The Trustee
By Dinamarie Isola
March 2002
The black running shoes show no signs of wear but Mark has used them. The chemical odor carried in their synthetic fiber overpowers any scent he might have left behind. But he was here once.
I pull and lift the tongue. The size (eleven) surprises me; it seems so average. I shift in my seat as I realize that I wasn’t privy to a simple fact, like Mark’s shoe size. That is something a wife knows; I’m no one’s wife.
I tuck his toothbrush and spare contact lenses inside the left sneaker and his deodorant in the right. I lower them into a shoebox, put the lid on, and slip them into a nice shopping bag from Saks, one of Mother’s, I’m sure. And that is that. I am off on my journey.
For the past month edginess settled on me like the city’s dust, motion the only remedy to shake it off. Once my refuge, my apartment in lower Manhattan became a cage for me to pace. The spring ritual of throwing open the windows seemed more like an invitation for the dead to leave a chalky mark on my things.
The car I once thought of as an impractical indulgence is now my salvation. It allows me the freedom that comes from hurtling seventy-five miles an hour down the Long Island Expressway. I always end up in the same place—Mother’s house in Sag Harbor, which technically is mine. The drive is over two hours, just enough for the frenzy of Manhattan to ease its grip and roll off my shoulders and for me to forget the gaping, flawed skyline.
During the silent ride my mind turns noisy, a satellite dish that picks up muddled frequencies. It makes no sense to rehash conversations or, worse, to imagine ones that I can’t ever utter out loud (except in the cocoon of my car). Sometimes my words elicit a kick from my belly.
If my confessions have reached my mother’s ears, has she realized how inept Emily Post’s etiquette handbook is, given my situation? Perhaps she blames herself for putting me in Mark’s hands. But do the dead care about the destruction they leave behind?
It started when I walked into Mark’s office almost two years ago. As the appointed trustee of her estate, he earned something I never had—my mother’s confidence. A gatekeeper, his job was to rein in my frivolity, to keep me grounded.
“You attended the most expensive schools and what do you do? You paint houses!” she would often say.
“It’s trompe l’oeil—fooling the eye. I can turn someone’s dining room into an ancient villa overlooking the Tuscan hills. It’s art. I create beautiful illusions.”
“Art? Mirage is more like it. What good is that?”
My “lack of a level head” caused her anguish. To her my creativity was more than impractical; it represented danger and was the reason to safeguard my inheritance.
After she died, all the responsibilities she had left to me—the real estate and investments—felt like shackles. I now owned a house in an exclusive Long Island community and a multi-million-dollar investment account. Luckily Mark was there to steer me through the maze.
We met at his office a month after she died. As he shook my hand, his other hand rested on my elbow. “Your mother was a lovely woman and always had an interesting story about you. She admired your vigor.”
Vigor.
I resisted the urge to ask him what stories she had shared. No doubt he knew about my bachelor’s degree that I needed six years to complete so I could “paint houses.” To my surprise, when I attempted to speak, my voice cracked.
His gaze met mine and his eyebrows sagged. Was he worried that I was about to cry? I looked up, blinking until my eyes no longer swelled with tears. Words stuck in my throat.
“I know this is hard,” he said. “We can discuss things another time.”
I waved him off. My mother hated it when I procrastinated.
He suggested we go for a walk and enjoy the gorgeous day. A soft breeze blew off the Hudson River, bringing with it light conversation. Mark shared stories about his wild days as a student at Boston University, probably to make up for his earlier vigor comment. His favorite tale involved setting off stink bombs at bars where the bouncers had been less than cordial. He and his friends would wait for a night when live music offered a distraction. Synchronizing their watches, they would spread out, each perched in a separate corner of the room. At the designated time they would throw the tiny glass vials to the floor and crush them underfoot. The mayhem was the best part, he had admitted. As he described the people running for the door holding their noses, I laughed so hard I cried tears. And so did he.
Over lunch we discussed the details of my inheritance. I asked him about the procedures to make a withdrawal from her account.
He corrected me, “It’s yours now.”
But, as the trustee, he had the right to approve or disapprove any withdrawals made above and beyond my annual payout. Even dead, she had control over me.
