She took out her own pad and began writing letters, first to her son and then her daughter.
Dear Katie,
Most of all, I want you to remember I’m not angry. You shouldn’t even think I could consider that, but guilt can haunt a child, even a child as adult and capable as you.
You made the right decision. Take good care of Amelia and Zach. Most of all, take care of you. I’ve treasured you since the moment I held you, my sweet child. You and Noah are first in my heart always, though I suppose, if that’s true, you’re wondering why I’m here, and not with you and your brother. This will probably not seem like enough justification—considering what he’s done to everyone—but I just couldn’t bear the idea of Daddy being alone. For better or for worse, right? And does it get worse than this?
Phoebe went back and crossed out the last line with a heavy hand. Of course it got worse than this. Death. Illness.
Daddy and I have been together since we were practically children. I don’t know how to walk away. Believe me, if I didn’t know you and Noah had each other and your families, I’d never leave you alone.
Okay, enough. Sounds like I’m asking you to feel sorry for me, right? But, sweetheart—I had a wonderful life until now. You and Noah are anything and everything a mother could dream of having for their children. Being grandma was the second biggest joy of my life—having you and Noah, was, of course, number one.
What else could she write to her girl? How could she say good-bye without making her sad forever? Phoebe didn’t want to send Kate paper so tainted with shame and self-pity that her daughter’s only option would be burning the letter.
You and Noah can start over. You’re both young and smart. There is nothing so big here that you can’t make a good life. This is all new and awful, but the horror will pass, no matter how hard that is to believe. You got a raw deal, but what is, is, at this moment. Your children are treasures. Zach is more than wonderful. The skills you possess are beyond pride-worthy. Hold your head up. You did nothing.
Don’t wear your father’s sins.
Love always and forever,
Mommy
CHAPTER 30
Phoebe
Phoebe slid her mother’s locket into a padded envelope. Tears blurred her vision as she picked out a few more meaningful pieces from the pile of gold and silver jewelry. She reached back for the necklace, scrabbling for the gold as though searching for a lost limb to touch it once more. For one moment, she prayed her daughter could gather comfort from these trinkets and, in the next, she questioned her sanity at the thought.
Was this what Jake stole for? Shiny relics? Baubles to hang around her neck, dangle from her ears?
Look at me! Look at my wife! I made it! I’m a big shot! Jake obsessed about hitting the big time since high school—and he’d spun stories just as long. How many dinner tables did she decorate while watching guests drink up his bullshit about catching a giant fish or the time he spent a summer building houses in Haiti?
Haiti? Jake would have added air conditioners to the deck at their Greenwich home if it were possible. That’s how much he hated humidity. And he loathed fish.
Phoebe squirmed at his performances, rolling her eyes when they got home, but everyone loved his jive. The more powerful he became, the more they wanted his stories. “Pretty soon, you’ll have them believing you discovered America in a past life,” she said as they drove home from some event.
Turned out he’d reeled her right in with all the others.
Jake came in and dropped his box of watches on the kitchen table.
“Are you going to give them to Manny to mail?”
Phoebe finished the inch of brandy left from the generous amount she’d poured before writing the letter. “I’ll mail the jewelry myself. The letters we’ll leave here for the kids.”
“Let me know if you need anything. I have a little something put away.”
So Jake kept his own knippel. Maybe he stuffed his old shoes with thousand-dollar bills.
They had not spoken about money since his arrest. He never asked how she paid for groceries or the cable bill, or if they cut off her credit cards—which they hadn’t, but they could. Not that she used them. Hate and naked curiosity from shoppers drilled her with every can of tuna she put in her cart. Better to transact fast using crumpled knippel bills.
Sometimes the exhaustion of making herself as small as possible made her want to walk into D’Agostino’s and fill a basket with tins of lobster and caviar. Imagine those headlines.
Jake handed her the letters he had typed on his old IBM Selectric and shuffled back to his study. The television came on. Phoebe didn’t worry about what he’d say to Kate—always considered his perfect child—but she needed to read what he wrote to their son.
