Pam of Babylon

by Suzanne Jenkins

  She shook out the afghan and folded it into a neat square. How long would this scent stay in it? A week? A month? It would grow stale before long, and Pam would take it and throw it into the washing machine. She would ask her daughter-in-law if she could have it. It still had traces of his DNA on it, maybe a stray hair, a dried tear, or a skin cell. She thought of the sheets on his bed in the apartment. Oh God, the apartment. Pam had to deal with that as well. If she were smart, she wouldn’t sell it. She would keep it, just in case. But that was not her business. She must say nothing but loving comments. She thought Pam silly, shallow. But Jack had loved her, and she loved Jack. Her daughter-in-law must be feeling about the same way she did last year at this time when Harold died.

  She worked her way to the end of the chair and struggled to get up. When did I get so old? She wanted to be with the rest of the family now, to hear what they were talking about. There was plenty time of to be alone. She had the rest of her life to be alone.

  7

  Sandra struggled with the key, willing the woman to leave, to get back to her cab and be gone. How much could one person tolerate in a day? She stumbled to her own door after slamming the hallway door shut. Once inside her apartment, the terror of the moment subsided. She took a deep breath. Here was safety. She smelled the clean smell of the house. The order around her brought her peace and she was glad she’d cleaned that day. What could be worse? Jack was dead. Thank God we had last night together. “Thank you, God. But why did her have to die? Why now?” she said out loud. Her momentary peace escaped her, and she fell apart. Sliding down the door to the floor, she crossed her legs and put her head in her hands. She was alone in the world. There was no one on earth who she could call right now and say, “Jack is dead,” who would understand, who would care. The impact of it brought her to tears again. No one knew. Well, not exactly no one. Those women who she had earlier wished be gone might know. They cared.

  How lucky am I that the woman, Jack’s wife, was so lovely! Could it be she was under medication? Was she in shock? Sandra certainly didn’t expect that sort of greeting, that much caring. Jack never bad-mouthed her, but he also didn’t go into a lot of detail about the kind of woman she was—a gracious, giving woman. One who could put aside her own feelings and embrace the woman who had been sleeping with her husband. Her grief, compounded by guilt, paralyzed her. She lay on the floor in front of her door in the dark for the rest of the night.

  The next morning, stiff from the hard floor, Sandra got up, put her purse in the closet and walked to her bedroom. She pulled the shades up. It was a bright, sun-filled day. Picking up the bedside clock, she saw that it was eleven already. How’d that happen? She felt lightheaded, strange, probably from sleeping on the floor. She remembered that she hadn’t had dinner last night. But, first, she would have a shower. She gathered up clean underwear and a robe.

  The hot water felt good on her skin. She couldn’t shake the lightheaded feeling. Hurrying to get finished, she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She was concentrating on the mundane tasks of her morning. It was Sunday. She would take care of herself and wait for the call. Her life would be in bondage to the funeral of her lover. That much she could do for him. There would be nothing else as important, nothing as eternal, as going through this process of burying her lover. Pam Smith was going to make it possible for her to have the experience, to be part of it—at least she said she would.

  Sandra put a tea bag in a cup. She reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a plastic container of orange-frosted rolls she picked up the day before at Zabar’s. Was it really just yesterday? Saturday morning? Her life had changed overnight. The small tasks of her daily routine were comforting. She arranged a sliced apple on a plate and took her tea and roll to the small table set up in her sitting area, positioned so she could look out the window at the alley while she ate. The disadvantage to being on the ground floor was the lack of view. But seeing the way the sunlight shown on the brick and the tree of heaven, with her bird feeder in it swaying in the breeze, made her feel a sense of peace. Most things were out of her control. She was at the mercy of everyone else. Just go with the flow.

  She had made a poor choice. Getting involved with Jack was wrong and she knew it, resisting it from the onset. So did he. They should have taken drastic steps, asked for a transfer for her, anything to get them out of the same office. But the chemistry and the tug between them was more than either of them could ignore. They were human, after all. Flesh. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. They didn’t even flirt with each other. It transcended that sort of behavior. Now she realized that he was just lonely. He was at that dangerous age. He should have moved home with his wife or insisted she come to the city with him. It would have been worth it to protect their marriage.