There were matters that required I return to his office. Though he could act as he saw fit, he preferred to discuss investment opportunities with me in person. I looked forward to our meetings and soon thought of him more like a guardian angel than an extension of my mother’s hold on me. The shimmer of silver in his black hair seemed to be the light shining off of him.
We never discussed his wife or children, though I had seen the well-composed family portrait in his office (last year’s Christmas card photo, I’m sure). Yet when he leaned in to kiss me one night after we had had a few drinks, I didn’t stop him. When he showed up at my apartment one afternoon, I let him in; and when he brought a few meager toiletries and his running shoes, I made room for them. I didn’t ask him where our relationship was going or if he planned on leaving his wife. I allowed myself to linger in the illusion for as long as it would last. My mother had connected us; he was son-in-law material. Maybe, for once, she would be happy with me.
As I stared at the television and watched the blazing fire and thick smoke consume the World Trade Center, I clung to the idea that Mark would arrive bearing coffee, bagels, and a sheepish grin. But there was no buzz of the intercom, no ring of the phone, no last good-bye, and no tearful “I love you.” The sound of the towers collapsing roared in my ears, followed by a silence heavier than the mountain of debris and the layers of dust that remained.
I read about his life in The New York Times. He had a son, Robert, who was in kindergarten and a three-year-old daughter, Darla. His wife, Marie, said that it was love at first sight when they met in grad school nine years ago. Her last contact with him was that fateful morning. He left a frantic voice mail on her cell phone telling her he loved her and the kids. She held a memorial service for him in October, but I thought it would be poor taste to attend. I sent a Mass card and received a handwritten thank-you before the month’s end. For weeks I walked around weepy, nauseous, and numb—and I couldn’t tell anyone. Our relationship, especially in grief, was complicated yet vague.
--
The gradual shift from concrete to grass, grays to green and blue eases my mind. As I get nearer to the house, the open space, the marsh, the water welcome me as if to ask why I would ever leave again.
After hours in the car, I’m relieved to have access to a bathroom. I waddle off as fast as I can. While I fumble with the house key, Mother’s diamond wedding band spins around my finger. Even with swollen fingers I can’t fill her ring and feign a sense of propriety.
Everything is as I left it weeks ago. I turn on the water and raise the heat to kill the dampness. I go to the car to get my things. I wash up and smile as I pat my face with an embroidered hand towel, a souvenir I brought back from Italy. The routine comforts me and puts a floor under my shaky feet.
From the kitchen window I gaze at my mother’s pride, the saucer magnolia tree, still bare from winter. As a girl I loved to lie under its crown of pink fire that rose as high as the rooftop. The delicate, white interior of the oval blooms reminds me of baby birds tilting their beaks with urgency, eager for food.
Would I have brought Mark here, had I the chance? Perhaps I would have painted a fresco on the exterior garage wall: the winding canals of Venice with their fascinating but eerie turns. Over time, though, the rain would have weathered my work. As it washed it away, only ghost-like streaks would remain, a pale reminder of what I had intended. Mother would have despised the thought. Illusions were for those who accepted cheap imitations. She never settled.
With Mark’s shoebox tucked under my arm and a trowel in hand, I trudge out to the base of the tree. The strength of the trunk absorbs my weight as I lean into it. Bark presses into my back, leaving fine scratches under my shirt, where no one can see.
I draw in a deep breath and stab at the hard, damp earth. Our baby will arrive in another month, and that thought makes me dig faster until I’m gasping. Mother’s diamonds wink at me, sparkling against the black soil splattered on my fingers. When the ring slips off, I don’t bother to retrieve it; it belongs in the hole with my tears. My hands shake as I lower the box into the darkness. I cover the gaping hole and smooth the spot, removing all traces of his presence and mine.
Heavy and numb, my arms paw at the trunk, first to steady my feet and then to drag myself up. As I walk to the house, I never look back at the dry, twisting branches, a cluster of withered hands scratching at the heavens. Instead I cling to my memory of the brilliant blossoms to come and trust that, as spring unfolds, I will be here to see the tree in its full but brief glory.
THE END