Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (8 page)

Isabel glanced over her shoulder to make sure Ron was coming. She knew she was hopeless at masking her feelings in situations like this. But then why should she? She shot a final icy stare at Sandy. How old
was
she when she'd had Jessie anyway? She barely looked over 30. A high school pregnancy, maybe? The woman had social climber written all over her. All those pies she was forever dropping off at people's homes the minute they sniffled. No one really joked about it, but they smiled, as if tolerating a child.

The image, though, that crept into Isabel's mind was of ivy sucking the life out of sturdy oaks. No, she didn't trust Sandy. Not for a minute. And what the hell was that Murphy thing all about?

Darkness enveloped them on the ride home. For a time, Isabel sat without a word. She didn't take what happened between Ron and Sandy lightly, but she'd mull it over before broaching the subject. It wasn't the same as eight years ago, but it felt uncomfortably close.

As Ron turned onto their street, she broke the silence. “We'll need to question Phoebe when we get home.”

Ron turned to look at her, perhaps trying to gauge whether or not she was still angry with him. “I don't know, Iz,” he said. “Can't it wait till morning? It's practically midnight.”

“Morning? We need to get to her before she hears word got out at the parents' party and has time to make up more lies,” Isabel said with a disgruntled look. “How she thought this would stay quiet is beyond me. These kids' sense of invulnerability really does make them stupid. Not to mention a menace to themselves. So what do you suggest?” Now she was placating him. There was no way she'd wait until morning to confront their daughter.

“What are you going to say?” he asked.

“I'm going to ask her why she lied. Plain and simple.”

“Will you let me take the lead?” he asked.

“I'd be delighted.”

At home, the scent of desiccating leaves permeated the night air. Climbing the stairs to their wrap-around veranda, Isabel took in several breaths and composed herself. This was not how the evening was supposed to go. As for Phoebe, she told herself she wasn't angry with her, or even terribly upset over the fact of her disobedience; no, the nub of her distress revolved around Phoebe's lying and the fear of what smoking marijuana might lead to. If this now, then what next? How could she adequately protect Phoebe from the evils of the world? This thought terrified her.

And, in truth, she felt a stew of emotions reminding her of something she couldn't quite put her finger on. It hovered just beneath the surface.

They reached the front door and Isabel's thoughts ricocheted back to the present. What to say to Phoebe? She knew she had to be careful, because she routinely made mincemeat of lying witnesses, just as her father had taught her. Another breath. Come to think of it, in her own teen years he hadn't spared her, regardless of the infraction. No, he'd been judge and jury, blunt and to the point. Meting out sentences without room for appeal.

“Okay, you ready?” Ron said, glancing at her sideways.

“You know the answer to that, so why ask.” Her tone was curt. “And you might want to wipe that lipstick off your cheek.”

“Oh, Iz,” he said, giving her lifeless hand a squeeze. He rubbed his face with the back of his hand and unlocked the door.

They found Phoebe and Jackson lying on the couch in the den – Phoebe half-asleep, her eyes affixed to the TV screen, while Jackson snored lightly. It was a sweet scene and softened Isabel's frame of mind. She felt a sudden impulse to hug her daughter as she had earlier, but the desire evaporated when she remembered the ease with which Phoebe had lied.

“I'm going to get myself a glass of water. You want anything?” she said to Ron.

“Sure, I could use one, thanks.”

Phoebe lifted herself off the couch as if to leave, but Ron stopped her. “We need to speak with you a minute, honey.” His voice was gentle, yet commanding and firm.

Isabel turned to see Phoebe glancing warily at him, but then sitting back down and saying nothing. She hurried off to the kitchen, poured two glasses of Perrier, returned with them and took her place in one of their recently purchased Osvaldo Borsani arm chairs.

“Okay, Feebs,” Ron began, his steepled fingers touching his lips. “We heard some disturbing news at the parents' party tonight and want to ask you about it. Okay?”

Phoebe's eyes grew wide at Ron's pronouncement. She tucked her bare legs under her bottom and folded her arms around her torso as if curling inside a protective shell. She glanced at Isabel, then rested her eyes on Ron. “What did you hear, Daddy?” she asked softly.