Dear Noah,
What can I say that would make any sense? I have no excuses, no good reasons. I fell deeper and deeper, while convincing myself I’d find a way out. I never meant to hurt anyone. I don’t know how it got so bad. I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack from worry. At least I held to my vow to always keep you and Kate (and, of course, Mom) out of it. Of course you can’t forgive me, but please, don’t ever blame your mother.
I love you very much. You three were the most important things in my life even if you can’t believe that now. I simply boiled myself a little bit at a time—slow enough that by the time I became red hot, it was too late to jump out. Though I tried. Believe me, I tried.
This wasn’t what I wanted. You are a good boy, and I am so proud of you. I wish you could have gone until forever being proud of me.
Love,
Dad
Hate and caring mixed in her throat until breathing seemed impossible. She took his letters and hers, placed them in a white envelope, and labeled it Kate and Noah. After licking it closed, she placed it on the empty mahogany hallway table, weighing the envelope down with a heavy glass paperweight.
After encasing Jake’s watches in bubble wrap, Phoebe slipped them in an envelope. She taped both envelopes tight and addressed the one with watches to Noah and the other to Kate. After throwing on her baggiest coat and jamming on an old ski hat, she wrapped a dull grey scarf around her neck, pulled it up to her nose, took the service elevator, and slipped outside into the snowy darkness.
Occasionally, a smart reporter hung out at the back, but she assumed that on Christmas Eve even the paparazzi would be on skeleton staff. She came out the back into the alley, grateful for the thick Uggs boots covering her feet. Too bad they weren’t thigh high. Garbage cans, recycling bins, and snow equipment crowded the narrow space. Feral cats and rodents lurked in the corners.
Manny had shown her this way out a few days before, after seeing how the reporters hounded her. Weaving through the alley, expecting to step on an animal carcass or worse, horrified her. She stared straight ahead, walking on tiptoes, clutching the plastic Whole Foods bag containing the overstuffed envelopes.
She grabbed the handle of the grated door leading to the street, releasing and pulling the way Manny taught her, trying to be quiet—an almost impossible task with rusted, creaking iron.
The door exited about a half block from the building’s main entrance, where the dogged cadre of paparazzi stood hunched against the cold. Their heads swiveled, seeking signs of her or Jake escaping via the front door, back, or even perhaps leaping from their terrace, considering how one guy peered up toward the top of the building.
“Hey, Phoebe, where ya going?” a reporter yelled, his words meant to stop her.
A thin layer of ice covered the sidewalk. Walking on the slickness took a concentration difficult to achieve with them panting like a pack of dogs behind her. Running now, she raced toward the mailbox on the corner, almost blinded by the fast-falling snow. Barely keeping her balance, she fell on the blue metal box, pried open the iced opening, and stuffed in the two envelopes. Stamps of every denomination nearly covered the front of the packages.
“Whatcha mailing, Phoebe?” s
he heard behind her.
“Christmas cards?” The broad New York accent asking the question matched her own.
She swallowed the Brooklyn “Fuck you!” jammed in her throat. Six men of varying heights hulked around her.
“Where’s Jake?”
“What are you guys doing tonight?”
“Where’s the money? Is that what you mailed?”
Tears of rage and fear threatened as she edged away.
“What did you do? Why are you staying? What do the kids think?”
Questions assaulted her as she tried to escape. She turned sideways, attempting to make a wedge of her shoulders.
“Move, damn it,” she finally spit out. “Move the fuck away from me.”
And there, she’d given them the morning headlines: “Phoebe Pierce Potty Mouth.”
“Enough!” Manny pushed his way in front of the crowd of men, holding an umbrella out as though it were a lance. “Gusanos. Maggots.”
Phoebe slipped as she worked to get away from the reporters, falling to one knee, her bare hand landing on the gritty iced pavement. Pain shot through it as she attempted to stop her slide. Manny grabbed her elbow with a strong hand and pulled her up. She tucked her hand into his arm, and he steered them away from the men shouting questions.
