Tom and Sandra spent one afternoon with Pam and her sister in Babylon last weekend, and it was an eye-opener. He wasn’t a prude by any stretch of the imagination, or was he? After about an hour in the company of Pam’s neighbor Jeff Babcock, he realized that his tolerance for the man was near zero. And it wasn’t because he was gay; Tom was not a homophobe. No, it was because Jeff Babcock was a bore. And Pam’s sister Marie; being in her presence on two separate occasions was two too many. She was a nut case. Tom was only surprised that he had never encountered her before in police matters because her kind made up the bulk of his arrests. He didn’t feel one way or the other about Pam. She reminded him of all the wealthy matrons he had met who had empty, frivolous lives. He fought the temptation to investigate Jack Smith because if Sandra found out, it would definitely mean the end of them as a couple. But his police intuition smelled a rat; worse than an AIDS infected rat. He needed to get up and move; these thoughts were making him nervous.
“Do you want to walk down to the river?” Tom asked. “We can sit in the park and watch the sun go down.” They went back into the house, putting their cups in the kitchen. Sandra got a light sweater, even though it was warm out. Into her purse she put a bottle of water and a small package of tissues. She went into the bathroom and got bug repellant wipes out of her beach bag, just in case. Tom watched her with curiosity.
“We’re just going down to the park, not taking a trip to Coney Island,” he joked.
“You laugh, but I’m ready for anything.” She thought silently, not pregnancy or sexually transmitted diseases, but if they could avoid talking about that every single time they were together, they might learn a thing or two about each other so she kept those thoughts to herself. There were other, interesting topics to cover.
“I can see that,” Tom said. And she was right; it was cool down by the water, the mosquitoes were terrible, and he got thirsty and asked for the water. “I never get thirsty.” Tom talked about his sisters. Sandra told him she was frightened to meet his family. The idea that they were in Brooklyn and she had lived in Manhattan all her life was scary enough. They would have nothing in common
“My sisters will love you!” He said. Was that the truth? He wondered. They might hate her. His sisters were critical snobs. He couldn’t see them with Sandra at all, but he wasn’t going to say it. He would protect her from reality for as long as he could.
“The truth is that you don’t need to meet them until you are ready. Eventually I will tell them the truth about not being the baby’s father. If they can’t accept it and be respectful, they don’t have to see the baby. This brings us to the next issue. Do you want to have more? Because I want kids. A lot of them.” Tom said.
“I never thought about having children! This baby was a huge surprise. But I want it so badly; I guess I must want children.” Sandra was feeling very protective of her unborn. Did she want competition for him or her? Possibly someone who would take all of his father’s love away? Jack and his real father suddenly entered her thoughts. A chill went through her. History was repeating itself, only this baby’s life would have a better outcome than Jack’s.
She thought of the HIV. Would her doctor dissuade her from getting pregnant again? It was something she hadn’t thought of. She didn’t bring it up because once again, she didn’t want to ruin the mood.
At dusk, they started walking back to Sandra’s apartment. Then, possibly because she saw the unmarked car parked on her street, she thought of Jack’s brother, Bill. He was in prison, doing time for theft and attempted murder and for trying to kidnap her.
“Has anybody heard anything about Bill Smith?” Tom was the officer on the case. “It’s been so nice not having to worry about him,” she said.
“His trial is coming up end of September, I think. I’ll see if there is anything else. I know he’s had some visitors,” he said, looking down at Sandra. He was referring to his mother and sister-in-law, Pam.
“Do you know if they tested him for HIV?” Sandra asked.
“I’m sure they did. But the results will be private. That is one thing you don’t need to worry about, okay?” They arrived back to her apartment.
“I’m going to pull my car around back. Want to come with me?” Sandra felt the flush move through her body like a rollercoaster ride. He was going to spend the night.
Chapter 7
Blythe
I’m having a bad financial month. When Jack was alive, I got used to the money he gave me. Two thousand cash, every month. It was enough to pay my rent, electric bill and food. He told me to save it but I never did. Now I have to pay all my bills with the paltry money I make from my job, which is next to nothing when you have to start living on it. I am a bartender at Prestige. It’s not prestigious, however. It’s a dive. Jack lived a block from Prestige. Just one block over from the opulent Madison Avenue lifestyle is a filthy alleyway and Prestige is right off the alley. Jack came in every night for a drink.
I’ve been working there for about fifteen years. I’m a career barmaid. It isn’t what I had planned on doing with my life. I graduated from college. The job was supposed to be for just the summer, and in the fall I was going to start teaching in Smithtown. But that never happened because I met Jack. The first time he saw me, he hit on me. ‘Boy, you sure are pretty,’ he said. I thought, you’ve got to be kidding me! What a corny line. So I decided to keep it corny and answered, ‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’ We started talking. He came in the next night and we talked. He made the night go by quickly. He didn’t waste any time letting me in on what he wanted from me. I found out later that he lived in the neighborhood, that he lived alone. That was all I was able to learn about him. I still lived in Brooklyn at the time, but Jack wanted me to move into Manhattan. There was no way I could afford it. He never asked me to his place. ‘I don’t take girls up there,’ was all he said. He refused to discuss it. The first time we slept together, he got a room for us down the street. It was a crappy hotel, but not exactly a flea bag. He didn’t stay the night, but told me to, and gave me money to get breakfast in the morning. It was great not having to go back to Brooklyn in the middle of the night. For months we went to that hotel a couple of times a week. I knew why he got sick of the hotel. He found me a studio apartment midtown so he could take our love life a little farther onto the dark-side.