Dropping his hands into his lap, he spoke with notable calm. “We heard that a group of kids got caught smoking marijuana today, and that you were there. We'd like you to tell us what happened.”

They both watched Phoebe squirm a bit and waited for her response. She looked like every delinquent at the moment of capture. Surprised, afraid and desperate for a way out.

“Just tell the truth, Feebs,” he urged, reading her hesitation.

“I know what you're thinking, Mom,” she said, turning to Isabel, “that I lied. And now I'm going to get into trouble. But what was I supposed to do, tell on my friends? And then you'd ground me and probably call the kids' parents and tell them.” She began to cry. “I know that's what you'd do.”

Though jarred by the accuracy of Phoebe's response, Isabel's expression remained neutral as she gazed at her daughter. “Come on, Phoebe. Tell us what happened. We wouldn't be having this conversation if you'd just told me the truth in the first place.”

Phoebe peered at Isabel with the confidence of a mouse about to be dropped into a snake pit. “Well, we were in Adams Morgan,” she began slowly. “I know you told me not to go there, Mom, but that's where everybody else wanted to go. And anyway how was I supposed to know what was going to happen?”

Both Isabel and Ron stared at their daughter, attempting to assess if this was true.

She sniffed and began again. “We just had a soda at Five Guys and then Sam invited us over to his house. Well, apartment, actually. There, a few kids decided to smoke, uh, you know,” she said, obviously avoiding the word marijuana, “and it felt too awkward to leave, so I stayed. Then Sam's mom came home and started yelling at us. Of course, we all left, and I went to Second Chance, like I told you.” She looked sharply at Isabel, then turned to Ron. “I feel really bad for Sam. I hope he's not in big trouble?”

Isabel saw that Phoebe hoped to appeal to Ron's soft side, and she wasn't about to let her get away with it.
Maybe you should worry more about yourself
, Isabel wanted to say. Aloud, she said, “Okay, let's back up a second.” Phoebe had conveniently left out some details. “So you're saying you had no idea anyone planned to smoke?”

Phoebe looked momentarily confused. “Well, a couple of guys said they had a surprise for us at Sam's apartment, but we didn't know what it would be.”

Isabel noted Phoebe's confusion and figured she was telling only partial truths. Whenever she thought a witness was lying, she always circled back and rephrased questions. Now, too, she intended to find out the truth. She was about to ask about the “surprise” again, when Phoebe, who was staring into her lap, added, “That's when Jessie, Emma and I went to the bathroom to figure out what to do, and I guess we made a bad decision.”

Ron stepped in. “Yes, you did, honey.”

“I'm really tired, Daddy, can I go to sleep now?”

Isabel looked at Ron with surprise. She could tell he was about to release her when they hadn't even gotten to the most important question. “Not yet, Phoebe,” Isabel said. Hoping to explore the depths of her daughter's psyche, she looked at her very directly. “Did you partake? And what about Jessie and Emma?” Other than Dylan, she didn't know the boys well and so did not ask about them.

“
Partake
, Mom?” Phoebe said, looking at her with disbelief, “No, of course not.” Then she paused, and with an indignant twist of her mouth, added, “Anyway, you'd kill me if you found out that I did! And yes, Jessie and Emma had a puff. One.”

Annoyed at herself for sounding like such a dinosaur, Isabel tried to regain the upper hand. “And you're telling me the truth now? Because I plan to follow up with Sam's mom.”

Phoebe's face fell. “Please don't call her. That's so embarrassing.”

Even Ron, his mouth slanted into a deep frown, seemed to be signaling alarm at the suggestion.

“Am I in trouble?” Phoebe said.

“What do you think?” Isabel asked. She felt the tightness in her jaw. She took in a breath, exhaled, and tried to relax.

“Yes?” Phoebe whispered.

Before Isabel could respond, Ron said, “What do
you
think your consequences should be, Phoebe?”

