Copyright © 2012 Suzanne Jenkins
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1-4681-4209-7
ISBN-13: 9781468142099
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62110-820-7
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Nobody can hurt me without my permission.
Mohandas Gandhi
1
Ashton Hageman was sitting on the steps of the New York Public Library waiting for his lover to arrive. He had the Home Style section of the Sunday Times resting on his knees, but it was a prop. Certain that something important in his life was about to come to an end, the paper was a convenient screen to hide behind if too much thinking led to tears. I deserve better than this, he thought. Young and in love, Ashton had allowed himself to be at Jack’s beck and call since they were boys, when Jack discovered his friend would do anything for him. Jack didn’t set out to manipulate him; it just happened. And when he found that he had power over Ashton, he couldn’t help himself. He would control Ashton until he died.
At precisely the time expected, Jack came into view in his larger-than-life way. Exquisitely dressed, Jack drew attention wherever he went. It was ridiculous really, him strolling down Fifth Avenue, a suit jacket thrown over a shoulder, but Jack pulled it off like he was playing a part in a 1940’s Broadway play. Ash, his heart rate picking up exponentially, watched while people stood aside for the handsome and debonair Jack Smith. He sauntered down the street, his smile visible all the way to the steps of the library. The old-fashioned words used to describe a man dressed to perfection were appropriate. Natty, dapper, suave, and elegant; gorgeous Jack knew it about himself, and played it for all it was worth. He walked like a model on a runway with broad shoulders held still, one hand in his pocket, and the other holding on to that jacket. Women reacted as he got closer, becoming giddy and animated. Ashton had to smile as he watched the fuss in spite of what he knew was about to take place in his life. Jack finally made eye contact and turned to dash up the steps. He held out his hand and pulled Ashton to his feet. This was 1980 New York; gay men, especially one about to get married to a woman, did not publicly embrace Midtown.
“Were you waiting long?” Jack asked as the two men descended to the sidewalk. “Thanks for meeting on such short notice.” Ashton wasn’t as tall as Jack and he fought the urge to look up at him, tears too close to the surface for eye-to-eye contact.
“You’ve definitely got my curiosity going. And you’re scaring me. What’s wrong?” Ashton asked as they continued walking down Fifth.
“Do you want to get something to drink? I’m thirsty,” Jack said. “Don’t be scared. Our life isn’t going to change that much.” There, Ash thought, he’s admitted it. “Let’s get some lunch and we can talk, okay?” Jack looked sidelong at his companion. Ashton was clearly struggling to maintain control, breathing deeply, sighing out loud. Arms touching, Jack could feel the tension in Ashton’s body as they walked along together. “Let’s go to Faye’s. We can have some privacy in there.” Ashton nodded.
“How long do you have?” He looked up at Jack. “I mean, is this just lunch?”
Jack nodded. “Just lunch, but just for today, okay? I have to meet with my mother at two,” Jack said, the intention clear. They were going to start planning Jack’s wedding.
Biting his lip to keep an audible sob from escaping, he thought, how had it come to this? He thought Jack would have at least tried to live a dual life. If any choosing was to be done, it would be in Ash’s favor. Wouldn’t it? Not get married. Not abandon him. “Oh God, I don’t know if I am going to survive,” Ash admitted. In a rare public gesture, Jack put his arm around his shoulders, an innocent movement providing something intimate Ash needed. They got to the restaurant and Jack took his arm away, opening the door and holding it for him to walk through, not bothering to look around to see if they were observed going in. Faye’s was one place in town where they could be together.
“You’ll be fine,” Jack responded shortly. “I’m not leaving the city, for Christ’s sake.” Ash didn’t add, You might as well be. “What we have is not going to change that much, Ash,” Jack said. He grabbed menus and led the way to their own table in back of the dark room. The booths were hard and uncomfortable, but the backs were high, giving them some privacy. They slid in across from each other.
“I won’t be fine. And it will change. Really Jack, you are being a little naïve,” Ashton said. “For one thing, you won’t be able to sleep over anymore.” He put his head down on his crossed arms and silently began crying. Jack grabbed his hand.
“Ash, try to pull it together,” Jack pleaded. He hated seeing his friend so sad. But he had to get married. He wanted a wife and children, a home of his own, a family. He wanted a normal life. Jack took Ash’s hand and kissed the fingertips, and then the palm. “I love you, but you knew it would be this way. Come on, Ashton,” he said, losing patience. Jack hated drama in spite of being the author of much of it. “Man up!” He laughed a light chuckle, just loud enough for their benefit. But it didn’t work.
“No, I don’t want to,” Ashton complained. “We’ve been in love since we were twelve. Why would I think it would ever come to this? Leaving me to get married to a woman. I think I might throw up.”
“Oh, stop it,” Jack said, picking up the menu. “If you want to spend our lunch together whining, go ahead. It is what it is. I want a normal life. Somehow, I just can’t picture you pushing a baby carriage, or carrying a kid around on your back.” He started reading the menu. They had been regulars at Faye’s since high school, and it hadn’t changed that much. “What do you want to eat?”
