(I was tempted to call this “A Fairfield County Story,” but that was a bit too close to home. Not my home mind you. But in the neighborhood.)
Jan and Pat Stafford stopped in front of 28 North Gate as their elderly lab squatted on the margin between the lawn and pavement and did the business intended by the walk. He, the lab, looked at the couple, eyes edging up in canine embarrassment by the public exposure, while Jan and Pat looked up at the house whose lawn they were fouling. Pat shook his head.
“We’ve had them over I don’t know how many times, and not once have they invited us back,” he said. “I’ve half a mind to leave Rafter’s gift on the grass.”
“Oh don’t be that way,” said Jan, leaning over with a New York Times bag pulled over her arm and another, in her hand, taking a handful of Rafter’s gift. She got it in one scoop. “They’ve got kids. He’s works in Manhattan. She’s always busy and quite friendly when I see here at the market. You forget what it was like when Liam and Eliza were home.”
“I suppose,” he said, his mind already on a martini when they got to their house. “I suppose. Good boy. Good poop.”
Peeking out behind a curtain that shrouded the enormous floor-to-ceiling bay window from the living room, Clifford Danforth watched Pat and Jan move on. He would have opened the door and walked down the stone path for a chat. He liked the Staffords, both of them, and had many wonderful evenings at their home since he and Carrie had moved into their new house. He would have liked to invite them in, them and their friendly old lab that his kids loved, and offer up a spontaneous Bar-b-que or maybe order in.
But then, they would look around the living room, the bonus room, the dining room, or his office, and wonder why it was all so empty. They might look at the cardboard boxes stacked about and think the Danforths were taking an awfully long time to move in; they’d been there since last summer. The Danforths had practiced a response. “We’re just so busy we haven’t gotten around to it, isn’t that crazy?”
However, visitors might notice the boxes move around if the kids were playing fort or hide and go seek. Or they might not understand why there was so little furniture even if the boxes had been full.
They might stare at blank spaces on the white walls that still gave off the scent of fresh paint, and offer to help putting up pictures. Hadn’t Pat said he was handy with those things, and hung all the artwork in his house; including the large one over the fireplace he referred to as a ‘Wendt.’? Clifford has looked him up later. William Wendt, early California impressionist, whosse worked fetched several hundred thousand recently. Pat mentioned he’d inherited from his father. So he comes from money, thought Clifford.
The Danforths were not ready for guests.
Clifford returned to his desk and stared at the phone. He was about to dial, but turned on his Mac, connected to the Bank of America bill pay tab. He looked at due dates of the bills in front of him and adjusted his payments to the last possible date. The leases on the cars, the jumbo mortgage that had, again, adjusted higher, the boat payment, the boat slip, the Amex card – jeez the Amex card – he looked over the details to see where they could cut, but it all seemed legitimate. Maybe he’d keep the boat out of the water, let the slip slip, let them take the boat back. He looked at the BMW car lease to see when it ended. 11 months. Not good.
His former colleagues, at Gallows Hill Capital, had pushed him. “Hey, you’re in the big leagues, boy! Time to live it up a little.” That’s what Gary Rosenheim had said when he mentioned he’d seen the house on North Gate, well over his price range. “C’mon, you’ll deserve it. Show some balls,” said the head trader. “It’s the best neighborhood in town. It’s an investment. “ Then, in a more critical tone, “I hope you show less hesistation with your positions,” came from Liddy O’Fell, the CIO who’d hired him. “You’ll feel better the day after you move in.”
He did, too. The day after he moved in, he put on a position that immediately started to soar. Two months later he was up 16% and outperforming everyone which led to the wine cellar installation – “Yeah, yeah, this weekend, we’ll look at furniture,” he told Carrie. But that weekend was a golf game at Sound View, an invite, and, who knew, the Danforths might want to join someday. “Cliff, we’re always considering new members,” he was told. “It’s a process, right. Come around. Meet some people. It’s a wonderful club. A bit exclusive, as well, if you catch the drift.”
The Danforths went out and bought a set of golf outfits for that very occasion. Cha ching, cha ching.
When his position stopped gaining, he wasn’t worried. It’s momentum, he told himself, the calm before the surge. When it slipped, he was still up, a lot, and bought some more. Doubling down was the term. “Hey Cliff, doubling down? Doubling down killed more Jews than Hitler,” said Rosenheim.
Six weeks later the fund was under water, and Clifford Danforth was up the creek.
When word got out he laughed it off. He hinted at a generous severance (they paid him for the balance of a year’s base, half of which went to COBRA, the other half to taxes). He would look around conspiratorially and whisper about opportunities he was investigating and wondered to himself if those would actually transpire. In the meantime, he and Carrie were seen out and about, living the good life, laughing and smiling, and returning home to a house with most of its rooms empty and, obsessively, turning off the lights the kids had left on.
When he got the call for Sound View he blew his nose, tried to sound stuffed, and said he’d be honored to come when he got over this ‘damn’ flu. Carrie demurred on the fund raiser for the League, citing other charities they were behind. Carrie was waiting at the bus stop for the kids with other mothers and, burst into tears, one day. “Is everything alright, honey?” asked one of the mom’s. Carrie smiled and said it was just a moment, and giggled she hoped she wasn’t pregnant. The other mothers laughed and then gave each other looks.
Clifford, nightly, would go over his finances, seeing where they were, trying to find things to cut, and seeing the same thing over and over again. He’d stare at the screen, play with his spreadsheets, calculate the penalties and taxes if he sold from the IRA. Carrie would put a hand on his shoulder and he would just shake his head.
Caller ID showed another call from Sound View, but he didn’t pick up. A call into the state unemployment office left him on hold for 45 minutes, then shuffled to another department for another long hold, and a back and forth on why his $438 check hadn’t been deposited. It was after the Hispanic -accented clerk said it was an error that he realized how tight his chest felt. He put fingers on his wrist to feel the galloping hoofbeats of his pulse and sweat dripping down the inside of his already soaked shirt.
He called in Carrie and told the kids to stay in the forts – Indians were coming – and they screamed in laughter to the living room. He held her hand to his chest and she pulled it back sharply. “Oh my god, are you alright?”
“No, he answered. No, I’m not We’re not. We’re done Carr, three months and we’re done.”
The ‘for sale’ sign went up a few days later. Motivated owners, said the realtor, and they were still able to take out some of their downpayment. The cars went next – “happens a lot here,” said the lease manager at the dealer. Clifford was grateful he hadn’t been judgmental.
They repacked the boxes, the ones that had been emptied, and left a couple for the kids to play in as they did so. Clifford brought up the case of wine he never bothered to put away and took the cover off the BBQ.
It was then, and only then, that they invited the neighbors around.