august rothstein is the money. (tux) wrote in incheck, @ 2010-09-30 19:01:00
WHO: Nancy Schneider [VIRGINIA], August Rothstein [MR MONEYBAGS], and kids. WHAT: Sadsack divorcees deal with problems. They are problem-solvers. WHEN: I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE. WHERE: Their divided duplex. STATUS: Unfinished.
AUGUST: For the rest of the evening, August Rothstein found himself in another sort of fugue -- and for the first time in quite a while, it wasn’t due to alcohol. His head was astonishingly (dizzyingly) clear as he settled back in his living room armchair, one leg propped up on the ottoman, a book cradled open on his knee. He hadn’t turned the page in over ten minutes. Instead, his brown eyes were fixated on his children as they went about their daily business; they moved like distant figures on a screen, and he felt strangely distant from them, separated by layers of age and understanding. Priscilla kept flitting back and forth between her room and the bathroom. Matilda was absorbed in some elaborate arrangement involving over ten stuffed animals. Bryce looked on the verge of tearing up a school textbook.
August watched them like a film reel on silent, trapped in his own thoughts. He had been buried in his work for so long -- numbers and figures -- that he had steadily lost touch with these kids. Three (3) of them. Ages thirteen (13), eleven (11), and five (5). Their days together were a tangled mess of debiting and notetaking: icecream here, a movie there, a video game there, and then you had an entire day condensed to a precise list of numbers in a ledger. Inventories and balances. August knew how many children he had and how much he spent on them, but anything else was impossible to quantify. Could you put a number on love? Songs were sung about it. He certainly tried to do it. Eighty ($80) for that new dress she wanted, and it was all worth it just to see Priscilla’s face light up with giddy excitement, to receive the profuse thanks, that temporary heady rush of gratitude and affection. Money can’t buy you love, but it could certainly try.
But this obviously wasn’t going to work for them anymore.
He didn’t stir from his reverie until Matilda was suddenly by his side, tugging at his arm. He had rolled up his white shirtsleeves, unbuttoning the collar as soon as he stepped over the threshold of his home -- outside, August was an immaculate example of self-possessed style and pressed suits, but the moment he came home, the man relaxed.
“Movie,” she said, bluntly.
A laugh began in the back of his throat, and before he knew it, August was overwhelmed. There was something to be said about a man’s relationship with his daughters. He gave his son everything he wanted, just like all the rest, but Bryce was also on the receiving end of August’s discipline and hard-won lectures, paltry as they were.
The girls, however, he doted on -- particularly his youngest. She was just so small. And she was his.
Nancy was the consummate mother, bringing them up wherever she could -- but he hardly ever acknowledged his children’s existence on the networks, preferring to keep his private life private. But at home, August’s walls promptly crumbled. He was out of his chair in a heartbeat, sweeping Matilda up into his arms as she squealed. (He could still remember, acutely, the very day that Priscilla stopped asking for piggyback rides and started rejecting them instead. It wasn’t always the good milestones you noticed.)
“Time for Princess and the Frog at mommy’s, hm?” Matilda nodded ferociously. Behind her, the siblings were packing up their things “Księżniczka i Żaba,” August continued with an indulgent smile, peering down at his girl. “Can you say that, pet?”
She shook her head, equally ferociously.
“Księżniczka i Żaba,” he repeated as he carried her to the door. The man drew out the syllables this time, letting the Polish linger in midair. When she still refused to parrot it back, however, he simply laughed and set her back on her feet. “We will try again later.”
She wasn’t listening, however; the three children had all gone flying out the door, simply looping around the front steps and back to the entrance to their mother’s. Bryce’s footsteps dragged a little, but August firmly placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders and gave him that extra push.
Fifteen minutes later, Nancy had taken their place on his doorstep.
“Hey,” he said, one arm holding the door open. “Come on in.” His half of the home was more sparse -- less littered with the daily debris of domesticity, simply by virtue of the kids not being there as often. The decoration was muted, all sleek black lines, cream colours, and glass edges. Still child-proofed for Matilda, but the point remained: two years ago, August had specifically overturned his new home and made it into his own space. It was impeccably clean and uncluttered, but cold.
NANCY: They had disturbed her mid-nail-bite. When had she become a nail-biter?
Nancy let the door open without moving from her seat at the kitchen table, but not without a jolt of nerves passing through her heart and outward to snap her shoulders in a sudden and unpleasant shudder of surprise. She had been expecting the children’s return within the hour, but even so, it seemed the slightest shift in air was cause for alarm in Nancy’s heart anymore. When had she become so skittish?
She greeted her kids with a smile that was too warm and too affectionate. Bryce responded with a wary glance, and Priscilla ignored it. But Matilda was already in the living room, hugging a stuffed frog to her chest, and pressing buttons on the television.
“Okay, settle down, kid,” Nancy said, entering the living room and returning to the usual manner with which she presented herself to her children. A manner somewhat distant in its strict discipline and sardonic demeanor, never too warm or too affectionate, but never neglectful or dismissive. Every breath they took was cause for scrutiny, and their every accomplishment, from potty training to cleaning their rooms, was cause for approval. “Is everybody ready?” she said, after setting up the DVD player and standing before the TV in the way of a presenter at the circus.
“Do we have to watch this stupid movie?” Bryce piped up from over his math book.
“It’s not stupid!” Matilda glared, taking personal offense.
“No, of course it’s not,” Nancy assured her youngest, then turned to her boy. “Yes, Bryce, you have to. Who knows,” she added with a wink, “maybe you have a fondness for singing frogs you didn’t even know about.” Priscilla rolled her eyes, but a moment later, after “play” had been pressed and Nancy made for the door, the oldest Rothstein child was watching her mother, all too aware of the way she checked and doubled-checked the locks on the door, fumbled over the buttons on her sweater, crossed and uncrossed her arms. “Priscilla, you’re in charge,” Nancy looked up at her daughter. “I’m going to see Dad, I’ll be back in a bit.” In charge of what?
Moments later, Nancy was standing in the doorway of her ex-husband’s house, the smiles gone, the state of nervous worry quelled, all business and unblinking black eyes. “Thanks,” she said, as they passed over the threshold together and the door fell shut behind them. “We’ve got about a ninety minutes before they burn the place down.” Not entirely without humor, Nancy was never entirely without humor; she had decided on uncrossed arms.