Marie cut in here. She knew that if she wasn’t able to talk her sister out of it, the bond they’d had all of their lives was about to be terminated. Or the bond Marie had felt, as it seemed Pam hadn’t benefited much from their relationship after all. “Pam, please!” she said in a trembling voice. “I promise I won’t say a word to the kids about it! I swear to you, I’ll do anything you ask of me! You’re right, I was awful, selfish. I didn’t think of the consequences!” Against her will, she began to cry. She got out of bed and went to the door to shut and lock it; she didn’t want her boyfriend to come in and he was respectful enough not to come in if the door was closed. She started to pace, tears streaming down her face, her nose running. “The shock of everything must be coming to you all of a sudden. Let’s try to work something out.”
Marie, the peacemaker? Marie, the sensible one? Something had definitely shifted. But the more she spoke, the harder Pam felt. She could see things clearly for the first time. What had been done to her was done opportunistically. Jack and Marie had walked all over her because Pam was a trusting, loving soul who only saw the good in people. Not anymore.
“No, I think we’re finished. I don’t care what you say to Mother. Tell her you have AIDS and that Jack gave it to you. But if you do so, she won’t be welcome here either. Neither of you are invited to Thanksgiving; I want to be here with my children, alone. I’m hanging up now.” And she ended the call without saying good-bye.
The phone began to ring again. Pam checked the caller ID and saw that it was Marie. She let it ring, shutting off the answering machine before it could pick up. She was finished with her sister. The effect was unexpected. She was suddenly light-hearted. The burden of having Marie, the emotionally damaged, anorexic, depressed Marie, out of her life for one evening was freeing. Pam didn’t owe her sister anything. She had been thrust into the position of Marie’s caretaker when they were young children at home, and it had continued all of their lives. That Marie was abused by Jack was horrible and Pam had punished herself over it, taking responsibility for sticking her head in the clouds because there must have been a sign—some evidence—that she’d ignored. But she was finished with doing penance. Her two children, Brent and Lisa, would be home from college for the first time since Labor Day and she wanted the experience to be beneficial for them. It would be difficult enough that the subject of Pam’s AIDS diagnosis would be discussed and possibly its source uncovered. Imagining the conversation with her kids made her physically ill.
She poured herself another cup of coffee and took it into the den, determined to unwind and move beyond the family drama. With a click of the remote, Pam started the gas fireplace. She curled up in her chair and looked out over the sea, the snow fall diminishing, the waves churning as they crashed on the beach. No amount of turmoil would ruin the beauty of this view; that is until the phone rang again. Wanting to let it go on ringing, she was worried that it might be one of her kids, so she went to answer it. But it was a welcome call from Dave, her new friend. Dave was the owner of her favorite grocery store, Organic Bonanza.
“Another crazy Saturday here! Do you need anything? No point in going out in this if you don’t have to. There have been three fender-benders in the parking lot already this morning,” Dave said.
“Are you serious?” she replied, happy not to have to go out. “I have a list.” She read off a few things that were essential, not wanting to take advantage of his generosity. When they first started to see each other socially, Pam thought he was the store manager. But she wondered about his financial status since he lived in her neighborhood, a place inhabited exclusively by the wealthy and privileged. It turned out that he and his brother owned the store, which was hardly a big money machine, but it made enough so they could live comfortable lives at the beach. Dave came home for lunch every day to see his dogs, a trip that took him by Pam’s house. Their relationship was slowly evolving into one that she had hoped for; they shared some interests. He was single, divorced early with no children, gainfully employed, and had no vices that she could discover, yet. After they had been seeing each other for about a month, she told him about her AIDS diagnosis, sticking to the facts only, in case he bolted like Andy, the cop, had.
Pam and Dave were walking on a deserted beach in early October, talking about how their lives had crossed just when it was possible for them to be together. He came to her rescue when employees at his store were rude to her. His graciousness had bowled her over, so she let her guard down. There was an instant connection. That day on the beach was chilly and overcast, fog rolling inland from far out to sea. The smell of brine was thick in the air; Pam loved the weather and the smell. She absentmindedly reached for his hand as they walked. For just a second, she forgot where she was.
“I was so happy for the presence of badly behaved employees that day,” he said, looking down at her. “It was the first time we’d ever had a real conversation in the store.” He was smiling at her. When he felt her hand in his, it startled him for a moment. She was always proper, if not slightly distant; avoiding any contact with him and scurrying off if she suspected that he might be about to embrace her, or worse, kiss her.
“I have AIDS,” she blurted out, stopping in her tracks, the sudden cessation of movement surprising him, their hands tugging. He was facing her, his back to the ocean. He could feel the salt spray on the back of his neck. For just a second, her words made no sense. She was looking at him with sadness, but it didn’t register.
Although only seconds passed, his silence was frightening her. Not another one. Perhaps he wanted to make sure he understood what she meant by it, but wasn’t it clear? She had AIDS.
