One day I’ll wake up with gray sideburns and a limp, just like he has.
It’s not that I don’t like the ballet. I do. And of course, trying to make the world a slightly better place through charitable endeavors isn’t a bad thing. It’s just my life feels like it’s not my own. Because it’s not. I’m being trained to head up the Alden family. Since I was born, I’ve been groomed to speak, act, think in a way that will ensure our family remains at the top of New York society when my father passes and I inherit.
The path has been well trodden by my father, and my grandfather, and his father before him. I know exactly how things are going to unfold. Everything is preordained.
I swirl my glass of whisky, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone in the small bar off our family’s box. Because of course the Aldens have their own box. That’s what happens when we donate the amount we do to the ballet. My mother is holding court on the other side of the bar. I don’t have the energy to talk to anyone.
“Can I get you anything, Mr. Alden?” Greg, my mother’s assistant, asks me. I hate that he calls me Mr. Alden. When he first started, I asked him to call me Jack, but when my mother heard him call me by my first name, I thought she’d had a stroke. When she regained her power of speech, she overruled me, and I’ve been Mr. Alden to Greg ever since.
I check my watch. The performance is often delayed on opening night, but the first bell should be about to sound.
“I’m fine,” I say. The bell sounds, and I exhale at the peace I’m about to experience for the next hour or so.Cinderellaisn’t my favorite ballet but no one can question Prokofiev’s music. And the New York City Ballet isn’t going to do anything disastrous. It should be a pleasant evening.
I tip back my whisky, slide the glass onto the bar, and wait for my mother.
“Darling, did you see who I was talking to?” my mother asks as she approaches me.
I lift my elbow so she can take my arm, which she does. “I didn’t, Mother.”
She sighs in a way that tells me she’s disappointed. Like I should be following her around like a little lost sheep. I ignore it and lead us in the direction of our box.
“It was Frances Althorp,” my mother says. “Her daughter, Penelope, is still single. And she’s just home after a summer in Paris. You should invite her to dinner.”
I close my eyes in a long blink, trying not to show any reaction. I really hope the curtain comes up as soon as we’re in our seats. I know what’s coming from my mother and I really want to avoid it. Frances Althorp’s daughter—Penelope—is a lesbian. Not a closeted lesbian. She’s out and proud and has been in a serious relationship with a performance artist from Brooklyn for about four years. Yet, still our mothers try to set us up on a semi-regular basis. I think both of them truly think we’ll end up together.
“I’m not Penelope’s type,” I say, as we step into our box.
“Of course you are. You’re an Alden. You’re any woman’s type.”
“Not a lesbian’s, Mother.”
She rolls her eyes as ifI’mbeing ridiculous.
“You can’t stay a bachelor your entire life, Jack. You need to find an appropriate wife so you can continue our family legacy.”
Now it’s time to rollmyeyes. “You know this is the twenty-first century, don’t you?”
“I mean it, Jack. You know your father thinks you should be married by now.”
She knows this is a low blow. She’s basically telling me my father is disappointed in me. I do everything that’s asked of me. Okay, I went to business school after Harvard. That had never happened in our family before. And yes, I created a successful business with my friends from business school and used some of the proceeds to buy a hotel I still own. None of it has stopped me from fulfilling the obligations I inherited from being the only son of James Alden.
“I’ll let you know when I find someone.”
“One person, Jack. Not a revolving door of women. One. From a good family.”
She doesn’t say it, but “good family” means a family who has wealth built from legitimate sources generations ago. A Kennedy simply wouldn’t do because, to my mother, they’re just a bunch of bootleggers. For some reason, “tech money” isn’t good enough either. You or your parents can’t have made the money your family has. It has to be money from hundreds of years ago—or at least three generations. I’m still not sure why this makes a difference. But to my mother, it does.
I suppose it makes sense that to my mother, Penelope Althorp is an option. There aren’t many families that fit the criteria in New York. Fewer still with single offspring who are age-appropriate.
“Jack, did you hear me?” My mother sits in the middle chair of three in our box, and I sit to her left. Greg sits to her right, nearest the stage. He realizes instantly and moves his chair between the exit and my mother, so she has a clear view. It means he’ll barely be able to see.
“Yes, Mother,” I say.
“Are you making any sort of effort to find yourself a wife?” she hisses under her breath.
I’m not interested in shopping for a wife. I’ve seen relationships can work for some people. I have a tight circle of very good friends who I met at business school. All five of them have met the women they were meant to marry. They are in love. They are better, happier, more fulfilled because of the women they’re with.
I’ve never come close to that.
