Phoebe unlocked the door to find Linh, Eva, and Zoya crowded around a small marble table in the Greenwich store. “Am I that late? I’m so sorry.”
“We got here extra quick.” Zoya spat out the words.
“All of you?” Phoebe looked around. Everyone seemed edgy. “Is something wrong?”
“Are you okay, Phoebe? That is the question.” Linh spoke in her properly learned English. Mira House had the same two ESL teachers for the past ten years, and neither seemed to believe in contractions.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Phoebe shook off her jacket with relief. No matter how fashionable the fitted apricot leather and squared-off shoulder pads seemed yesterday, today it resembled a space suit. Post-spa-treatment dizziness could be the only reason she had bought it. And no comments? She’d expected Zoya to touch the fabric the moment she arrived.
“Did you see the television? Listen to the radios?” Zoya picked up a napkin and dabbed her lips.
“I drove for all of five minutes. What’s going on?”
“Where are you?” Zoya scissored her hands in front of Phoebe’s face. “Living in bubble?”
“I rushed—”
Eva shook her head. “Don’t answer. That’s not our business.” She poured a cup of coffee for Phoebe. “Sit down.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Did you talk to Jake since he got to work?”
“What’s going on, for God’s sake? Is there something I need to know?”
Eva turned on the radio they kept in the shop, tuning in until she hit the news channel. Phoebe tried to concentrate as phrases like Dow plunges and market crashing pounded over them.
“Listen,” Linh said. “We don’t know—”
“Call Jake and—” Zoya wove her fingers into a beseeching fist.
Phoebe quieted them with a gesture as she continued listening, highlights leaping out.
Are we re-experiencing 1929?
Slide continuing.
Expecting worse, much worse, by day’s end.
Phoebe gave a silent prayer. She covered Eva’s hands with her own. “Hey, this is old—well, oldish news. You know. It began last week. Jake says we’re exactly where we want to be. Now that everything is dipping, the crap—his word, not mine—is washing out. The cream will rise to the top.”
Coffee soured in Phoebe’s throat as she put forth what might well be bullshit. She, in fact, had no understanding of what Jake meant, but his words had soothed everyone at dinner on Sunday. Her mother repeated his wisdom verbatim twenty minutes after Jake first said it.
Now three terrified faces watched her for assurance.
“Everything,” Zoya said. “I put everything into the Jake thing.”
“We all did.” Linh’s soft voice trembled. “Including my husband. We sent half his check every month.”
“Half?” Eva twisted a bright gold ring round and round. “How do you manage?”
“Have you seen how many people live in their house?”
“Zoya,” Eva scolded.
“It is true.” Linh clasped her fingers. “We are saving to buy houses. Me. My sister. My parents will live with one of us.”
“You’ll get your house. I swear,” Phoebe said.
“How can you promise?” Skepticism coated every syllable Zoya spoke. “Never a guarantee in business or government. Ask my dead husband.”
The three women fell silent, hope falling from their faces. Phoebe imagined them reflecting on the circumstances that had brought them to New York. Her own great-grandmother had sewn jewelry and money in the hem of her coat before getting on the boat in Poland.
Linh looked up, tears trickling. “It is not your fault. We made the choices.”
“You will be okay.” Her heavy orange leather screamed “rich bitch liar!” from the back of her chair.
“How?” Eva said. “It would be impossible for us not to lose money. You read the paper. Jake may be smart, even a genius, but he’s not a miracle worker.”
“Wait. Let me talk to him tonight. I’ll find out.” Phoebe dug her nails into her arms.
Zoya bent and picked up the suitcase-sized turquoise bag she brought everywhere and rummaged until Eva exploded. “Are you mining for gold?”
“Does anyone think it is too early for beer?” Linh asked.
“Ah. Finally.” Zoya pulled out a small marbled notebook, the kind children bought at the five-and-dime to track their homework assignments. She flipped the pages until reaching the last one with writing. “See. I report it down every time I get the statement. Here is what I think is my balance.” She held up the white paper. “Nine thousand six hundred dollars. I save everything.”
“That’s a good amount,” Phoebe said.
“Fuck you, good amount.” She slammed down the book. “That is everything I own in world. It’s nothing to you. Look at your coat. How much did it cost? Did you think about it? Did you wait for one minute before you bought it and think what else you could do with it? Did you wonder how many mamas in Mira House could buy twenty coats with what you spent? More?”
Linh brought up her knees and held them with her hands, making herself smaller. “Stop yelling.”
Zoya took the book and shook it at Phoebe. “Coats! You think you are Eleanor Roosevelt when you’re really Marie Antoinette.”
Zoya’s rage seemed a living creature, curling around Phoebe, snapping at her flesh. The ugly orange coat, boasted, screamed its price.
“You’ll lose nothing,” Phoebe said. “I promise. If I have to pay it from my own money, you will get it all.”
CHAPTER 19
Jake
Jake clutched Tuesday’s New York Times, keeping his face somber until he hit the thirty-seventh floor. The headline burned his fingertips: “Stocks Plunge 508 Points, a Drop of 22.6%; 604 Million Volume Nearly Doubles Record.” Exuding glee as the stock market tanked would be unseemly at best, but along with his shine from the Waldorf, as Wall Street lost, he gained. Skid marks would mark the road to his office as folks begged for the safety of the Club.
He loved slipping up the back staircase, used only by him, Charlie, and Solomon. Moving to this building uptown five years ago came with a long pleasure tail. The separation of a floor between his brokerage and the Club soothed him.
He unlocked the entry door and walked into the full throttle mess of Gita-Rae’s domain. After saying a few hellos, asking after this one’s son’s college grades, that one’s new house, he perched on the edge of Nanci’s desk.
“How’s your mom?” he asked.
Nanci’s sigh held her mother’s pain. Lung cancer was a bitch. Jake took her pudgy hand. “You’re being strong for her. We’re all proud of you.”
Nanci shrugged. “I’m all she has.”
“What about your brother?”
“Oh, God. You’d think he was still a kid. He hit forty-five last week, and you know how he celebrated?” She picked up a picture of her family in a red heart frame and drooped a bit more. “He went to Atlantic City and got drunk for three days. Meanwhile, I go straight to my mother’s every night to make supper.”