Carousel Court (32 page)

67

T
he next morning. Nothing has changed. Phoebe's still leaving. She's moving to New York with Jackson. She's taking the position that JW is offering, the apartment he found for her. She's sitting upright on the bed. The house is quiet. Nick is outside in the front yard, spraying it with green dye. Metzger is talking to him. Kostya's black pickup truck approaches and slows to a stop and the three men talk and something is handed to Nick by Marina, who is riding shotgun. It's a Tupperware container. She must be asking about Phoebe, because Nick motions toward the bedroom window where Phoebe stands; she disappears before they can see her.

Phoebe looks at her phone: It's almost noon. She got home at two
A.M.
and was awake until five, online, reading about day care and pre-K and nanny shares on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. She drew up a budget on printer paper. A few extra Klonopins and she must have blacked out at some point, because at six she woke up on the back patio, wrapped in a white sheet on the chaise longue, only feet from the faded bloodstains Nick tried to scrub away. What woke her was the cicada crawling up the side of her neck.

• •

This morning there's no message from JW. No follow-up to the instructions he sent her last night for meeting him tomorrow, the game he wanted to play:
Rent a car, follow my directions, meet me at the little shop off the beach near Malibu.
She pushed back, told him to stop. This was her life, not some inconsequential thing. He wrote:
Of course, gorgeous, but the car rental is obvious. How else do you plan to get to me? Doesn't your husband need the car? Do you want me to pick you up?

She sends a message, says good morning, asks what happens after she arrives at the shop by the ocean. There is no response. She considers: What if JW left, went back to New York without her answer? What if she packs, books a flight, shows up in Manhattan with Jackson and the keys to the apartment on East Eighty-Ninth Street and lets herself in? What if, by the time JW calls her back or returns the text, she's already there, filling her refrigerator with kiwi and mango and organic kale and almond milk, waiting for the cable company and scheduling nanny interviews? He can't say no. She'll be there. She wonders if she can leave tomorrow. Tonight? A red-eye to JFK. Don't think. Just go. Now.

Jackson isn't in his room or downstairs. When Nick comes inside, he carries the Tupperware and his hands are green. He says nothing to her as he passes. He walks to the kitchen.

“Where's Jackson?”

He doesn't respond. He's washing his hands at the clean sink, all the dishes loaded into the dishwasher. She asks again. He opens the container, picks out a strawberry, pops it in his mouth.

“Where is he? Is he with Mai?”

He tries to leave the room. She grabs his arm. He knocks her hand away. She slaps his neck. He raises a fist. “Fuck! You!” he roars.

“It's my fault,” she says. “All of it.”

He shakes his head. He's sweaty and red. He walks away.

She follows him. “I know that,” she says. “I own it. I have to live with it. Whatever happens, I realize is because of me and all of my exceptionally unreasonable expectations and conditions.”

Nick stops, pivots. “Set by who?” he says. He struggles to pull his sweat-soaked T-shirt over his head. “You set them. For me. And what did you do? Drove a car full of pills around Boston? That's the ambition you're referring to? The expectations that weren't met?” The wet shirt is wrapped around his right fist and he punches the wall, four times in rapid succession. The last blow causes the wall to give way. The hole is surprisingly clean, the wall hollowed out, nothing behind the eggshell plaster surface.

Nick stands over the laptop, scrolls through email messages, double-­clicking, scanning, deleting. He's refusing to engage on her terms, at her pace. Her urgency for resolution doesn't match his. She needs his full attention, and instead he put a hole through the wall. For what? To scare her? Intimidate her? At this point?

“You lost respect for me,” he says. “I get that.”

“I did,” she says.

“At least we're being honest with each other.”

“We are,” she says.

“So I did fuck that girl.” Nick closes the laptop. “And I may want to keep fucking her. I don't know what my point is other than to say since it's all on the table, we may as well see it through. What else?”

“I don't respect you as much as I need to,” she says.

“Well, you can't stay married to someone you don't respect.”

“And I don't expect you to,” she says. She moves closer to him, at his face.

