Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (25 page)

“For heaven's sakes, Iz, stop worrying about it,” he said dismissively, adding, “I trust Phoebe to do the right thing.”

“I trust her too, but he's older and you know how boys are.” She looked at him for some sign that he agreed, but his eyes were trained on the newspaper, which he'd brought to bed. She was changing into her silky pj's. “Between her meeting some phantom kid we've never met, a cute guy who will no doubt break your daughter's heart, and being at that woman's house where I just know they'll look the other way on the whole drinking business, how can you not worry?”

Ron seemed about to snap at Isabel when instead he finally looked up and took note of the pajamas he'd given her. “Well, there is a solution.” His voice contained a teasing tone.

She stopped and peered curiously at him. “What's that? You'll go there as a reporter and cover it for the society page of the
Post
?” She laughed.

Suddenly in an indulgent and obvious good mood, he smiled. “Something like that.” He patted the bed next to him and Isabel extended her leg beneath the sheet, then slid in. They scooted close to one another under the covers. “I was invited to be one of the chaperones at the Littletons' party,” he finished.

“You've got to be kidding?” She turned and stared at him in disbelief.

“Nope. I was asked today.”

“Bill?” she said hopefully. He shook his head, and she said, “Sandy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The nerve of her, Ron! How could she ask my husband? No one does that. No respectable woman anyway.”

He shrugged, recalling the sultry tone of Sandy's voice.
Ron
, she'd said on the phone,
I have a favor to ask
. Despite his last-minute cancellation, due to a pang of guilt and the need to be on top of election results, Ron was surprised at what a perfectly good sport she'd been. She'd said a few other things too, but he wouldn't be mentioning those either. His thoughts switched back to the matter at hand. Of course he understood Isabel's indignation. Women asked other women. Not their husbands.

“I have half a mind to call her.”

Ron, looking slightly alarmed, stayed her arm as if she were about to reach for the phone that sat on the bedside table. “Iz, you know I'm not going, don't you?”

Her face crumpled a little, and her head lolled onto Ron's shoulder. “That woman is the bane of my existence,” she said.

“Don't let her be,” he replied softly and kissed the top of her head.

She pushed the newspaper out of his hands. “You've read everything there is to read about the Obama win,” she said, “so let's concentrate on something…something more important.” She bussed his cheek and slowly moved her hand below his navel.

He breathed in the familiar scent of Isabel's hair, drew her to him and kissed her neck and face, then ran his hand down the length of her spine, cupping her buttocks and letting her feel his hardness. They made love the way they always did, not too vigorously, but lovingly. It was comforting, but for some reason, afterward, Isabel wept a little.

“Mom, can't you hurry up a little? At this speed we'll never get there!”

“I'm going the speed limit,” Isabel replied.

Phoebe released a loud sigh.

Isabel still regretted letting Phoebe go to the party. Her consent, though, had come with two conditions. One: any alcohol and she was supposed to call home immediately; and two: curfew was at 11 o'clock. Isabel would arrive promptly, waiting outside to pick her up.

Despite what Phoebe had said a week earlier – that she didn't care about staying past ten-thirty, the time when Shane had to leave – she'd put up a vociferous fight to make it later, worthy of any defense attorney's final rebuttal in a trial. Turning a brilliant smile on her mother and hugging her, she'd begged, “Come on, Mom, make it eleven. Please.”

And Isabel had acquiesced, thinking about what Dr. Sharma had said. “I think you can trust Phoebe to do the right thing. And if you
let her know
you trust her, I don't think you'll be disappointed.”

Now Phoebe grew chatty, happy even, talking to the three girls in the back seat – Skyla, Molly and Daisy. It was good to see her this way, and yet Isabel couldn't entirely shake worrying about her, vulnerable as she was.

“Do you think I look okay?” Phoebe said, then added to the girls in back, “Can you believe I'm finally going to meet Shane?” A couple of days earlier, she'd marshaled the courage to tell Skyla and her troop of friends about his desire to go out with her, and to her relief discovered he hadn't asked anyone else.

Don't remind me
, Isabel thought, and felt the need to interject. “That should be interesting, but you don't know him, so be careful, honey.”

“Oh, Mawm, what can happen?” Phoebe asked impatiently. “Right, Skyla?”

“I'll watch out for her, Ms. Winthrop. I promise,” Skyla said in her take-charge voice.

