Jake came in a shudder. Phoebe, seized by a cramp, clutched his shoulder, almost tearing his flesh with her nails. Over his head, she saw the starry Long Island sky, the black asphalt of the parking lot. Gritty sand and cold ocean water lay in front of them.
Another wave of pain hit, and she dug harder into Jake’s back.
“Whoa! Good that I made you happy, but, um, you’re ripping my skin off.” He placed a hand on top of her curled fingers, gently trying to unfurl each one. “Pheebs?” She remained rigid. “You okay?”
“Something’s wrong.” Too much rushed out from where she usually dabbed herself clean with a few tissues.
“What? What is it?” He began pulling away, but she tugged him back, frantic not to acknowledge the pain and mess. Spasms of cramps overcame her, and she held him harder.
Jake lifted himself above her, looking at where they were joined. “Let’s see,” he insisted.
She let go, put her arms behind her on the seat cushion, and curled forward, peering at the wetness on her stomach. Even in the darkness it appeared to be blood.
“Oh, Jesus.” Jake grabbed a towel he kept for cleanup.
“Something’s wrong,” she whimpered.
“We’re going to the hospital.”
“No! Take me home. It’s only my period.” Hope and alarm collided.
He stopped for a moment. “How—”
“I don’t know,” she lied. “My mother will understand.”
Jake hesitated, but he’d landed in a problem belonging to the tribe of women. Unless she exsanguinated in front of him, he’d never bully her about this. Going home, she’d get away with calling this a heavy period, even if her mother knew the truth. Marriage could again become her choice.
Jake broke every driving law in New York State racing back to Brooklyn. Phoebe remained curled in her seat, praying that if she stayed immobile her body might remain in quiescent limbo. The ride passed in a moment yet took a hundred years.
Jake supported her as they staggered up the walkway. He leaned on the bell, not letting up until her father answered and took Phoebe into his arms.
“Lola!” her father screamed up the stairs.
Her mother galloped down, her hand on her chest, prepared for the worst. “Oh my God! What happened?” Her eyes met Phoebe’s. Understanding passed between them as her mother glanced at the bloody towel clutched between her legs. “Come. Bring her to the den. I’ll put blankets down.”
“Are you crazy?” Phoebe’s father asked. “She needs to go to the hospital. Now.”
“We can wait one minute, Red.” Her mother peered into her father’s eyes. “Let’s keep this here if we can. Do you understand?”
Her mother obviously hoped for the same thing as Phoebe: a flow of heavy menstrual fluid, a hot water bottle for cramps, an aspirin for pain, bed rest, and then pushing the incident behind them.
“We’re taking her to the emergency room.” Her father’s tone ended the conversation.
Jake propped her up on one side, her father held the other. Step-by-step, they led her out. Her mother ran ahead, clutching blankets and towels gathered in some instant house sweep, lining the backseat with the piles of fabric as Phoebe approached.
“Stop worrying about the seats!” her father yelled. “We’re getting in.”
Her mother dropped everything wherever it landed and backed away, clutching her throat as he lowered Phoebe into the car.
Fear swirled as Phoebe imagined what lay ahead. Coldness overtook her. Jake slid in next to her. His shirt absorbed her dripping tears.
“We don’t have to go, Daddy.” Her words shook with her chills and chattering. “Please. Mommy can take care of me.”
Her mother swiveled from her husband to Phoebe. “Daddy’s right. I’m sorry, honey.”
Her father drove down Church Avenue until taking a sharp left turn when they reached Ocean Parkway.
“Where are you going?” her mother asked.
Blood leaked faster. How much before she died? Pain shot through her back.
“Coney Island Hospital,” said her father.
“Why not Margolis?” her mother asked, naming their family doctor. “You should have called him.”
“He’s not in his office at this hour and we certainly can’t wait until tomorrow when he’s there.”
“It’s a heavy period,” her mother insisted. “She needs extra pads, not a hospital.”
“Enough, Lola. Nobody in this car is stupid.” Her father stopped for a red light, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as traffic sped across the road. He glanced in the rearview mirror. “Hang on, sweetheart.”
