Family Money

By Joan Hawkins

New York, 1970s. Janet Sproule lives in an affluent neighbourhood and comes from old family money. Her privileged life is suddenly turned upside down when her sister is kidnapped and held for ransom by a group of urban terrorists. Her parents' reaction to the crisis causes Janet to question everything she has always taken for granted. While she

• Language: English
• Publisher: 451Editions
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781916297555

Joan Hawkins

Joan Hawkins is associate professor in the Department of Communication and Culture at Indiana University.

Book preview

FAMILY MONEY

a novel

Joan Hawkins

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COPYRIGHT INFORMATON

Family Money

© Joan Hawkins, 2022

www.JoanHawkins.net

First Published by 451 Editions, 2022

Electronic Edition by 451 Editions, 2022

ISBN 978-1-9162975-5-5

All rights reserved

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, digitally reproduced or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding, cover or digital format other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations for review purposes.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joan Hawkins was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She attended Bennington College and New York University. She lived most of her life in Manhattan, practicing psychotherapy there.

Her debut novel, Underwater, was published by GP Putnam in 1974 under the name of Joan Winthrop. The book was critically acclaimed, challenging traditional gender roles and exploring controversial issues of the day. A second edition of Underwater was published on its fortieth anniversary by Landon Books in 2014.

Joan’s second novel, Bailey, a coming of age tale, and her third, Trespass, a family drama set in New England, were published in 2012 and 2013 respectively. Rematch, published in 2021, is a prescient take, set in the early 80s, of the twenty-first century me too movement.

Family Money is Joan’s fifth, and final work.

For more, see: www.JoanHawkins.net.

OTHER BOOKS BY JOAN HAWKINS

Bailey (2012)

Trespass (2013)

Underwater (1974 and 2014)

Rematch (2021)

1

Down in the basement on a late Fall day as hot as summer, Janet Soule kicked at the painted nude, just taller than herself, that was stuck in the storage room door. She whistled through clenched teeth and pulled at her hair. On a mild, April night, her younger sister had walked out on her marriage and come to the Soules seeking refuge for the weekend. Now, six months later, Sally was still lodged in the house and her huge self-portrait presented an obstacle as apparently immobile as the person who’d painted it.

Turning sideways, Janet shoved it with her shoulder. Jammed! But how could it be? She and Jed had gotten it through this very same space six months ago. She walked over to the barred window set high in the stone wall and propped her elbows on the sill, brooding out. Bars in front of her and the canvas stuck in the doorway behind blocked her passage fore and aft. She looked up into the courtyard of the house and the sidewalk beyond. The garbage cans weren’t properly latched, the smells pouring into the steamy noon air. The car was parked in front of the house, the children inside waiting for her to take them swimming.

Damn it! Where was Sally?

It was like Sally to nag her for days to get her self-portrait out of the storage room and then be on the telephone when Janet finally had a few moments to spare. Janet could well imagine the surprised reproach in her sister’s lovely eyes if she found Janet gone when she had finally made her way to the cellar. Jed would feel sorry for Sally when he heard of it and look at his wife with the same reproach. Damn them both for being so good-looking, so spoiled, so full of pity for themselves and each other!

Turning, Janet cooled her back on the stone wall. The thought of its thickness, its weight, its imperviousness to temperature soothed her mind. The basement of this house was cool in hot weather and warm when it froze. Always, it was dry. Good for the storage of canned goods – also humans if an emergency should arise. If they could squeeze past her sister’s masterpiece, they could live for a year off the meat in the freezer.

Organization and foresight came easily to Janet. If the terrorists ever did manage to start some kind of an uprising, she could keep her family alive. But not all the others who would come in a swarm. Not the neighbors and the poor, whom her sister and her husband would gun down without a qualm. She could imagine them shooting out the barred window, Sally’s back, Jed’s, but not her own. Strange to say she didn’t care who was right, she didn’t care for anything right now but to get that canvas out of the door and up to the living room. Although, god knows why anyone would want a larger than life-sized nude hanging in the living room.

Why couldn’t Sally take a loft downtown where she could paint and screw herself blue without messing up Janet’s life? Imagine a normal household after six months of sulking Sally on the third floor, depressed by her divorce and taking it out on the children and the housekeeper, of whom there’d been one a month since she’d sought refuge on that mild April night. Imagine Alex and Sara in their own rooms again and an intelligent, reliable woman who’d show up every day while at last Janet got started on her pre-med courses.

