Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel

by Herta Feely

  “Well?”

  He took in a deep breath. “Come on, let’s drop it. What’s for dinner?”

  She hesitated, as if trying to decide whether she wanted to drop it or not. “Salad and a steak.”

  He headed to the table where the Washington Post lay. A week ago, he’d reached out to a colleague there, but he’d heard nothing. For a time he’d aspired to be as famous a White House reporter for AP as Helen Thomas was for UPI, but he doubted that would happen. No, he hoped for a break at the Post. But he knew that hoping wasn’t enough. He picked up the paper. “Hey, d’you see this?” He pointed at a headline in the middle of the page. “Housewife Sandy Littleton bests Cleveland Park lawyer.” He laughed.

  Isabel stifled a giggle. “You, you—” she stopped cutting and looked up at him from under her sweep of dark hair. “I guess I’ll just have to deal with slutty women hanging all over my husband.” Then pointing the sharp knife at him, she added, “Just don’t test me, Ron Murrow, you know I’m not to be toyed with.”

  That, undoubtedly, is true, he thought, recalling the brief affair he’d had two election cycles ago. He rolled up the paper and swatted her on the butt with it. “When’s dinner going to be ready, sweetheart?”

  “Shortly after you throw the steak on the grill, honey.”

  When Ron looked over his shoulder he caught Isabel staring at his ass. Her eyes sparkled. He still knew how to turn her on.

  “All right then. One big fat steak coming up.” He pulled the meat and a bottle of Stella out of the fridge, giving Isabel a peck on the cheek as he passed her.

  Outside on the deck, he turned on the grill and took a slug of beer, marveling that he’d survived the Sandy incident unscathed. The temperature had risen throughout the day, and while it was far from balmy, it was a glorious late September dusk. Surveying their landscaped garden, he thought that he and Isabel had created a beautiful home; they had great kids, teenage years aside, and had established a reasonably happy life together.

  Of course Isabel’s income helped. It only bothered him some that he made less; what bothered him more was that elusive Pulitzer, he seemed as far from earning it now as when his reporting career began. And he was sure that’s what counted for Isabel. For that to happen, though, he figured he needed to start putting out feelers to top-tier papers besides the Post –the New York Times, maybe the Wall Street Journal. Maybe he could even switch to being an on-air reporter. CNN. He’d do it on Monday, he promised himself.

  Ron took another long hit of beer, then breathed in the fall air. His mind wandered as he stared into the yard, at the Japanese maple and the nearby cherub fountain that Isabel had given him as a joke gift.

  The water pulsed rhythmically out of the statue’s small, uncircumcised penis. It captured his attention. A teasing, taunting, bare-breasted Sandy rose genie-like from the mist. In her papery whisper he heard her say, Fuck me, Ron Murphy, and then laughing gaily. He felt his cock stiffen. He closed his eyes and for the second time that day saw himself burying his head between her breasts, then licking her nipples while she sucked him off.

  Isabel’s voice wafted outside. He took a moment to clear his head. He knew the consequences. No, he told himself, no point in risking everything over another stupid affair.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday, September 29, 2008

  On Monday morning, the pit in Phoebe’s stomach felt like a heavy stone, something that threatened to send her to the bathroom. The sensation grew as she entered the school building, her steps slow and leaden, like moving through sludge in a nightmare. She considered skipping first period with Noah. How could she face him? She dreaded telling him she couldn’t go.

  On the long walk through the Great Hall, she hoped people weren’t talking about her. Jessie would say, “Who cares?” But that wasn’t how Phoebe felt. She didn’t want them saying things about her, especially things that weren’t true. Maybe she’d talk to Skyla at lunch. She seemed to know everything that everybody said. Even as the thought flashed into her mind, Skyla’s sun-streaked ponytail swung past her eyes, practically striking her in the face.

  “Ooh, you bad girl, you will sooo have to tell me about it at lunch. Usual spot? I’m supposed to meet Mr. Dunn, you know, the one who looks like Brad Pitt, for extra help, and I’m way late…see you?” Skyla left Phoebe nodding as she swirled away in a cloud of pink. Pink jeans, pink tank top, pink sweater with pink pearl buttons, pink scrunchy, and somehow, amazingly, it all worked.