“Move away,” he says.

“I am.”

“Now. Step away now, before it gets bad.”

She doesn't move.

“Ugly stuff,” he says. “Move.”

She takes a couple of small, careful steps back, grips the back of the dining room chair.

“For his sake. You and I can't go forward together,” he says. “His dad can't be a punk. Some used-up taken-advantage-of little bitch.”

“I know.”

“You need to leave,” he says, his voice rising again.

“I am.”

Nick passes her, the chair between them. She tenses. He continues upstairs. “Now,” he says coolly. Phoebe waits, exhales when she hears the bedroom door close and lock.

She should leave. She should take the Subaru and go. But that doesn't make sense. She has to pack, plan. She has to get Jackson and check flights. She should follow JW's instructions and call Enterprise and meet him and lock this down. She can do it all now, not stop until she's airborne, heading back east with her son.

He's napping. That's what Mai tells her when she calls. Jackson just went down. Phoebe doesn't ask Mai to wake him. She needs everything to be as normal as possible until they're boarding the flight, if that's what it comes to, if she takes it that far. There is a JetBlue flight to JFK that departs Los Angeles at 10:50
P.M.
She messages JW.

Think we're flying out tonight. Unless I hear otherwise from you. No point in waiting, right?

There's no response. She wants confirmation from JW that doing something rash, impulsive, is actually okay. If he's serious about the offer, and she has the keys to the apartment, why not now? What difference does it make when she gets there?

She walks quietly upstairs. The bedroom door is still closed. She goes into Jackson's room. She closes and locks the door. The clothes in his blue dresser are folded. She dumps them out. She's on her knees, carefully refolding Jackson's clothes, placing them in her own red suitcase.

The room, she realizes, is immaculate. Freshly cleaned. Mai must have done it. Nick brought her back last week despite Phoebe's insistence that she needed no help because she was free now, her days were hers again. Nick didn't trust her. He dumped a Whole Foods bag full of empty prescription vials on the kitchen island to make his point. She was out of control and needed help. “Nothing fatal,” he said in a cool, detached tone as she scooped bottles up from the floor. “Just tidy up the frayed edges. Get off the meds. Get some rest. No shame in asking for help. We've all been there.” His nonchalance and complete lack of condescension actually set her off. As though he was
so far beyond the need for intervention that he could handle her crisis with the poise and maturity of someone whose life was in order. And she did kind of overreact, she recalls: throwing glasses, silverware, the casserole dish that was a wedding gift from Nick's aunt. She stood poised with the black crowbar that Nick kept under the kitchen sink, just in case. Held it over her head, ready to bring it down on something, on him. And he walked away from the fight. To her surprise, she let him.

• •

Standing in the hushed carpeted hallway, she hears Nick showering. She hears the television he's turned on in the bedroom. She hears him clear his throat and spit. He'll be ten minutes under the hot water, always too long in the shower, always too hot. The room will be choked with steam and he'll open the door and it'll pour out and he'll emerge with a towel around his waist and check his phone while the moisture and sweat dry under the ceiling fan. Then he'll collapse on the bed and close his eyes and lie motionless. She knows his patterns and routines. She knows how worn out he is. She can't recall the last time she heard him laugh. And there's no more adventure for her but her son.

• •

He's startled to find her in the bedroom. She picked the lock with a screwdriver.

“You look tired. You should rest,” she says.

He ignores her, walks naked, no towel, past her sitting upright at the foot of their unmade bed. “Believe me when I say you should leave.”

“You haven't calmed down yet?”

He starts to hum.

“Want some?” She produces a small sterling silver pillbox, the head of a jaguar, that she knows Nick has never seen because she bought it on Etsy last week. It's filled with little yellow tablets, a few pink.

He applies lotion and deodorant and pulls on boxer briefs and
walks to his side of the bed and sets the alarm on his iPhone. Phoebe starts to say something, but he cuts her off, looking down at his ­iPhone while he speaks. “Did I tell you the good news?”

“No.”