Jake drew her closer. “I’m here for you. Always.”
Her mother muttered in the front seat. Phoebe caught one word: pig.
Moments after pulling up to the hospital emergency entrance, her father ran in and came out with two attendants wheeling a gurney. She clenched against screaming as they helped her on the stretcher, waves of cramps engulfing her. Jake’s hand scorched her icy one, but Phoebe kept squeezing.
They wheeled her into the bright, cold emergency room. She squeezed her eyes against searing lights as they rushed her to a curtained area. One nurse blocked Jake and her parents from entering the compartment. Two others peeled away the towels, skirt, and underwear in a mess of coagulated and fresh blood. Rusty stains covered her thighs. Wavy streaks of red lined her calves.
A doctor walked in and without preamble peppered her with questions. “What do we have here? When did this start? How far along are you?” His high forehead shone like the black stethoscope hanging around his neck.
“I—I don’t know. I never took a test.”
“Good God. You girls. How long since your last period?”
His face blurred. The nurse packed something between her legs, spread by the force of stirrups. An aluminum lamp hung down low to put a spotlight on her splayed body.
“I’m not sure,” she lied.
“Take an educated guess.”
The nurse repeated Phoebe’s whispered answer: “Two months.” Phoebe prayed her family and Jake had been hustled out of earshot.
“Is your husband here?” The doctor picked up her left hand, on which she wore her modest sweet sixteen ring: an amethyst stone set in silver.
“I’m not married.”
“Her family is in the waiting room, Doctor.” The nurse squeezed Phoebe’s ankle as she spoke.
The doctor stationed himself between her legs and then pulled away the packing, poking with a rubber-gloved finger as though testing for doneness. He examined the mess staining the cotton. Phoebe’s cramps slowed.
“Looks like early fetal material. Did you expel anything into the toilet or anywhere else?” he asked.
She shook her head, afraid that speaking would bring tears. And she’d rip out her eyes before she cried in front of this awful man.
He peered lower, bending before Phoebe, who now realized that humiliation had no endpoint. “Bleeding appears to be lessening. Nothing we can do now. You lost the baby, of course. Must be a relief to you. All’s well that ends well, eh? The nurse will clean you up and let you know what warning symptoms to watch out for.”
“I’m going home?” As much as Phoebe had resisted coming to the hospital, now she didn’t want to leave. She wanted cleansing and sleeping without seeing her father’s disappointed face, her mother’s angry one, and the confusion and guilt covering Jake’s. Unless she got the guts to tell the truth, he’d believe in his ultimate sin forever.
CHAPTER 6
Phoebe
Rising and falling voices woke Phoebe. Her mother’s strident tones pounded like jackhammers. The soothing words her father spoke indicated his prevailing patience.
A veil of grogginess hung heavy. After pressing a hand to her pounding head, Phoebe forced herself to turn toward the clock. Seven in the morning. Shards of nightmares clung. Everything felt sticky and sore. She put her hand down exactly where she didn’t want to touch. Gritt
y dried blood covered her inner thighs, but at least the thick pad from the hospital had held up. A wide piece of cotton batting backed by plastic sheeting lay beneath her. The nurse had slipped her the folded packet as though giving her a consolation prize. Congratulations! You lost your virginity, the man you loved, and every shred of dignity, but you get to go home with this blue bed pad.
“What kind of girl did we raise?” she heard her mother yell. “Rushing out to God knows where night after night and spreading her legs for that—for that nothing schmuck.”
“Quiet, Lola. You’ll wake her.”
“Good.” Her mother’s voice rose. “Our daughter should be awake and lying in the bed she made. Everything’s been handed to her on a silver platter. I’d kiss my parents’ feet if I’d been given half of what we gave her. College. Beautiful clothes. Whatever she wanted, we gave her, and she lets a nothing knock her up.”
Phoebe needed to pee but didn’t want her parents to hear her get up. The patches of dried blood itched. Grime covered her. She longed for a shower, but more, she wanted to hear her parents’ conversation.
