Beneficiary, by JoAnn McCaig

Reviewed by Ann Cavlovic

In one of his short stories, F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote: "Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them..." This quote is often coupled, somewhat inaccurately, with Ernest Hemingway’s retort: “Yes, they have more money.”

JoAnn McCaig’s novel Beneficiary introduces us to Seren, a daughter from a rich family. As an adolescent, Seren rebels against her privileged upbringing across many pages of sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll in the 1970s. She marries TJ, a man from a poorer family, who knew she was “the millionaire’s daughter.” They have two children, face the financial stress of normal jobs, and the picture fills in on what Seren was actually rebelling against: just how disconnected and unloving her family of origin seems to be. Eventually, TJ leaves for another wealthy woman. Now a single mother with a third child (from another encounter), Seren’s father dies and leaves her with a bigger inheritance than she’d imagined. Seren wonders, “what will this do to my children?” and frequently refers to this event as “the catastrophe.”

The novel explores the important point that too much money can, if unmanaged, disastrously poison the normal, healthy bonds of attachment between parents, children, and spouses, including making it difficult to know “if a guy loves you for yourself.” And this is indeed a tragedy. With billionaires dismantling democracy and ecosystems for personal gain, we all need to reckon with the psychological peril of wealth. To successfully portray this, a work of fiction must overcome the notion in most readers’ minds that wealth is a problem we’d really like to have.

Seren is probably a realistic portrayal of the daughter of a newly wealthy man. Although we can admire her desire to do things differently, she can be hard to cheer for when the narration is most pitying. We’re told “The intractability of her privilege thickened, became sludgy and viscous, sticking to everything she touched.” After lamenting that her inheritance has “destroyed her virtue” she complains to her friend that “a lottery winner gets more respect.” The jacket cover informs us that “Seren was doomed to a country club cage and a leash of pearls.”

Fortunately, Seren decides to donate large sums and sets up a worthwhile charity. One of the most interesting sections describes her time at an international volunteer camp in Lesvos, Greece, helping Syrians fleeing from violence on unsafe migrant boats. Seren never quite finds meaning in her non-monetary contributions, and wonders why she’s there. She also dodges a potential love interest for somewhat superficial reasons. We wonder: can she act out of love?

Insider access into the world of the rich was interesting. How business deals unfold over ski vacations in the Austrian Alps. What an automated shower at the Zurich Airport Business Class lounge is like. How a real estate consortium could “be a license to print money.” How lavish parties comprised “women uniformly pretty who naturally fell silent when their men spoke.” In parallel, a non-wealthy friend could also be disconnected enough to wonder about the refugees in boats: “why would they put their children at risk?”

As a parent, Seren admirably wants to prevent her children from growing up to be “entitled assholes.” Tender or joyful moments with them are limited, though. When her teenage daughter is depressed and addicted, Seren’s protectively tracks her down, then lambasts. Years after the “catastrophe,” when we’ve assumed Seren isn’t conspicuously consuming, this same daughter reveals that might not be the case: “My friends always ask me how we can afford this holiday or that new car.” Years later, a harmonious scene with Seren’s children feels somewhat earned.

The prose can be quite evocative, such as the beautiful, reflective scenes in a woodland retreat (itself a privilege) and many creative structural choices.

Seren is ultimately a tragic character. It’s unclear if she ever overcomes her teenage angst about: “The whole boy/girl thing. The lies, the games, the manipulations. The trade-offs. I’ll give you this if you’ll let me have that. It’s a transaction, nothing more.”

Perhaps too many relationships in our culture are merely give-to-get transactions, as Beneficiary clearly shows. What’s shown less is the antidote: reciprocity based on concern for the well-being of the other, not just pleasing them to get our own way. I’m not sure if Seren fully gets there. That is truly a tragedy, one that would be easier to lament if the narration had done less of that for us.

Read this if you doubt that money “can’t buy me love.”

Beneficiary is published by University of Calgary Press