The Widow of Wall Street

by Randy Susan Meyers

  Right. Stated in the correct tone, right meant “I hear you, and I am now going to ignore you in the most polite way possible.”

  She gave up and opened the door. At least Leon had recently given up that fight. Ever since Ira Henriquez, Mira House’s newly hired director, had noticed Phoebe alight from the car via the chauffeur’s politely offered hand, she had refused Leon’s help. Ira hadn’t said anything, but his eyes had widened at the sight of the limo, and his hello held a laugh. Not that Ira would ever be unkind. He didn’t seem built for anything but menschiness. Every woman at Mira House fell half in love with Ira’s mix of honorable and humorous soon after he took the reins.

  Phoebe arrived for Cooking for English at least an hour early so that she could set up the kitchen. She often felt less the teacher than the one learning. Not only were some of the clients older than Phoebe, their offered wisdom went in all directions. She rarely said this aloud, not wanting to sound like a liberal cliché, but for God’s sake, they’d been through far more than she’d ever experience. How could they not be as much teachers as students?

  Her teaching assistant, Eva, tall, slender, her dark skin always complemented by lipstick the color of bittersweet, offered only small details, but her parents escaped from Rwanda in 1963, when Eva was only eight years old, during a wave of violence against the Tutsi. They were barred from returning, but Eva had made trips to bring out her family left behind. That alone meant her survival skills surpassed Phoebe’s by light years. She and Eva were slowly building a tentative friendship; that Eva held Phoebe’s former title and job—program assistant—added another layer of connection between them.

  Staff and students took turns picking recipes. Today happened to be Phoebe’s week. After a complicated cooking month that included spicy doro wat chicken stew from Ethiopia, peanut rolls from Cameroon, and banh xeo, a sort of Vietnamese pancake, she wanted to lighten up the class with cupcakes. Most of them envisioned her life as a confection anyway: light, sweet, and fluffy, a giddy existence—which in comparison with their lives was more than true. Strawberry shortcake cupcakes seemed the perfect choice.

  Flour, eggs, sugar, and other ingredients lined the chrome counter. In the fridge, heavy cream chilled. Baskets of the freshest, largest berries available in Greenwich sat on the cooling board. Eva put out equipment as they readied for the students.

  The door squeaked open.

  “I’m first, yes?” Adina was always first. Phoebe suspected that she came so early and eagerly to escape her five children.

  “First, and a most welcome sight.” Eva’s English—she also spoke French and Kinyarwanda, sounded musically clipped. “Help me put out the mixing bowls, please.”

  By the time they had laid out bowls in a line, accommodating seven students plus Phoebe and Eva, the others had arrived.

  Linh hesitated in the doorway. She struggled with her husband’s rages, which were followed by his fear of arrest. He prostrated himself before Linh, weeping at his shame at the position and his fear of being arrested, as he begged for her forgiveness, having heard of how the American police could interfere with anything they wished—even the relations between a husband and wife. Linh dreamed of college. She pretended that Cooking for English ran twice as long, giving herself time to study in the library.

  “Here,” Zoya, the oldest woman in the class, said when she saw Linh. “Come in, come in. Beat the eggs. Build up those skinny arms.”

  Zoya fancied herself third in command after Eva and Phoebe. She barged in each week as though docking in a grand harbor. Russia left her with a hatred of authority, a dismissal of Communism, and fear of starving.

  Linh, sylphlike to Zoya’s bulk, grinned with her lips pressed together, hiding her missing tooth. Phoebe tossed in bed some nights, fixated on how to have her father repair Linh’s smile without insulting her or playing favorites. Other nights, she stayed awake wondering why she wasn’t fixing every one of her Cooking for English students. “Give me the money, instead of the synagogue’s building fund,” she should tell Jake, but she knew his answer. Jake’s generosity expected payment, usually in the form of investing the organization’s funds. Without his explicitly demanding this tit for tat, somehow it always evolved once the connection was made.

  Linh nodded and took the whisk Zoya held out. Phoebe allowed only basic kitchen implements. She wanted the women to be able to duplicate these recipes at home—though baking cupcakes seemed an odd skill to offer no matter how much English they learned along the way.

