My Brother was the Man of the House

1

In 2008, my father managed one of the largest hedge funds in the United States.

His colleagues nicknamed him the "Alchemist of Wall Street", a name which I thought was unimaginative even then.

His renown came from his track record. He had made positive returns every year over the past twenty years, even during years when everyone else was losing money. It was almost unheard of.

Small pensions and investment funds across the states sought him out. He turned most of them away.

My father's success allowed the rest of us to live a privileged life.

Twice a year, we took extravagant vacations to private resorts, where we rubbed shoulders with the upper echelons of global power and their children. I have met U.S. senators, European royalty, tech billionaires, British parliamentarians, and actors.

My favorite introduction, however, was with a well-known pornographic actress. I didn't know, at the time, what she did, but my brother Noah recognized her almost immediately, and became incoherent whenever she was close by. I took this opportunity to become friends with her and to invite her on any excursion I knew my brother would be attending. The majority of that trip was watching Noah fumble his words as he tried to bring his favorite thespian into conversation.

At the end of the trip, she and I had exchanged phone numbers. She had texted me once that she thought my brother was "weird". I debated showing this to my brother but decided against it. Sibling rivalry had its unspoken rules, one of them being "Do not let your sibling know that his favorite porn actress thinks he is 'weird'".

Our family also had several maids and butlers under our employ. My mother appreciated their service. If not for them, then it would have been up to her to take care of the home and her children. Instead, she could direct her employees to do these for her.

But, anyway, this is all to say that our family was rich in 2008. We were part of the "one percent" which Bernie Sanders had learned to hate over the years, and which "The Squad" would vilify years later.

In 2008, my brother, who was four years older than I, had graduated from New York University with a degree in computer science. He planned to work for my father. I was in Canada, about to start my first year at the University of Toronto at eighteen years old.

The day Leheman Brothers filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy protection, I received a call.

"You need to come back home," my father said, "I've already booked your flight."

"Is this the part where I ask if I have a choice in the matter, and then you tell me that I don't?"

"This is the part where you do as your told."

By the end of the week, I had unenrolled from all my courses and was on a plane back to America.

When I got back home, I tried to gain information that would reveal my father's sudden disdain for Canadian pedagogy but he was rarely home. At the time I thought he was at work, but he would later admit to me that he was speaking with lawyers, who were relaying information to some U.S. senator, who was then negotiating with bureaucrats at the SEC.

I think my mother was more aware of the trouble my father had gotten himself in than she was letting on. She disagrees that she knew anything but I doubt that my father, who confided in my mother about everything, could keep this secret.

For months, my mother behaved as if everything was business as usual. She ordered the maids and butlers around, planned our luxurious vacations, and gossiped with the other New York socialites.

When I asked if I would be returning to school next year, she said that I would, that my father had the utmost respect for Canadian pedagogy, and that he had pulled me out only because he wanted me to take a year off before starting my studies.

When I asked Noah if he knew what was going on, he shrugged. He was supposed to have started working for my father in the next few days but it seemed that this opportunity for nepotism was shuttered.

During those months, our family was in limbo. On one side was my mother's "business as usual". On the other side was the revolution that my father's growing antics seemed to confess was about to occur.

This all changed in March 2009. By then, my mother had stopped feigning ignorance of the dire straits we were in. The limbo that had separated the life of stasis from the life of change was crumbling.

From at least November of the previous year, my brother had grown more and more recluse, retreating to his pornography and video games whenever he could. Meanwhile, I had become more and more anxious. And my anxiety manifested itself into rebellion. I followed closely message boards whose political stripes were some deformed amalgamation of pro-Leninist, socialist, anarchist, and neoliberalism. If somehow these ideologies had come together it was only as the lovechild of Siamese twins.

I wore shirts that said "Eat the Rich!" and "Equality! Now!". I also started talking back to my parents. If my mother told me to pick up something, I would leave the room. If my father invited me somewhere, I would tell him that I would much prefer to go back to school.