She put her hand on the old red rocking horse and gave it a jounce. On the shelves that lined the stone walls there were endless boxes of china and glassware, wedding presents that Janet inventoried and packed away. Since the roosting of Sally at the top of the house, she’d begun to loathe having a maid in to serve the dinners and herself at the head of the table ignoring the hands that lifted and set down, the hired breath on her head. But even more she loathed cooking all day in the kitchen and then waiting on the friends or business types at night. The social thing stank! She quietly vowed that she would have her family for dinner on as many nights as they wished to come – her father’s birthday party was just next week – and that the business types, the friends would never be served again.

Mother! Sara shouted on the street outside the house. The car horn was infuriating.

Stop that honking, she yelled at the cellar window. Stop this instant!

It was part of the bargain made six months ago that, for a free room, roof and moral support, Janet could count on Sally to help with the children. And now instead of helping she was the cause of Janet’s imprisonment in the cellar!

All that shouting on the street, the honking horn! Janet went at the frame with her shoulder. Jammed in the center of the narrow door, there was no room for her to pass. The kids were frightful! They knew the old witch next door would be on the phone or out on the street with her cane in a minute.

Sally!

Janet looked frantically around. Not a tool in sight. In a frenzy of irritation Janet raised her fists and beat on the canvas. It gave way in an instant, dust flaring from the ripped material. Her hand took hold of her sister’s painted face and tugged with savage force. Plunging through the hole that she’d made, she ran to the cellar stairs. The honking horn and her rage both stopped at once. She stepped into the kitchen and drank a glass of water at the sink as if she had all the time in the world. Feeling peaceful, even gay, she admired the kitchen, the dining room and hall as she passed through the house to the front door. Janet heard a voice as she closed the front door behind her.

Excuse me, Miss, a muscular young man, a thin red scar curving on his cheek from his eye to his mouth, was standing in front of her. Do you believe that we are all born sinners?

Stopped short, Janet Soule fairly loomed over him, the bright glass of the car window cruelly lashing her eyes. She stepped back and shaded her eyes with her hand. No, she replied with a curt shake of her head. I do not!

You don’t believe that at this very moment God and the Devil are fighting for your soul?

Janet felt for the zipper of her shoulder bag. But no, he was too young and bruised in his pride to be satisfied with money. He wanted her passionate attention. But the children were waiting in the car and she couldn’t bear to stop another moment. Casting her eyes desperately about the fixed point of his stubborn gaze, she jabbed her finger at the tree beside him. Among the dog filth and muck of papers lay the disintegrating body of a tiny, brown bird.

God and the Devil don’t interest me. Her commanding tone and movement past him ended the conversation. I believe in nature. I believe in survival.

Safe in the car, she pitied him and thrust her head through the window to hear above the engine noise. He had followed her to the car and was now writing on on a scrap of paper, which he pressed through the open window into her hand.

I’m sincerely interested in your salvation, Miss, and the salvation of your family.

Thank you! Flashing him a warm smile, Janet turned her attention to the children who struggled beside her on the seat. She blocked Sara’s punches with her hand and sent Alex to the back of the car.

You always side with him just because he’s two years younger, the girl lamented. He hit me first. She lifted her thin, brown leg. Look at that bruise.

Janet waved her quiet and struggled with the wheel, keenly enjoying the challenge of extracting the vehicle from such a tight space.

Stopped at the light a few yards from the house, Janet grabbed the cigarettes from the dashboard, relaxing in a rush as smoke shot into her lungs. She stretched her arm along the back of the seat as Sara, learning to drive, got up on her knees and took the wheel.

That guy’s still hanging around the house, Alex called from the back of the car. He just stepped into a phone booth.

A cab cut in front of them. Janet slipped her foot onto the brake and hit the horn. On either side of them, cars and trucks dashed by. Good girl! You didn’t tense and pull out into the traffic.

Frowning, steering, her back straight as a board, Sara didn’t answer. Janet admired her daughter’s nerve and calm concentration. Others were often put off by Sara, Sally especially, but Janet liked her direct manner and her inability to try to make a good impression.

That boy’s not hanging around the house, Janet corrected Alex. He’s a proselytizer.

He’s a what? Sara bellowed.

Move into the left lane when you can. We turn at the next light, Janet flicked on the indicator. You know, he preaches the word of God. She dug her hand into her shirt pocket and drew out a scrap of paper, Ransom your soul with faith, she read. Heavens! That’s not in the Bible, is it?

Alex popped up, his head just showing above the backseat. Ransom, he shouted. That guy’s a kidnapper!

Janet put out her cigarette and lit another. He’s a Jesus freak, she spoke to the mirror. The city is full of them. Last week a young woman followed me right into a cab. You could be in your own house and they’d came right in and speak to you."

He didn’t want to speak to you, ma! Alex almost shouted with excitement. But he discovered that I’d been watching him, and he had to.