  “I wanted to beat eggs.” Adina, who faced off with Zoya for the role of Queen of the Stove on a regular basis, crossed her arms over the apron covering her plain brown kurta. “Linh can measure flour.”

  “The eggs,” Eva said. “You want to beat the eggs.”

  “You can prepare pans,” Zoya said, as though the jobs were hers to extend. Zoya would do well anywhere from prison to the Pentagon. “Or you can whip the cream if you need the work hard.”

  “Hard work, not work hard,” Eva corrected.

  “I don’t care,” Linh said. “She can do it. Anyplace is a good job.”

  Phoebe began to correct Linh’s grammar, but Zoya got her advice in first.

  “Don’t let them push you.” Zoya pointed both forefingers at Linh. “Fear is your entire problem. Everyone becomes your boss.”

  “Nobody is bossing anyone.” Eva put up her hands and stepped into the cupcake war.

  “We’re a team,” Phoebe added.

  “Ha. America is all about sharing, right?” Zoya laughed. “Like everyone is kindergarten children.”

  “No. Like we in Cooking for English are all in a place where we respect and help each other,” Eva said. “And the proper way to say it is: It’s like everyone is a kindergarten child.”

  Zoya and Adina rolled their eyes as the rest of them divided the tasks written on the board.

  “Acting like brats never helps.” Eva’s soft voice managed to dominate the room anytime she spoke. Despite being breathtaking enough to model, all Eva desired was educating herself, earning as much as possible, and then someday perhaps returning to Rwanda when peace prevailed.

  “Thanks,” Phoebe said. “Sometimes teaching adults is odd.”

  “It’s not easy being a stranger in a strange land, eh?” Eva’s grin telegraphed something coming. “We starved in our countries, and our parents sacrificed, so we could come here and learn how to put cakes in cups.”

  “In America, big problem is stopping eating,” Zoya said. “That’s why they learn to make tiny ‘cup’ cakes. Perhaps I become famous for a Russian diet plan. Stand in line for your food.”

  “Americans want to have cake and eat too.” Linh laughed as she beat the eggs. She repeated her words in Vietnamese. “Did I say the words right?” she asked another Vietnamese woman in the class, who nodded yes.

  “We can show before and after pictures.” Zoya moved her hands from showing far apart to close together. “We make pictures of women turning skinny from standing on line for long enough.”

  “American women do love makeover stories.” Phoebe handed out cupcake tins to be oiled.

  “What is ‘make over’?” Zoya asked.

  “It’s when we work to become better versions of ourselves,” Phoebe said. “With makeup or diets.”

  “Where is money in the makeover?” Yen, a newcomer, asked. “Cash makes only difference in becoming new you.”

  Phoebe began to speak about inner beauty and peace until she realized if she weren’t the teacher, they would all yell “bullshit!” if she said those words. “I guess money is the true agent of change.”

  “Yeah,” Zoya said. “Money buys almost everything.”

  “It doesn’t buy happiness,” Phoebe said.

  “It doesn’t buy unhappiness,” Zoya said. “Better to be unhappy with money than unhappy without.”

  “Paychecks are what we need. Not sugar.” Yen scooped a hollow in the cupcake as she spoke and stuck in a strawberry. “Will learni
ng to make cupcakes buy our children clothes? Send them to college? Heaven isn’t cupcakes.”

  “Heaven is not cupcakes. What a perfect name for an article.” Eva stood to her full six feet and lifted her arms. She spoke in a deep voice, as though imitating God. “They needed help, and I sent them cupcakes.”

  “My people,” Linh said, continuing with the godlike delivery, “you will be like the Americans. Sweet and stupid.”

  “Or, if the cupcakes fall, you will be flat and mean. Also an American,” Zoya said.

  Linh glanced at Phoebe, seeming to judge if she were angry. Phoebe grinned and laughed to show how not-angry she was. If Phoebe and her family had been forced to uproot and live in Vietnam, eat strange foods, learn new languages—if Jake suddenly had to work as a dishwasher rather than wearing thousand-dollar suits—they’d probably blow off steam in more ways than making fun of sticky rice balls.