“Turkey on rye. Are you going to tell Miss Fabulous about me?” Ashton provoked.
Jack put the menu down and looked at his face carefully, like he was checking him out for an acne medication commercial, the sort of look Jack gave that withered Ashton’s self-confidence. “No. And neither are you. She isn’t what you think she is, Ashton. Pam is lovely, gracious, and kind. You will meet her soon, I promise. Even if you were cruel to her, she wouldn’t get it anyway, so don’t even try. She’s made of different stuff than you or I,” Jack explained. “Besides, I might have to kill you if you ever hurt her.” Jack let go of his hand and picked up the menu again.
“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be the one hurting her,” Ashton said. “Get me a Tab, too. I have to go the bathroom. He slid out of the booth. The bathroom was near the rear of the restaurant, and Ashton let a few sobs out, knocking before he let himself in. I’m such an ass, he thought. I’ve wasted all of these years thinking Jack would make the decision that he wouldn’t be able to live without me. He looked i
n the mirror at his puffy eyes and swollen lips. Great. Just the look to drop a man to his knees. He washed his face and hands. Enough, he thought. He would make it an act of will to be pleasant and charming, just what Jack liked about him. And later, if he was lucky, he would take Jack to bed and do things to him that only a man could do.
Jack and Ashton had been best friends since second grade, since Ashton came to the mansion on a bet with other little friends to see if Jack really lived there. He’d struggled to open the iron gate leading to the front steps when the massive front door had opened and frail Jack, his eyes glassy and his face tear-stained, came dashing through. He didn’t waste any time hiding his fear from Ashton.
“Hurry up! My dad’s coming after me.” Jack grabbed his hand, not caring or unaware that it might seem odd for two little boys to be running down the sidewalk, holding hands. But Jack was going to get out of there as fast as he could and Ashton had to come, too. They ran for blocks on Central Park West without looking back, and in a few minutes they were at the park. Ashton had to work at keeping up with Jack. They came to a rock formation and began to climb it, slipping on the way up, but finally getting to the top. They had a good view of Columbus from the top, and there was no sign of Harold Smith. It would be out of character of him to chase his son in daylight; although after sunset was another matter. Jack was safe for the time being.
“What’d you do?” Ashton asked. Jack was still sniffing, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
“Nothing. I didn’t do anything.” Fresh sobbing, and then the little boy pulled himself together. Stop sniveling, as his father would say. Ashton saw what looked like blood and poop on the back of Jack’s left leg. He smelled bad, too. It frightened Ashton enough not to say anything. Maybe Jack’s dad beat him until he cut him open, he thought. “I haf’ ta go to the bathroom,” Jack said. They slid down the rock formation and walked toward the public restrooms in the Ramble. Later, as an adult, Jack would make generous donations to the maintenance of the park restrooms, remembering the many times he took refuge there. “Wait here,” he instructed Ashton. When he came out a few minutes later, he’d cleaned off his legs and washed his face and hands. Ashton was more fearful than curious.
“Do you want to go to my house?” Ashton asked. “It’s on the other side of the park.”
Jack nodded. Yes. He wasn’t ready to go home yet and face his mother’s questions and possibly to have to see his father. Once he escaped, he was safe. His father wouldn’t attempt another attack if Jack’s screams had alerted the staff. No one in the house had the courage to call the police. Ashton’s gentle mother and cozy apartment would be the haven Jack needed. If Francine Hageman ever suspected Jack was being abused, she never intervened.
The two seven-year-old boys walked across Central Park to the Upper East Side. Until his brother Bill was born the next year, Ashton’s house would be Jack’s home away from home. But once Bill came along, Jack had to stick around to protect him.
Ashton had asked only once what was happening to Jack. “Does your dad beat you up?” Ashton, who’d never had so much as a pat on his behind, couldn’t fathom his quiet father raising a hand to anything, let alone to the flesh of his son. Looking over at Ashton’s closed bedroom door, Jack had whispered, “He rapes me.” Ashton had no idea what that meant, but he thought it might have something to do with dirty words. Jack knew what it was because he’d heard his mother screaming one night—yodeling was more like it—and he’d run to their room and peeked through the key hole. Harold was doing basically the same thing to his mother that he did to his son.
“Stop raping me!” Bernice screamed, fighting her husband off. Jack went back to his room, frightened, sobbing, but from that moment on decided to fight his father. The only problem was that Harold’s ardor increased with resistance and it took Jack another attack to realize that his parents were playing a game. Instead, he became adept at barricading his room, or yelling so the servants could hear which would further enrage his father. After Bill was born, Jack had the baby to worry about as well, so he offered himself up as the sacrificial lamb. When he left home after college, the only leverage he had to keep his brother safe was the threat of exposure. He’d tell whoever would listen if Harold didn’t leave Billy alone.
