Nick’s and Phoebe’s eyes meet. They stand close to each other. He could grab her wrist and pull her hand from the doorknob and tell her, Not like this, I’ve got this. We’re going home. Boston. I’ll take care of it. He could hoist her on his shoulder like a plastic jug of water on a sweltering summer day and carry her out of here.
Her eyes shift before his. Heat radiates from her; she’s tense, and a sheen of perspiration gives her thinning face a hollowed-out appearance, almost ghostly.
“Another house,” he says more to himself than to her, exasperated. “Is he co-signing?”
She ignores the reference to JW and pushes the door open.
“Renting, Nickels. Renting.” Then a look crosses her face, a question. “How much money have you made, Nick?”
Nick has never told her. He stopped talking about it when she insisted she wanted nothing to do with it. He made deposits in five separate accounts and kept cash. He’s cleared over seventy thousand but has no interest in telling her. “What is he offering you?” he says.
The sunny room is all hardwood floor and sweeping view, dark water and white surf in the distance. Nick puts Jackson down and the boy runs to the window.
“D&C in Laguna Beach. It’s a ten-minute commute. There’s a signing bonus.”
“What’s the job?”
“Consulting.”
All Nick can think is what is unspoken, the expectation of this middle-aged man who has his wife on a string. All Nick can see is Phoebe averting her gaze when her cell rings and the call is him, and her leaving the room, walking outside to talk, lying when she returns, saying it was her mother, and Nick will seethe when he tries to resist the temptation to demand the fucking phone. And when she’s home late and finds out later that he was in town for work he’ll burn inside repressing every dark instinct that tells him to find out: Did she see him? Did she fuck him again?
“Tell me,” he says, “how in the hell you think this can work.”
“We need this.”
He cocks his arm, ready to deliver a blow to the bedroom wall.
“It’s the best option. It’s the only option we have.”
“For who? Not for me, it isn’t. I have options. Jackson and I have options. I have money and a job and a house. I am living my options.”
“Oh, come on, Nick. It’s not sustainable. We both need to be earning. Unconventional is not turning this around for us.”
“Unconventional?” He’s laughing now. “That’s very diplomatic, charitable terminology. You fucked this guy, Phoebe. While we were together. You fucked him. Do you not remember what that did to us? That we’re still here, having this conversation, with Jackson existing, and your grand plan is to hitch our wagon to the star you fucked. And you didn’t walk away, you kept it going, kept it alive.” He’s gritting his teeth and too close to her face. At her ear, resisting the overwhelming impulse to close his teeth around it until the skin breaks, until he’s tasting the salt of her blood. He says, “For us, right? For us.”
She tenses, her arm stiffens and meets the force of his body, which is pressing, leaning in to her. “We need it.”
“You need it.”
“Yes, I need it.” She pushes him. “Back up.”
“I don’t need it. I don’t want it. Don’t push me.”
“Step back. I will scream.”
“Not like this. Not ever. Not him. We’re gone.” He walks to Jackson, scoops the boy off the floor.
“Jesus, will you stop? Now it matters how—” Phoebe continues.
“Who. Who is making this happen?” He lowers his voice, holding Jackson to his chest, chin on his shoulder. The boy is tired or tired of them. “That matters. Yes, that matters a great deal.”
“Not to me,” she says, staring out the window.
“Well, maybe if he gives me a watch. Was that your signing bonus that I threw out of the car?”
“I haven’t signed anything yet.”
“So then tell me what in God’s name occurred to you, Phoebe, what compelled you to put on his watch? And wear it? Are you that far gone? What are you even on these days? It’s not just Klonopin.”
She’s next to Nick now, close enough to stroke Jackson’s hair. “He’s a factor. Would you rather I hide it? You know what I’m doing and why I’m doing it. The rest is up to us.”
“You, me, Jackson, and JW. Happy shiny family. Your little surfside chalet.” He’s laughing for Jackson’s sake. “Say it. Say it all. Right now. This is the time, because you’ll never have a better chance, this room with this view for Jackson. If you’re going to convince me, sell me, make me JW’s bitch, you damn well better do it now.”
Her iPhone vibrates and a chime sounds.
“Is that him? Does he have his own special alert? Is he ready for you now?”
She doesn’t turn around. She removes her hand from Jackson’s head and reaches into her carryall and removes her phone and checks it.
“Go ahead. Read it out loud.” Nick stands behind her, close, making small circles on his son’s back. “Let’s see if it’s good news.”
62
Something for nothing. That’s what he writes in the text he sends. JW says he’s at Heathrow, on his way to Manhattan, then back to Los Angeles. That’s what she wants, he says. Something for nothing. She’s always been that way. She wants to be a mother but doesn’t want to mother. She wants to be married but doesn’t want to be a wife. He’s referring to his second wife, the one suing him for emotional distress.
Listen to this. He sends a YouTube link to a song by Rush called “Something for Nothing.”