  She first saw him three years before. Prior to that, she was working in the Bronx office. It was closer to her home than Wall Street. She could walk if she allowed enough time, but usually hopped on the subway. She loved working far uptown. The shopping and the restaurants were fabulous. She tried so many different ethnic foods. Picking up something unusual for dinner each night got to be a habit, so much so that she actually put on weight, her straight figure taking on curves.

  When she was summoned to the Wall Street office, she assumed someone there wanted her to do a temporary research project that couldn’t be done from the outside. Jack was in his office talking on the phone. She was standing in the hall just a foot from his door. Peter Romney was talking loudly to her, explaining what he needed from her. Jack walked to his door, smiled at her, and closed it. She wished Peter had shut up.

  “Do you think we could go someplace and sit down while you tell me about the project?” she said. “I want to take notes.” He led her to an empty office and, pointing at the desk, said, “Welcome to Wall Street.” It was a long commute downtown. She had to leave the house earlier than before, giving herself an hour to get downtown and then walk to the building. The atmosphere wasn’t the same down there. It was darker, as the surrounding buildings stood tall around their office, blocking the sunlight. She really didn’t like it. Maybe having the interest of a man helped her settle into her new position. She may have used Jack to feel less lonely, less unhappy about her new digs.

  It started innocently enough. They just worked together. He never asked her to lunch, never flirted with her. He seemed eager to get home on Fridays, occasionally going midweek. Sandra wasn’t attracted to him either. She had never dated an older man and he was twice her age.

  And then her parents died within a few days of each other. He was so nice to her, so concerned, that they began talking and a real friendship developed. It wasn’t a father-daughter relationship, although there were enough years between them that it could have been. They were just coworkers.

  Last year, Jack’s father died. He was devastated. He turned to her for advice about how to grieve, how to come to terms with the loss. Three months later, it began. It wasn’t one pursuing the other, but more of a mutual need to be together. They started walking at lunch. He said his doctor warned him about his heart, high blood pressure, and cholesterol. He hated working out. His wife was a gym rat, going there daily for years. But she was in great shape, he had said. He didn’t want to leave her a widow.

  The funny thing about it was that once they had sex, it wasn’t a big deal. They just did it. He was okay at it, but there didn’t seem to be any passion. That bothered her and she would have been lying to herself if she said she wasn’t disappointed. She felt passion, but didn’t express it; it would have been too one-sided. She wondered if it was his age so she ignored it. They didn’t go to hotels during the day or anything tawdry like that. Very rarely, he would ask her if she would be able to spend the night with him. He asked to go to her apartment, but she refused and they got a hotel room. She wasn’t sure that staying all night was wise; coming into work together in the morning would raise suspicions. She worried people were already talking.

&n
bsp; So it wasn’t the sex; it was just Jack. There was just something about him that drew her to him. She knew it would be short-lived; he would never leave his wife. He made that clear from the beginning. He was madly in love with her. They had two grown kids together. His mother worshiped him. He thought his in-laws did, too. He would never disappoint them by divorcing his wife. He didn’t even know why he was doing it, having this affair, except that he loved Sandra. He told her that. “I love my wife, but I love you. I need you in my life,” he would say. She remembered their last night together. After they made love, Jack lit a cigar, his one concession to vice, and sat up against the pillow smoking. She was curled up at his side. The ash fell from the cigar, and he let it scatter on the sheets. Laughing, she looked up at him and said, “I don’t date men who smoke.”

  “You do now, my dear,” he replied.

  She finished her tea and roll, and as she got up to put the dishes in the sink, the phone rang. She picked up the receiver and looked at the caller ID, and her heart started pounding right away. Jack Smith. Of course, it wasn’t him; it was his wife. But, seeing that name, she had to take a deep breath to pause for a moment before she answered.

