The Widow of Wall Street

by Randy Susan Meyers

  The waiter left with a nod, indicating his lack of respect for their gastronomy.

  “I upset you.” Ira could interpret her lunch order. “Don’t fret about what I said. You and Jake puzzle me. You’re different when you’re with him than when you’re not, which indicates someone in the marriage is holding secrets.” He pushed Phoebe’s glass of water closer to her hand. “Drink. It helps cool your insides.”

  The icy liquid washed through, relieving the fiery nerves settling in her stomach. “Everyone acts differently when they’re with their husband or wife.” Even as she spoke, Phoebe knew she was wrong. Deb was Deb, and Ben was Ben, whether together or apart. Helen and Alan didn’t change depending on the other’s presence.

  “No. They don’t. God knows, in my marriage, we were at our worst as a couple. You, you’re brittle with Jake, as though you’re crafting how you present yourself. For him or you?”

  “Why would I do that for myself?”

  “To hide?” he asked.

  Food arrived, bringing a welcome break from their conversation. Pasta lightly shined with butter would coat her insides so she could drink.

  “What would I need to hide from?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m wondering. Sometimes you seem like you live in a corner of your life, your mind. You’re an entirely different person at Mira House than you are with him.”

  “I’m the person Jake wants.” With her stomach lined, she drank from her wineglass. “You’re not married anymore. You’re not a father. You don’t know the price of a family.”

  “Do you?”

  • • •

  Ira’s words continued to play as Phoebe mixed a crust for the chicken cutlets, speculating on possible truth. Sure, the nights Jake worked late were always welcome—but she thought all wives were a little more relaxed when their husbands weren’t home, never allowing herself to think it might just be her and Jake.

  Lately, Jake’s base was jittery and tense. She never knew when he’d bark out news that they’d attend yet another night out with potential clients. Her dread had increased as Jake now expected her to wax on about the Cupcake Project’s fiscal ties with JPE as proof of how much she trusted the Club. She hated using her business that way and could barely remember the new bullshit he tried to make her memorize.

  “If the Club is so successful, why do you still need me shilling for you?” she had asked the previous week, genuinely puzzled. Financial advisors worldwide fed him clients—why did he still need her?

  “You’re the charity expert.” He’d smiled. “And charities are my favorites.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You feel good working with Mira House, right? Maybe I caught the bug from you. Seeing how we can grow their endowments means plenty to me and the rest of the staff.”

  Imagining Gita-Rae and Charlie deriving joy from helping nonprofits rang false enough to make her laugh or cry. She stared at her husband, searching for answers behind his glaze of bullshit. Noah finally put her discomfort into words as they drove back from Brooklyn after visiting her parents, just the three of them, during Katie’s college break.

  “When it comes to understanding the Club, Mom, it’s like he’s swallowed the place, and the only way to get through would be to cut him open.”

  Kate laughed. “And don’t try going up there to the thirty-seventh floor. They have business omertà. It’s ‘family’ vis-à-vis Little Italy.”

  “You don’t think there’s anything wrong, do you?”

  Both kids appeared puzzled. “What do you mean?”

  She wasn’t sure, but they’d worked there, and their reassurances would feel good. When she was around the Club staff, at parties and such, they belonged to that club that didn’t want her as a member.

  Gravel crunching in the driveway announced Jake’s arrival. Phoebe ran into the powder room near the kitchen, opened the antique medicine cabinet hanging on the wall, and rummaged through the collection of lipsticks she kept in a red cocoa tin. After lining her lips with a youthful pink and smiling at the mirror, she retied the blue polka-dot ribbon on her low ponytail. She leaned closer to her reflection, turning from side to side, and then tipping her head up, searching for stray chin hairs betraying her. All clear, though her complexion appeared ashy. Somewhere below the sink, she’d stashed a bottle of Clinique moisturizer. There it was. She rubbed a small amount into her skin and topped it with a dab of blush.