“What bothers you so much about him?” her father asked.
“The apple never falls far from the tree. Look at his mother and father. Thieves. Dreck.”
“Them, not Jake. He’s a hard worker. His brother, too. Jake wants to be a lawyer.”
“Lawyers. Pure like the driven snow, right?” Her mother laughed. “Probably getting his degree in case his parents get arrested again.”
“Come on, they weren’t arrested.”
“The FBI came to their house!”
“One of my patients said they had a business problem.”
“A business problem? How very modern.” Her mother huffed. “His father put the so-called business in her name. What a coward. Is this who you want for your daughter?”
• • •
Before lunch, Jake arrived carrying white tulips. Phoebe, showered and numbed by a pain pill, lifted her hand in a weak wave.
“How are you?” Jake wrapped his fingers around her forearm. “My poor baby. So pale.”
Phoebe stared at the ceiling. “I’m okay. They told me to stay in bed for a few days.” Never leaving the achingly clean sheets on which she lay seemed like the perfect remedy.
“I’m sorry. For this.” Jake looked as though someone had punched the young right out of her. “For getting you into this mess.”
Waves of her sins—of omission, of commission—attacked with a thick physical presence in her throat and weighed down her muscles. “You never pressured me.”
“You kept saying no, and I kept asking. Now see what happened.” He waved a hand around the area of her hips. “Your mother thinks I’m a mass murderer. Your father probably considers me a putz. I blew it.”
Phoebe brushed away his words. “They’re upset with me. My mother doesn’t want me giving up my chances. Throwing away my life.” The steady ache in her pelvis and a vague and unexpected thud of loss for her baby left no room for careful talk.
“Throwing your life away how?”
“On you.” Phoebe brought her knees to her chest, trying to soothe the pain persisting through the large white pill.
Jake’s guilty expression tortured her. She looked away and examined the room of the child she’d been, all pink and white, as though she were born to be a confection. A Hostess Sno Ball of a girl. Peel away the top layer, and underneath she remained spongy and sweet.
“Being with me is throwing away your life?”
“It’s your family. My mother thinks they did something illegal. Did they? I don’t care if it’s yes or no. Honest. I only want to figure out what she’s hammering my father about.”
“Your father hates me, too?”
“My father’s on your side.”
Jake’s shoulders sagged. “At least there’s that.”
Phoebe thought of his family—his parents’ apartment. The Pierces’ ancient cabbage-rose pocked rug murmured failure and depression; her own family’s spotless white carpet saluted her father’s earnings.
Their cramped rooms screamed Nan Pierce’s inability to turn away anything, no matter how cheap or ill-made. Her outdated wardrobe matched her hairstyle and beaten, bitter expression. Every one of Ken Pierce’s features pointed to the ground. Phoebe didn’t know exactly what he did for a living; they all referred to his job as “something with the Daily News” and then let it go.
“What happened with your parents?” Phoebe asked. “What should I tell my father if he asks?”
“After their store failed—paint—they decided to do investments.”
“Do investments how?” The word investments conjured up nothing. Other than putting money in her savings account—the same one her parents had opened for her when she turned sixteen—she never grasped the fine points of anything about business. Her mother always riffled the Times until she came to the financial section, which was filled with print so fine she used a special pair of glasses to read the words. Every morning, Phoebe’s father said the same thing: “You can’t study stocks day to day, Lola. It’s a cumulative thing.”
“How will I know the trend if I don’t watch?” A true product of the Depression, her mother guarded each dime and watered coins into dollars. Rules drove her parents. “Save regular, no matter what you earn!” “Pennies can turn to fortunes!” “Do right, and right will come back to you!”
“They opened a small brokerage, but they didn’t register with every one of the million places asking them to cross every t. No big deal.” Jake shrugged.
“Did they go to jail?” The thought of his parents in prison terrified her.
“Christ. Of course not. They got fined. They lost the business. Their lives fell to shit. Guess what the upshot will be?” Determination covered his strong face: that combination of rough and handsome, so different from Rob’s patrician features.