2
Across town, Bernice Smith was trying her best to pull it together. Her beloved son, Jack, was due to arrive any minute, coming to the family mansion on Columbus Avenue from his Midtown apartment to begin planning the engagement party, rehearsal dinner, and wedding reception for his nuptials to Pam Fabian.
Bernice was a closet drunk. Only her devoted staff and family knew the truth, although it was suspected among a few acquaintances. Her future daughter-in-law thought she was what she appeared to be: a pillar of proper New York society. Jack would never betray her secret. She tried to present herself to her children as the motivated, dynamic mother they pretended her to be. Her dressing table mirror couldn’t hide the pain of the previous night; not yet fifty years old, she looked seventy. Ice to the eyes helped some of the swelling; makeup would do the rest. She worked quickly and expertly, years of practice helping her to wipe away all traces of a weekend of binging and physical abuse.
There was a knock on her door; Mildred, her housekeeper, announcing the arrival of the wedding planner and Mr. Jack. Bernice got up delicately and, standing as straight as she could, walked to the door of her room. She turned around as she reached for the light switch; a slight smell of whisky lingering in the room just strong enough to give her away. Hoping Mildred didn’t notice, she dug in her skirt pocket for another breath mint.
Voices coming from the den revealed where the meeting would be. Of course, Jack would want it there, where the action always took place in the house. A more appropriate room may have been the parlor; if Harold came home from his golf game, he wouldn’t appreciate the intrusion into his sacred space. Bernice plastered a smile on her face as she entered.
“Hello!” she announced. Jack went to her and kissed her cheek. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet with us on Sunday, Robert. This is my son, Jack,” she said to the wedding planner. “The groom!” she added with a giggle.
Jack looked at her, concerned. He held his hand out and shook the other man’s, and then looked around the room. “Where’s Mrs. Fabian?” Jack asked. “Come to think of it, where’s Pam?”
Bernice looked confused for just a second. “Why, I imagine they’re home, silly boy. This is just a preliminary meeting, just a chance to meet Robert and see if we all want to work together.” Whew! Bernice thought. That was close. She didn’t like Pam; thought she was silly and ignorant, and her mother was worse—about as interesting as a turnip. But she had forgotten that they might insist on being consulted about the wedding plans.
“Oh! I rather thought we would be making real plans today. I booked you for two hours, Mrs. Smith,” Robert said, thinking, she will pay for it whether or not anything gets accomplished, that’s for sure.
Bernice thought fast, which was not easy so early in the afternoon. “Well, we can certainly plan the engagement party and get Pam’s approval later, can we not?” She failed to see what the big deal was. “Besides, I think it may have been a wee bit presumptuous of you to assume you would come here and plan for two hours when we haven’t seen your portfolio or references!” Bernice was sliding into her role as haughty matron. It had the right effect on Robert, but Jack was looking at her, horrified.
“Yes, of course, let me get my albums out for you to look at.” The young man began to dig through several satchels and pulled out thick folders of photographs. Bernice pointed to the table.
“Sit down, sit down,” she commanded. She had saved herself from a clumsy exposure yet again. That Robert Winegarten was the most sought-after wedding planner in Manhattan, booked two years in advance, had been forgotten. Bernice Stein Smith was in charge.
The week before, beautiful Pamela Fabian, twenty-two and just out of college, was sitting at a
local luncheon counter in Bensonhurst with her four sisters, sharing a huge order of French fries and listening to Sharon talk about school. Of the four girls, Pam, the oldest, was the prettiest. Four years after Pam, Sharon had come along. Born with a mild degree of spina bifida, after surgeries and rehabilitation she barely had a limp. Sharon was in her first year of college up in Hartford, but she missed her family and tried to get home every weekend.
Susan, a year younger than Sharon, was a senior in high school. She was the smartest of the four children, but the quietest and easily forgotten. Marie was the baby. She stood next to Pam with her head on her shoulder. Pam absentmindedly rubbed her younger sister’s back while they talked. The three girls were close to Pam, but not so much to each other. She was the mother figure of the family, the nurturer and listener. Their mother, Nelda, held down the fort as the provider of meals and clean clothes, but because of her own issues, which included alcoholism and mental illness, she was unavailable to her daughters emotionally.
Jack Smith was going to ask Pam’s dad for her hand in marriage that evening. He was coming into Brooklyn to be by her side when they broke the news to the family. Although the visit was supposedly for dinner, Pam’s mother could smell an engagement announcement. It was God appearing in the flesh; Nelda Fabian was like a crazy person trying to get the house ready. While scurrying around cleaning, she took the time to put a sandwich down in front of her husband for lunch.
“We should have made arrangements to meet at a diner,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “This place needed painting ten years ago.”
“Oh, relax, will you? He’s coming here to see Pam, not the house.” Frank Fabian worked for the city of New York and knew all about the Smiths of Columbus Avenue. All he could think about was that if Pam left to marry, he would have one less mouth to feed. And one daughter marrying into a rich household might benefit the others. He bit into his sandwich; pork from last night’s pork and sauerkraut.
Prayers for the Dying: Pam of Babylon Book #4 Page 1