  The encounter gave Phoebe a slight boost until she saw Noah at his desk. They exchanged a shy greeting just as Ms. Dickinson demanded their attention. About halfway through class she managed to pass him a note that said, Need to talk to you.

  Her heart hammered in her ears as he walked beside her. How could she go through with this? “It’s about what happened on Friday,” she began. “My parents are pretty mad. They’re so ridiculous.”

  “Mine are pretty uptight too.”

  She felt some relief on hearing this and explained how she’d spent much of the weekend locked in her room, overdramatizing her punishment. Then, her eyes cast down, afraid to meet his, she said, “I’m sorry. But, part of what’s happening, is like, well, my mother grounded me, and that means I can’t go to the dance.” She looked up at him with a miserable expression, her eyes searching his.

  “Oh,” he said. His cheeks puffed out and he released a long stream of air. “Yeah, that sucks. Wow. Parents can be so stupid. Well, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Phoebe said.

  The buzzer sounded for their next class and they parted ways.

  On the verge of tears, Phoebe bit her lip and whispered “bye” as she headed off to the bathroom.

  Sitting in bed with a tray on her lap, Sandy swiped her finger through the thick chocolate icing of the cupcake she’d saved from the parents’ party and stuck it in her mouth. “Mmm,” she said, and gave her finger another lick.

  They weren’t as good as anything Mrs. Eddinger had baked, but not bad. Mrs. E, as Sandy came to call her, had been her kindly neighbor back in Towson. She’d introduced Sandy to fine European pastries – Linzer tortes, Napoleons, all manner of chocolate confections. She’d encouraged Sandy and treated her like a daughter when her own mother hadn’t. Often played checkers and cards with her.

  She would have been proud of me, Sandy now thought, recalling several women who’d appreciated her efforts at spreading good cheer and goodwill as Mrs. E had taught her. Starting last year when Jessie entered Woodmont, Sandy had often brought food to those felled by the flu, delivered cookies to her daughter’s friends on their birthdays, and had even cleaned someone’s bathroom after hearing of the poor woman’s reaction to chemo treatments. She’d done all these things hoping to be more accepted and included by Isabel and some of the other mothers at Woodmont.

  But the thought that had been gaining ground all morning, well, it was related to the cupcake. If Liz VanDorn could promote her baked goods at the parents’ party (the sign had read: “courtesy of Liz VanDorn’s Cupcake Shoppe), she could see no reason why she shouldn’t send a note to all the moms and introduce them to Slenderella. This might even endear her to them.

  A short while later, in front of the computer, her bright pink fingernail clicked against her tooth in a steady beat as she scoured her mind for something witty to write. But as the minutes passed, she got nowhere. Finally, annoyed with herself, she said, “Keep it simple, stupid.” Her motto after her mother had kicked her out. And with that arrived a brilliant idea. I’ll give them a discount, she thought.

  Her fingers went to work writing out an email, then she began the laborious task of typing each parent’s email address. When she finally got to Winthrop, though, she frowned. She still couldn’t believe what Bill had told her – that Isabel wanted Phoebe to stop seeing Jess. As if what had happened was all Jessie’s fault!

  “Screw her,” she said aloud, and considered not including her in the email. Then she recalled Isa
bel’s face when she’d found her and Ron sitting together on the velvet couch. Her eyes glinted at the memory. Clicking into a new tab, she thought she’d see if she could find Ron on Facebook.

  A pink origami heron was taped to Phoebe’s locker. It was a few minutes before her final class of the day, which she shared with Jessie. She hadn’t seen her friend all day and couldn’t help wondering if Jessie was avoiding her. She unfolded the paper bird, which she figured was none other than the work of dear Emma, of whom she was growing increasingly fond.

  twitchy ponytail…eyes like frozen fire

  you’d better look both ways…beware desire

  She puzzled over it, then Emma appeared. “Hey, what’s this?” Phoebe said, waving the pink paper.

  “It just came to me over lunch, thought you’d like it.”

  “I do,” she said with a smile, “but you’re not like trying to send me a message, are you?”

