesitated.
Not because he loved him less.
Because he had learned to check whether he wanted a father or an answer.
Richard noticed.
He never complained.
That might have been guilt.
It might have been respect.
Julian did not know.
On the second anniversary of Elise’s death, they took flowers to her grave in Woodlawn Cemetery.
Richard brought white roses.
Julian brought grocery-store daisies because Elise used to say roses were flowers with excellent public relations.
Richard saw them.
“She’d like those better.”
“I know.”
They stood together.
No one made a speech.
On the way back, Richard asked:
“Coffee?”
“Where?”
He named the espresso place on Forty-Fifth.
Julian laughed.
“You remember?”
“You complained for twenty minutes about the declined card.”
“Traumatic.”
They walked in.
Same narrow counter.
Different barista.
Julian ordered a double espresso.
Richard ordered tea.
“Tea?”
“Cardiologist.”
“You’re becoming weak.”
“I’ll revise my will.”
Julian pulled out his debit card.
Richard reached for his.
They both stopped.
A year earlier, either movement would have become a contest.
Julian smiled.
“Separate checks.”
Richard laughed.
“Deal.”
Julian paid $4.75.
The tip screen appeared.
20%.
25%.
30%.
Custom.
He pressed twenty-five.
Not because he was rich.
Not because he was proving generosity.
Because he remembered standing on that same tile with five dollars and thinking tipping was the first expense he could erase when fear arrived.
Outside, Richard handed him a white envelope.
Julian frowned.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
Inside were two hundred-dollar bills.
The same envelope Julian had returned before the heart procedure.
“Dad.”
“I kept them.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t know what else to do.”
Julian stared at the money.
“I don’t want it.”
“Neither do I.”
They stood on Forty-Fifth Street arguing over two hundred dollars while office workers rushed around them.
Finally Julian laughed.
“This family can make any amount of money exhausting.”
Richard smiled.
“Inherited talent.”
Julian looked at the bills again.
Then walked back inside.
He asked the manager whether employees had an emergency hardship fund.
They did.
He put the two hundred dollars into the jar.
No plaque.
No name.
No lesson attached.
When he came outside, Richard was waiting.
“Where’d it go?”
“Not ours anymore.”
His father nodded.
They started walking.
After half a block, Richard said, “Dinner Sunday?”
Julian almost answered automatically.
Then checked his calendar.
Work Monday early.
Laundry.
Nothing else.
“Yeah.”
Richard smiled.
“Good.”
They kept walking toward Grand Central.
Julian still did not know whether the distance between them would ever disappear completely.
Maybe it shouldn’t.
Some distance was abandonment.
Some was room.
He was only beginning to understand the difference.
At the station entrance, Richard headed for a car waiting at the curb.
Julian turned toward the subway.
His father looked at him.
“You want a ride?”
The old answer would have been yes before the question ended.
Julian checked the traffic.
Looked down the stairs.
Then smiled.
“No. Train’s faster.”
Richard nodded.
No hurt.
No lesson.
No test.
May you like
Just an answer.
Julian tapped his own Metro card, walked through the turnstile, and disappeared into the crowd carrying everything he needed to get himself home.