I even started a brief, intimate relationship with one of the butlers. And I was not secretive about it, either. I kissed him wherever my parents could see us. At dinner, I would tell them how strong he was, how caring.

In reality, I had no affections for Marcus. He was attractive but dumb. On the one occasion we kissed when my parents were not around, we were making out like high school kids on one of the couches. I watched the clock the whole time, wondering how long he expected this kiss to be.

He pawed at my crotch, which was painful because I was wearing jeans. I hesitated just pushing him off me because I think he thought my affections for him were genuine and, although I was entirely disinterested in him, I thought maybe I could let him stick it in for a bit just to show my appreciation.

Thankfully, at around the time he was tugging at my pants zipper one of the maids, spotted us. At first, she froze, unsure of the proper protocol when one sees her colleague getting to second base with their employer's daughter. I think she was about to leave us be, but perhaps she saw the plea in my eyes because she backtracked, cleared her throat, and asked what Marcus was doing.

He jumped off of me, his cheeks scarlet. He mumbled something incoherent and looked to me for help. I had to suppress a laugh.

"Don't worry, Maryam, the whole thing was entirely consensual," I said, "But, I'm sure that Marcus has work to do, so I won't keep him from that any more."

Was that disappointment in his face? Regardless, he took the lifeline I had thrown him and went off to do the work that I was apparently keeping him from. When he left, I rolled my eyes, which elicited a chuckle from the maid.

In hindsight, I know now that I was being a bit of a brat. My behavior, especially with Marcus, drove a wedge between my father and I. We argued almost daily. My mother tried to be the mediator between us but it was a role she was not accustomed to. She eventually gave up on refereeing our bouts and found comfort in her son. At least he wasn't looking for fights.

I was usually daddy's little princess. Now, I had become a dissident slut who fucked the help (or so my father thought). We rarely spoke during those months until March. And because my brother spent most of the day in his room, the house was mostly silent, except for the arguments between my father and I, the chatter among the maids and butlers, and the snatches of moans emanating from my brother's computer.

However, everything changed in March 2009. On March 12th, Bernard Lawrence Madoff, a renowned hedge fund manager, who our family had vacationed in the past, had plead guilty to eleven federal felonies. I had been following the case for the past few months but, like everyone else, I thought that his money and connections would protect him. It seemed, however, that the extent of his Ponzi scheme was too costly for the government to give him a pass.

Several days later, a woman came to our home. She was dressed like a recruiter for the FBI. I could tell from my parents' deference to her that she was very important. My parents guided her into my father's office. Behind closed doors, I heard nothing of what was said, but when they reemerged two hours later, we were packing our bags and moving out. Our family would never return to this house again.

According to my father, the woman was a political staffer for a senior US senator. I would like very much to say their name but I can't. Let's just say that they're not from the party you think they're from.

The staffer told my parents that my father's crime would be ignored. Yes, he had defrauded the American people by pulling a Madoff-esque Ponzi scheme at his hedge fund but whereas Madoff lacked the political capital to escape his punishment, my father did not.

All that was required was for my father to wire the money (again, I can't comment on the sum but it was enough to escape a Federal felony) as an unnamed donation to a charity organization from which this senior U.S. congressperson embezzled funds. Afterwards, it would be as if he had never deceived investors into thinking he was investing their money, and not, in fact, using funds from later investors to pay off earlier investors.

We would also need to move to a small, rural town, as far away as possible from Wall Street influence. We would also all need to keep a low profile, at least for the foreseeable future.

I remember consuming this information with the same indifference as if they were telling me what time it was. Inwardly, however, I was enraged. I couldn't recall ever being so angry. I just didn't show it because I knew that there would be no changing our parents minds, and thus to act out now would be a boring cliché.