“You have AIDS?” He repeated her words, suddenly concerned. What did it mean for her? Death? Oh, no. It didn’t make any difference to him that she had it. It didn’t affect the way he felt about her or thought he might in the future. What to say? He took a step toward her and grabbed her by the shoulder, pulling her to him. He buried his face in the top of her head. He wrapped his arms around her body and held her firmly. And then he felt her shaking. Was she crying? “It doesn’t make any difference to me as long as you are well,” he told her. “I’m worried about you. Are you okay?” He whispered these words into her ear. “I really like you, Pam. If anything were to happen to you now, I couldn’t bear it.” He didn’t wonder how she came to have AIDS, yet. The thought that her own husband could have given it to her was so horrible that when a tip of the idea penetrated his brain, he pushed it out. But it wasn’t important at that moment. With his arm around her shoulders and her arm around him, they turned to walk toward the house again in silence.
They walked up the wooden path to the house, through the veranda to the sliding doors. Pam pushed them open. They took off their coats and shoes, and without missing a beat, Dave took her back into his arms. He wanted to make love to her right then, it seemed urgent to do it so he could show her that nothing mattered to him but being with her. But Dave wasn’t a ladies’ man and would stumble getting his point across if he wasn’t careful. He decided the best way was to simply tell her that he wanted her.
He bent down to kiss her, but she backed up. “Did you hear what I said?” she asked. “You could be in danger.”
He shook his head no. “I have read a little about AIDS. I won’t make you kiss me, but I know that isn’t how it’s spread. I want you, Pam. This news doesn’t change that fact.”
Pam turned her back and walked into the kitchen to put the coffee pot on, hoping that Dave wouldn’t be offended, but she was frightened to have this discussion and did not know how else to deal with it. She had ignored the signs that he wanted to take their relationship to another level; or had she? Maybe the admission of her illness was an overt attempt to dissuade him from any further advances. Whatever it was, it didn’t work and now she had to face that fact of her own sexuality. Was she going to stifle it until it died again, as it had when she met Sandra last May?
When she saw Sandra Benson in the h
ospital corridor, leaving Jack’s deathbed before Pam entered the room, she knew in her heart that the young woman had been Jack’s mistress. It was the beginning of a downward slide in which even the remotest possibility of ever again loving another man slipped away from her. For the past six months, the idea of being intimate again occasionally would pop up but she squelched it immediately, refusing to examine the possibility. She felt she was too damaged emotionally to love a man, and having sexual intercourse was out of the question now that she knew she had AIDS. But for a brief moment when she was with Detective Andrews—Andy, the cop—she had imagined being in love again, having the kind of relationship with a man that would be honest and real. When he learned of her diagnosis, he ran, never to surface again. It was embarrassing and hurtful. Now here was Dave, not caring that she was infected, saying he wanted her. What am I supposed to do with this information?
Pam could feel Dave following her into the kitchen. Both relieved and frightened, it meant that he wasn’t put off by her actions. He was going to force her to confront her own fears. While she puttered with the coffee pot, Dave slid onto a bar stool at the counter so he could watch her.
“I know you must be scared,” he said. “It must be terrifying. But I truly don’t care. That you could be sick and in danger; that scares me to death. I don’t care that you are infectious. I mean, for lack of a better word.”
Pam turned around with the pot in her hand. “I know what you mean, okay? And I am grateful. But that doesn’t change the fact that I never imagined I would have sex again. It seems too dangerous to pursue. What’s the point?” She turned her back again, but Dave started laughing, a deep, hearty laugh.
“Boy, you really know how to hurt a guy!”
Pam could feel the heat spread through her neck and face. “I’m sorry! I also have foot-in-mouth disease. I should have warned you,” Pam explained. “Thank you for being so wonderful about everything. I am more than a little surprised that you didn’t run from me.”
Dave was smiling at her. He didn’t want to treat her confession too lightly; it was serious, life-threatening, even. But it didn’t mean anything to him outside of how it affected her well-being. “Well, it is upsetting because I want you to be safe, but it doesn’t affect how I feel about you at all. As far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed between us. Except I made a pass at you and you turned me down!” Pam giggled, still red-faced at her faux pas, but relieved that he wasn’t angry with her.
Their relationship stayed comfortable after that day, although they still hadn’t gone to bed. Pam just wasn’t ready for it; she didn’t know if she ever would be. Sex outside of a committed relationship? What was the point? She had meant it when she said it to Dave. If the day came when she was ready for sex, they would talk about it. But for now, it wasn’t going to happen. What was surprising was that Dave agreed. He thought that letting Pam know he wanted her in spite of having AIDS was important, and in retrospect, she was grateful. But they didn’t need to do it yet. He was of an age; you couldn’t see a TV program without the ads about low testosterone. So his low libido may have been a blessing in disguise. If he had been a younger man, her reluctance to sleep with him might have been a problem.
Dave spent some of his time thinking of ways to make Pam happy. Unfortunately, he had to work a lot, but when he wasn’t at his store, he tried to make sure her needs were met. If she wanted to go somewhere, they went. Dave loved to dance and when he discovered that Pam did as well, he took her to a local dive bar and they danced with the house band until midnight every Saturday night. Pam admitted that she hadn’t had so much fun since high school. The owner of the bar told Dave under his breath that the simple act of having Pam walk into his establishment had increased business dramatically after word got around that the beach house crowd was welcomed.
