this to mean that she was stunned by his generosity. But then she tsk-tsked him—she did have something of the schoolmarm about her—and said, “Oh, Max, I don’t want your money.”
“Just take it,” Max said. “It comes without strings. Three million.”
“I don’t want it. Don’t send it. If a check comes, I’ll rip it up.”
Was she bluffing? How did she expect to live without money? Bob Jones was Accountant to the Stars, but his well wasn’t bottomless like Max’s. How would Bess afford the trappings of her virtuous lifestyle—the bushels of organic vegetables, the comfortable-but-not-inexpensive Donald Pliner shoes?
“Just take the money, Bess.”
“I don’t want it,” Bess said. Her voice was very firm. Had any other divorce in the history of Hollywood proceeded like this—with one party offering a large sum of money, unbidden, and the other party turning it down?
“Is it not enough?” Max said. “You want five million?” Silence. “Ten million?” Max knew himself to be worth about sixty million dollars (and of course, Bob Jones knew this, too). “Fifteen?”
“I don’t want any money from you, Max. Just the papers. Please.”
Bess didn’t want his money because she thought it was cursed. It wasn’t good enough; it wasn’t the kind of money that would bring her happiness. She was rejecting him, Max West, alcoholic, drug addict—and she was rejecting his money.
The divorce papers came in the mail; Max tossed his copies in the trash with the Pottery Barn catalog and the circular from Whole Foods. Sayonara, he said. Adiós. Adieu. Arrivederci. Bayartai. He could say good-bye in forty languages—that was something. Max made a pot of coffee and called Bruce. Bruce came over, and together they drank the pot of coffee on the deck, barely exchanging a word (Max loved and valued Bruce for this reason). Then Bruce left and Max pulled out the Tanqueray, but he didn’t pour himself a drink. He felt okay without a drink, and how weird was that? He thought, I should get divorced every day.
When the box came from his mother, however, it was a different story. His mother, Sweet Jane, was moving out of her house in Wildwood Crest after fifty years; she was moving to a posh retirement community in Cape May. Max was paying for the move, and he was paying for the posh retirement community, but Max’s three older sisters and his older brother had volunteered to go to Wildwood Crest to orchestrate the move. Max was expected to pay for everything but not do anything. His mother, with the help of one of his sisters—Dolores, probably—had gone through every closet and drawer in the house. Some stuff went to the dump; some stuff went into boxes. All of Matthew Westfield’s stuff went into boxes because as soon as news got around that Jane Westfield was moving out, a clot of people began loitering across the street, waiting for the garbage. Who knew what Max West’s high school report card might go for on eBay? The handwritten lyrics to “Stormy Eyes”—scribbled on a McDonald’s napkin—could be sold to the Smithsonian or the Hard Rock Cafe. So Sweet Jane and Dolores packed up every last scrap from Matthew’s adolescence and mailed it to him.
He opened the box, and the box smelled like Claire. He went to the kitchen for the Tanqueray, a glass, and ice, and he walked out into the backyard and picked three of the best-looking limes off the tree. He made himself a very tall drink. The box smelled like Claire—or what he remembered as Claire’s smell, but was probably some perfume that teenage girls used to wear in 1986—because it was stuffed with notes from Claire, hundreds of notes, notes that had been handwritten (perfumed!), folded, and passed to him in the hallway, in class, at lunch, in the band room (where he hung out, plucking his guitar), or in the art room (where she hung out, sketching or firing pottery).
He unfolded one such note, carefully, because the paper was twenty years old and as soft as fabric. It said: “How can I tell you that I love you?” The best song! Everything Cat Stevens sings is so beautiful! You can sing like him—learn the song for me, please! I have a track meet against Avalon this P.M. but my dad is in A.C. tonight, so I’ll be over late. Leave the door open!!! I love you xoxoxoxo
Max took the whole drink in at once, not tasting anything except for the tang of fresh lime juice. Somewhere