‘It’s time for you to move here,’ he said. ‘There are things I want to do to you that I can’t do in a hotel room.’ He laughed, coming to me and pretend biting my neck. Then he gave me some money. ‘Don’t spend all of this on your rent. If you can’t afford to live here, you should stay in Brooklyn, do you understand me? I want you to save some of this each month.’ At first, I did set some aside, but then I would see a dress or a pair of shoes and have to buy them. I have always been terrible with money.
I found out quickly that if I demanded anything of Jack, I wouldn’t see him. He would stop coming in to the bar, wouldn’t call me, for days. I never had his cell phone number, either. ‘I’ll see you almost every night during the week. I’ll call you daily. If that is not enough, tell me and we’ll stop this right now.’ I thought I could do it. I thought seeing him that often would be enough. Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn’t. I slowly got used to our life together. He’d come into the bar shortly before closing at two in the morning and have a drink or two and then he would walk home with me. He’d stay for an hour or so and go back to his own place. He never, ever spent the night.
Weekends sucked. I hated being in that neighborhood on the weekends because it was completely dead. My place looked out at the windows of an apartment next door. It was like a closet, dark and closed in. I didn’t know who lived in my building and didn’t want to know. I survived by working every weekend. I had to; there was nothing else for me to do. I didn’t have many friends in the city. My family was in Brooklyn and the few friends I used to have there had moved on. Jack never called me on the weekends. I didn’t know where his apartment was or what h
e did that couldn’t include me. In the early years, I would walk up and down Madison Avenue for hours at all times of the day and night, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
Then out of nowhere, I guess it was about ‘99, I was forced to go to the ballet with my family because my sister’s brother-in-law had a small role in the production. As we were waiting in a long line to go in, I looked up just as Jack in a tux, was helping a rather plain woman not much older than I was, out of a limousine. He offered her his arm and she took it, smiling into his eyes. They walked ahead of all of us who were waiting to get into the nose-bleed section; a photographer’s flash going off in their direction. I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. For a fleeting moment, I had the impulse to run up to him and demand he acknowledge me, but then I chickened out. What would he do if I embarrassed him in public? Was he famous? I thought his name was a pseudonym; Jack Smith? It just sounded fake. I didn’t have a computer but on the rare occasion I went home to Brooklyn, my sister would allow me access to hers for a quick search. I did find out that he was really Jack Smith. There on the internet, a picture of him as big as life, standing with a pretty blond woman at someone’s high school graduation. And then another of Jack and the young woman I saw him with at Lincoln Center, but this one was taken at the Met at some art opening. And yet another, one of Jack standing with a man, the article about some building project on the Lower Eastside that they touted would save the neighborhood. The neighbors were up in arms, calling Jack and this man ‘destroyers of New York,’ trying to convert the flavorful area into one that rich people just like Jack would be comfortable living in. Of course, it was too late, the Jewish deli had already left the area and a taco stand had taken its place. Jack had waited too long.
Although I knew a little more about him, he would continue to be a complete mystery to me until I saw his obituary. Actually, I missed it, but one of the other bartenders who saw me leave with Jack night after night for years and years saw it and saved it for me, waiting until closing time Monday night. Jack hadn’t shown up and I would have been wondering about him for weeks. He had done that in the past with no explanation, or a meager one if I pressed him. I figured out that he took vacations from time to time. It said in the article that accompanied the obituary that he lived in Babylon. I thought of all those weekends wasted marching up and down Madison. He wasn’t even there in his apartment. But Babylon? Wasn’t it a quaint little village? Why would Jack live there? Wild Jack, sadistic Jack, secretive Jack? His antics would not have gone over well in Babylon. But I couldn’t stop from wondering what was there? Well I would never know unless I spent some time digging around. I had nothing more to do. I had wasted over fifteen years of my life waiting for Jack. I was thirty-seven years old. I couldn’t afford to pay my rent because I was suddenly two grand a month poorer. I couldn’t do anything but bartend. Could I? And then I had a thought. Jack had been a great teacher; he had shown me the tricks of a dominatrix. He kept his collection of devices and magazines there in my little, dark studio apartment. They were his legacy to me. I could place an ad in one of those magazines; he had used services from there often enough. I think I just figured out how I will make my rent this month.
