Don't You Forget About Me: Pam of Babylon Book #2

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Don't You Forget About Me: Pam of Babylon Book #2 Page 3

by Suzanne Jenkins


  He took her on a tour of the rest of the house. The wine cellar was world class; it got her curiosity going. Who is this guy? He was becoming more and more attractive to her the longer they were together. The impulse was to pull back, to avoid any dangerous liaisons. But where caution used to guide her, interest now took over. Here was a man who had not one, but two fun places to live, was semiretired from a lucrative law practice, and was amicably divorced with grown children who didn’t seem to be too needy. Maybe she should count her blessings.

  Chapter 3

  Young and beautiful Sandra Benson was debating what to do with herself for the weekend. The prospects of staying home, puttering around her apartment, and not answering the phone were very appealing. Last night, however, after she got home from work, Bernice Smith, Jack’s mother, had called her and invited her to spend the weekend at the mansion five blocks away from Sandra’s apartment. The story of the mansion’s ownership was rather convoluted; Jack had mortgaged it for the family when their business fell on hard times, and then Pam loaned more money to Bernice now that Jack was dead and no longer giving her household money.

  “What’s keeping you from foreclosing?” Sandra had asked Pam. “You have every right to, especially after the shitty way your mother-in-law has treated you. I’m not as forgiving as you are.” Sandra could feel the heat spreading through her body after she made that faux pas.

  “What do I want with that moldering place?” Pam retorted, ignoring the other remark. “I could never live there year round, and it certainly wouldn’t sell in this real estate market. No, I don’t think so.” She often fantasized about what would have happened if Bernice had died first. Jack would have insisted we move into the mansion—or would he have? “I don’t want to talk about that place anymore today, okay?”

  Sandra was ready to change the subject, too. But it would be another topic that Pam was beginning to find irritating. “Did you think any more about telling your children about the baby?” Sandra was not about to let this issue get swept under the rug.

  “I did, actually. I decided that I’m going to wait until you’re further along. You’ll be showing, and they won’t have long to stew about it.” Why Sandra thought it was necessary to make her announcement so soon after Jack’s death continued to puzzle Pam. Was she trying to stake her claim in his life while everyone was an emotional wreck? Pam tried not to examine the situation too closely because she wanted to keep the peace. Plus, she needed Sandra. She would do what was necessary to keep Sandra in her life—for now.

  This weekend, Sandra decided she was not going to Long Island or to the Smith mansion. She planned on cleaning her apartment, reading trashy novels, and watching TV. She had missed Jack all week, waking up crying twice, unable to find joy in any of the things that used to bring her happiness. She had an appointment with her obstetrician and blurted out the story of the baby’s father dying before he knew she was pregnant. Did the doctor look at her with skepticism? Oh, so what? she thought to herself. The doctor was being paid to take care of her health, not question her moral standing in the community.

  The shocker was that she was a full four weeks further along in her pregnancy than she had thought originally. Jack might have known about the baby if she were more in touch with her body. The knowledge may have changed the entire outcome of their lives together; he would have told Pam, maybe leaving her. Sandra and Jack would have moved into his apartment on Madison Avenue together. He wouldn’t have taken that final train ride and would still be alive. It would be a daydream repeated from time to time when the pain of his absence grew to be too much for her. It was easier to fantasize a different ending than to accept that she was having his child to raise alone over the years to come. Having Pam as a friend and supporter was lovely. But she was no replacement for Jack. Face it, she thought to herself, sometimes you just have to press a little flesh.

  ~ ~ ~

  William Harold Smith was finding it difficult to relax in his jail cell. His restlessness stemmed from either the prospect of being set free for the first time in two months or from a deep desire to kill his sister-in-law, Pam. Each night, two scenes alternately ran through his mind. He couldn’t get the vision out of his head of his mother crying as the police dragged him from the hospital, his arm in a cast after surgery to repair a shattered elbow. They were taking him to a black van with the words “Prisoner Transport” decaled on the side, to haul him to jail. The second was the scene of Pam standing over him after she had aimed her gun, Jack’s gun, at him and fired, hitting his arm.