  Phoebe slipped back into the kitchen and placed the pan of breaded cutlets in the oven, listening to Jake’s footsteps for clues as to which husband approached, hoping for the romantic version and dreading the man crackling with anxiety.

  “What’s for supper, pussycat?”

  “Chicken cutlets.” The scent of soap rose when she put her arms around Jake.

  “Did you shower in the car?”

  “I played racquetball late this afternoon. Where’s Noah?”

  “Probably out with his friends. Racquetball? Worn out?”

  A familiar fizziness on her palate bubbled. She often wondered if her body released it to keep her from saying words she couldn’t take back.

  “Probably?” Jake asked. “Are you baking too many cupcakes to keep track of our son?”

  “Our son is almost in college. I don’t need to follow his every move.”

  “Is he coming home for dinner? Do you know that much?”

  “He’s studying at a friend’s house tonight.”

  “What friend?”

  “You sure go back and forth with your racquetball thing.” She sliced the ends off fresh string beans. “What made you start up again? You haven’t played in months.”

  Jake patted his midriff. “This. Started expanding.”

  He came close, grabbed a raw bean, and popped it in his mouth. Then he put one to her lips. She brushed it aside and kissed him, tasting peppermint and hidden happiness. “I can keep the chicken on low,” she said. “We can take advantage of the empty house.”

  “I’m pretty hungry.” He pulled back as she leaned on his shoulder.

  This wasn’t the shirt he’d worn when he left the house. He kept extra shirts in the office. For racquetball.

  He put his hands on her arms. “Be glad I’m working to stay in shape.”

  “Are you having an affair?”

  He chuckled. “This comes from racquetball? Not wanting to go to bed when Noah might come home any moment? Or are your girlfriends putting ideas in your head? Do you all have so much free time that you craft husbandly ghost stories?” He pushed her away and went to the hall. “When you see what I brought you, you’ll feel like an idiot.”

  Phoebe followed, trying to imagine what he had. Jewelry meant he was sleeping with someone for sure. Sapphires or diamonds red-flagged a serious relationship, not just sex. How she knew this baffled her, but it felt true.

  Jake opened his briefcase and drew out a bag from Bergdorf’s. He handed it to Phoebe with a flourish. “I thought it was time for a change.”

  She saw tissue paper with yellow and white stripes and instantly recognized the wrapping and box. Giorgio. She’d gag if she uncapped it. The heady, thick scent smelled like a cheap woman trying for expensive. She tore the cellophane on the box in silence. She thought Poison overpowering and wore it only at Jake’s insistence, but the overwhelming Giorgio made Poison palatable.

  Phoebe couldn’t put together Jake from Brooklyn with this man who apparently prowled the perfume counters of Bergdorf’s until he found what struck his libido and then demanded she wear nothing else until he again became bored.

  Phoebe unstopped the bottle and inhaled, trying to understand what kind of woman he wanted now. She’d dab it on sparingly before he came home.

  “An affair?” He laughed. “My only affair is with you, Pheebs, and the only way I need to spice it up comes in beautiful crystal bottles.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Phoebe

  Perhaps to prove how much he was not having an affair, Jake had almost attached hims
elf to Phoebe that weekend. On Friday night, he even agreed to see Cry Freedom instead of Robocop.

  On Saturday, they took a car service into Manhattan where Jake dropped her at Bergdorf Goodman’s with his American Express and strict instructions to scorch the card while he worked for a few hours.

  During their Saturday night meal with Ollie and Poppy, he draped his arm over her shoulders except when actively putting food in his mouth.

  On Sunday, they actually drove into Brooklyn with Noah and had dinner with her parents at Peter Luger Steak House, her father’s favorite place.

  Three nights in a row, they made love, quite a record for a couple married over twenty years. “Is it the new perfume?” she’d asked at midnight on Sunday.

  “All you.”

  She didn’t believe him—if anything, it made her more suspicious, his need to show his devotion. Suspicion and actually wanting answers, however, turned out to be different animals.

  What proof did she have? None.