  8

  Marie was bored. Anne had efficiently taken over the kitchen, so there was nothing for her to do until two that afternoon, when she would accompany Pam to the funeral home. They had picked out a suit, his most beautiful spring suit, made of silk, cut close to the body to show off his new physique.

  They still had to choose the casket. Would that make it real for Pam then? Marie thought she was acting a little strange. Granted, she was grieving, but she was not your usual grief-stricken widow. Marie found that she was avoiding her sister. Strangely, her Hell’s Kitchen apartment was where she really wanted to be at that moment, not here, not in this foreign place she had once loved so much. Maybe it was she, and not Pam, who was acting strange.

  For one thing, she felt like the house no longer held a single atom of Jack, not his den, his bedroom closet, or even his clothes. It was as though he was spectral dust, and with a strong wind, Jack blew away. Had Pam foreseen this day and systematically removed all traces of him, little by little, so even he didn’t notice? Marie found it hard to believe that she was ever comfortable there. She felt a combination of rage at his betrayal and deep, profound grief at his loss. Who am I feeling this about? she thought. Was he betraying me or Pam? Oh God, there are so many issues to sort out now. What had been just simmering under the surface had been exposed to be dealt with, at least as far as she was concerned. If he were still alive, she could have dealt with him in her own way, forcing him to confront his wife, exposing the truth. With him dead, it was a nonissue. The years she spent in servitude to her sister and her brother-in-law would go unpaid. She brought this on herself, and now the price would be paid in her wasted life.

  Anne and Nelda took some of the food gifts and made lunch for everyone. They all encouraged Pam to eat something. They noticed Marie and tried to get her to sit down and eat, too. But she just couldn’t. All accepted that she too, had a broken heart. But the extent of it, the depth was known only to her. She would have to fake it or risk devastating her sister and their relationship.

  At 1:30 p.m., Pam and Marie left for the funeral home together. Getting into the driver’s seat, Pam sighed and said, “I need to go to the train station and pick up Jack’s car.”

  “Do you want me to get the key, and we can go get it on our way home? It probably shouldn’t sit there over the weekend,” Marie suggested.

  “Oh, do you mind?” Pam said. Marie’s heart rate increased just thinking about getting behind the wheel of Jack’s beloved Lexus. No one ever drove it but him. “It would save time, I guess, since we are already out. I hate to impose.”

  “No, I’ll get the key.” She tried to hide her obvious nervousness, her hands shaking and voice trembling. This may be the thing she needed to purge her sadness, to let the tears flow. She wasn’t sure what would do it for Pam, but this might do the trick for her.

  She went through the garage to the back landing. There, on the wall just outside the laundry room was a rack with hooks. There was a hook for each of the cars, plus spares. The kid’s car keys were there, an extra for Pam’s car, a key for the lawn tractor, one for the utility truck, and then a large leather triangle with a silver L, Jack’s keys. Marie reached out for it, grasping it with her hand and bringing it up to her lips. Her eyes were closed. She knew she better get back to the car before Pam began to wonder what was taking so long. She would have time to love the key once she was alone in the Lexus. When she got back in the car, Pam was looking at her with concern.

  “Are you okay, kiddo? I mean the obvious, right? But will you be okay to go with me? I really appreciate it. I know how much you loved Jack, and he loved you.” Pam was the most generous person Marie knew, but she didn’t know how much Marie loved Jack, no matter what Pam thought.

  “I’m okay. I was just thinking that in a few hours, Sharon will be picking Lisa up in Newark.” A change of subject might make me feel better, Marie thought, deceiving herself. Sharon was the middle sister, second to last, born one year to the day before Marie. She and her family were coming up from Cherry Hill for the weekend; they were going to come anyway for the picnic but now instead for this tragic event. They would swing by the airport and pick up their niece.

  “Thank God we don’t have to worry about airport pickups. I know it must sound crass, but I think having to drive into Newark or to brave the traffic to JFK would have pushed me over the edge,” Pam said. “Jack always did the driving to the airport.”