Phoebe is brushing her hair, which is falling out, as she sits on the cool marble floor of the master bath. She’s in mismatched underwear: black panties, pink bra. The laptop is on the bed, open to the D&C website, surrounded by printouts and highlighters, detailed financial analyses and reports, assessments and spreadsheets for D&C clients that she’s been immersing herself in for the past week. She asked JW to help her prep, and he sent it all.
Who is Rush? Phoebe writes.
Ouch. You’re serious, which makes it sting.
So is that what you think about me? I want something for nothing?
Will you be there on Thursday?
Where else would I be?
Are you keeping an open mind?
She snaps a picture of the papers and highlighters and laptop that fill the king-size bed and sends it to him. I’ll be ready.
Good girl.
I need D&C confirmation. The waiting is destroying me.
I can’t make them do what they’re not prepared to do.
What can you do?
I can bring you to New York.
And do what? Work for you?
Yes
That’s impossible. You know it.
YOU can do anything you want. Bring your son. Hire help. Start over with real momentum. Trust me, I know all about starting over.
You know what I want.
What about what I want?
You have everything you want.
What do you have against NYC? A doorman and grocery store and laundry in the building.
I have zero interest in moving to NY. We want to be here.
Where do YOU want to be?
Phoebe pulls a long silver hair from her scalp. Okay. Fine. Let’s play. I’ll play along: three bedrooms on the Upper East Side, somewhere in the nineties, somewhere near you.
For all three of you?
Two. Me and son.
Serious?
Sure.
Because I am. It’s yours. But he can’t come. That doesn’t work.
For who?
For me.
That’s what it’s all about: what works for JW.
Don’t be young.
West Side is fine too ;)
Stop. Game’s over.
That’s the offer.
D&C weighs in. Then I’ll choose.
See me Thursday.
A long gap passes between messages. Phoebe turns off the lights. The pale glow is the laptop. She’s pacing the dark room, relieved that Nick isn’t home, that she can get on the phone if she needs to without sneaking out back or to the car. That she can have this out with JW right now.
So you’re going to make me ask.
About?
Laguna Beach. The house. I gave you the agent’s #
Didn’t get it.
I texted it to you.
No. You didn’t get the house. The room shrinks. She falls back against the wall, hard, slides to the floor. Her mind races back to the day she saw it, the messages they exchanged, the urgency and certainty she felt: That house was hers and the start of something. Now there is no house. She rips the comforter from the bed, sending the laptop and highlighters tumbling, stuffs the down blanket in her mouth, and screams. It was pivotal. That yellow house and that view for her son. There are pieces that must come together for this to work, and bedtime stories for Jackson in that room with that quality of light are essential.
There are other houses. Gorgeous sunsets in Manhattan too ;)
The emptiness becomes nausea. How did you not? What did you offer?
It was gone. Got sidetracked with shitstorm called too late.
The view from the second bedroom. That was Jackson’s view.
There are other views.
She knows the bottle in her Coach bag is still a third full, at least two or three days of Klonopin, maybe less if she keeps going at her current pace, consuming far too many far too often. The tingling is the blood in the veins near the surface of her skin, from her shoulders to her forearms to her fingertips. The thought of the medication released into her system makes her shiver. She scraped the concrete divider on the 110 yesterday, a sunny morning, orange sparks and horns sounding, and righted herself and kept going, drifting, high.
He messages her again: No word from D&C?
I just told you I’m still waiting. Why are you asking me that? Have you heard something?
How long has it been?
Phoebe massages her temples, lowers her head between her knees, and squeezes it, eyes open wide, locked on the iPhone screen and JW’s questions. They’ve moved from the yellow house she won’t be in, the view Jackson won’t have, to the job itself, the company, the new life out here, what feels, rationally or not, like a last grasp at something. He’s asking her, she thinks. Why is he asking her? It’s his connection. He’s the one who should be telling her. Like he did before. I hear good things or Someone made quite an impression or You’re golden.
You’re scaring me.
He responds: No word.
Call for me? Call De Bent? Find out?
Would look weak. Let it work itself out.
She taps out the message: Oh well. There are other positions. She’s shaking.
Indeed
She asks the question: Out here or only back east? The other options.
See me Thursday. Make time. We’ll discuss.
Just like there are other views.
She taps out messages as if she doesn’t care either way. But they both know the truth—that she’s dangling from the frayed cable that holds the elevator car in her nightmares, about to snap.
His response: Always. Maybe it’s time to cast a wider net.
You mean NYC with you or nothing?
No response.
Hello? Is this it?
You’re making your big move?
She continues to launch messages rapid-fire, one after the last, not giving him a moment to process or respond.
Forcing my hand.
You or nothing. Right?
This is your endgame.
Nothing. Another barrage:
Everything on your terms.
As if I won’t stand up to you?
No one pushes you back, do they?
I call your bluff. You’re thinking I have zero leverage. What can I do to you? How can meek little Phoebe touch the mighty JW? I’m going to send you a song. Listen to it closely.
She finds the track, the one she plays on repeat when she idles in traffic or can’t force herself to get off the goddamn StairMaster at Equinox.
