from Abigail’s apartment to the neighborhood café at which she was a regular. As if to compensate for her shortness, Abigail went long with her opening speech—two hours long—and allowed Patty to piece together a fairly complete picture of her life: the married man, now known exclusively as Dickhead, on whom she’d wasted her best twelve years of marriageability, waiting for Dickhead’s kids to finish high school, so that he could leave his wife, which he’d then done, but for somebody younger than Abigail; the straight-man-disdaining sort of gay men to whom she’d turned for more agreeable male companionship; the impressively large community of underemployed actors and playwrights and comics and performance artists of which she was clearly a valued and generous member; the circle of friends who circularly bought tickets to each other’s shows and fund-raisers, much of the money ultimately trickling down from sources such as Joyce’s checkbook; the life, neither glamorous nor outstanding but nevertheless admirable and essential to New York’s functioning, of the bohemian. Patty was honestly happy to see that Abigail had found a place for herself in the world. It wasn’t until they repaired to her apartment for a “digestif,” and Patty broached the subject of Edgar and Galina, that things got ugly.
“Have you been to the Kibbutz of New Jersey yet?” Abigail said. “Have you seen their milch cow?”
“No, I’m going out there tomorrow,” Patty said.
“If you’re lucky, Galina won’t remember to take the collar and leash off Edgar before you get there, it’s such a verrrry handsome look. Very manly and religious. You can definitely bet she won’t bother washing the cow shit off the kitchen floor.”
Patty here explained her proposal, which was that Joyce sell the estate, give half the proceeds to Ray’s brothers, and divide the rest among Abigail, Veronica, Edgar, and herself (i.e., Joyce, not Patty, whose financial interest was nugatory). Abigail shook her head continuously while Patty explained it. “To begin with,” she said, “did Mommy not tell you about Galina’s accident? She hit a school crossing guard in a crosswalk. Thank God no children, just the old man in his orange vest. She was distracted by her spawn, in the back seat, and plowed straight into him. This was only about two years ago, and, of course, she and Edgar had let their car insurance lapse, because that’s the way she and Edgar are. Never mind New Jersey state law, never mind that even Daddy had car insurance. Edgar didn’t see the need for it, and Galina, despite living here for fifteen years, said everything was different in Rrrrussia, she had no idea. The school’s insurance paid the crosswalk guard, who basically can’t walk now, but the insurance company has a claim on all their assets, up to some ungodly sum. Any money they get now goes straight to the insurance company.”
Joyce, interestingly, had not mentioned this to Patty.
“Well, that’s probably as it should be,” she said. “If the guy is crippled, that’s where the money should go. Right?”
“It still means they run away to Israel, since they’re penniless. Which is fine with me—sayonara! But good luck selling that to Mommy. She’s fonder of the spawn than I am.”
“So why is this a problem for you?”
“Because,” Abigail said, “Edgar and Galina shouldn’t get a share at all, because they’ve had the use of the estate for six years and pretty well trashed it, and because the money’s just going to vanish anyway. Don’t you think it should go to people who can actually use it?”
“It sounds like the crossing guard could use it.”
“He’s been paid off. It’s just the insurance company now, and companies have insurance for these things themselves.”
Patty frowned.
“As for the uncles,” Abigail said, “I say tough tittie. They were sort of like you—they ran away. They didn’t have to have Granddaddy farting up every holiday like we did. Daddy went over there practically every week, his whole life, and ate Grandmommy’s nasty stale Pecan Sandies. I sure don’t remember seeing his brothers doing that.”
“You’re saying you think we deserve to be paid for that.”
“Why not? It’s better than not being paid. The uncles don’t need the money anyway. They’re doing verrrrry well without it. Whereas for me, and for Ronnie, it would make a real difference.”
“Oh, Abigail!” Patty burst out. “We’re never going to get along, are we.”
Perhaps catching a hint of pity in her voice, Abigail pulled a stupid-face, a mean face. “I’m not the one that ran away,” she said. “I’m not