My brother, on the other hand, was inconsolable. He had grown so accustomed to comfort that it never occurred to him until now that he would be without it. The realization drove him to hysterics. My father tried to reassure him that everything would be alright, that we would rebuild our wealth, that he, as the father, would take care of the family, but my brother refused to be pacified. He screamed and screamed, snot and tears and all.

It was only when my mother flung her arms around him and rubbed his back that he calmed down a noticeable degree. They sat like that, on the floor, a mother soothing her baby, for a very long time.

They were still like that after the maids and butlers had finished packing the meager belongings we were permitted to bring with us. When my father tapped his wife's shoulders that it was time for us to leave, she released her son with only the most palpable reluctance.

And even when we all piled into the car, my mother and brother sat in the back seat while I sat in the passenger seat, my father behind the wheel. If I glanced over my shoulder, I could see my brother leaning into the crook of my mother's neck, slowly nodding off until his soft snore filled the vehicle.

2

The first few months hiding from the law were fine.

I realize that such a statement invites disbelief but incredulity bares no affect on the truth. And the truth was that I was perfectly comfortable sequestered from the spaces upon which federal prosecutors had encroached.

I had always appreciated the comforts which my father's crime afforded us but I hadn't clung to them the way Noah had. And it wasn't as if we were uncomfortable.

Arriving in Cabo, a small town in the United States, and living here among the locals, we (or, at least, I) accepted the esoteric comfort which rural living provided. The lawyers my father had hired had succeeded in filching some cash for us before the rest was gobbled up in legal fees and bribes. That cash purchased a decent-sized house with a spacious backyard. It also meant that none of us had to find a job, at least for a while.

During the day, I explored the town. I sometimes took my brother with me. He and I were spending more time together because Internet access in Cabo was spotty. I could tell that he was a lot more antsy than usual. The only place he could watch porn or play video games was at the library. The former he had done exactly once, with his headphones on, but he was too worried about being discovered to enjoy it, despite sitting in a far corner of the library.

I thought at the time that his separation from pornography would benefit him. He was in his room less, and, yes, he seemed more jittery, but I was confident that that would pass. I would be proven wrong later, but I enjoyed spending time with him during those first few months.

Even if what he talked about most was how father had fucked up.

"If you're going to steal, then at least don't get caught," he would say, or "Mom is pissed with him--and she should be! How do you, as a man, just screw your family like that?"

At first, I would nod and ascent to his verbal patricide. After a while, though, I said nothing until we switched topics. It seemed my father had been punished enough without his children also turning their backs on him.

At nights, we played board games. Usually Monopoly--my mother's favorite. I never saw in her the resentment that my brother assured me she held for my father. They joked, hugged, kissed, and flirted with each other. They seemed happy.

When I shared this observation with my brother, he snorted.

"She's just putting on an act."

"For who?"

"For you. For him."

"Not for you?"

He snorted again, shaking his head. Then he asked whose side I was on.

"I like to think that there's only one side," I answered, "but I imagine you disagree."

"I'm on mom's side. You should be, too. She might feel hurt otherwise, even if you're on the fence."

"I'll take that into consideration."

The situation changed about six months in.

We had been running low on cash over the last month or two. Our parents had to take a line of credit on the house. My father had been looking for a job over the last few months but no one wanted to hire him. The jobs in Cabo were primarily blue collar. And Cabo's employers doubted that he could learn a new skill at his age. If we weren't running from the law, my father would have sued.

It was during these months when I recognized the resentment that my mother had towards her husband. She was less patient with him. Less encouraging. When he returned home from a day of looking for work, she would tell him that dinner was on the stove; he could serve himself.

One night my father returned home with a bloody face. He just traipsed through the front door, fell into a chair, and asked my mother if she could grab him a Heineken. She dropped the bottle when she noticed his face.

We would find out later that he was in debt to some bad people in Cabo. He had left earlier in the day to ask for an extension for the loan. They had pummeled him for asking, but had given him the extension, anyways. Maybe this was why my father looked so relieved, even behind the cuts and bruises.