  More than anything, a fat savings account would help these women. Businesses made the difference for her family back when they arrived from Romania, right? Her great-grandfather peddled hats up and down the East Coast before opening his store. She’d mentioned this, her immigrant grandparents, to the women in class. They knew she’d come from humble beginnings and moved way up. Of course, they had no clue of how far up the ladder she’d climbed with Jake. They didn’t know that Jake could make more in a day than many of them made in a year. Maybe more.

  “We should be selling these.” Phoebe spoke with deliberation as an idea formed.

  “Selling them to who?” Eva held up one of the finished products. The luscious twirl of white frosting surrounding the perfect plump berry half-buried in the white cake appeared like a jewel. “Like children with lemonade?”

  “No. Like Mrs. Fields.” Phoebe imagined it all at once: aprons, boxes, and window fronts like jewel boxes.

  “Who is Mrs. Fields? Does she work here?” Linh asked.

  “It’s a cookie,” Zoya said. “Very expensive cookie.”

  “Sold by a very smart woman,” Phoebe said. “On her way to being a very wealthy woman.”

  “And we can get rich with these cupcakes?” Linh asked.

  “Maybe we can.”

  • • •

  First she discussed the idea with Helen; a conversation she considered the equivalent of trying out a show in Boston before taking it to Broadway. Helen being Helen—always busy, usually working, and a huge fan of managing two tasks with one motion—they walked as they talked. Helen worked close to the United Nations, so they speed-walked along First Avenue until they reached Sutton Place, an area cushioned with wealth, and continued uptown on York.

  Helen exchanged her trademark spectator pumps for Nikes before their walk, though she still wore her favored royal-blue suit. Phoebe, always small next to Helen, now felt like a child. Her friend worked out daily, building her arms to a female version of Herculean strength. As she strode, her calves almost burst the pantyhose containing them. She held herself straight as the buildings surrounding them. The hair that Helen had formerly tortured into a tight bun now waved over her shoulders.

  “Slow down,” Phoebe said. “Are we in a competition?”

  “Aren’t best friends always in a bit of a contest?”

  “Only when one’s a lawyer.” Phoebe skipped a few steps until she was even with Helen. “Remember when we were in high school, and all we did was compare Alan and Jake?”

  “And now we complain about them—”

  “I don’t complain about Jake that much. Do I?”

  “About the same as all women moan about their husbands.”

  “You hardly say anything about Alan.”

  “Ah, he’s a steady guy. Not much to whine about, so you won that particular contest, eh?” Helen put up her hands. “Enough with the men. That’s not why you wanted to talk, is it? Or is something wrong at home?”

  Did Helen look hopeful? Phoebe suspected that Helen’s opinion of Jake could be better. “Home is fine. I want to run an idea by you. A business I’m thinking about. What do you think of me and the women of Mira House becoming the Mrs. Fields of cupcakes?”

  “Your Cooking for English women?”

  “Exactly.” She explained all the details she’d worked out: from having the women buy in through sweat equity to using as many local ingredients as possible. She envisioned a women-owned, women-supported business.

  “So you’re proposing a high-end product will benefit your immigrant students. Sort of like soaking the rich to build up the poor. I love it. But what does Jake think?”

  Phoebe looked away as she answered. “I haven’t told him yet.”

  “Are you afraid he won’t approve?”

  Phoebe knew from Helen’s tone that her friend was convinced that Jake would try to stop her.

  “Because, if you want my opinion,” Helen said, “I’d worry more about him taking it over. Absorbing it.”

  “Why would he want a cupcake store?” Phoebe asked.

  “Sometimes I think Jake wants everything.”

  “I’m only going to ask him for start-up funds. I helped him enough to have earned the investment.”

  Helen twisted her head to the side. “Most certainly, honey. But you know Jake. I don’t think he tracks debts the same way as other people.”

  • • •

  Three weeks later, Phoebe served her idea to the family along with angel food cupcakes topped with summery lemon frosting—confections to show off the product and to sweet-talk funds out of Jake.

