The Widow of Wall Street

by Randy Susan Meyers

  Jake hit pause to stop Tootsie and squeezed her knee. “How about a snack?”

  “What do you want?” She concentrated on Dustin Hoffman, frozen in the act of applying lipstick.

  “What do we have?” His hand weighed five hundred pounds.

  “Sorry, my X-ray vision is on the fritz,” she said.

  “Hey, you do the shopping, you cook the food. Makes sense you keep stock of what we have, right? Do you need to make this a federal case? Could I have something to eat?”

  “Open the cabinets. Acquaint yourself. I’m not hungry.”

  “So this is where we’re going?” He frowned at her. “You’re turning on me?”

  “You want me to wait on you?”

  He wrapped his hand around her forearm. “Waiting on me? That’s what it is to you?”

  She shook him off. “Stop.”

  “Now I can’t touch you? It’s been pretty obvious you don’t want that.”

  “Sex? We’re talking about sex now? Should I make sandwiches and then go down on you?”

  “Would it be such a sin?” He pressed his lips together in disgust, the wounding expression designed to shame her into service.

  He picked up the plates on the coffee table. Funny how Jake “helped” only when he wanted to hurt her. Was she supposed to be embarrassed that he was doing her supposed job?

  She followed him to the kitchen, unable to resist his bait, itching for a fight.

  He stood before the open refrigerator, staring as though a plate of roast beef might leap into his hands. Next he opened the freezer.

  “Do we have ice cream?” he asked.

  “Do you see any?”

  “No. I don’t.” He glared at her.

  “So why’d you ask?”

  “Because I hoped I was wrong, and you took the time to buy some small piece of comforting shit, like ice cream or cake or a fucking box of cookies.”

  “Really, this is what you were hoping? Did you think of hoping the kids would call or the people you screwed all over the world might get some help? How about our family, every aunt, cousin, brother and sister—how about hoping they’ll survive what you did to them?”

  Jake slammed the refrigerator shut with the unsatisfying kiss of expensive appliances. He shuffled to the dining nook and sank into the edge of the curved booth. “When I think about it, I fall apart. Which is why what I want now is a piece of cake.” His eyes appeared weaker than she’d ever seen. “I try to imagine a life without family. Us. Everything. I just can’t.”

  If she were going to stay with him, shouldn’t she be kind? She touched his shoulder with two fingers for a moment. “I’ll make something.”

  He took her hand and kissed it. She forced herself not to pull away, to claw her way out of his hold. Tried to remember when this man’s touch didn’t disgust her. “Thank you,” he said.

  Fury gnawed her guts. “Watch your movie.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  Pity flashed as he shambled out. Jake strode over the world like Zeus since the day they had met. She opened the pantry door and reached for the airtight containers holding shredded coconut and chunks of dark Valrhona. While the melted chocolate cooled, she beat egg whites with salt until they stiffened, slowly added sugar and vanilla, and whipped until it became a glossy meringue.

  She dipped in a finger at each stage—loving the flavor of the sugary egg mixture, relishing the grit of coconut. The chocolate. Rich, dark, thick; she couldn’t stop tasting as she mixed. After lining the cookie sheet with parchment paper, she dropped teaspoon-sized lumps in even rows. As they baked, she ran a spatula along the side of the bowl, scraping and licking until she tasted more rubber than chocolate.

  The timer rang, and she slid out the tray, replacing it with a waiting one of raw macaroons. She put them on a rack to cool, eating one, two, and then a third and a fourth the moment she could touch them.

  Phoebe crammed cookies into her mouth until the sugar sickened her. Then she opened the liquor cabinet and grabbed one of the ridiculously expensive liqueurs that clients showered on Jake. Glinting from the shelves, overdesigned bottles lined up like perfume flagons for giants. She pulled out the crystal-faceted stopper of the Courvoisier L’Esprit cognac, the Lalique glass cool in her hand, and tipped the bottle to her mouth.