“What the eff, Phoebe? Nothing to say?”
“What’s in the envelope?”
Words blurred behind her as they walked back to the building.
“They’re just messing with your mind, Mrs. Pierce,” Manny said. “Stay cool. They’re waving a red flag, like bullfighters. They’re just trying to feed off you for tomorrow’s paper. Bottom-feeders, all of them.”
Phoebe squeezed Manny’s arm, attempting to put her overwhelming gratitude into the touch. If she spoke, she’d fall apart, and those bastards would never see her cry. Manny was her only protector—a man to whom other than being polite and handing him generous tips, she’d never given a thought.
• • •
“How was it?” Jake asked when she returned. He tried to peel her wet coat off her shoulders, but she shrugged him away.
“Fine,” she said.
He pointed to her leg, her torn pants, her skinned knee. “Doesn’t look fine. What happened? Are you okay?”
“Fine, I said.” She moved away from his outstretched hand.
“Come on. I’ll bandage you till you’re good as new.”
She bit her lip against the flood of softness opening in her chest. Jake was the expert at taping up the kids after they slipped on the ice or twisted something. Her stomach would drop, but he stayed calm. When Noah lacerated his scalp on a tree limb while skiing in Aspen, Jake pressed the huge piece of flapping skin in place until the ski patrol arrived. He’d studied the doctor’s hands as he wove the needle in and out of their son’s flesh. Phoebe averted her eyes, able to hold Noah’s hand as the stitches went in, but unable to watch.
Jake led her to the guest bathroom. He rolled her pants above her knee, pulling the wool fabric away from the clotting blood. She winced as he uncovered the fresh wound.
“Sorry.” He touched his lips to the skin above the gash. “Kiss and make better,” he said, repeating the words he’d once said to the children.
Jake bathed the torn flesh and covered it in Neosporin. He tore open a large square Band-Aid with his teeth, peeled off the paper, and pressed it over her lacerations. After ensuring that it stuck, he used the pad of his thumb to smooth down the edges.
“There,” he said.
Phoebe went into her bathroom without a word. She stripped off her clothes, stuffed them in the hamper, and walked into the shower. Water beat on her shoulders as she leaned both hands against the slick white tile. Tears mixed with suds as she covered herself with bath gel. She washed her hair with the same viscous liquid, wanting the smell of the lilacs, indifferent to caring for her hair.
Fuck texture. Fuck shine. Frizz, no frizz—who cared?
When the bandage steamed off, Phoebe balled it up and put it on the shelf with her shampoo and soap collection.
She wrapped herself in a terry robe. No lotion on her legs. No moisture for her face. Just a rough towel brushing her skin. She combed her hair straight back from her forehead, leaning forward to examine herself in the mirror. See how smooth I kept myself? Always perfect, just like you wanted me.
Jake’s eyes were glued to the bedroom television where Rio Bravo played.
Phoebe handed him a glass of wine and then placed one on her side of the bed.
She imagined her family at the cemetery, standing before two caskets. The idea of death seemed selfish and punishing. She should stay to care for her children and granddaughters. Then Phoebe pictured all the hate now pointed at Jake aimed only at her. Rage already shot toward her as though she had nibbled on Kobe beef sautéed with babies’ tears. If she took the pills, she could sleep. If there were some sort of heaven—an afterlife—God would see her heart and her deeds.
She’d been blind, she’d been stupid—but she’d not been greedy. She’d spent the money, but she’d never known of Jake’s crimes.
Reincarnation might exist. She could start over. Come back as someone with an honest husband. A kind husband. Children who didn’t have to spend their lives trying to win a monster’s approval.
Phoebe wasn’t a religious woman, but shouldn’t she have prepared somehow? Made peace?
Leaving the kids would be a final act of selfishness. They’d asked her to come with them, but she stayed with Jake. Now she’d never be able to go to them. They’d hate her forever.