He ignores the track, “Heads Will Roll,” the title offering a clue, a juvenile empty threat.
His response: See you Thursday ;)
63
Sean and two other men lounge in the shade of Nick’s patio. One of the men stands near a mound of green sludge; Phoebe removed it from the bottom of the nearly empty pool he’s pissing in. Nick drained most of the water but didn’t get it all, and the water turned green, then congealed. Phoebe started the job of removing what might be toxic sludge but gave up after a few minutes. So there’s just the small festering mound poolside.
Nick stands shirtless, sweating, in the kitchen, clutching the Mossberg. It’s noon. It’s as hot inside as it is outside. The power has been out since last night. The reason, according to Kostya, is the wildfires: They are only four percent contained. Evacuations have been ordered for Serenos and surrounding cities. Sean and his men are uninvited guests.
“Hey, guys,” Nick says, slides the patio door closed behind him. Sean passes a joint to the man sitting next to him. The man urinating turns his head. “Grab you a beer or something, Sean? You should have called. I’d have thrown something on the grill.”
The men study the Mossberg.
“You know you have to clean these constantly?” Nick puts the gun front and center, holds it up with both hands, blows into the empty chamber.
Sean stands.
“This fucker next door,” Nick says, and passes Sean, who is unshaven and smells like weed. Nick walks toward the fence separating his yard from his neighbor’s. “Burning shit. Singing to himself. What if he feels like it’s time to hop the fence?” He turns around, addresses Sean. “You know the drill. We have the family. We can’t take any chances.” He pumps the Mossberg for emphasis.
Sean reaches for the joint from his sweaty friend, takes a long drag. The urinating man has zipped and rejoined the other two. None of them moves. Sean exhales slowly, clears his throat. A chainsaw echoes from somewhere. Distant sounds of a helicopter. And the cicadas seem louder than ever. Nick knows it’s lunchtime. Mai’s routine with Jackson: She wakes Jackson after an hour nap, prepares his lunch, and wheels him outside in the high chair unless it’s too hot. Nick knows it’s too hot. It has to be. But still, she might very well slide the patio door open and come outside singing quietly to Jackson and step into the middle of this.
“You want to hit this?” Sean asks Nick.
Nick just looks at him. “Get to it,” he says.
“The houses, asshole. They’re mine now.”
“They’re yours.”
The response seems to catch Sean off guard. He nods. Maybe he thought Nick would push back, seek some angle, keep a piece for himself. Sean is likely wondering what else he can snatch.
“Cash, I don’t have. Spent it on this place and the pool your boy just pissed in.” Nick turns to the urinator, who looks stoned out of his mind.
Sean flicks the joint into the pool.
“I’ll text the addresses to you,” Nick says, trying to wrap this up.
“I need the keys.”
The patio door slides open. Mai is singing to Jackson. The men eye them both. Mai apologizes and looks at Nick, who quickly hides the gun behind his back.
“We’re walking out now,” Nick says to Mai, and motions the men toward the side yard, where Nick pushes the w
ooden gate open for them. In the street Sean laughs at something one of the other men says. Nick leaves them, finds the keys to nine properties in his dresser drawer, each with a piece of masking tape and the address scrawled in red, returns to Sean. “This shit wasn’t necessary.”
“Did I get what I came for?”
Nick watches them climb onto their motorcycles but isn’t satisfied watching from a distance, so he approaches Sean, who straddles his bike, no helmet. Nick notices Sean’s black cowboy boots with sterling tips. He’s inches away. Sean’s face is all deep pores and creases.
“Are we done?” Nick says.
Sean belches. “Who’s to say? What do I know?” And the engine rips through the smoke-tinged air. They’re gone. Nick waits until they leave Carousel Court before crossing the street, knocking on Metzger’s door, and, when he opens it, handing him the Mossberg.
“You sure?” Metzger asks.
“Before someone gets killed.”
64
She’s in Jackson’s room again, trying to sleep, when she hears the front door slamming shut, the alarm being set, Nick clearing his throat. The realization is this: All she has is Jackson. She wants Jackson but wonders if she needs him. She won’t go back to Boston. She doesn’t need to reconnect with people she knew. Instead she stands at the window, listening for Nick, watching for coyotes, ready this time, she thinks, to take them head-on. She’ll shoot them from the window with Marina’s gun. She’ll walk outside and stand in the street and wait. They’ll appear out of the shadows and mist, and she’ll pick them off one by one.
If she does leave, she thinks, she’ll do so without warning or goodbye. Otherwise Nick will fight it. He’s angry these days. He has an edge and a toughness to him that she’s never seen. If she didn’t despise him, she might find it attractive. Regardless, if she tries to take Jackson with her, he’ll come after her. He could open Jackson’s door right now, and she might strike him without warning. She’ll brush past him in the doorway and their shoulders will collide and she’ll turn and knock the cocky smirk from his unshaven face. Shadows appear just out of range from the orange streetlight. The coyotes, she thinks, but doesn’t wait to find out.
Carousel Court Page 23
