21
Pam called the mansion after eight for an update from Candy. Marie was resting comfortably in her new room, calling out orders and requests so that Nelda hadn’t stopped since they’d arrived. She’d eaten a substantial dinner and was watching TV and talking on the phone to Steve, who’d left a while ago, taking the subway back downtown. Breathing a sigh of relief, Pam felt like she could put Marie aside now and deal with her own issues for a while, the most pressing being Dave from Organic Bonanza. She paced, attempting to formulate a narrative to use when she called him. She made a cup of tea and took it into her bedroom, sitting on the chaise with the tea nearby and the phone in her hand. He hadn’t called her since their discussion regarding Jeff Babcock. She punched in Dave’s number and sat back waiting for him to answer.
“Hello. I wondered if you were going to call tonight,” he said with just a hint of accusation.
“Yes, I’m sorry; I had a problem with my sister today. She’s too ill to be left alone while her boyfriend goes to work, so I had to call my mother to go downtown. Once she got there, she determined that my sister needs her care around the clock. So I’ve basically been on the phone for the past four hours,” she explained.
“How old’s your sister?” Dave asked, confused.
“Forty-five,” Pam answered, worried that any explanation she offered that didn’t include AIDS or pregnancy would sound defensive. But she kept silent. It was bad enough that he knew about her physical condition without exposing her sister’s, too.
“Why do you need to run interference for your forty-five-year-old sister?” he asked.
She was silent for a moment. Why indeed? “She’s too ill to make wise decisions right now. It’s just what our family does for each other,” she said, thinking maybe my needy family will be my graceful way out of this relationship.
Dave snickered. “Hey!” he exclaimed, changing the subject. “I’ve got salesmen for holiday merchandise coming in all week so I’ll be busy during most lunchtimes. If I can get away, I’ll call you before I come, okay?” He’d never been unavailable during lunch before.
“No problem,” she said. “I have to go into the city tomorrow and I don’t know when I’ll be back.” She’d let him say good-bye. It was the least she could do.
It took him a minute to decide. Was this it, or was it just a break? She had to hand it to him. “Okay Pam, have a safe trip in. Talk to you later.” And he hung up.
Was he leaving a door open? she wondered. Do I care? Pam took her tea to the den. It was dark, but the landscaping lights illuminated enough of the beach for Pam to see that although some of the snow was still on the ground, most had either melted or been blown away. She sat in her overstuffed, leather chair with one leg under her. She aimed the remote at the fireplace and a flame burst on, lighting up the dark, shedding a mysterious gloom over the room. Not thinking about anything in particular, Pam burst out laughing. For a moment she was unexplainably at peace. It didn’t make any sense, with all the turmoil around her. But without warning, it occurred to her that she had forgiven herself. In a split second, she’d stopped rationalizing for Jack, stopped making excuses, and inexplicably decided to cut herself a break. She couldn’t do anything to turn back the clock, and she had so much at stake. Since there would be opportunities for others to blame her; she needed to be strong for herself. The children would be home for Thanksgiving. She planned to make it a fun time like it was when they were kids. Their friends would come to the house like they used to. She’d have a big meal with all of their favorite Thanksgiving foods. The only thing missing would be Jack. Jack and Marie. She let her imagination run with the image of their faces. Jack and Marie, leaving to golf. Jack and Marie running on the beach. How many times did she see Marie running up to the house, to be caught by Jack? He’d swoop her up in his arms, twirling her around while she screamed and he laughed. Lisa would be standing off to the side, watching. Was she jealous of her aunt? Of the attention given her by Jack? What had they been doing out of sight of the beach? She remembered walking out to Lisa and encouraging her to join in the fun. “That’s okay, Mother,” Lisa would say. What was okay? That Jack was playing with Marie? Or that she was being neglected? When questioned, Lisa swore that she felt she and Brent had had the perfect childhood. Pam could remember telling her mother the same thing when Nelda was doing some rare introspection of her parenting during one of Marie’s anorexic episodes.