Jake’s dark sexiness had become once again what she wanted in the man she loved. Anything reminiscent of Rob repelled her.
She took his hand and squeezed. “What?”
“I’m gonna prove them wrong,” Jake said. “Your dad won’t need to defend me like some idiot son. I won’t need anyone’s protection. You’ll see. Everyone will see.”
He cupped her chin, forcing her to stare straight into his eyes. “I love you.” He reached into his pocket and took out a blue leather box, snapped it open, and took out a ring. He grabbed her left hand, went down on one knee, and held out the chip of a diamond as though holding a prize before a queen. “Marry me.”
CHAPTER 7
Phoebe
September 1968
Phoebe beat two eggs with fear and venom, certain that each circle of her fork brought her closer to becoming her mother. Smack in the center of the supposed youth revolution, she felt more middle aged than buoyant.
Marriage at nineteen meant this: four years later, only twenty-three, she’d been tossed into the world of matrons. Their apartment was spitting distance from her parent’s home. Glamour and Mademoiselle, formerly studied for tips and hints, now read like anthropology texts, leading her to wonder if she’d been relegated to Ladies’ Home Journal. At the beauty parlor, she pored over Vogue, hungering for a microshort Twiggy haircut. Two minutes later, inspired by another cover girl, Jean Shrimpton, she vowed to grow her hair long, letting it flow over her shoulders and leave behind the common pageboy swinging around her chin. Geometric, Mary Quant–like, and miniskirted, that’s what Phoebe yearned to be, but she feared she’d married herself to the tedium of twin sweater sets from Macy’s, doomed to be part of a dying history just when she wanted inclusion in the great wave of change all around. The wave of influential British designers could open a path away from the tedium of Brooklyn fashion.
Her job, which she loved, Jake considered a holding pattern before motherhood, considering her work inferior both for the location and her low salary. Tutoring immigrants in the ways of New York and working with their kids held less weight to
her husband than helping out at his office—which she did on Saturdays. His business bored the hell out of her, though his energy for finance infected her at least enough to become mildly interested by association.
Phoebe slipped a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of Jake. Even as she served him, he kept his eyes on the Wall Street Journal. She cleared her throat, crossed her arms, and finally, when the first two actions failed, smacked him in the back of the head. “I’m not offering maid service, buddy.”
He ran a hand over her behind. “A little French uniform wouldn’t hurt.”
She rolled her eyes. “Would a short skirt elicit a please and thank-you?”
“Probably not. But my eggs sure would get cold.” He pulled her to him and planted a noisy kiss to the side of her lips.
Phoebe doubted it, seeing his eyes latch back on the paper. She grabbed the New York Post and took a minute bite of melba toast. Don’t lose your Audrey Hepburn, Jake reminded her until she yearned to chop his words with onions and force-feed him with the mix. “Delicate and dark—that’s my style,” he’d say.
Sometimes when he left for work early, she ate a bagel. Afterward, she did jumping jacks and a hundred sit-ups. Not this morning, though. No bagel. No sit-ups. Seconds after choking down a piece of the crumbly cracker, she raced to the bathroom, turned the sink taps on full force, the running water a sound barrier, and then threw up. Not that Jake would notice—not unless she vomited in front of him.
Marriage rendered her a shade more invisible each day—until Jake wanted sex, and suddenly she became 3-D. Those nights, instead of turning on his bedside lamp and studying tiny numbers, he’d run a hand down her arm and enumerate one of her charms:
“Damn, your skin is satin and cream. I want you so much.”
“You’re the entire package, baby, and just as gorgeous as the first day I met you.”
They still clicked like magnetized dolls. Phoebe dissolved during lovemaking, but the rest of the time, she became hypervigilant, agreeable in everything from the scent she wore to keeping the house free of dust and clutter. Her original guilt played a part, almost crushing her. Sometimes she considered revealing the truth of her lost baby, hoping the inevitable battle would bring them closer. More likely, the truth would destroy her place in their relationship, and their balance of marital power would teeter until she’d hit a permanent bottom.
The Widow of Wall Street Page 5