  She arranged a dozen cookies on the Limoges plate she hated most—stupid birds on a black border; yet another client gift—and carried it to her husband, along with the open bottle. Then she covered a never-used Flora Danica oval platter, easily worth a thousand dollars, even secondhand, with cookies for Manny’s family, wrapped it in green cellophane, and used a butter knife to create curling cascades of silver ribbon.

  “Keep it,” she’d say when he offered to return it.

  • • •

  Jake’s cell phone rang as she poured their first Monday cups of coffee. He peered at the caller ID. “Gideon,” he said, pressing Talk.

  “What?” he said after a minute.

  Phoebe raised her eyebrows, and he motioned for her to stay quiet. His voice rose. “Bullshit! Family fucking mementos, that’s all we sent. Christmas presents. We’re not allowed to celebrate the holidays? Now that’s on the list of things I can’t do? Fucking feds.”

  Jake remained silent for a few minutes. Phoebe could imagine Gideon’s deep, soothing voice sending platitudes equaling “You’re fucked. Do what I say.” Her husband seemed stunned when the conversation ended, the phone dangling from his hand. “The kids called the feds about the jewelry. Now they’re going to try to revoke my bail. I gotta go in.”

  “They called? Kate and Noah?”

  “Ungrateful—”

  “Jake! Don’t. Their lawyer probably told them to do it, to keep out of jail.”

  “They’re not going to jail because we sent them a few presents.”

  “How the hell would you know?” She slammed a box of Cheerios on the table. “How would you know anything about what’s wrong and what’s right?”

  “And you know so much? Why not look it up on your computer with everything else you’re so addicted to? Google ‘ungrateful children’ while you’re at it. Everything they have is from me.”

  She should leave right now and never look back. Not unless she wanted to turn into a pillar of salt. But twisted remnants of her wedding vows kept her at Jake’s side. She questioned her own culpability. If she’d paid more attention, would she have seen signs? Jake was the biggest storyteller of all time—she knew that. As a teenager, he’d once convinced a math teacher that an answer, which Jake’s friend had inked on his hand and then shown to Jake, had been done in his head through a self-designed formula.

  But he’d married her the moment he’d thought he’d brought harm to her. Now their eyes met, and she still saw that boy. Try as she might, she couldn’t find a way to morph him from man to monster.

  “I’ll check your suit while you shower.”

  Part 5

  * * *

  After

  CHAPTER 32

  Phoebe

  “Beware the ides of March” seemed a wholly appropriate quote for this day. Phoebe curled up on the bed with her laptop—her best friend—waiting for Jake to come in and say good-bye. Numbness fought with guilt. She wanted him gone for so many reasons.

  Having her children back in her life.

  No longer seeing him twenty-four long hours a day.

  He’d begged her not to come to the courtroom, not to watch him plead guilty to crimes that would send him to jail for the rest of his life. Agreeing came easy.

  Jake’s complete house arrest—his punishment for sending presents to the children—had been carved out of time, an unreal period of suspended animation where they ate, read, and inhaled television shows.

  Lovemaking, of course, disappeared. Intimacy with this Jake would be like making love to a stranger. He never asked, either out of knowing she’d turn him down or his own disinterest in anything but film and food. He consumed prodigious amoun
ts of candy, bagels, and chips—things she never allowed in the house—ice cream, cheeseburgers, and worse, which they washed down with alcohol as they worked their way through their wine collection.

  Phoebe acted as enabler and short-order cook. Why deny his only pleasure? If he dropped dead of a heart attack, it would be the kindest outcome for the family. She researched life in prison online, but after the third time that Jake rejected her reports, she let it go, especially with Deb reminding her that she’d better start worrying about her own future. With Jake’s accounts frozen, they used her funds for all expenses—though spending anything over one hundred dollars required a report to their monitor from the feds.

  Not that she bought anything but food. The trail of paparazzi kept her as housebound as Jake. It took until February, when her long grey roots became a visual band of stress against her dyed dark hair, impossible to cover with mascara, for her to call to schedule a color and cut.

