“Because we have money?” said Grace. “They say that causes problems of its own.”
“But they’re problems of freedom,” Izzie said. “Other people don’t even get to those.”
They both turned to him, awaiting confirmation from the land of other people. He suspected it wasn’t that simple, but before he could organize his thoughts, Grace said:
“She’s right. Home equity, mortgages, all that step-by-step bullshit-by the time most people get past it, life is over. Piss on that. Working for decades just to get-just hoping to get-where Izzie and I are right now.”
“That makes me feel better,” Nat said.
Izzie laughed, then Grace. “Here’s to the problems of freedom,” Grace said.
They drank. Izzie restarted “Caro Nome.” “Unless,” she said, turning from the record player, “Nat gets lucky too.”
“In what way?” said Grace.
“I don’t know. Writes a best-seller or something.”
Nat was astonished: he’d never mentioned wanting to write to anyone.
Grace and Izzie looked at each other. Nat had the crazy idea that for a moment their brains had hooked up, doubling normal human power.
“That’s the point, isn’t it?” said Grace.
“This isn’t about seven thousand dollars,” said Izzie.
“Or scholarships, home equity, watching our pennies,” said Grace. “It’s about getting all that out of the way.”
“In one stroke,” said Izzie.
“I thought of Powerball,” Nat said.
They glanced at him, said nothing. Grace got up, walked over to Izzie by the record player, refilled her glass, came to Nat on the couch, refilled his, started to refill her own-and dropped the bottle. A heavy, cut-glass bottle that just slipped from her hand, smashed at her feet.
She didn’t seem to notice. “I’m having a thought,” she said.
“Uh-oh,” said Izzie.
“Shut up,” said Grace. “It’s-it’s so good. And it’s all right here, even the sound track.”
Izzie’s eyes widened; maybe she saw it coming. Nat didn’t.
“What are you talking about?” he said.
“We’ll kidnap Izzie.”
“For God’s sake.”
“Or me, then. It doesn’t matter. We’ll kidnap me for ransom.”
“How much?” said Izzie.
“I don’t know,” Grace said. “Tuition, room and board, home equity, mortgage, miscellaneous-how about a million dollars?”
“Sure that’s enough?” said Izzie.
“In terms of the expenses?” Grace said. “Or do you mean-”
“-what a real kidnapper would ask. It has to look realistic, doesn’t it?”
“You’re way ahead of me, Izzie.”
Izzie looked pleased.
“This is a joke, right?” Nat said.
“A joke?” said Grace. “Is that still a negative word in your lexicon? Shouldn’t our supreme insights-”
“-sound like follies,” Izzie said. She giggled, a little giggle just like Grace’s, but that Nat heard now for the first time from her.
“Like follies,” said Grace, “or even crimes.”
She opened the leaded-glass cabinet doors, took out another bottle. “Hey,” she said. “Rouge.” She showed it to Nat.
Romanee-Conti, 1917.
“Is it a good one?” Izzie said.
“Who knows?” said Grace, looking around for the corkscrew, not spotting it immediately.
“Wait,” Nat said, because he knew. Mr. Zorn’s 1962 bottle of the same wine was worth $2,500. And therefore “Not to worry,” said Grace, striking the neck of the bottle sharply against the edge of a table. It snapped off; she found new glasses, poured.
And therefore that might have been tuition, room, and board right there. Was there more, even one bottle? Nat checked the cabinet, found none.
They drank. “My God,” said Grace.
“Like having a drink with the czar or something,” said Izzie.
The things she sometimes said: perfect, at least to his ear.
Grace raised her glass. “To crimes and follies.”
“You’re serious,” said Nat.
“Why not?” said Grace.
“Why not? Because it’s wrong.”
“Is it?” said Izzie; that surprised him a little; perhaps things would have been different had it been Grace, but it was Izzie. Or if he had eaten more than a granola bar in the past two days, or hadn’t been drinking nectar on an empty stomach, or hadn’t been drinking at all since he’d never been much of a drinker, or this or that. “First of all, it’s not much money,” Izzie said, “nothing at all to him. He wouldn’t even notice.”
“It would do him good,” Grace said.
Izzie glanced at her. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
After a pause, Izzie continued. “Take that horse farm-how much do you think that’s costing?”
“And we don’t even ride anymore,” said Grace.
“Second, there’s no victim, no real crime, no one gets hurt or even scared.”
“I just hide down here for a day or two,” said Grace, “there’s some sort of ransom demand, Izzie goes to pick up the money, I reappear, ka-boom. Nothing’s real.”
“And third,” said Izzie, “it’s just.”
“Just?”
“Like land reform in Latin America,” said Grace.
“Exactly,” said Izzie. “What fortune didn’t start with a little hanky-panky?”
“Hanky-panky?” said Grace, and started to laugh; then Izzie started too, and finally Nat. It seemed like the funniest combination of syllables ever uttered. They laughed till they cried.
Then they sat quietly for a few moments. Izzie looked at Nat, right into his eyes. “Fourth, you can stay.” Nat met her gaze, the candlelight catching those gold flecks in her irises, kept meeting it until he felt Grace watching.
“The best part, of course,” said Grace. “And all those worries-home equity, mortgage, your mother’s job-”
“Finis,” said Izzie.
“So,” said Grace, “how about it?”
Nat was silent. It wasn’t the money itself, but the freedom, just as Izzie had said. To be free of that yellow legal pad and future legal pads with their columns of figures adding up to worry, constriction, settling for second- best, or less. What was that cliche? Play the cards you’re dealt. He’d been dealt a new hand. He’d entered this world of Grace and Izzie where some words- money, for one-had a different meaning. Money perhaps the most different of all: a world where a cash machine was no more than a box where you pushed buttons and out came money, as demanded.
“Or maybe this place is a bit too much,” Grace said to Izzie. “Maybe he’s not that ambitious.”
Izzie turned to him.
That word: and the stern stuff that went with it. To be sweet and brilliant, a self-defeating combination. And if not sweet and brilliant, at least reasonably kind and fairly smart. He had a horrible vision of dying promise, promise dying, dying down the years, its first stage the long flight home. Come east but hadn’t cut it, for one reason or another. The candles, dozens of them, burned, the old wine glowed in the fine glasses, Galli-Curci sang her song
