Phoebe didn’t ask Kate to come back to the apartment. She wasn’t ready for her daughter’s sympathy. The cracks in the wall, a few sticks of furniture ordered from Bob’s Discount, carpet soaking up spilled wine like a drunk on holiday. Economic changes provided an education in why poor people’s houses seemed rickety. Cheap furniture retains value for about two weeks. The polyester blanket she bought only a few months ago already appeared diseased with pills.
The things Phoebe missed mostly represented sentiment, but occasionally comfort took center stage. It was for emotional connections that she’d wanted her mother’s red bowl and the handmade mugs that she and Deb had found in Vermont. But her sheets? Pratesi cotton felt so much better than Kohl’s polyester that Phoebe felt ashamed for not realizing it before.
She thought about her favorite art, especially the quirky copper mosaic she’d bought in North Carolina—an ache she admitted to no one, because it only added to her Phoebe Antoinette persona, and, anyway, who the fuck cared about art after losing her children and grandchildren? Sheets and copper meant shit after Jake robbed the world.
But damn it, she sometimes missed beauty.
And comfort.
Most of all, she was lonely.
Phone calls were the highlights of her day. Along with haunting Noah and Kate, she called Helen every day, careful not to be unremittingly depressing—a difficult job while her existence included keeping her bare feet from touching the rug and scouring Goodwill for books to read. She put off joining the library, afraid of being recognized. These were things she told nobody. People hated whiny victims, reserving their admiration for those who suffered nobly, so she acted as though she lived a plucky sitcom.
At the end of every day, she called Deb, both of them working overtime to sound chipper, Deb making the fact that Ben now bagged groceries at Publix into a series of funny stories.
Mail cheered her. Friends who hadn’t been struck down by Jake snuck out of the past. They weren’t ready to meet or call, but they’d pen occasional emails, inching their way toward, Phoebe hoped, a closer connection.
She stood, still wobbly from the wine and hopeful that the postman had left his delivery. Her apartment, on the first floor, was just steps from the bank of mailboxes, the kind that had been in Jake’s building growing up, where the mailman had the key to unlock all of the boxes from the top.
People, Time, and Newsweek were jammed into the box. She subscribed to more magazines than any one person should, but along with the New York Times, they were her links to the world—plus, subscriptions were far cheaper than the newsstand price.
A cable bill. Her daily letter from Jake, announcing to the world, or at least to the postal carrier, that her prison pen pal was the most notorious financial criminal in the United States. The return address gave his name, what they called his identification number, and the words Federal Correctional Institution Ray Brook along with the post office number and address. Jake wrote her name in his sprawling style, usually bigger than the space allowed, forcing him to cram in the final letters at the end.
A package for Phoebe sat in the open area. Helen probably sent it. The return address read “Offprint Books.” Small presents of books and magazines arrived from her often. Phoebe grabbed the box and headed back to the apartment, ready to fortify herself with one more glass of wine before opening Jake’s letter, hoping that a soothing new detective novel waited afterward.
She stood on tiptoes to reach her one decent wineglass, having splurged at the Crate and Barrel outlet, and poured a hefty serving of Riesling.
Dear Pheebs,
How are you, my love? Did you speak to the kids this week? News—anything at all will be welcome, but you know that, right? And the little ones? Did you send them my love? I’m getting good in the woodworking shop. My plan is to make dollhouses like the other guys are doing for their kids.
Her insides twisted at the thought of the girls getting Grandpa’s love, and yet she hurt just as much at the idea of them thinking he didn’t care. Noah and Kate told the girls that Grandpa stole money at work, a lot of money, and he’d be in jail forever. And when they asked why he did it, their parents told the truth: nobody knew.
Believe it or not, my skill with the saw gets better every day. They have me making stools now. I told the guard the other day that if he let me sign it, I bet they could charge a hell of a lot more money.
Phoebe laughed before she could catch herself. Moments like this knocked the wind right out of her; times when she responded to Jake’s twisted humor and fell into an old pattern of connection.
My canteen account has sunk pretty low. If you could give me a little replenishment, I’d be grateful. I continue to think of ways to make it up to you, any small thing I can do. This for better or worse thing isn’t exactly going in your favor, huh?
Gideon told me that Charlie, Gita-Rae, Nanci, and Solomon were arrested. I’m putting my money on Gita-Rae to fold first, but we’ll see. Not that anyone but me did anything at all.
Jake had become a junkie about himself. Rather than avoiding articles about his crime and punishment, as had been his habit before his sentencing, he immersed himself in media, becoming his own biggest fan and defender. His blindness stunned her as he retold how much money his early investors made from the Club—intimating that their guilt matched his.
Descriptions of prisoners watching football followed, along with chummy games of cards they played. Jake had escaped to a strict summer camp, while she bore the brunt of his criminal aftermath. He’d bragged to her in the past about how the inmates admired him, even asking for financial advice.
She dreaded the onerous weekly phone calls with Jake. At least during the visits, he worked at amusing her, probably for the benefit of his nearby buddies. On the phone, all she heard was his relief at having the huge weight of keeping the Club going lifted off his shoulders.
Jake might not love prison, but he prized being free of the burden of his awful pretense. She put aside the letter to file with the rest. Why she kept this record was a question for Freud, she supposed. His letters were toxic and irresistible all at the same time. Sympathy for and fascination with the man one had loved forever didn’t vanish in a puff of smoke, even at the worst of news about him. Repeatedly, she tried to understand her disconnect: hating this Jake; still locked into the man she married.
CHAPTER 35
Phoebe
A dozen monkeys could crash through the window and jump on her head, and Phoebe would still be reading He Stole More Than My Money by Bianca Miller. The sky darkened as she squinted to read the last few pages of the book.