Lovemaking, of course, disappeared. Intimacy with this Jake would be like making love to a stranger. He never asked, either out of knowing she’d turn him down or his own disinterest in anything but film and food. He consumed prodigious amounts of candy, bagels, and chips—things she never allowed in the house—ice cream, cheeseburgers, and worse, which they washed down with alcohol as they worked their way through their wine collection.
Phoebe acted as enabler and short-order cook. Why deny his only pleasure? If he dropped dead of a heart attack, it would be the kindest outcome for the family. She researched life in prison online, but after the third time that Jake rejected her reports, she let it go, especially with Deb reminding her that she’d better start worrying about her own future. With Jake’s accounts frozen, they used her funds for all expenses—though spending anything over one hundred dollars required a report to their monitor from the feds.
Not that she bought anything but food. The trail of paparazzi kept her as housebound as Jake. It took until February, when her long grey roots became a visual band of stress against her dyed dark hair, impossible to cover with mascara, for her to call to schedule a color and cut.
“Hi, Claudia, this is Phoebe Pierce,” she said to the receptionist. “Can you get me Kevin’s first opening? I can come anytime.”
Awkward silence hung until Claudia squeaked, “Please hold.”
No chirping of “Hello, Mrs. Pierce!” Years of generous tips guaranteed the response. Phoebe wasn’t naive. Awkwardness didn’t surprise her, but she was shocked by this full-on pretense of nonrecognition.
After about three minutes, Claudia returned. “I’m sorry, but Kevin isn’t accepting appointments at this time.”
Phoebe waited a beat for her brain to connect the words and then said, “Who is accepting appointments?” Her need to get rid of grey measured against pride turned out to be a sad formula.
“I can’t say that anyone is.” Claudia’s desire to end the call leaped through the wires.
“Can I speak with Kevin?” Connecting with her hairdresser became a wretched harbinger of her entire life—acceptance representing any hope of being less than a fugitive from polite society. “Please, Claudia. Ask him to come to the phone.”
“I’m sorry,” Claudia said. “He isn’t available.”
A mirror hung above the dresser. No makeup. Her roots climbing out more each minute. She wore an oversized worn shirt of Jake’s. Her image appeared old as dirt.
“Fine. Thank you,” Phoebe said, offering gratitude to the woman for wiping out her last remnants of pride. Self-punishment had become her raison d’être, as she devoured every story she found in the newspaper and online and read every angry email sent by friends and family blaming her for drawing them into the Club. This morning she had received one from Ira, his sympathy making his anger all the more painful.
Dear Phoebe,
No doubt you are at the moment worried about far more than Mira House, or me, but yet, here I am.
Am I reaching out? Yes and no. We’ve been friends too long for me not to worry about you. I think of how awful your life must be now, even as I wonder if it’s a life of your own creation. Let me be blunt. Did you know? Yes, I suppose I sound like the newspapers, but there is some difference here. I am not assuming you were connected to this horrendous crime, nor can I assume you were not.
Perhaps it was a failing on Phoebe’s part not to understand, but why couldn’t he assume she might be innocent?
I keep asking myself, could you not have known what Jake did? Was he that good an actor?
Jake had fooled millionaires and captains of industry—why not her? Did other spouses quiz their husbands and wives each night as to the veracity of their lives? Of course she accepted Jake’s accounting of his days, his business, his world. Why the hell wouldn’t she? Did women usually spend nights poring over spousal contracts and bank accounts?
If you were fooling me, then I am the sucker, and I suppose we’re both the worse for the fraud. You knew, I think—despite my never speaking about it—I sat on deep feelings, which I never thought I deserved. How could I ever hope to compete with your husband: Rich! Brilliant! Though I did wonder how you were happy with someone who worshipped success over all else.
Do you think he ever truly loved you? I don’t believe anyone who loved his family would do that.
The question haunted her. Love and lying coexisted, she supposed; she had begun her marriage based on a lie, yet had always loved Jake. She had spent her life making up for her sins, by being a good wife and mother.
“It’s time.” Jake’s entrance startled her. She slammed the computer shut, not wanting her worlds to collide. “Gideon is downstairs with the car.”
“You know I’ll come to court if you need me.” Phoebe fixed a piece of Jake’s hair sticking up from where she’d trimmed it. She’d become his barber after the arrest, learning from an online video and using shears ordered from Amazon, haven for the homebound. Now it was time to order hair dye.
“I don’t want to put you through that. Here.” Jake held out an envelope. “It’s what I’m going to say in court. There’s also a letter for you.” He stopped her as she began to slit it open, gripping her wrist too tight. “No. Not until I’m gone.”
She let him hold on. “Should I walk you down?”
Jake stroked her cheek. “We’ll say good-bye here. Gideon will call and let you know everything.” He pulled her close. “We’ve barely talked about you. Where this will leave you. I’ve spoken to Gideon about your future. He’s working to keep you from harm.”
She let Jake retain his belief even as she knew that ship had sailed long ago.
“I love you and always have.” Jake’s voice shook as he began sobbing.
Who are you crying for? Once again the question drummed.
She pushed him away, reached for a tissue, and pulled one out. “Here,” she said, not unkindly. “It’s time for you to go.”
? ? ?
After, she lay on the couch in a daze. No computer, no television, getting up only for the bathroom and to answer Deb’s call, not wanting her sister to worry, but begging off the phone almost immediately. Jake’s envelope waited in a radioactive glow on the coffee table.
At two o’clock, Luz called.
Phoebe asked the expected question. “What happened?”
“You know, of course, that he pled, yes?”
“Yes.” Phoebe matched Luz’s staccato.
“By now, he should be at Metropolitan Correctional Center. It’s federal. I emailed you the address, all the relevant information for visiting, phone calls, etcetera. All the rules are there. You only need his inmate number, which we’ll get you as soon as possible. He’ll need you to fill his account.”
“With money?”
“For the commissary. I sent you an item-and-price list.”
“Gideon didn’t take care of that?”
Kudos to Luz for pulling off silent annoyance and patronization at the same time. “That’s the family’s responsibility,” the lawyer said finally.
A wake-up call of bricks fell. Apparently her new job would be the prisoner’s wife.
“We have a recommendation for an attorney for you.”
“A lawyer?”