“That's a euphemism, isn't it, Dad? You mean punishment, right?”

“All right, call it a punishment.”

Phoebe thought a moment. “Dad, I'm sorry. But I don't really get what I did that's so wrong.”

“You don't get what you did wrong, young lady?” Isabel blurted out. “Is that what you just said?” Isabel heard the shrillness in her voice and knew she couldn't let her anger cloud her judgment and behavior. She dialed it down. “Honestly, Phoebe, you think it's okay to lie to me? Not just once but several times.”

Phoebe shrank back.

Isabel scrutinized her face. “Even now I'm not sure that you're telling us the
whole
truth. You really had no idea they were going to smoke pot?” she asked.

“No,” Phoebe said, though this time her “no” sounded less than convincing.

“No?” Isabel glared at her. “You lied to me and you intentionally misled me, Phoebe.” She ignored Ron's beseeching look to ease up and went on. “Tell me how I'm supposed to trust you after this? How will I know if you're telling the truth?”

Phoebe began to cry.

Though Isabel had a moment when she wished desperately that punishment wasn't necessary, in the end, not only did she tell Phoebe she was grounded for several weeks, but also that she was absolutely not allowed to hang around with Jessie and Emma. They were clearly a bad influence.

“Weeks? How many?”

“Four,” Isabel said.

At this, Phoebe burst into loud sobs, accused her mother of hating her and ruining her life, and ran out of the room and up two flights of stairs. The loud crash of her bedroom door punctuated the evening's discussion and sent a resounding shudder through the house that awakened Jackson.

“What's going on, Mom?” he asked sleepily.

Isabel ran her hand through his tousled hair. “Nothing, honey. Why don't you go brush your teeth and get in bed. Daddy'll tuck you in.” Avoiding Ron's frustrated and angry stare, she tried to smile reassuringly at her son.

The next morning the Winthrop-Murrow house contained an aura of discontent. Everyone but Jackson seemed grumpy and out of sorts.

Following in the footsteps of her father, Isabel got Phoebe up early – though did nine o'clock really qualify as early? No, when Isabel had had “a lapse in judgment,” as her mother called it, being woken by her father at seven on a Saturday was
de rigueur
.

Isabel had breakfast waiting for her daughter and hoped that the two of them could spend a little time further discussing the previous day's events. She hoped to explain to Phoebe that she wanted the best for her, something her father had never bothered with. She wanted her to know that teenagers were notorious for being incapable of seeing the consequences of their actions, which is why so many teens drove recklessly and sometimes were killed. They placed loyalty to their peers above telling their parents the truth. So now, did Phoebe understand that simply going along with her friends wasn't always the right thing to do? And not telling your parents the truth only compounded the problem?

“Oh, is that so?” Phoebe said after Isabel had finished her little speech. She picked at a piece of cantaloupe on her plate.

Her daughter's answer rattled her. She didn't recall being that sardonic with her father. No, she hadn't dared. We're too easy on these kids, she thought.

“It wasn't Jessie and Emma's fault, so I don't get why you don't want me to see them?”

“Because they used even poorer judgment than you. Smoking marijuana is illegal, in case you've forgotten.”

Isabel suddenly recalled her own mother saying that examining someone's parents told you reams about the child. If Jessie was a reflection of her permissive mother, nothing more needed to be said. She had to get Phoebe away from her.

“I just don't think Jessie's a good influence,” Isabel said. “I don't want you hanging around with girls like that.”

Phoebe stared at her a long moment, before saying, “Would Jessie's mom tell her not to see me? No way, Mom! No way! You are
so
weird. Do you get that?” Phoebe shoved the plate of food away and ran up the stairs.

Isabel didn't have the heart or energy to follow her. Nor did she know how to keep Phoebe from actually continuing her friendship with Jessie and Emma. After a few minutes, an idea occurred to her. She found Ron in his study and after she made the suggestion he looked at her much as Phoebe had. “You mean you want
me
to tell Jessie's father that we think the girls shouldn't see each other?”