Chapter 8
Betty and Maggie left Pam’s after the interview. Pam kept thinking of the albino girl. Over the years, she had seen her at several family functions, Little League fund raisers, and the funeral. She couldn’t get her out of her mind. Since she was at the funeral, she may have given a sympathy card or flowers or something with her name and address on it. Pam remembered that after everyone left the night of the funeral, Lisa and Brent helped her get rid of the evidence of anyone being there in the house over the weekend. They took all the sympathy cards and stashed them. She was feeling a sense of urgency about letting the girl know that if she slept with Jack she was exposed to HIV. She ended up having to call the kids to find out where they had put the cards and letters and flower information. Brent told her there was a basket full in the hall closet where she had stored them after she sent thank-you cards. Sorting through the basket, Pam found an envelope from the Babylon florist with the name and address of Melissa McMann. She didn’t remember sending her a thank you card.
She took the envelope into Jack’s office. His computer had not been on since the kids left. She picked up the mouse to his computer and turned it on. After a little research, she found out that Melissa didn’t have a landline. Maybe the number is in Jack’s cell phone. Pam’s heart did a little beat-skipping. She opened the drawer of his desk and got out his cell phone. She had never done that before, never looked at his phone contacts, maybe because she was afraid of what she would find. Up popped a couple of hundred names; most appeared to be women. Feeling sick to her stomach, she scrolled through the alphabet to the M’s and found Melissa’s number. It was a Bronx exchange; seven-one-eight.
It’s was late, after eight-thirty at night. Pam decided to call her because she’d never get any sleep if she didn’t. Using Jack’s cell phone; Pam keyed in the number and it was answered right away by a shocked “Hello, Hello! Who is this?”
“Melissa, its Jack’s wife. Please don’t hang up on me. I’m not angry, I’m not calling to admonish you,” Pam said, having forgotten that the number of Jack’s phone would show up for Melissa to see.
“Oh God! I saw his number. I think I might throw up,” Melissa cried. She was at the funeral. She saw his body in the casket, but there was his number and name; Jack Smith, plastered across her telephone. Oh God.
“Dear, I am sorry to upset you. We need to talk, okay? I want to meet you. I want to know about you, I want to know what Jack meant to you. But we need to talk about other things, too. Can you meet with me?” Pam asked.
“Yes, but you’re scaring me!” Melissa yelled.
“Well, I’m sorry; I don’t know any other way to do it. I would rather not come into the city. Do you think you could come here to me?”
“I don’t drive,” Melissa said.
“You live in the Bronx, correct?” Pam asked.
“How’d you know that?” Melissa countered.
“I recognized the exchange. But I have your address from funeral flowers. Did you get my thank-you card?” There was silence. “You can take the train to Long Island.”
“I do remember. The card, I mean. I guess I could take the train.” Pam told her what train to take and she agreed to come.
“I have a class in the morning,” Melissa said, and Pam’s heart sunk. He’d been sleeping with students?
“What year are you in?” Pam asked.
“I teach at the community college up here,” Melissa answered and Pam tried not to give an audible sigh of relief. They hung up. Pam knew she was doing the right thing. She’d tell Melissa and then she’d let the Department of Health know; they can question her about who she has been sleeping with. It’s wasn’t Pam’s business.
Pam started thinking about the cell phone and the contacts. She made herself a cup of tea. She sat at the counter in her perfect kitchen and started to scroll through the names, hundreds of them, all female. There were about six Melissas. She put the phone down and looked up at the ceiling, laughing. Where the hell was I? And then she thought, he had Monday through Friday, every day, year after year after year, and evidently while she was at home primping, he was with as many other women as he could pack in. How many a day did he have, and were they all sexual? She decided she was going to try to call every one of those women. She’d call Maggie Daniels and tell her. She’d give her the contact information after she was done with it. But as Jack’s wife, she wanted to do the calling. It was her responsibility.
*
Melissa’s brownstone in the Bronx was not what her friends expected when they went to see it for the first time. Thinking they would find a rundown, hippie hangout that smelled of incense and mold, reality was a shocker. Jack bought her a large, restored Victorian. The inside of it was light filled and modern, with subtle paint colors and spare but comfortable fur
niture. The bathrooms were huge marble and porcelain originals that craftsmen had taken the time to bring back to their former beauty. Across the back of the house was the large kitchen, a dream kitchen for a future cook. Although she knew she wouldn’t use it much, it raised the resale potential of her house.
She had two housemates and their financial contribution made it possible for her to not dip into the money that Jack had given her. For now.
The next morning, she taught her class and when she was done for the day, left for Grand Central for a two hour train ride. The car wasn’t crowded because it was the middle of the day. When she got to the station in Babylon, she called Pam as she was asked to do. But Pam had been waiting for her, sitting in the parking lot. Pam recognized Melissa right away. She got out of the parked the car and went to Melissa. Melissa saw her walking toward her and didn’t know what to expect. Pam put out her hand to shake Melissa’s, smiling. She hid well her surprise at the girl’s appearance. All of those tattoos were covered up somehow at the funeral. Her usual welcoming self, Pam led Melissa to the car. She unlocked the doors and they got in.
Dream Lover: Pam of Babylon Book #3 Page 6