  “How are you doing, Pam?” Marie said. Her sister seemed too calm for someone on the way to a funeral home to plan a husband’s funeral. Pam didn’t answer. She was unable to repeat what was really in her heart, the resignation that her marriage was a farce, that she felt more empathy for a stranger, a young woman who had been involved with her husband, than she did for her own children. She was hopeful those feelings would be resolved when she saw the faces of her kids. She knew the calm now, the numbness, would soon give way to the angst of young adulthood in turmoil.

  “Do you remember when Daddy died?” she asked Marie. “All I felt was guilt and anger. Guilt because I was cool to him the day before he died, and anger because he allowed his daughters to be taken care of by other men without putting up a fight. I was mad about that for a long time. Mommy would say that I was still mad at him. I’m not sure.” Marie doubted that Pam had anything to feel guilty about it, but wanted to hear more about this other revelation.

  “Were you mad at Dad because he allowed me to live with you and Jack?” This was news to Marie if it were true.

  “Not mad, because Lord knows I needed you so much but confused, like why are you letting your baby daughter live with us? Are we fit parents for a twelve-year-old? I don’t know,” Pam admitted.

  “I can’t imagine what life would have been like if you hadn’t allowed me to come to you and Jack,” Marie said. Silently, she thought, it would have been unthinkable.

  They pulled into the driveway of the funeral home, driving under the portico. A pale, thin man in a black suit, the funeral home director was waiting for them. Another man came around and opened Pam’s door. They were greeted with a solemn but friendly “We’re sorry for your loss.” The first man led the way through double doors to a strangely decorated entryway. There was a bust of George Washington in an alcove, surrounded with dusty plastic flowers. Marie sneaked a glance at Pam. She tried to contain her laughter. Pam felt the hysteria rising in her throat.

  “Don’t make eye contact,” Pam snapped under her breath, grabbing Marie’s arm. How inappropriate. She had to pull herself together, laughter struggling to win.

  They followed him into an office with upholstered chairs, where he offered each woman a seat. Pam forced herself not to look around. She hadn’t noticed before, but the place was horribly decorated. She hoped Jack didn’t mind, if that were possible. He was a
lready here for whatever they call it. Embalming, that was the word. They cut your vein and drain all the blood out. You are laid out like roast beef on a slab, naked, exposed.

  The next thing Pam knew she was lying on the dirty carpet of the office. Marie was crying and patting her hand, her cheek. Someone in a powder-blue suit was holding a glass of water to her lips.

  “Pam! Pam!” Marie shouted. “Pam, wake up, for God’s sake!” Pam could hear her sister say, “Maybe we should call 911.”

  Pam struggled to wake up, to let her sister know she was okay. “I’m here,” she whispered. There was a lot of commotion as people around her assisted her to stand up. She said she would like to use the bathroom, if possible. She had to wash her hands, at least. Get some of the germs off her clothes.

  Marie led her to the bathroom, the lady in the blue suit guiding them, leaving them at the door.

  “Are you okay?” Marie said to her sister for the tenth time that day, tears near the surface, hovering over Pam.

  “I think so. Can we hurry this up? I regret using this place. We could have gone to the one on Main Street. Jack golfed with him, I think.” She was pale, shaky. She washed her hands and wetting a paper towel, asked Marie to help her wipe off the back of her pants and jacket.

  Marie giggled through her tears, saying, “What do you think you picked up from that rug?” They laughed, but Pam was not taking any chances. They made their way back to the office with Pam all business.

  “Let’s get this over with,” she said to the directors. All pleasantries stopped and questions about Jack’s last wishes began. Marie had a list of things they wanted put in place, like a picture easel, guest book, and a string quartet, as well as things they didn’t want; a video, taped music, and ushers. Marie went out to the car to get the suit in addition to the other necessary items—polished black shoes and a silk tie with frogs printed on it that the kids had gotten him for Christmas the year before. When she returned, Pam had picked out a casket, a dark walnut piece. He would have approved.