“Mom, you were fine!” Pam insisted. “Everything was fine!” It hadn’t been. But what was the point of digging up a child’s nebulous complaints to justify a parent’s guilt? Now, were my children doing the same thing? Were they protecting me from my own failings? Her stomach started growling. She’d missed dinner. Getting up to go into the kitchen, she thought of the weekend nights when she’d be in her kitchen alone, preparing dinner for the family. The four would come in from their activities and Pam would serve them while they continued talking and laughing, or arguing. Marie confided recently that the children hadn’t contacted her since Jack died. She was astonished, thinking the three were inseparable. But Jack was the glue that held Marie to the family. Marie didn’t really care about Lisa and Brent or she would have stayed in touch. It was so depressing. Earlier, Pam had made a vow not to dwell on Marie and Jack, but the truth was that she had to come to terms with these revelations as they came to her and not push them back down. Remembering Marie’s current status, Pam laughed. A lot of good it would do to try to pin anything on her now. And then a wave of sadness came over her. Her poor sister. She’d really been neglected and abused. It was too late to make amends. All they could do was try to make her comfortable and compliant. She got a banana and another cup of tea. It would have to do. She was too lonely to bother eating dinner. And that elusive peace? It was out the door.
22
For a very brief time, Jack and Ashton tried living together. There was nothing suspicious about it; after all, they’d been childhood friends. Harold didn’t want Jack to move out, but after college when he refused to pay for Jack’s graduate program, there was nothing obligating Jack to stay home.
“I’m going to move in with Ashton, and while I’m out of the house, I expect you to keep your hands off Bill. I’ll make good my former threats if I hear otherwise,” Jack told him quietly. Harold wanted to bash Jack’s head in, but he was afraid of him, and had been afraid since Jack held exposure of molestation over his head.
“It’s all in your imagination, Jack,” was Harold’s standard reply. Harold was a man with intimidating size. But sitting in a leather armchair having to look up at Jack diminished his stature. He was certain it would take more than the words of a pencil-neck college kid to bring him down, but the fear of it was always in the back his mind. Sex had been a game to his own father and uncles, as it had been with the generations before. Incest was an accepted practice in his grandfather’s homeland and he had brought it with him to America. Exposure now would mean financial ruin, social catastrophe.
“Whatever you say, Dad. Just don’t let me hear that you have been bothering Billy,” Jack warned. “I’m leaving now. Tell Mom I said good-bye.” He left quietly, before Bernice came down.
Billy was running up the sidewalk when he saw Jack leaving. Jack was his protector, his savior. His absence could only mean one thing for Billy and that was brutality at the hands of his father. They embraced but quickly separated in case Harold was watching.
“You’re really gonna do it?” Billy asked. “He’ll kill me if you leave, Jack!” The boy started crying, backing up, away from the view of the house. When they were standing behind a brick post, Jack grabbed him and hugged him.
“You’ll be okay. I told him to leave you alone. Keep your door locked and don’t come when he calls. I wish I had done it. I didn’t know any better. But you do. Threaten him, Billy. Tell him you’ll tell!” Jack lowered his head and began to weep. Calling the police wasn’t an option; who’d pay the bills if Harold was arrested? Jack knew he was being a
coward. He would regret being passive for the rest of his life. He hugged his brother again. “I love you, Billy. I’ll always take care of you.” Those words would come back to haunt him later.
Jack walked away from the mansion and his brother toward Broadway. He’d take the subway to the Village where he and Ashton would have two weeks of playing house. Ashton couldn’t stand Jack’s carousing, however, and when he laid down the law, Jack left happily. “I didn’t like you in the role of Mother, anyway,” Jack told him.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Ashton whined.
“I don’t need dinners and laundry. I’ll pay for that shit if I want it,” Jack replied. “I need a playmate and a lover. When I walk in, I don’t want to be reminded that I’m late or that I need to drink my orange juice or change my underwear.” He went to their shared bedroom and began stuffing clothes into a suitcase. When he finished, he grabbed his jacket and walked over to Ashton, kissing him on the cheek. “I got an apartment Midtown, off Broadway and Thirty-Ninth Street.”