“I got an offer,” he says. “I accepted an offer. Salary, benefits, no more nights.”

“Doing what?”

“Management.”

“With who? The same people?”

“It's stable and they like me.”

“If that's what you want,” she says.

“I'll be earning more and working less. Jackson can have Mai until
next
fall and then Serenos Montessori.” He slaps the dresser with an open hand for emphasis. “With or without you, babe. We'll be fine. I know that's not nearly enough for you: getting by, making ends meet. That doesn't cut it. But you know what? Jackson's going to be fine. He's going to thrive. Because of what I do.”

“Your utter lack of imagination and ambition.”

“Jackson is thriving,” Nick says. “He can
swim.
He's not even three and he's keeping himself afloat. That is only because we came here, found Mai, made that happen.”

“You're not hearing me at all.”

“I can't shut you up.”

“Don't you get tired of yourself?” she says. “The manic running around. Aren't you sick of yourself yet?”

“If I could fuck my way to prosperity.”

“Avoid it. Keep avoiding.”

“I'm salaried now. I did what I had to do.”

“Congratulations.”

“Answer this for me: When do
you
make something happen? Aside from nearly killing our son last year, when does Phoebe Maguire do something of consequence in this world?”

“We set completely unreasonable expectations for each other.”

“I didn't.”

“There was no way. That's my fault.”

“This is poisoned. We're toxic.”

She stands at the doorway. She trembles when she hears herself say it: “You can have him.” Her voice cracks. Silence.

Nick says nothing. He stands at the window overlooking Carousel Court. Deserted. The orange tent. The dim orange hue. Another dry windy night.

“For now,” she adds haltingly. “Until I'm settled.”

“Once you go,” he says, and turns around to say more.

She's gone.

68

N
ick is home alone with Jackson, who is sleeping while Nick is drinking and texting Mallory. It's not going well.

You don't think very highly of me do you?

Idk

I love being a father.

I don't care. Just stop dude.

There's more going on you know. It's not just me being a pig. You know? There are other factors. You don't believe me. How old are you?

Why are you doing this?

Respond.

Stop texting me.

No.

No?

Answer the question.

You've sent me an INSANE amount of messages.

Answer the question. Tell me how old you are
.

A few minutes pass. She doesn't respond.

You can
't even comprehend how complicated it becomes.

After another five minutes and no response:
And you can fuck
yourself you little whore. Ignore me. Who the fuck are you? I know where you live.

The message that arrives minutes later is from Mallory's number, but the language isn't hers.
Bad move, dude. We know where YOU live and what time your viet nanny shows up and leaves.

A JPEG arrives next. The image is Nick's own lewd picture he sent to Mallory. Another arrives: Phoebe and Jackson in the Explorer in the driveway, Metzger's orange tent clearly visible.

The last message:
We know where YOU live.

He sends a text apologizing. He calls and gets voicemail. He leaves no message. He texts again. He asks her to stop. He explains that he's drunk and there's so much going on in his life right now and he's not in a good place and to please disregard his stupidity.

Finally, a photo in response: scrawled in red Sharpie on a piece of cardboard, their address on Carousel Court.

Nick walks upstairs, glances at Jackson, who clutches a stuffed black dog in his crib. Nick stands at the window, pulls back the curtain. The street below is empty. Metzger's tent is dark. Nick listens, watches for what's coming.

69

W
hen Phoebe returns, Nick and Jackson are asleep. She drove to the beach and sat on the pier and watched teen­agers smoke weed and board the Ferris wheel and win cheap prizes. She considered the water, slipped off her sandals, and placed one foot on the railing. It was cool, like the wind off the ocean. If they'd just lived here, she thought. Instead she looked inland and saw the orange glow along the edge of the horizon, hillsides burning, and the Ferris wheel was turning and shimmering and the pounding surf was speaking to her. It's midnight when she gets home. She undresses and drinks wine on the patio under a white sheet. The message that chimes is from JW at last and is in the form of an email, not a text. There is no note or comment in the body of it, only a single word in the subject line:
Thoughts?