“Hmm,” Isabel said, glancing at Phoebe.
How eager she is
. She couldn't help feeling as if she were sending her lamb to slaughter. All those hormonal boys, all those temptations, all that poor decision-making, and then there was the bigger issue: all at Jessie Littleton's party. Isabel imagined boys and girls pairing off and drifting into dark rooms, drinking alcohol that had been smuggled in, kids guzzling beer and perhaps smoking pot, with no one to stop them, and all the while Phoebe saying, “What can happen?”

She wanted to lecture her. All four of the girls. To itemize all the things that
could
and often
did
happen, but she'd already done that and it would only alienate Phoebe, who was hopefully smart enough to avoid the myriad temptations, especially the kind that got you into trouble.

“Mom, you've got that look on your face!” Phoebe said, cutting into Isabel's thoughts. Then her voice softened. “It's gonna be all right. I promise.” Phoebe smiled at her, and Isabel smiled back, reveling in the sweetness of the moment like every other imperfect parent who loves her imperfect child.

“All right. Have a good time. I'll text when I'm out front, okay? But don't keep me waiting.” Glancing over her shoulder at the girls in back, she added, “You three have another ride, right?”

In response, Skyla articulated each word as if Isabel were hard of hearing. “Yes, Ms. Winthrop, my mom is going to pick us up.”

“Okay, there it is.” Phoebe pointed at a house that was big, really big, boastful and showy, but attractive too. She realized then that in the twelve months of Phoebe and Jessie's friendship she'd never once been here. What did that say about her? That Bethesda, a nearby Maryland suburb, was an inconvenient drive from Cleveland Park? She suddenly felt terrible that Sandy had always driven them, and Isabel had let her. I suppose I should have been more grateful for that, she thought.

She drew up to the curb and the girls got out. She watched them giggle as they made their way to the front door. Waiting for someone to let them in, she drank in every inch of the well-lit place, which was just shy of a mansion. In fact, the mini-manse took up two lots and had the feel of a ski chalet, one you might find in Aspen or Vail. It was constructed of stone and wood shingles, an elaborate peaked archway over the front door, and a dark metal-roofed porch that ran the length of the house. A wide driveway led to a three-car garage located on one side of the house, and a perfectly manicured garden wrapped around the other. It looked twice the size of her own home.

The beep of a text. From Phoebe.
You can go now. Bye!

She glanced up just in time to see one of the double doors open and swallow the girls. Despite craning her neck, she hadn't been able to tell if it was an adult who'd let them in. She shifted the BMW into gear and rolled away from the curb. She hadn't traveled fifty feet when in her rearview mirror she noticed the headlights of a car drawing to a halt in the spot she'd just vacated. She slowed the BMW enough to see who was getting out.

Several teens erupted noisily from the vehicle and slammed the doors. Halfway up the sidewalk to the Littletons, they stopped. And so did Isabel. She rolled down the window and observed the scene through her side and rearview mirrors. There was whispering, a bit of head bobbing, laughter and then movement – a multilegged, shape-shifting creature closing in on the front steps. Once more, the door opened and inhaled the group.

The temptation to circle the block and continue observing the house for a bit stirred inside her. She even wished she could go inside to assure herself there was no alcohol. A brief battle raged, but then she headed home. She wouldn't be so worried, she told herself, if this party were anywhere but at Sandy's.

Moths danced in Phoebe's gut as she glanced about the room in search of Shane. She was downstairs, on the party level, in one of several large rooms filled with her classmates, most of them people she'd come to know over the past couple of months. When she spied a shock of hair that matched Shane's photo her heart thumped loudly in her head. The boy turned. It was someone else. She needed to get a grip.

Just then Mrs. Littleton wound through the room, waving and welcoming everyone as if she were a celebrity. She wore a very huggy, green sweater with a plunging neckline and super-tight pants. Even though she didn't mean for it to, the word
slutty
popped into Phoebe's head. “There's lots of food and drink. So don't be shy, help yourselves.” She stopped briefly to speak with Dylan, then called out, “If anybody needs us, Bill and I will be upstairs, okay?” She brandished a smile then disappeared.

A few seconds later, Emma presented her with a beer. “You look like you could use this.”

Phoebe gave her a questioning look. “Really? You sure this is okay?”

“You kidding? We're at the Littletons', remember?”