“Jack, that’s an awful neighborhood. What are you going to do? Turn tricks for extra cash?” Ashton sat down on the edge of the bed and starting crying.
“Oh great, here goes old waterworks. If there is anything that turns me off, it’s you crying,” Jack said. But he did go over to Ashton and hug him with one arm. “I’ll call you later and you can come and help me decorate. We just can’t live together.” Jack secretly hated the Village anyway; it reminded him of college and youth and vulnerability. He was so done with being young. And sex with one person was boring. The alternative was to live alone and seek additional partners on the sly. Eventually, Jack wanted to get married and have a family. He wanted a sober wife and children who didn’t feel threatened by their father, who could leave their bedroom doors unlocked and feel safe. That his ideal would be an isolated island in the center of a sea of depravity of his creation never ever entered his mind, even in the midst of his worst nightmares at the end of his life.
Jack dragged his suitcases out to the curb. A cab pulled up right away, hoping for a big fare out to the airport, but Jack was just going a few miles uptown. He was excited; it would be the first time he’d lived alone. He’d fantasized about what it would be like, how he’d be free to bring as many people there as he chose to, whenever he wanted. The first week would be filled with so much fun; he’d remember it as the best one of his life for many years. Old friends found their way to his door for weeks until the cops finally came, and seeing his old family name, gave him a warning to keep it down, or else. After the allure wore off and they found more intriguing places to party, Jack was free to start bringing new friends there. He experimented with new fetishes, too. Living alone gave him the freedom to live his life the way he wanted with no holds barred.
In contrast, it was at this time that he began the ritual of taking his mother out to lunch every Wednesday. Like all abused children, he made excuses for his mother’s inability to protect him. He did love her, no matter what her omissions were. They never spoke of Harold, or Billy, or home. Their conversations were always about what was happening in town, politics, the arts, the latest Times editorial. As an adult, Jack developed a warm, loyal relationship with his mother. He slowly put aside the animosity he felt for his father, shoving the memories down, pretending they didn’t matter. But in real time, they lurked; his father coming home from work, the sound of the limousine pulling into the driveway; his mother, sleeping off a drunken stupor, leaping up out of bed to shower and dress. The boys always being freshly showered at the dinner table because afterward, Harold’s other appetites would come to life.
Jack’s early heterosexual encounters revolved around flashbacks of his father’s punishing abuse. Later, he would substitute other images; music, or beautiful women, or the ocean, the moment painful memories tried to dominate his thoughts. He learned that there was a special place where he could cultivate the more violent desires he was curious to explore. Ashton, actually, was the one who introduced him to the place where those antisocial behaviors would be accepted, encouraged, even developed further when he was unable to accommodate Jack.
“Look, I understand what you want from me, but it’s not going to happen, my friend,” Ashton said seriously. But his inner monologue was laughing. Jack liked the full regalia of sadomasochistic practice, including the leather chaps and dog collars. He’d already spent a small fortune on whips and chains and had a wall in his bedroom with Peg-Board and hooks where he arranged the props. The first time Jack dressed up for Ash, he had to put a pillow over his face to keep the neighbors from hearing his hysterical laughing. Jack was insulted and refused to speak to Ashton for days afterward, and never again about “leather.”
For the “messiest” of his desires, he had tile installed on the floor and walls of a small office in the rear of the apartment. If things got out of hand, all he had to do was get a bucket of soapy water and a mop. He installed a weight-bearing hook in the ceiling and it became one of his most useful devices. When he was alone in the apartment, he used it to perform circus-type exercises, such as suspended summersaults and upside-down hanging, for relaxation. When he admitted to Ashton that he often used the hook by himself, an argument ensued.
“So what you’re saying is that if a cop comes to my door and asks if I know you, it could be because you were found strangled to death in your golden showers room,” Ashton complained.