  He hadn’t intended on hurting her stupid mother, Nelda. It was ridiculous that anyone could think he was capable of cutting a human being’s throat, even with the knife pressed up against her skin. He was just trying to scare her, trying to elicit sympathy from Pam so she would hand over some money. He realized now that it was a contradiction. He’d been frantic, not thinking straight. You should either scare the hell out of someone or make them feel sorry for you, not try for both. It won’t work.

  In addition to an attempted murder arrest, Pam was so angry with him she pressed charges, too. His attorney said it wasn’t over with yet; there was a trial coming up regarding some credit card charges—and worse. Because Pam had identified him as the person who had stolen Jack’s wallet after he collapsed on the train, he was being charged with theft and assault.

  He had been so confused and wasn’t making the right decisions about anything. His financial status had him in a vice grip. He had been desperate. He knew Jack was still in the city because they had fought over the phone Friday night. Bill threatened Jack with driving to Long Island to get money from him, and Jack told him he was staying in the city that night. They arranged for Bill to meet Jack on the train at Penn Station at ten on Saturday morning. He’d be waiting for Bill in the second car, and Jack would give him a check at that time. He said that it was going to be the final one, that if Bill couldn’t find a way to make his business solvent, he better get another job. Jack had called Bill’s cell phone Saturday morning.

  “Okay, buddy-boy, I’m stepping on the train right now. Meet me at Penn Station. I’m not getting off the train, so this better be fast.” He could hear Bill breathing into the phone, but so far, he had said nothing after his hello. “I know you’re there. You better answer, buddy, or I’m hanging up and the deal is off.”

  “I’m here, Jack! Why are you rushing me? And stop calling me buddy! Can’t we be reasonable about this?” Bill was feeling wild; he had to get Jack to understand how dire things had gotten, to get him to feel the same hysteria Bill was feeling. “Dad destroyed the business; he drove it into the ground. There’s nothing left. We’re ruined. I need more than a loan. I need a job!” Bill was wailing now. However, Jack was not moved.

  “I know all this, buddy-boy. It’s not my problem. I said I would help you out, and I have. Meet me on the train or forget it.” He hung up.

  Bill ran out of his house in the Village without saying good-bye to his wife, Anne. She was used to his theatrics by now, but was worried because she wasn’t sure if she was going to be blamed for whatever was happening.

  Bill just made it onto the platform, having paid a fare that wouldn’t be used. Jack was where he said he would be, but he didn’t have a check ready as he had said.

  “I decided that you aren’t going to bully me anymore,” Jack said. “Here’s a restraining order; if you come near me or my family, I’ll press charges. Do you understand me?”

  The bell whistled, indicating the train was about to leave the station. Jack was reaching into his jacket to grab the envelope containing the restraining order when he fell over. No indication that anything was wrong had been given, no grabbing of the chest or contortion of the face; he silently fell.

  Bill reached into Jack’s jacket and grabbed the envelope, and his fingers touched the wallet. He didn’t plan to take it, but it was right there, waiting. At the last moment, he was able to leap to freedom before the train doors closed. Just seconds h
ad passed, less than a minute for the entire scenario to run through. He didn’t think Jack would die! He loved his brother! At the very worst, he thought he may have simply fainted. But a fatal heart attack? No fucking way!

  Their mutual friends and relatives always said Bill looked up to Jack with reverence. “My brother, Jack,” Bill would say when he was introducing him to friends. He’d have a big smile on his face and a hand outstretched worshipfully in Jack’s direction. No other words were necessary; it was clear what Bill thought of his older brother. Bill was bigger than Jack, but only in physical stature. Jack eventually escaped their nightmare of a childhood. He’d left Bill behind, but not before threatening Harold with death. He did it the day he left home.