7
After Pam hung up on her, Marie was stunned. Pam had never, ever spoken to her as she had during that phone call. Was it inevitable? Was I deluding myself that life could go on as before? She got up from bed, slightly nauseous. Having a fight with Pam was the last thing she thought would happen today. She’d hoped to go to the beach later that afternoon. She had imagined being away from Steve for a weekend, lazing around her room at the beach, eating delicious food. Now she wondered if she even had a room there. Had Pam been planning this? Just waiting for the right moment to tell me off? She ran to her bathroom to throw up; rarely spontaneous, barfing was something she made herself do by sticking her fingers down her throat. It would appear that she was more upset by Pam’s treatment of her than she thought possible. After she brushed her teeth and tidied herself up, she left the bedroom and went out into the living room to find Steve Marks reading the paper. He looked up at her, not liking what he saw. She was even paler and skinnier than she usually was.
“Do you want some breakfast before you head east?” he asked. She pulled her robe around her knees and sat on the couch.
“I’m not going,” she replied. She leaned her head on her hand, looking at him. “Pam said I wasn’t welcome at the beach anymore.” Steve put his paper down. Now what the hell was this all about?
“What happened?” he asked, almost afraid to hear about it. Marie looked embarrassed.
“She finally came to her senses, I guess,” she said. “I could tell something was wrong when she didn’t call me back all week. That something had changed. It was due, you know? I had it coming. I was hoping she would stay in her ‘Pam Mode’ and let me get away with it. With everything. The worst if it is she doesn’t want me to see the kids when they come home for Thanksgiving. She doesn’t even want my mom to come for the day.” Marie was miserable.
Steve looked out the window. More drama. Hell. “Can I call her for you?” he asked, eager to do anything he could to make things right for Marie.
She laughed out loud. “No offense, dear, but I doubt a call from you would improve the situation. No, I think I am getting my ‘just desserts,’ as my mother used to say. I have it coming to me. Now the only question is what the hell are we going to do for Thanksgiving?” Marie asked painfully. “I have never spent it anywhere but the beach from the day they bought the place.”
“I’ll cook! Or we can go out. Don’t worry about Thanksgiving,” Steve said. He got up from his chair and went to Marie, sitting down on the sofa next to her. “I think what we need to do now is get you fed and dressed, and shovel our sidewalk before someone slips and breaks their neck out there. He put his arm around her and squeezed. “Come on, you’ll feel better if you keep moving.” There was no way he was going to let her take to her bed. She had done it in the past, not moving for the entire weekend, nor eating, for that matter.
“Not shovel! I don’t do physical work,” she whined. “I’ll stay in here while you do it.”
But Steve wasn’t standing for it; he pulled her off the couch. “Come on, I’ll fix you something to eat and then we’ll do it! You aren’t staying in today.” Marie allowed herself to be led to the kitchen. Maybe he was right; maybe if she kept busy, the sadness she felt because of her sister’s rightful anger wouldn’t take hold, wouldn’t smother her as it was trying to do. She wanted to lie in bed and remember days at the beach when Jack was alive. How they would play all day—tennis or golf, or running on the beach—and return to the house, sneaking into her bedroom for sex while Pam was shopping or napping and then spend a mealtime eating the delicious food she had prepared for them. She’d wasted an entire weekend doing it in the past, but Steve wouldn’t allow it now.
“If you’re going to live with me, you’re not moping around here,” he’d say. “Get moving and do something worthwhile.” She’d pout for a while, but then she did as he told her and felt better for it.
Sandra Benson woke up Saturday morning to the smell of coffee and cinnamon. Tom must be baking something again. She’d been living with him in his Brooklyn condo since September and so far, it was working. He drove into work every day, and she went with him, avoiding having to take the t
rain. They drove home together, too, unless work required one of them to stay later in the day and she was forced to take the train.
Her job was evolving into a huge problem for them. She didn’t want to be a business owner. Her partner, Peter Romney, was expecting more and more from her and she was finding that what she wanted was just a job, not a career. She wanted to be home for dinner every night, to be free to spend the weekends playing with her boyfriend. It was a problem because of its origins, too. Her late lover, Jack Smith, had willed the business to her, more out of his concern that it would be too much trouble for his wife to deal with rather than for the benefits it would offer Sandra. Half of the profits went to Pam and Sandra collected a substantial draw. Resentment was growing daily between Sandra and Peter, and now Tom was starting to pressure her about the time she was putting in at the office. It was a losing situation. She made the decision that she would follow through on a proposal she had made to Pam after the will was read and Pam discovered that Jack had left the business to Sandra. She was going to offer the business to Pam and her son Brent, first. She would arrange for them to pay Sandra a small stipend; she knew its value would be more, but she only wanted enough to live on until something else materialized for her. Peter would have a fit when he found out. But she would offer it to him only if Pam declined, and then it would be have to be at its full price. Thanks, Jack.
Prayers for the Dying: Pam of Babylon Book #4 Page 5