  “I just worry about you, little seamstress,” Emma said, returning her smile. She leaned against the adjacent locker. “With Skyla I do think you need to be careful though.” Emma wore a very short tight skirt and black tights with high-top sneakers, one of them propped against the locker door. “D’you know your mom called my house on Saturday?”

  Phoebe slumped slightly and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Emma. She’s such a pain.” As those words left her mouth, Phoebe glanced over her shoulder, hoping no one had overheard her.

  “Yeah, she wondered if we’d smoked weed.” Emma’s long black bangs hooded her deep blue eyes.

  “I didn’t get you into trouble, did I? My mom asked if you guys had smoked and I couldn’t lie.”

  “Nah, Lorraine doesn’t care,” Emma said. “I told her about it when I came home on Friday.” Like Jessie, Emma sometimes referred to her mother by her first name.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, nothing bothers her. At least nothing I do.”

  “Oh, I wish my mom was cool like that.”

  Emma’s eyes darted off thoughtfully. “Cool, huh?”

  “Yeah, I mean the fact that she didn’t get all worked up about Friday, lets you go wherever you want. Lets you do just about anything. My mom’d kill me.”

  After a brief silence, Emma said, “You’re wrong about that.”

  “About what?”

  “That I have a cool mom.” She leaned over and pulled her camera out of her backpack.

  “She’s not cool?”

  “Nope. She, like basically doesn’t give a shit. There’s a difference.”

  “Oh.” Phoebe’s eyes drifted to Emma’s piercings. From eyebrow to nose to ear. Reassessing. Readjusting her thoughts to fit this new information.

  Emma turned her camera toward a cluster of students down the hall, adjusted the lens, took a shot. Wheeling back toward Phoebe, she aimed the camera at her. “Click,” she said.

  Phoebe thrust her hands in front of her face. “Oh, Emma, please don’t, I look awful.”

  Emma shook her head. “No, you don’t, you’re so pretty, even now, when you’re feeling all fucked up and sad.” She did a little jig, which made Phoebe laugh. “You’ve got us, okay?” Just then the bell rang for next period.

  “Okay. Guess I’d better get going,” Phoebe said, avoiding Emma’s heartfelt stare.

  “Yeah, me too.” Emma was turning away, when she stopped and embraced her friend. “Sorry you got grounded, Feebs. It sucks.”

  On the way to biology Phoebe wondered which was worse, a mom who cared about every little thing or a mom who couldn’t care less. In the short time she’d known Emma, she’d never met her mother, though she’d heard stories. Now she wanted to meet her.

  The difficult and irritating weekend came speeding back to Ron when he returned to the office after a White House briefing. Now he could add Gil Rosenblum, his contact at the Washington Post, to his list of annoyances. A short two-sentence email congealed Ron’s disappointment. Gil was sorry they hadn’t gotten back to him sooner, but they were in the midst of making some important changes and he’d be in touch soon.

  A polite brush-off at best. Ron sat fiddling with a pencil, twisting it from finger to finger, then tapping the eraser on his desk. Now he had no choice but to set up lunches with his friends at the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. One of the problems, though, was that each of these reporters covered the White House, Ron’s beat. He’d have to convince them he could make the leap to another area. But which one? He could go back to covering Congress, though he really yearned for a broader canvas. Lately, at AP, he’d been coasting, so what clips would he use to show off his talent? He could point to his online following, maybe. What he really wanted was to dig back into investigative journalism, as he’d been trained at Columbia’s graduate journalism school.

  He picked up the phone, then put it back down. He turned to his computer and half-heartedly tapped out a couple of emails, not citing the specific reason for an invitation to a beer after work. For old-times sake he suggested meeting at The Monocle, a stone’s throw from the Capitol.

  As he scrolled through the rest of his inbox, he noticed an email from Sandy Littleton.

  Phoebe dashed into her biology class just as it began. “Sorry,” she mouthed to the teacher. When she sat down, Jessie whispered, “Where’ve you been all day?” and Phoebe gave her a discomfited look. Apparently, she wasn’t mad at her.

  Throughout class, she toyed with the idea of talking with Jessie about her stupid, crazy mother, but something held her back. During lab, in which she and Jessie were partners, Phoebe reported that she had told Noah she couldn’t go to the dance and that she was major bummed.