Janet’s silence drew him over the seat and made him eloquent. He had been in the car for an age waiting for his mother to come, sitting behind the wheel, for lack of anything better to do, pretending he was a racing car driver. Whenever he’d raised himself up a bit and looked out the window, he’d noticed this guy behind the tree. He was just standing there watching the house.

Boy, did he look scared when he finally saw me.

Janet grabbed the wheel. Watch it, Sara. The child had turned in her combative way to argue with Alex and had nearly plunged into a truck. You blew it, kid.

If he was so scared when he saw you, Alex, why did he speak to mother?

He didn’t want her to think he was hanging around the house. If she hadn’t come out just then, he probably would have spoken to me.

Ring a ling, Alex! Dumb, dumb, dumb! sang Sara.

Janet laughed. If he really is interested in the salvation of my family, maybe God posted him behind the tree for your Aunt Sally.

Sara’s scorn swept onto her mother. It’s not a sin to get a divorce. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.

God, Sara! Alex said protectively. You’re so rude. It is a sin, isn’t it, ma?

Reaching past Sara, Janet squeezed his arm. The emphatic features that Janet had inherited from her father and caustically toted became Alex. His dark, serious face impressed her. It used to be a sin, a terrible one that sent you to hell for ever and ever. But when Henry the Eighth was the King of England he fell in love with a woman who wasn’t the Queen. He started the Protestant Church to get his divorce.

That’s sick, Sara shouted, then looked with sudden anxiety up at her mother. "Is Aunt Sally a Protestant?’’

How beautiful! A car pulling out of a space just yards from the Club. Looking back over her shoulder, Janet pulled hard on the large wheel. No more than you or me. Nobody’s born a sinner. That’s utter baloney.

I know she wasn’t born a sinner, but is she a Protestant?

Gone in too sharp and the space was smaller than she thought. Pulling straight, she paused and scrutinized her daughter’s critical face. If this rudeness wasn’t just her age, and perhaps it wasn’t, then she and Jed would have to think about cracking down.

You’re crazy, ma! You can’t fit in there!

Inch by inch, my dear, and then we’ll have it.

Said the elephant as he peeped through the mouse hole.

Bet? Janet gave the car ahead a light nudge and settled the car along the curb.

You won, ma! Waving his bathing trunks, Alex climbed over the seat.

Sara sniffed and stepped from the car. The water’s so warm at the Club. I wish we were still in Maine and we could go swimming off the bridge.

Alex waited for them under the Club awning. He hung on the pole and slowly swung round, his mouth and brows quite stern with worry.

Sara banged against Janet as they walked from the car. It’s so stupid to swim in a bucket of warm, dirty water.

In this heat, in this city, you’re lucky, my dear. Why was Alex such a worrier? Always had been.

We’re rich, you mean, Sara taunted.

We’re not rich. Grandpa is. Janet took hold of Alex’s arm and tugged him from the pole, her eyes quickly lifting from his troubled face.

I know that guy will still be there spying on us when we get back from swimming. Alex gripped her hand as they pushed through the door. What do you want to bet?

2

Watching out the library window, Sally waited for Janet to bring the children back, waited grimly for the little brats, so damned destructive, to pay them back for what they’d done to her painting. She’d wept when she’d seen the gaping hole. Could anything be meaner? Her sandals clicking on the pavement, she ran up to the car and slapped the cheeks of her niece and nephew while Janet bent over the lock of the door and struggled to extract the key.

You had no right to destroy my painting!

The children stared up at her, madly blinking their watery eyes. Sally lost her sandal going after them.

Get out of the way, Janet! You should see what they did to my painting!

Barely covered in a halter top, her long, crimson nails reaching in the air, Sally panted and sobbed with rage. They’ve hated me ever since I moved into this house! Sara hated me for taking her room and she got Alex to hate me too. She’s a horrible child!

Janet could feel the children’s shock and fear pouring into her arms and back as they clung to her, making her cold in spite of the violent heat of the street.

Quietly she explained that she was responsible for the painting. Somehow it had become stuck in the door and the canvas had ripped as she’d tried to work it free. She was terribly sorry, but couldn’t it be mended?

Give me my sandal.

Quickly Janet stooped and handed Sally her sandal.

I hate her, Sara murmured when Sally had run into the house.

So do I. said Alex.

So do I. said Janet and put her finger to her mouth as the children smiled and pressed her hands.

She thinks because she’s so pretty – Sara began, then looked guiltily at her mother. I’m a brown patch, Janet always said, meaning that she was plain. Sara, however, was lovely like her Aunt Sally and hooray for them both!

She’s meaner than Grandma, Alex cried.