“Jake’s parents,” Helen had whispered.
Phoebe tried not to stare, but temptation hung heavy. Compared with Mr. and Mrs. Pierce, her parents were Tony Curtis and Janet Leigh. Her father kept trim and immaculate, his thick red hair always close cut, shirts ironed taut. Her mother girdled her body into submission, arranged her curls to flatter her wholesome, round face, and never left the house without swiping on her Royalty Red lipstick.
Jake resembled his father, but only in the broadest terms. Mr. Pierce drooped as though someone had vacuumed out his muscle, leaving only the doughy parts. His arms dangled like a monkey’s, making him appear shorter than Jake, even though he matched him in height—both of them nudging six feet, though losing out on the final half inch. But where his father wilted, Jake gleamed with rugged ambition and virility.
Even now, at the beginning of summer, Jake had become toasted-delicious, with a lifeguard tan matching his broad swimmer’s body, which narrowed at the hips. Sun streaks coppered his thick russet-brown hair. A cleft divided his chin. Rough skin and heavy-lidded eyes saved him from being a pretty boy.
Jake’s mother had worn a housedress to the competition; the sort worn by women who lived in ancient apartment houses complete with basements perfect for murder. Phoebe’s mother described living in those dingy brick buildings as having tickets to a tiny bit of hell.
“Not even an elevator! You know who lives in those places?” she’d ask. “Lazy people who don’t care how their children grow up. Remember, girls, never let your husband come home to a messy wife.”
That bit of Mom’s wisdom seemed worth taking. After all, her parents still held hands. Daddy’s smile when he looked at her mother wrapped their whole family in love. At night, Phoebe could hear them giggle from their bedroom.
Jake twirled her in a circle, almost lifting her off the ground. “Once upon a time, my mother combined the looks of Jayne Mansfield and Jane Russell in one woman—though personally, I go for the Audrey Hepburn type. Now my mother’s Sophie Tucker. Catching my father when she did was a good move for her.”
“You make marriage sound horrid. Like a game.”
He raised his dark eyebrows. “The game of love, baby. Everything in life is some sort of contest, and everyone wants to be a winner.” He squeezed her close. “You and I, we’ll always win.”
? ? ?
Phoebe slowed her steps as she and Jake approached her house. She almost tiptoed; if she made the slightest sound, her mother would be out on the porch before Jake’s lips touched hers.
Two weeks before, when she had come home from a date with scraped red cheeks, beard burn showing on both her good and not-so-good sides, her mother had lectured her for forty minutes on the fate of girls who got mixed up with boys who didn’t control themselves.
“Listen, Phoebe. No one ever blames the boy when something happens. You better believe girls always wear the mistake. You’ll be the one taking care of the results, and you can take that to the bank.”
Jake’s energy traveled at the speed of light, gathering friends and followers as he sprinted. He worked two jobs, but being miserly didn’t come with his hard work. Every time she turned around, he opened his wallet, whether buying burgers for the entire crowd or buying her a teddy bear that she had thought cute.
“Do you know how lucky you are? Look at this.” He spread his arms wide as though to hold the wide, leafy street. Buckingham Road resembled a miniature world. Walk one block away, and congested Brooklyn returned: people jostling into one another as they raced to the subway, hurrying from the candy store to the delicatessen to the Chinese laundry, everyone rushing like the tide at Coney Island. Molecules pressed in, all the breath, all the words flying out of people’s mouths.
In fourth grade, Miss Leanza had said that almost 8 million people lived in New York City. Sometimes Phoebe thought they all converged on Church Avenue.
Buckingham Road offered an oasis. An island of green divided it in two. A median of trees and grass lifted her street into something majestic.
Jake reached for her. A magnetic pull slammed them together. Since meeting Jake, she understood why her mother made such a fuss over Phoebe’s comings and goings. Without the rules of convention, Phoebe would crush her lips to Jake’s until they consumed each other.
He pressed against her. The sensation of wanting him closer, an arousal as agonizing as it was exhilarating, left her confused and breathless.
“Okay. Okay.” She pushed him away, excitement slowing her speech. “My mother will come out any minute.”
He walked her to the doorway, stopping for one more clench before they stepped on the porch. “Which window is yours?” he asked. “I want to imagine you curling up in bed.”
She pointed to the corner of the second floor. Her room overlooked the lush greenery. Sometimes, when her mother’s criticisms piled up and Phoebe began to see nothing but wispy hair and pimples in the mirror, she would stare out the window and imagine an amazing future when her life gleamed so bright that even her mother’s words couldn’t hurt.
For now, she had Jake.
CHAPTER 3
Phoebe
November 1963
“Come on, Pheebs. What’s the big deal in missing one class? You’re in college, not the army.”
Phoebe tuned Jake out, shuffling notes as she sat cross-legged on her bed.
“All the other girlfriends will be at the party,” he said. “Show up for me, okay?”
Phoebe gritted her teeth as Jake begged. “I told you. I’m not cutting class. My paper’s due.”
The only way he’d please her at this point was to leave and let her finish writing “What People Think of the Poor.” He deserved credit, though. He’d helped her with the assignment, distributing her questionnaire to twenty of his Brooklyn College fraternity brothers and forcing them to fill them out. He’d even answered one himself, surprising her with some of his responses—quick and pointed; Jake was not typically one to indulge in pontification.
Q: To what degree do you think the poor are responsible for their own plight?
A: The rich will do anything they can to keep what belongs to them. Thus the poor must claw at the rich to get theirs.
Q: Which of these aphorisms do you think best describes your attitude toward the poor in America?
1. God helps those who help themselves.
2. The poor must pull themselves up by their bootstraps.
3. The meek shall inherit the earth.
A: Number 1!!! Everyone’s got to grab their own prize. No one hands over money.