  “If you touch Bill again, I will kill you,” he had said to the old man. “I’ll make sure that your clients, your staff, and my mother know the truth.” And he was serious. It worked, because Harold never came near Bill again, unless it was in the presence of other people. He avoided being alone with Bill because the temptation to abuse his own flesh and blood was strong. His compulsion was magnified by habit. The boys were always there and available to him, so whatever his impulse, be it to beat and cause physical pain or to force himself sexually on his sons, once they were no longer available to him, the habit of it was the toughest to overcome.

  His wife, Bernice, was overjoyed to be the recipient of so much attention from her husband. They hadn’t had sex for years. Suddenly, after having left her bed to sleep in his study for the past decade, he was coming to her night after night and making love to her with such passion and physical aggression she was afraid he might have a heart attack.

  Sixty-four days, twelve hours, and sixteen minutes after he was incarcerated, Bill was released from Rikers Island Prison into the custody of his angry wife, Anne. He smelled bad and looked thin, haggard, and contrite. She was livid. Anne hated driving in the city, and this was the worst time of day to do so. Traffic into Queens had been horrendous, and by the time she got to the prison parking lot, her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t get the keys out of the ignition.

  They walked out of the prison’s main building side by side, Anne not making eye contact or directly speaking to him once. Now there didn’t seem to be a way she could avoid it. Opening the trunk, she pointed to its interior before walking around to the driver’s side to open the door.

  “Put your stuff in there,” she growled. “None of that crap is coming into the house without being fumigated.”

  He did as he was told, closing the trunk with a thud. Having been pushed around and told what to do every second of every day for the past two months, he hadn’t noticed yet that his wife had crossed that imaginary line drawn on their wedding day fifteen years ago: Never, ever talk disrespectfully to Bill Smith, or suffer the consequences.

  At that moment, she couldn’t care less if he were to haul off and smack her across the face. She would gouge his eyes out if he dared to get smart with her. She bristled at the memory of him standing in a bright-orange jumpsuit with his head bowed, listening to the judge read off the charges against him and then, three days later, his sentencing. Now that they were alone, the torrent of words she had practiced throwing at him didn’t come. The only thing she could muster up was disgust. If their marriage could survive this, if there was a marriage left at all, he would have to make restitution to his sister-in-law. Anne tolerated her, and she loved Pam’s children, Lisa and Brent. Would they ever be able to forgive Bill for what he had done?

  They put their seat belts on, and Anne went to put the key in the ignition when Bill reached over and put his hand over hers.

  “Not just yet, okay, Anne? Can we take a minute and talk before we head for home?” They didn’t move. She pitched forward slightly to reach the steering column; he turned toward her, holding on to her hand. She started to pull away, and he released his grip.

  “Look, let me try to explain.” He was beseeching her, trying to get her to look at him by hanging on to the steering wheel. “I won’t make excuses, but I do have an explanation.”

  Anne was incredulous. She turned to look at him with wide eyes. Finally, she spoke up. “I don’t think I want to hear what you have to say. I know we’re broke. Why I had to find out from the police is beyond me. I’m not sure you can explain that away.” She turned from him, giving up. It’s hopeless, she thought to herself. He’s going to try to weasel his way out as he always does. And she would be paralyzed and unable to leave him.

  “I’m so sorry about it! I was too embarrassed to admit it to you. And then when that happened on the train, there didn’t seem to be anything to say because he was going to save us. I never dreamed he was going to die! I thought he had just fainted! He promised me that he would help me. And then to go and die without having settled anything? Well, it just took me by surprise. I loved Jack! He was my big brother!” And for the first time since he had been shot by Pam, shot with a gun right in the elbow with a force that knocked him to the ground, he started to cry.

  It had the opposite effect on Anne, however. “Stop it, Bill! Crying is not going to help, and it will only make things worse for me. I’m pissed!” she yelled. “You are such a goddamned liar! Pam said you went to this Sandra girl’s apartment. Jack’s girlfriend. Why the hell would you do that? Why would you harass Pam when she had just lost her husband? Who are you, anyway? Jesus Christ! A butcher knife against her mother’s throat? The only reason you didn’t get an attempted murder charge is because Pam’s dating a cop who intervened.”