Then without any more thinking, she grabbed the can and poured liquid down her throat. “Careful,” Emma said, “not too fast. Remember what happened at the dance?” Which is the first time Phoebe thought that perhaps it had been Emma who'd stroked her hair when she'd gotten sick that night.

In the corner the band was setting up its equipment. The two girls moved closer and watched. Noah looked up and waved Phoebe over. “You wanna come?” Phoebe asked Emma, but her friend urged her to go ahead. “I'll go see what Nick's up to.” She waggled her eyebrows like Groucho Marx and tapped a pretend cigar.

Still smiling from Emma's antics, Phoebe offered Noah a sip of her beer. He took a slug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, approximating the gestures of a pro, when Phoebe knew he was an amateur drinker at best. She also wasn't sure what to say. Between her wandering thoughts and questions – what would she say to Shane when he arrived, what would his voice sound like, would he like her once he actually met her? – she finally managed, “You look good, Noah. Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He sat down on the stool, pushed the sleeves of his jacket up to liberate his forearms, and took a few preliminary taps, grazing the top of each drum, then banged the bass with the foot pedal. Boom. Boom. Boom.

“Don't worry, nobody'll even be listening,” she said, followed immediately by an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, you know what I mean.”

He nodded. “I'll look for you when we take a break.”

“Okay,” Phoebe said, though she hoped he wouldn't. How awkward if he found her with Shane. She took another sip of the beer then set it down and wandered off in search of Emma or Skyla or maybe even Jess. In the background, she could hear the band warming up.

A dozen kids, five of them girls, were scattered around a pingpong table, which had been prepped for a game of beer pong. Skyla was among them. Phoebe watched as the blonde tilted a plastic pong cup an inch above her mouth and allowed the beer to cascade into her mouth.

For a nanosecond, her mother's admonition flashed through Phoebe's mind –
if there's any alcohol, you call me, is that clear?
– then she joined the others and took her chances, tossing the feather-light ping pong ball at one of the many cups lined up on the other side of the table and keeping a lookout for the adorable, inimitable Shane.

At home Isabel managed to distract herself by pouring a glass of her favorite white wine, then sat down with Jackson on the sofa in the family room, half an eye on the TV, where Spider-Man bounded from building to building, bringing some thug to justice without much ado. If only real life were so easy, she thought.

She'd spent half the day meeting with her new client, listening to all his lame excuses for misusing campaign funds. After a recitation of all the things he'd done for DC, he explained why he and his friends had flown first class to the Bahamas, why his wife had needed a new fur coat, and they'd both needed Rolex watches, never mind the thousands they'd spent on Michael Jackson memorabilia.

She'd listened patiently and then helped him to understand the likely consequences of his actions and how difficult it would be to keep him out of jail. “The best we can probably do will be to mitigate your sentence,” she had said. When he stared at her dully, she added, “For example, two years in jail, not four or five.” Perhaps this had been her subconscious way of hoping he'd leave and search for another attorney, she now thought.

It was already 8 o'clock and Ron still wasn't home. She looked forward to telling him about the Littleton's huge house, though perhaps she wouldn't. It still bothered her that he'd again mentioned Sandy at the very moment they were snuggling and ready to have sex the other night. She lamented the Freudian implications then chided herself for thinking that way.

She reached for her wine and with her other arm cradled Jackson a little more tightly. It was something he still occasionally allowed, especially with no one else around. They both stared at the TV and watched Tobey Maguire in his admirable rendition of Peter Parker.

When Ron finally came home, she asked what story had kept him so late. “Or were you out celebrating your job at the
Post
again?” Several nights he'd called saying he was having drinks with some of his new colleagues. She hated the fact that she was beginning to wonder.

Ron studied her a moment, began to say one thing then seemed to change his mind. “You really interested, or you just want to know whether the story has a chance of winning your illustrious husband the next Pulitzer?” he said with his new air of confidence.

She shook her head at him. “Don't be so cynical, of course I'm interested.”

He went to the fridge, pulled out a Stella, and said, “Believe it or not, I'm looking into how Obama's campaign used social networking so effectively and how that'll change all future political fundraising. Also, its need for regulation. You know, how people using social media might cross certain boundaries. How it might violate people's privacy.” He flipped the cap off the bottle and tossed it toward his son. “Think fast, sport.”