  Her qualms came from clean clothes, racquetball, and gossip about other women’s husbands. She’d shake this off—Jake’s addiction was money, not women. Where Ollie couldn’t keep his eyes in his head, even with Poppy across the table, Jake acted nothing but appropriate.

  When Phoebe was there.

  No. No man could carry on a charade that well. She compared him with those she knew best: her father, brother-in-law, and Helen’s husband. Jake fit in with their respect of family; not with Ollie, who pressed so close against her each time they hugged that she mentioned it to Jake.

  He made a sound of deep repulsion. “I’ll talk to him.”

  “Don’t!” Why did she say that? Why did women feel a need to protect awful men from the truth of who they were; why were they afraid to have it revealed that they’d “told on him”?

  “Do.” He’d cupped her face. “No one cheapens my wife.”

  And though she’d rather he’d said that no one cheapens any woman, she loved his words.

  Ollie never pushed himself on her again.

  All weekend, no matter how hard she tried to push away the memories, Jake’s vague answers looped. The comfort Jake bought with spa treatments and new clothes had a short shelf life.

  • • •

  Phoebe was shocked at the time when she woke on Monday morning. When Jake had left before six, she’d treated herself by calling in to the shop and leaving a message to postpone their meeting for a few hours, never expecting to sleep past ten.

  Phoebe stumbled into the shower, skipping coffee and breakfast, knowing she could get both at the store. She calmed her anxiety that she might be late through a series of deep breaths. And of course, her inhalations carried the scent of expensive lemon potpourri sold by a tiny shop in town.

  Money muffled Phoebe’s world. The move from Brooklyn to Greenwich taught her what privilege meant. She had grown up in one of the best homes in her neighborhood, but walk a few blocks in any direction, and you ran into the shakier parts of life. Polished worlds such as Greenwich beveled the edges until you believed money shined up everything.

  Perhaps people drank, screamed, and fell to their knees in the houses surrounding them but you never saw the pain. All of them worked overtime to make their lives more plush, wanting to reach the level of bliss they thought lived next door, where mounds of silk and gold buried sorrow and gloom and rows of evergreens screened away sound and sights.

  Jake’s rapaciousness never let up. When was enough enough? He didn’t only want to consume, he needed to swallow the world whole.

  • • •

  Phoebe unlocked the door to find Linh, Eva, and Zoya crowded around a small marble table in the Greenwich store. “Am I that late? I’m so sorry.”

  “We got here extra quick.” Zoya spat out the words.

  “All of you?” Phoebe looked around. Everyone seemed edgy. “Is something wrong?”

  “Are you okay, Phoebe? That is the question.” Linh spoke in her properly learned English. Mira House had the same two ESL teachers for the past ten years, and neither seemed to believe in contractions.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Phoebe shook off her jacket with relief. No matter how fashionable the fitted apricot leather and squared-off shoulder pads seemed yesterday, today it resembled a space suit. Post-spa-treatment dizziness could be the only reason she had bought it. And no comments? She’d expected Zoya to touch the fabric the moment she arrived.

  “Did you see the television? Listen to the radios?” Zoya picked up a napkin and dabbed her lips.

  “I drove for all of five minutes. What’s going on?”

  “Where are you?” Zoya scissored her hands in front of Phoebe’s face. “Living in bubble?”

  “I rushed—”

  Eva shook her head. “Don’t answer. That’s not our business.” She poured a cup of coffee for Phoebe. “Sit down.”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Did you talk to Jake since he got to work?”

  “What’s going on, for God’s sake? Is there something I need to know?”

  Eva turned on the radio they kept in the shop, tuning in until she hit the news channel. Phoebe tried to concentrate as phrases like Dow plunges and market crashing pounded over them.

  “Listen,” Linh said. “We don’t know—”

  “Call Jake and—” Zoya wove her fingers into a beseeching fist.

  Phoebe quieted them with a gesture as she continued listening, highlights leaping out.

  Are we re-experiencing 1929?

  Slide continuing.

  Expecting worse, much worse, by day’s end.