  “Hi, Claudia, this is Phoebe Pierce,” she said to the receptionist. “Can you get me Kevin’s first opening? I can come anytime.”

  Awkward silence hung until Claudia squeaked, “Please hold.”

  No chirping of “Hello, Mrs. Pierce!” Years of generous tips guaranteed the response. Phoebe wasn’t naive. Awkwardness didn’t surprise her, but she was shocked by this full-on pretense of nonrecognition.

  After about three minutes, Claudia returned. “I’m sorry, but Kevin isn’t accepting appointments at this time.”

  Phoebe waited a beat for her brain to connect the words and then said, “Who is accepting appointments?” Her need to get rid of grey measured against pride turned out to be a sad formula.

  “I can’t say that anyone is.” Claudia’s desire to end the call leaped through the wires.

  “Can I speak with Kevin?” Connecting with her hairdresser became a wretched harbinger of her entire life—acceptance representing any hope of being less than a fugitive from polite society. “Please, Claudia. Ask him to come to the phone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Claudia said. “He isn’t available.”

  A mirror hung above the dresser. No makeup. Her roots climbing out more each minute. She wore an oversized worn shirt of Jake’s. Her image appeared old as dirt.

  “Fine. Thank you,” Phoebe said, offering gratitude to the woman for wiping out her last remnants of pride. Self-punishment had become her raison d’être, as she devoured every story she found in the newspaper and online and read every angry email sent by friends and family blaming her for drawing them into the Club. This morning she had received one from Ira, his sympathy making his anger all the more painful.

  Dear Phoebe,

  No doubt you are at the moment worried about far more than Mira House, or me, but yet, here I am.

  Am I reaching out? Yes and no. We’ve been friends too long for me not to worry about you. I think of how awful your life must be now, even as I wonder if it’s a life of your own creation. Let me be blunt. Did you know? Yes, I suppose I sound like the newspapers, but there is some difference here. I am not assuming you were connected to this horrendous crime, nor can I assume you were not.

  Perhaps it was a failing on Phoebe’s part not to understand, but why couldn’t he assume she might be innocent?

  I keep asking myself, could you not have known what Jake did? Was he that good an actor?

  Jake had fooled millionaires and captains of industry—why not her? Did other spouses quiz their husbands and wives each night as to the veracity of their lives? Of course she accepted Jake’s accounting of his days, his business, his world. Why the hell wouldn’t she? Did women usually spend nights poring over spousal contracts and bank accounts?

  If you were fooling me, then I am the sucker, and I suppose we’re both the worse for the fraud. You knew, I think—despite my never speaking about it—I sat on deep feelings, which I never thought I deserved. How could I ever hope to compete with your husband: Rich! Brilliant! Though I did wonder how you were happy with someone who worshipped success over all else.

  Do you think he ever truly loved you? I don’t believe anyone who loved his family would do that.

  The question haunted her. Love and lying coexisted, she supposed; she had begun her marriage based on a lie, yet had always loved Jake. She had spent her life making up for her sins, by being a good wife and mother.

  “It’s time.” Jake’s entrance startled her. She slammed the computer shut, not wanting her worlds to collide. “Gideon is downstairs with the car.”

  “You know I’ll come to court if you need me.” Phoebe fixed a piece of Jake’s hair sticking up from where she’d trimmed it. She’d become his barber after the arrest, learning from an online video and using shears ordered from Amazon, haven for the homebound. Now it was time to order hair dye.

  “I don’t want to put you through that. Here.” Jake held out an envelope. “It’s what I’m going to say in court. There’s also a letter for you.” He stopped her as she began to slit it open, gripping her wrist too tight. “No. Not until I’m gone.”

  She let him hold on. “Should I walk you down?”

  Jake stroked her cheek. “We’ll say good-bye here. Gideon will call and let you know everything.” He pulled her close. “We’ve barely talked about you. Where this will leave you. I’ve spoken to Gideon about your future. He’s working to keep you from harm.”

  She let Jake retain his belief even as she knew that ship had sailed long ago.

  “I love you and always have.” Jake’s voice shook as he began sobbing.