She couldn’t do it.
“How many pills do you think it will take?” Jake looked at her as though she were some sort of suicide expert. He probably thought she’d Googled the question. Phoebe took care of everything in the home. Why not include researching how to die?
Of course, she had looked for the information and knew how many pills would kill them, but going through with this would be a deserter’s way out. Any attempt to argue with Jake required a wrestler’s strength—far better to use a sorcerer’s wisdom.
“Four.”
“Four?” he said. “So few?”
“These are the highest-strength pills.” They weren’t. They were only five milligrams each. “I’ll only need to take three.”
“You’re sure that will be enough for us?” he asked.
“With the wine, definitely.” Dying with that dose was near impossible. “Absolutely.”
“Right. Down the hatch.” Jake counted out four pills and swallowed them with his Chardonnay.
What if she told him to take more and only pretended to swallow hers?
“Your turn.” He watched her as though she might cheat him in some way. “The kids will manage. Don’t worry. If we’re gone, they won’t have to deal with all this. We’re doing them a favor.”
His silence was all she wanted. Phoebe swallowed three pills at once.
“I love you, baby,” he said. “Always. From the first time I saw you.”
“I know, Jake.” She should say it back, to be kind, to be human. “Me too.”
CHAPTER 31
Phoebe
Phoebe woke to the sound of Jake retching. Seconds later, nausea overcame her.
After throwing off the covers, she stumbled to the other bathroom and dropped to her knees in time for her stomach to explode into the toilet and not on the floor. Half-digested pills spewed out in a brown froth.
Emptied, she curled up on the thick white bath mat. Her head pounded hard enough that she worried she might be having a stroke. Jake groaned from the master bathroom. She wondered if she should call 911.
Headlines appeared instantly in her mind. “Pierces Rushed to Mount Sinai: Pills & Alcohol Thought to Blame.” The Post would be less gracious, more likely coming up with “Jake and Phoebe’s Grim Reaper Investment Fails” or “Jake and Phoebe: Too Mean to Die.”
Would the kids rush to the hospital? If she called them right this moment, decency would f
orce them to come. Immediately, the thought of using this pathetic faux suicide attempt to bring Kate and Noah back to her disgusted her. She curled her fingers to keep from reaching for the bathroom phone and calling her daughter.
She tried to get up to go to Jake but couldn’t. Finally, she heard him stagger to the bedroom and fall onto the bed. He’d gathered enough strength to do that—but not enough to come see whether she survived. Perhaps her husband wanted her dead, preventing him from witnessing her shame about him.
She reached up, slid a towel off the bar and pulled it on top of her, shivering until something resembling sleep came.
• • •
Christmas Eve seemed two years ago, but, in fact, only one long, crawling week had passed since the night of pills, and here they were on the couch, watching the Dustin Hoffman comedy Tootsie as 2008 clicked to 2009.
Obsessions with her and Jake doubled with each news cycle. Pundits and full-of-themselves essayists hammered the same questions: Did Phoebe Pierce know her life was built on fraud? Did Phoebe Pierce partner with her husband in hustling billions from investors? Friends and enemies debated for the world’s curiosity about whether love and loyalty blinded her to his crimes, or if she chose to live in denial. People she hadn’t seen since high school crawled out of the alleys to disclose Phoebe lore and photos.
Missing her children became sharper; shards of glass ripping at her.
She allowed herself to imagine, for one second, where they would all be in normal times. New Year’s Eve, they went back to Greenwich—loving the feeling of being cozy in the house as the ocean frothed outside. The worse the weather, the more they loved it.
Kate and Noah and their spouses usually ate New Year’s Eve dinner out while she and Jake stayed home with the girls. They built forts and slept in the pillowed fortifications. The two of them let the grandkids stay up late, all of them cuddled on the giant living room couches watching video after video curated by Jake. One of his joys had been planning the night’s entertainment. He spent hours reading reviews, his face screwed up in concentration as he decided between one family film and another.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 25