  Phoebe gave a silent prayer. She covered Eva’s hands with her own. “Hey, this is old—well, oldish news. You know. It began last week. Jake says we’re exactly where we want to be. Now that everything is dipping, the crap—his word, not mine—is washing out. The cream will rise to the top.”

  Coffee soured in Phoebe’s throat as she put forth what might well be bullshit. She, in fact, had no understanding of what Jake meant, but his words had soothed everyone at dinner on Sunday. Her mother repeated his wisdom verbatim twenty minutes after Jake first said it.

  Now three terrified faces watched her for assurance.

  “Everything,” Zoya said. “I put everything into the Jake thing.”

  “We all did.” Linh’s soft voice trembled. “Including my husband. We sent half his check every month.”

  “Half?” Eva twisted a bright gold ring round and round. “How do you manage?”

  “Have you seen how many people live in their house?”

  “Zoya,” Eva scolded.

  “It is true.” Linh clasped her fingers. “We are saving to buy houses. Me. My sister. My parents will live with one of us.”

  “You’ll get your house. I swear,” Phoebe said.

  “How can you promise?” Skepticism coated every syllable Zoya spoke. “Never a guarantee in business or government. Ask my dead husband.”

  The three women fell silent, hope falling from their faces. Phoebe imagined them reflecting on the circumstances that had brought them to New York. Her own great-grandmother had sewn jewelry and money in the hem of her coat before getting on the boat in Poland.

  Linh looked up, tears trickling. “It is not your fault. We made the choices.”

  “You will be okay.” Her heavy orange leather screamed “rich bitch liar!” from the back of her chair.

  “How?” Eva said. “It would be impossible for us not to lose money. You read the paper. Jake may be smart, even a genius, but he’s not a miracle worker.”

  “Wait. Let me talk to him tonight. I’ll find out.” Phoebe dug her nails into her arms.

  Zoya bent and picked up the suitcase-sized turquoise bag she brought everywhere and rummaged until Eva exploded. “Are you mining for gold?”

  “Does anyone think it is too early for beer?” Linh asked.

  “Ah. Finally.” Zoya pulled out a small marbled notebook, the kind children bought at the five-and-dime to track t
heir homework assignments. She flipped the pages until reaching the last one with writing. “See. I report it down every time I get the statement. Here is what I think is my balance.” She held up the white paper. “Nine thousand six hundred dollars. I save everything.”

  “That’s a good amount,” Phoebe said.

  “Fuck you, good amount.” She slammed down the book. “That is everything I own in world. It’s nothing to you. Look at your coat. How much did it cost? Did you think about it? Did you wait for one minute before you bought it and think what else you could do with it? Did you wonder how many mamas in Mira House could buy twenty coats with what you spent? More?”

  Linh brought up her knees and held them with her hands, making herself smaller. “Stop yelling.”

  Zoya took the book and shook it at Phoebe. “Coats! You think you are Eleanor Roosevelt when you’re really Marie Antoinette.”

  Zoya’s rage seemed a living creature, curling around Phoebe, snapping at her flesh. The ugly orange coat, boasted, screamed its price.

  “You’ll lose nothing,” Phoebe said. “I promise. If I have to pay it from my own money, you will get it all.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Jake

  Jake clutched Tuesday’s New York Times, keeping his face somber until he hit the thirty-seventh floor. The headline burned his fingertips: “Stocks Plunge 508 Points, a Drop of 22.6%; 604 Million Volume Nearly Doubles Record.” Exuding glee as the stock market tanked would be unseemly at best, but along with his shine from the Waldorf, as Wall Street lost, he gained. Skid marks would mark the road to his office as folks begged for the safety of the Club.

  He loved slipping up the back staircase, used only by him, Charlie, and Solomon. Moving to this building uptown five years ago came with a long pleasure tail. The separation of a floor between his brokerage and the Club soothed him.

  He unlocked the entry door and walked into the full throttle mess of Gita-Rae’s domain. After saying a few hellos, asking after this one’s son’s college grades, that one’s new house, he perched on the edge of Nanci’s desk.