“Of course not. Maybe you can just casually drop the hint that they should cool it for a while. See what he thinks. But if he disagrees, push him.” She watched him closely. “I know what you're capable of in the persuasion department.”

“That's nuts, Iz.”

“You have a better idea?”

He shook his head, though the look on his face suggested otherwise.

“Then what are you waiting for?” She handed him the school directory. “Under ‘L' for Littleton, though I guess you knew that,” she said. She took a step back, about to leave.

“Oh, Christ, Iz. Do I have to?”

She met his question with silence, then pivoted and left his study. In the hallway, she heard him release a weary sigh. Though normally this might have engendered a sympathetic response, just then her heart felt closed toward him. He would do as she'd asked if for no better reason than being grateful she'd said nothing more about Sandy. And there were times, this being one of them, that Isabel fought for the safety and well-being of her kids, even if it meant alienating Ron.

Hunched against the chill wind, Ron scurried across the empty street to the Silver Dollar, a retro diner in Bethesda, known for its 1950s style breakfasts. Eggs, bacon, hash browns, OJ, and unlimited refills of coffee in thick old-fashioned mugs. Though he'd accepted his assignment without complaint – well, almost – he did not relish this breakfast with Bill. It had been awkward just calling him. He'd even felt vaguely faggy doing it and had hoped Bill couldn't make it.

His breath blew out in plumes. About to step inside the diner, he recalled his encounter with Sandy and the hard-on he'd had in the middle of the night. Another gust of wind reached down his neck and shook him out of his reverie.

Just before heading out, Ron had Googled Bill's company, and read enough to know how successful it was. Apparently, Littleton Construction was responsible for converting entire Bethesda neighborhoods from 1950s and ‘60s tract houses into monstrous six- and seven-thousand-square-foot, energy-sucking homes. Of course it also meant that Bill provided handily for his wife, which stirred a bit of envy in him.

Inside the diner he spotted Bill in a corner booth. Prepared not to like him, Ron was surprised by his friendliness and how quickly the guy drove to the bottom line of their meeting. Ron imagined this was a sign of his considerable success, or perhaps that he didn't suffer fools gladly (and what was this but a fool's errand?), or that someone in construction might be busy even on weekends. A man on the rise.

“So – I guess this whole thing with Sam's mom sucks,” Bill said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, her bustin' in on the kids. Another half hour and she wouldn't have caught ‘em.” He must have noticed Ron's slightly startled look, because he added, “I mean I did worse when I was in high school. And look at me, I turned out all right.” His face broke into a grin.

Unsure how to respond, Ron said, “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

“You were a wild ass too?”

“Well, not exactly.” He took a sip of coffee, trying to figure out how to maneuver the conversation toward what needed to be said. Outside, a gust of wind scattered a few leaves; a stray piece of paper tumbled into the street. A man hurried by, his collar turned up. Ron's eyes still on the passerby, he said, “So, you think it's okay for the kids to smoke pot?”

“Hell, that stuff should be legal. Way too much money spent on law enforcement over something not much different than drinking booze.”

“I agree with you there. But for now it's still illegal—”

Bill seemed fidgety. He played with a straw the waitress had left. Dipped it into the water then sucked it into his mouth. “So what'd you want to tell me?”

Ron stared at him, trying to summon the words he needed, but lost his nerve. “We grounded Phoebe. What about you guys?”

“Yeah, we can't come right out and say smokin's okay so we're keeping Jess close to home this weekend.”

“Oh?” A weekend, that's it, Ron thought, then added, “Phoebe's grounded for the next few weeks.” He hesitated to say a full month.

Bill's brow arched in surprise. “Lockin' her up, huh?”

“Sort of. She lied to Isabel. That doesn't sit well with her.” After Phoebe's outburst the previous night, he and Isabel had argued for the better part of an hour about the whole situation. He thought she'd meted out too harsh a punishment, but he couldn't believe the tap on the wrist Jessie'd gotten. Wait till Isabel heard. It would confirm all her worst fears about Sandy and Bill, though maybe, he hoped, she'd also realize that four weeks was far too long.