“You’re nuts! I’m not into any kind of autoerotic strangulation. No, I promise you I won’t strangle myself,” Jack said, thinking it may be the only thing I’m not into. It was why Jack didn’t drink or take drugs. He liked being aware of every single moment.
His hole-in-the-wall off Broadway would be a hidden place of respite, remarkable only for the number of strangers who’d been there as the perverted partners of Jack Smith.
23
Historically, Thanksgiving at the beach meant two things; continuous food and card games until two in the morning. Dave still hadn’t called Pam back and she didn’t see him at Organic Bonanza. It was a mixed blessing; she missed his companionship, but was happy that she didn’t need to worry about him judging her again. The altercation over Jeff Babcock had been an eye-opener. Not having him around meant she didn’t need to worry about introducing him to her children. Brent came in Tuesday night and had arranged for a friend to pick him up in Newark and bring him home. Lisa flew in to Kennedy on Wednesday and Brent picked her up with a group of her friends. Until that week, Pam hadn’t felt much joy since Jack had died. She was home, preparing for the children’s arrival, changing their bedding, putting fresh flowers all over the place, stocking up on their favorite foods. It was almost like old times.
Not a big baker because Nelda and Marie usually took care of it, she began making pies the weekend before, going to a local stand and getting apples and the last of the tart cherries. Her mind was an empty vessel while she baked. She listened to the radio, or talked on the phone with Jeff Babcock or her sisters. Susan was staying in New Jersey for Thanksgiving, on call for her dental practice; and Sharon was going to her mother-in-law’s. It didn’t escape Pam that neither sister invited her to share the day, even though they’d spent Thanksgiving at the beach house for more than twenty years. Nelda and Bernice were going to be at the mansion with Marie and Steve.
That no one thought to include her and her children six months after Jack died was simply a breach of etiquette. Or was it? Could it be that people came here to enjoy the house and didn’t really care about her? Pam felt her blood pressure rising as she allowed these thoughts to dominate. Apple and paring knife in hand, she stopped peeling and resolved that she wasn’t going to pump negativity into her fruit pies. Looking out over the ocean, she decided not allow anyone to have control over her opinion of herself.
Making Thanksgiving dinner for her children and their friends was enough. She was grateful not to have a huge crowd for the day—having to bite her tongue, or be nice to her mother and sister, or de
al with her nieces and nephews. There were so many pluses about it; she found it shocking that she’d formerly enjoyed hosting the entire clan. She started peeling again. But it was hopeless. The memory of Jack and Marie sitting in the kitchen, kicking each other under the kitchen table popped into her head. At the time she thought it was nothing more than childish tormenting, Marie purposely trying to make Jack lose his composure. But now she wondered if they weren’t doing more, playing footsy, or worse. Suddenly, Pam had a thought: She would ask Marie to come clean. She wanted to know more about Jack’s betrayal. Did he have any respect for me? She thought of the old cliché, Curiosity killed the cat. Her hairdresser had a rebuttal: Satisfaction brought it back. The relationship between Pam and Marie was already on such tenuous ground that nothing more could hurt it. Yes, I am going to ask for details.
A big concern of Pam’s was the dialogue about AIDS that was bound to occur while the children were home. She would answer any questions they had, but the latest ER visit would remain a secret. The doctors couldn’t find any reason for her periods of unconsciousness, and didn’t relate them to AIDS or any other condition. It would worry her children unnecessarily if they knew.
“It could simply be your body’s response to stress. You said you’ve had a lot of it lately, correct? Pam, try to stay away from stress if you can,” the last doctor told her.
She giggled to herself. Stay away from stress? Good luck.
As she was sliding a pie into the oven, the phone rang. It was Jeff Babcock.
“Well, are you alive?” he asked.
Pam laughed. “Oh yes, I’m baking pies! My children are home from school and running around with their friends,” she said.
Prayers for the Dying: Pam of Babylon Book #4 Page 13