  This news blew Bill Smith away. My brother has only been dead for a few weeks, and she’s dating already? Now it was his turn to be livid. “What the hell are you talking about?” he yelled at his wife. “She is an idiot! Goddamned Pam, dating a cop? Jack deserves better than that! I tell you he would kill her if he could!”

  Anne looked over at her husband as if he had two heads. Who the hell is he kidding?

  “Do I have to remind you that that snake of a brother of yours was having an affair with someone half his age and that she’s pregnant? She’s practically living with your mother, I better tell you!” Anne had waited to use that little juicy bit of gossip for just the right moment. Bill was staring at her with bugged eyes, sweating, and mouth hanging open. Anne had to look away; she was afraid she would start laughing at the vision.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” he repeated, screaming. “Why would my mother let her in the house?”

  Anne may have misjudged her timing. She looked at him, concerned he was going to go crazy right in the car. It was too late to defuse the situation; he had taken her bait.

  “What is with the people in this family being taken in by that woman? First Jack, then Pam, now my mother?” Bill put his head in his hands.

  Anne could see that he was on the edge, but she thought of something that might cool him down. “I think Sandra might be helping out with some of the bills.” Anne had no idea if it was true, but it sounded good. Hopefully, it would calm him down and give her time to get them home safely. Then if he found out that it was a lie, she would deal with it. The conversation was over.

  “Can we go home now?” Bill whined.

  Anne put the key back in the ignition and started the engine. They didn’t say another word to each other as Anne aimed the car toward the Triborough Bridge.

  Chapter 4

  Rhinebeck, New York, is home to the Culinary Institute of America. Jeff Babcock, retired attorney and recent graduate of the CIA, was an accomplished chef. By Sunday, recovering eating-disorder-sufferer Marie Fabian discovered that life with Jeff meant three home-cooked meals, homemade desserts, and the best American wines available. They spent part of Saturday and Sunday shopping for food, going into Hyde Park for groceries, and then returning to Rhinebeck for early varieties of vegetables at the farmers’ market. Marie fought the urge to look at her watch. Jeff chose early peas, beans, and tricolor carrots with care; he would wash them one at a time and tenderly steam them with
a delicate shallot butter sauce.

  The kitchen in his Rhinebeck house was a cook’s delight, with high-end professional appliances, gleaming marble pastry countertops, and ample seating for guests, all designed to fit a ten-foot-by-ten-foot space. Marie decided she wouldn’t invite him to her apartment after all; she used her oven to store shoes. While Jeff cooked, she sat on a stool at the counter, sipping a glass of wine, nibbling the vegetables he had prepared for her, bored to tears. There was plenty of time for him to find out the truth about Marie and her relationship with food.

  “This wine is amazing,” Marie slurred. “These carrots are wonderful, too.” She pushed the image of Jack Smith grilling steaks on the veranda, along with that of her last meal of SpaghettiOs the other night, out of her mind. She willed this new picture of a handsome gentleman, wearing a red-and-white-striped apron that his daughter sewed for him, standing at the stove, cooking just for her. She wasn’t having much success.

  “Thank the weather for both,” he said. “Our growing season has been phenomenal in spite of the heavy snow last spring.”

  Marie stifled a yawn.

  He turned from the stove, pan in hand, and dished a small crab cake onto a saucer, topping it with a creamy béarnaise sauce. “Here, try this,” he said. “Those crabs we got this morning? And the eggs from the farmers’ market? You won’t get anything fresher than this.”

  Marie picked up a fork to take a bite of the crab cake. She heard a snap when the thin, browned crust broke, exposing the tender interior. “Oh my God,” she moaned as she tasted how delicious the crab cake was. “This is better than sex.” She closed her eyes and chewed. Realizing what she had just said, the food turned to dust in her mouth. Oops.

  Jeff was smiling at her. He obviously didn’t think the comment was inappropriate, nor did he pick up on it and say anything in return. He began eating one as well. The late afternoon was spent eating and talking and drinking a generous amount of Jeff’s wine collection. By seven, reality hit. She had an hour drive home and was feeling more than a little woozy.

 

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