  Who are you crying for? Once again the question drummed.

  She pushed him away, reached for a tissue, and pulled one out. “Here,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s time for you to go.”

  • • •

  After, she lay on the couch in a daze. No computer, no television, getting up only for the bathroom and to answer Deb’s call, not wanting her sister to worry, but begging off the phone almost immediately. Jake’s envelope waited in a radioactive glow on the coffee table.

  At two o’clock, Luz called.

  Phoebe asked the expected question. “What happened?”

  “You know, of course, that he pled, yes?”

  “Yes.” Phoebe matched Luz’s staccato.

  “By now, he should be at Metropolitan Correctional Center. It’s federal. I emailed you the address, all the relevant information for visiting, phone calls, etcetera. All the rules are there. You only need his inmate number, which we’ll get you as soon as possible. He’ll need you to fill his account.”

  “With money?”

  “For the commissary. I sent you an item-and-price list.”

  “Gideon didn’t take care of that?”

  Kudos to Luz for pulling off silent annoyance and patronization at the same time. “That’s the family’s responsibility,” the lawyer said finally.

  A wake-up call of bricks fell. Apparently her new job would be the prisoner’s wife.

  “We have a recommendation for an attorney for you.”

  “A lawyer?”

  “Gideon can’t represent you.” Luz didn’t present this as open to question. “It’s time to concentrate on the problems in front of you.”

  “Why can’t I just give everything back?”

  “It isn’t even appropriate for me to talk to you about this. We promised Jake we’d put you with the best lawyer.”

  “Jake is not in charge of this decision.”

  “I’m sorry. You didn’t earn that money.”

  “Neither did he.” She slammed down the phone and ripped open the envelope with Jake’s letter.

  Dear Pheebs,

  And now I’m gone. Good riddance? I suppose you’re feeling serious relief, having me gone. Holding back from killing me has been hard, eh?

  You kept asking me why. Why? Why? Why? As though there were some bible of reasons I followed, but it is sadly simple. My work with the Club became a rolling stone gathering no moss. Makes no sense, right? This is what happened: I did it to make s
ome money to make up for losses. I needed cash so I got some “extra” clients. Their deposits came in, and I made payouts for others. And I always thought “tomorrow” I’d make it up.

  I guess I became Scarlett O’Hara. (Now you understand my weird addiction to that movie you hated.) I identified with her. Tomorrow is another day.

  Don’t laugh!

  Like Scarlett, I longed to be good like Melanie.

  Like Scarlett, I would do anything to hold my Tara: JPE & the Club.

  And, as Scarlett wrapped herself in curtains and convinced people she wore haute couture, I waved statements in front of people and convinced them I did what no other could: give them an ever-upward financial journey.

  Pheebs, am I alone to blame? Sure, people like your sister, or Eva, of course I understand how they believed in me. But those big shots like Louis Klein who invested with me? The fund managers who sent people? Aren’t they liable also? How did they convince themselves that miracles were possible? Constant ups? No downs?

  Listen: The kids will come back to you and me. I know they will. Eventually they will understand I always meant to make this right. I’d find a way to score big, cover the entire nut, and shut down the Club (after paying everyone). Or JPE would make enough that I could shave off enough to make things right.

  I thought I might sell everything and we’d fly off to paradise.

  I’d get an insurance policy that covered suicide.

  I’d invest in something different—movies—and make a new fortune.

  I never thought it would end this way. I thought I had more time.

  Nobody thought I’d make it so big, including me.

  Now, it’s almost a relief to have it over. Trust me, Pheebs. The burden has been heavy. You have no idea how much I wanted it to be over.

  Now it is.

  I am so sorry I’ve hurt you and the kids. I need you. Now more than ever. You are all I have in this entire world.

  I love you. Forever and beyond.

  Jake

  The sun mocked her. Phoebe stumbled over to close the drapes and then took Jake’s letter to the shoebox in her closet where she’d hidden their suicide letters to the children. She tucked them together and resealed the box with scotch tape.