It took a few weeks for my father's face to heal. He still tried to look for work but now no one would hire him when they found out who he was involved with.

"What'll they do to us if we don't pay them back?" My mother asked one night at dinner.

The loan was due in just a few days.

"I'm handling it," my father said.

"How the fuck does getting beat up resolve the situation?"

"I'm looking for work--I'll ask for some money in advance."

"I wont let them hurt you guys, mom," my brother interjected.

My father reassured us that everything would be fine but I doubted he believed that himself.

That night I thought about what it might feel like if I was taken by force. I tried to pretend that I could enjoy it, but I cried myself to sleep.

On the day the loan was due, it was after five when we heard a knock on the door. My father answered the door to reveal a tall, lanky man. He seemed entirely happy to see my father, who he patted on the shoulder and entered our home without being invited inside.

"Wow, beautiful place you have, David. Just beautiful."

"Yes, thank you," my father mumbled. (I had never heard my father mumble to anyone).

"And this must be your beautiful wife and daughter."

The man took my mother's hand and kissed it. I scowled. He smiled at me.

"And where's your son?" the man asked.

"At the library, I think," my father said.

"Ah, too bad. I was hoping to see the whole family."

The man sat in one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Without him having to ask, we all gravitated towards him.

"So, do I have to ask where our money is?"

The temperature in the room dropped a few degrees. I chewed on my lower lip, a habit which I thought I had dropped when I became a teenager.

"I haven't been able to find any work. No one here will hire me."

The man nodded, but his eyes held no sympathy.

"David, I like to think we're friends--"

"--thank you--"

"--so, I'll give you some advice. If I have to bring that information back to Anthony, he'll kill you."

My mother whimpered.

The man looked over at us. I could tell that he enjoyed seeing my mother's concern. I squeezed her hand.

"But, maybe, we can make a deal. You're wife and daughter are very attractive. If you loan them to me for, say, six months, I'll pay your debt for you."

My mother fell to her knees, crying. I tried to comfort her but she swatted me away.

"I don't think I could--" My father stuttered.

"David, David, please, I'm being so nice to you here. It's either this or death. And then, guess what? Anthony will come after them. Would you rather me or Anthony have them?"

My mother was wailing now. This was the first time I had heard someone wail outside of a movie. The noise was incredible. Despite that, though, my father and the man he was speaking to never once looked at us. It was as if a force field had materialized around them.

"Yes, well, it's just--"

We never heard the end of that sentence because my brother burst through the front door. He had clearly been running. Not only was he sweating, but he was panting so much that he couldn't form words. We were all frozen--even the man, I noticed--as if trapped in a tableau.

After my brother had finally collected himself, he spoke.

"The money," he gasped, "I have the money. All of it."

For the first time, I noticed the manila envelope that he was holding in his left hand. The envelope looked distended, as if it was bloated.

The man blinked. He went over to my brother, snatched the envelope, and counted the money inside. He counted the bills for a very long time--it was mostly hundred dollar bills--and when he finished, he counted them a second time. His face went from surprise to confusion to what I can only describe as awe.

The man shoved the envelope in his pocket, took another look at my brother, and smiled.

"David, you have a good boy here."

He took another glance at my mother, who was still on the floor, and then at me. For a second, it seemed that he was about to say, "You know what? Fuck it. When else am I going to get an opportunity to rape a mother and a daughter?"

Instead, he just tipped his head at us and then left.

None of us could say anything.

Eventually, my brother cleared his throat.

"I had some cash I had earned from video game tournaments," he began. "It was just enough to pay off the debt. I would have gotten the money sooner but it was challenging to get the money wired to my account. I had to use VPNs and Onion routes..." he trailed off when he realized he had lost us, but quickly resumed, "Anyways, I finally got the money, but it took weeks to convince the bank to allow me to make such a large withdrawal. They were worried that I was a victim of some Internet scam. The regional manager had to get involved. I made quite the embarrassing scene at the bank today, but they finally let me withdraw the money."