Hate and caring mixed in her throat until breathing seemed impossible. She took his letters and hers, placed them in a white envelope, and labeled it Kate and Noah. After licking it closed, she placed it on the empty mahogany hallway table, weighing the envelope down with a heavy glass paperweight.
After encasing Jake’s watches in bubble wrap, Phoebe slipped them in an envelope. She taped both envelopes tight and addressed the one with watches to Noah and the other to Kate. After throwing on her baggiest coat and jamming on an old ski hat, she wrapped a dull grey scarf around her neck, pulled it up to her nose, took the service elevator, and slipped outside into the snowy darkness.
Occasionally, a smart reporter hung out at the back, but she assumed that on Christmas Eve even the paparazzi would be on skeleton staff. She came out the back into the alley, grateful for the thick Uggs boots covering her feet. Too bad they weren’t thigh high. Garbage cans, recycling bins, and snow equipment crowded the narrow space. Feral cats and rodents lurked in the corners.
Manny had shown her this way out a few days before, after seeing how the reporters hounded her. Weaving through the alley, expecting to step on an animal carcass or worse, horrified her. She stared straight ahead, walking on tiptoes, clutching the plastic Whole Foods bag containing the overstuffed envelopes.
She grabbed the handle of the grated door leading to the street, releasing and pulling the way Manny taught her, trying to be quiet—an almost impossible task with rusted, creaking iron.
The door exited about a half block from the building’s main entrance, where the dogged cadre of paparazzi stood hunched against the cold. Their heads swiveled, seeking signs of her or Jake escaping via the front door, back, or even perhaps leaping from their terrace, considering how one guy peered up toward the top of the building.
“Hey, Phoebe, where ya going?” a reporter yelled, his words meant to stop her.
A thin layer of ice covered the sidewalk. Walking on the slickness took a concentration difficult to achieve with them panting like a pack of dogs behind her. Running now, she raced toward the mailbox on the corner, almost blinded by the fast-falling snow. Barely keeping her balance, she fell on the blue metal box, pried open the iced opening, and stuffed in the two envelopes. Stamps of every denomination nearly covered the front of the packages.
“Whatcha mailing, Phoebe?” she heard behind her.
“Christmas cards?” The broad New York accent asking the question matched her own.
She swallowed the Brooklyn “Fuck you!” jammed in her throat. Six men of varying heights hulked around her.
“Where’s Jake?”
“What are you guys doing tonight?”
“Where’s the money? Is that what you mailed?”
Tears of rage and fear threatened as she edged away.
“What did you do? Why are you staying? What do the kids think?”
Questions assaulted her as she tried to escape. She turned sideways, attempting to make a wedge of her shoulders.
“Move, damn it,” she finally spit out. “Move the fuck away from me.”
And there, she’d given them the morning headlines: “Phoebe Pierce Potty Mouth.”
“Enough!” Manny pushed his way in front of the crowd of men, holding an umbrella out as though it were a lance. “Gusanos. Maggots.”
Phoebe slipped as she worked to get away from the reporters, falling to one knee, her bare hand landing on the gritty iced pavement. Pain shot through it as she attempted to stop her slide. Manny grabbed her elbow with a strong hand and pulled her up. She tucked her hand into his arm, and he steered them away from the men shouting questions.
“What the eff, Phoebe? Nothing to say?”
“What’s in the envelope?”
Words blurred behind her as they walked back to the building.
“They’re just messing with your mind, Mrs. Pierce,” Manny said. “Stay cool. They’re waving a red flag, like bullfighters. They’re just trying to feed off you for tomorrow’s paper. Bottom-feeders, all of them.”
Phoebe squeezed Manny’s arm, attempting to put her overwhelming gratitude into the touch. If she spoke, she’d fall apart, and those bastards would never see her cry. Manny was her only protector—a man to whom other than being polite and handing him generous tips, she’d never given a thought.
? ? ?
“How was it?” Jake asked when she returned. He tried to peel her wet coat off her shoulders, but she shrugged him away.
“Fine,” she said.
He pointed to her leg, her torn pants, her skinned knee. “Doesn’t look fine. What happened? Are you okay?”
“Fine, I said.” She moved away from his outstretched hand.
“Come on. I’ll bandage you till you’re good as new.”
She bit her lip against the flood of softness opening in her chest. Jake was the expert at taping up the kids after they slipped on the ice or twisted something. Her stomach would drop, but he stayed calm. When Noah lacerated his scalp on a tree limb while skiing in Aspen, Jake pressed the huge piece of flapping skin in place until the ski patrol arrived. He’d studied the doctor’s hands as he wove the needle in and out of their son’s flesh. Phoebe averted her eyes, able to hold Noah’s hand as the stitches went in, but unable to watch.
Jake led her to the guest bathroom. He rolled her pants above her knee, pulling the wool fabric away from the clotting blood. She winced as he uncovered the fresh wound.
“Sorry.” He touched his lips to the skin above the gash. “Kiss and make better,” he said, repeating the words he’d once said to the children.
Jake bathed the torn flesh and covered it in Neosporin. He tore open a large square Band-Aid with his teeth, peeled off the paper, and pressed it over her lacerations. After ensuring that it stuck, he used the pad of his thumb to smooth down the edges.
“There,” he said.
Phoebe went into her bathroom without a word. She stripped off her clothes, stuffed them in the hamper, and walked into the shower. Water beat on her shoulders as she leaned both hands against the slick white tile. Tears mixed with suds as she covered herself with bath gel. She washed her hair with the same viscous liquid, wanting the smell of the lilacs, indifferent to caring for her hair.
Fuck texture. Fuck shine. Frizz, no frizz—who cared?
When the bandage steamed off, Phoebe balled it up and put it on the shelf with her shampoo and soap collection.
She wrapped herself in a terry robe. No lotion on her legs. No moisture for her face. Just a rough towel brushing her skin. She combed her hair straight back from her forehead, leaning forward to examine herself in the mirror. See how smooth I kept myself? Always perfect, just like you wanted me.
Jake’s eyes were glued to the bedroom television where Rio Bravo played.