Bill's fingers tapped the Formica table. “Sure wish you could still have a smoke now and then. Cigarettes, I mean.” He chuckled. “Typical Jess, she told Sandy everything. Came clean. Sandy thought she should reward her for that.”

“Jesus, really? Izzy thinks if ever there's a time to pull the reins in, this is it. Before they get into worse trouble.”

Bill tilted his head, as if scrutinizing Ron, who suddenly felt as if Bill understood the entire complexity of his relationship with Isabel. That his attractive, accomplished wife might on occasion be difficult, that she had strong feelings about child-rearing and that sometimes this was a bone of contention between them. Along with a host of other things. Like this assignment she'd foisted on him.

Two plates of food clattered onto the table. “Any more coffee, gents?” the waitress asked.

They both nodded. “Please,” Ron added. He dug into his food and again tried to think of how to broach the sensitive subject he was obligated to communicate. Maybe he would simply
forget
to mention the idea of Phoebe and Jessie “cooling it.” Iz would never know. The eggs tasted great and the bacon was cooked to crispy perfection. Ron hated limp bacon.

Now as he watched Bill eat heartily, he couldn't help wondering what Sandy was like in the sack. How often they had sex. Probably more frequently than he and Iz, which never seemed enough. Where did twice a week fall on the Richter scale of sex among married couples? And, really, once a week was more like it. He wondered if things would be different if he made more money, or at least was a star reporter. Time to get serious about another job, he suddenly thought, as he continued to observe Bill, who chewed his food loudly. He returned to the task at hand. How could he get to the point? Why had his shrewd interviewing skills suddenly abandoned him?

“What do you think the girls should do?” Ron asked. He recognized the vagueness of his question as soon as it exited his mouth so he tried framing it another way. “I mean in terms of hanging out with each other?”

Bill's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Ron waved at the waitress, hoping to catch her attention, then drained what was left of his coffee. She stopped by and he extended the cup in her direction. “Thanks.” Turning back to Bill, he said, “I mean, look, Isabel thinks maybe they should cool it a while.” Oh, God, had he just said that? Actually blamed Isabel? “Well, you know, not hang out.”

Bill stared at Ron. “You're kidding, right? They're best friends.”

Ron felt like he was in quicksand. “I'm with you, Bill. It's crazy. Guess she thinks they're not a good influence on each other. For now. A month apart and I'm sure this'll blow over. Everything'll get back to normal.”

Bill leaned back against the leatherette booth, tapping his fingers in rhythm to a Buddy Holly tune playing on the jukebox. “Can't say this'll go over real well at home; imagine Sandy'll be a little pissed off.” He speared the hash browns, then, half-grinning, he added, “Your wife, she a control freak?”

Ron felt that way at times, but now came to her defense. “She's just overly protective. Phoebe had a rough time last year and Isabel doesn't want a repeat.” He explained the circumstances briefly, but stopped short of revealing that she'd begun cutting herself.

“Jessie wasn't part of that teasing shit, you know.”

Ron was surprised he knew about it at all. “I figured, but thanks for telling me. Phoebe tried to keep the whole thing a secret, but eventually we found out. It was pretty awful. Poor kid.” Ron pushed his last piece of bacon around on the plate. His appetite had diminished.

“Look, maybe just skip telling Sandy the thing about Phoebe and Jessie. I don't think it's a good idea.” He knew he was going out on a limb and would probably pay for it later. “I like your daughter; I'd like to get to know her better. Phoebe thinks very highly of her, and right now she needs her friends.”

“They all do.”

The two men concluded their meeting with small talk. With his regular acquaintances, he'd turn to politics, the presidential election and the like, but with Bill he brought up the Redskins, how they'd do in the coming season, whether Rex Grossman would be the starting quarterback, which players were benched for this reason or that and their chances against other teams. Could this be the year?

Before they left, they traded cell phone numbers, agreeing to stay in touch, though Ron knew it was unlikely. He was just glad the encounter was over. Now he had to return home and face whatever disaster was brewing there. At least he had time to figure out what he'd tell Isabel.