  “Seriously?” Jake laughed. “You want me to invest in cupcakes?”

  “No, I want you to invest in me. The women I work with and me. Smart women who only need a break.”

  Noah and Kate looked from Phoebe to Jake and back again.

  “Umm . . . I think it sounds cool,” Noah said.

  Phoebe wished Noah took on a role other than mediator in the family. He reminded her of Deb, but he lacked her sister’s protective armor.

  “Thank you, Mr. Business,” Jake said.

  Phoebe clenched her hands under the table. Jake’s answer to Noah’s sensitivity was intended to toughen up their son, believing that was the only way to help secure his future. “Thank you, honey.”

  Noah shrugged, either pleased at her appreciation or acting cool for Jake. The older the kids got, the harder it was to read them.

  “This is my plan: I work with Eva—she’s my assistant at Cooking for English—as my partner. She’s smart, calm, and organized, with an incredible head for numbers. Then I thought I’d pick the two students most likely to help make it a success. Zoya, the woman from Russia, because she’s brave and—”

  “You need to be brave for cupcakes?” Jake asked with amusement.

  “You need to be brave to throw yourself completely into a business. You know that. Zoya had the guts to face down the Russian bureaucracy. Plus, her energy level amazes me. And she loves money.” Phoebe sent Groucho eyebrows to Jake. “You should appreciate that.”

  “How about the second one?” Noah asked. “What’s her specialty?”

  “Linh’s funny. Which is an important quality when things get rough. She’s artistic. And she’s the best cook in the class.”

  “It sounds kind and caring—like everything you do. But do you expect to make money?” Jake asked.

  “Look at Mrs. Fields and Famous Amos. Niche brands are taking off. I expect to make enough, eventually, to donate to Mira House. This won’t support them, but it can help. More than that, I’m looking for Eva, Zoya, and Linh—and others someday—to make decent salaries. Maybe buy-in with an ownership program. As we grow, and need more employees, we’ll always hire from Mira House.”

  “I won’t lie. I’m impressed. That’s a lot of planning for a short time,” Jake said. “You want to weigh in here, Katie?”

  “Not really.” At twelve, Kate often spoke like such a know-it-all that she seemed a Jake replica.

  “But I want to hear your opinion,” Jake said.

  “You on
ly want to hear opinions if they match the ones you think are right.” Kate placed a second cupcake next to her half-eaten first one. “These are delicious.”

  “I doubt they’re low calorie.” Jake took a second one for himself.

  “And I doubt it will show up on my body like it will on yours,” Kate said. “You have an old metabolism. I don’t.”

  “Ah, but you need to worry about catching a man. Not me.”

  Phoebe glared. “Kate doesn’t need to worry about anything except keeping up her terrific grades and doing her chores.”

  “You don’t need to defend me, Mom. Dad’s kidding. God. Don’t be so hard on him.” Kate rolled her eyes. “Let’s get back to cupcakes. Finally—something interesting in this family. Noah is right. It does sound cool.”

  “Wow, I came up with something cool. Did you hear, Jake?”

  “You’re always cool to me, hon.” He stretched out his legs and crossed his arms across his large chest. “Have you written out a business plan?”

  “Some. We’re still working on it. The nutshell is this: What better way to help the women I work with than building a business with them? We could be the first of a kind. A Mrs. Fields, begun and run by women who had to leave their own countries.”

  “Backed by my money, which I hand over like a big present?” Despite Jake’s needling words, he seemed interested. He had his business gleam in his eyes.

  “You hand over plenty now.”

  “That’s because I get tax deductions.”

  “We can set it up as a nonprofit! It can go through Mira House. These women got so excited today. We spent the whole time planning and coming up with ideas. We even have a name.”

  “So you’ve given this actual serious thought? Besides a cute name?”

  “I’m so serious, you can take it to the damned bank.” Phoebe folded her hands on top of the table. “And you’re going to be part of it. I’ve been there for your business. Now you can be here for mine.”

  “What’s the name, Mom?” Kate asked.

  “The Cupcake Project. At first, we had Cupcake Heaven, but this combines serious and sweet. Eva, Zoya, and Linh came up with it.”