  “Oh, man, that’s awful. Maybe your mom will change her mind?”

  Phoebe shook her head. She almost said, You know her, but again held back.

  Jessie patted Phoebe’s shoulder. “I heard Sam won’t be going either; in fact he said his mom might pull him out of Georgetown.” Jessie didn’t wait for a response. “I’m hoping Dylan’ll ask me, but if he doesn’t, Emma and I are going without guys. She doesn’t care and neither do I. I asked my mom if I could have a party afterward and she said yes. So work on your mom. At least then you can spend the night with me and Emma.”

  Phoebe looked at her blankly. Even if her mother let her go to the dance, which she wouldn’t, she’d never let her spend the night at Jessie’s.

  “So what’s up with that?” she said, as if Phoebe’s thoughts were transparent.

  Gazing at the plants they were supposed to classify, Phoebe tried to come up with a reasonable answer. She didn’t do well in situations like this. Her thoughts grew into a kaleidoscopic jumble. Too many things to consider. She shook her head. “I know I won’t be able to go, and if I could I’d have to be home before the clock strikes midnight! If not sooner.”

  Jessie laughed. “That’s it,” she said. “We just need to get you some glass slippers and a pumpkin coach!” The two giggled. Phoebe had felt sad all day and now, finally, the clouds seemed to lift a bit. “Have you met Emma’s mom?”

  “What made you think of that?” Jessie asked.

  “She said her mom doesn’t care what she does, and all mine does is worry. Isn’t there some in-between?” She watched Jessie chew the inside of her cheek.

  “Parents are weird,” she finally said. “I overheard my parents say your mom doesn’t want you to hang out with me. Is that true?” Her face fell. “Why doesn’t she like me, Feebs?”

  Phoebe drew in a sharp breath. “It’s not you, Jess. It’s…it’s complicated.” Her eyes grew watery. She held her hand out beneath the table. Jessie twined her fingers around Phoebe’s the way they’d done nearly every day of their second semester of eighth grade. “Best buds for life!” they whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wednesday, October 8, 2008

  A week and a half after the parents’ party, despite all the selftalk, Isabel couldn’t help dreading the meeting with the Academy’s headmistress, one she prayed wouldn’t include
Jessie and Emma’s mothers. Adams Morgan had come to this. She knew it would; Ron had been wrong.

  On the morning of the appointment with Alison Kendall, Isabel was in the midst of a quick check of her personal e-mails, when one from Sandy appeared. She was in no mood to read anything from her, but the subject line itself was enough to grab her attention: Slenderella: Special Discount for my friends. On opening it, Isabel saw that Sandy had sent the email to every ninth-grade mother at Georgetown Academy.

  She scanned the body of the text, in which Sandy touted the virtues of her “very own special high-protein weight-loss drink,” replete with a few grammatical and punctuation errors.

  Hey, it was so great meeting you all the other night.

  Just wondered if you ever heard of Slenderella?

  Its the new hi-protein weight loss drink I represent! Twice a day and you’ll be slim for the holidays that are just around the corner. And if you’re like me and hate to exercise, well Slenderella is the right stuff!! Really, I can attest to that.

  So don’t let a couple pounds get between you and your favorite ball gown! (Get it? Like Cinderella!! Don’t want you stuck at home, while everybody else is having all the fun!)

  If you order by the middle of October, as my friend you’ll get a 20% discount. Click here: www.slenderella.com for more info, or call me at home. xoxox, Sandy

  Isabel was appalled to think what impression this would make on the ninth-grade moms, especially on the spouses of diplomats – the elegant woman from Ethiopia, for example. And the very slender one from Denmark. Other people, too, like Members of Congress who considered their personal e-mails a very private thing. But she also saw it for what it was: yet one more attempt at breaking into the clubby culture of DC private school moms.

  Had it not been for Sandy’s flirtatious coziness with Ron, and the kids’ getting caught smoking, well, Isabel might have called her and suggested this wasn’t the way to make friends, at least not among the women of Georgetown Academy. As it was, she clicked the print icon and made two copies, relishing the idea of showing the item to Ron.