At first, she didn’t grasp what she was looking at. It was for a male baby named Franklin Albert, born September 30, 1955. She skimmed the weight and length, then the father’s name, Bertram Franklin Albert, and then the mother’s name, Bernice Paula Stein. Jack’s mother. Confused, she thought Jack had a brother who was born on his birthday with a different father. How could that be? It didn’t take long, however, for her to figure it out.
“Oh, for God’s sake!” she said out loud. Jack was Franklin. Jack’s beloved father, Harold Smith, the man whose death a year ago knocked the wind right out of his sails, wasn’t really his father.
She stood up and began to pace. When did he find this out? Was it right after Harold’s death? Or was it later? She went back to the folder. The next paper was a letter from a woman, a Beverly Johnson, telling Jack that she thought he may be her half-brother and asking if would he consider meeting. There wasn’t a copy of any reply. But she had included her telephone number, so maybe he called her right away. Knowing Jack, that is probably what he did. She could almost hear his voice. Beverly! What a damn surprise! You are the child of my mother, Bernice? Or my father Harold? Pam imagined Jack’s shock learning he had a half-sister who shared a father he didn’t know. She wondered why he didn’t tell her, didn’t confide in her? I would be another hurt she would suffer, Jack either didn’t trust her enough to tell her or it wouldn’t bring comfort to him. She sat down on the bed again, numb. How much could a person take in three days? Checking her watch yet, she dug through her purse for Sandra’s phone number. Picking up the phone, she keyed in the number for the second time that weekend. Sandra picked up on the first ring.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to call,” she said.
“I’m sorry. I got here early but fell asleep! I guess I must be more stressed out than I realize,” Pam confessed. “Can we get together?”
“Okay. Where do you want to meet?” Sandra asked.
“Do you want to come here, to Jack’s?” Pam asked. “I thought you might like to be here.”
“We never met there, truly,” she said. Was this woman for real? “But I would like to see it if it is okay with you,” Sandra said. Pam gave her the address. Sandra said she would leave right away and it would take about fifteen minutes to get there. Pam used the time to go through the rest of the papers. She found copies of Bertam Albert’s birth certificate, his death certificate dated August 1955, and more communication from Barbara Johnson with copies of Jack’s real birth certificate. There were copies of all sorts of legal documents about Harold—his discharge papers from the army and a marriage license to Bernice dated two months after Jack’s birth. Jack had done his homework. There was nothing to reveal whether or not Jack ever confronted Bernice. She would think he had died none the wiser.
The door buzzer downstairs sounded. Pam didn’t bother speaking, just pushed the button to open the door. Hopefully it was Sandra. She was suddenly shy, like meeting a date for the first time or interviewing for a job. In five minutes, the buzzer on the hallway door rang. Pam went to open the door. She couldn’t help herself. When she saw Sandra, she reached for her as if she were an old friend, embracing her. She felt all of her tension releasing, her body almost folding and she began to cry. Sandra returned the embrace and held Pam while she cried; doing for her what Pam had done the night of Jack’s death—offering comfort. Finally, when Pam could support her own weight, she stepped back from Sandra and smiled at her through her tears.
“I feel like you are on old friend. I know that must sound ridiculous because of our age difference.” Sandra didn’t think the age difference was what made it strange. But she was glad that Pam felt that way about her and said so.
“I’m glad you don’t hate me” was all she could get out. Pam took her by the arm and led her into the living room. Sandra looked around at Jack’s home. She couldn’t picture him there. It was so not what she thought of Jack. She thought he would live in a more cluttered, homier environment. This place was as sterile as a hotel room.
“Are you thinking it doesn’t say anything about Jack?” Pam asked. Sandra nodded her head yes.
“We worked together,” Sandra said, waiting for Pam to respond. She just nodded her head. “His office was always a disaster. Books and papers piled on the floor, file folders sliding off his desk, junk like radios, gifts for you and the kids, just chaos. So yes, this is surprising.” She laughed. Pam offered her a seat.
“His cupboards are bare,” she said. “I can offer you a banana. It is the only thing in the house to eat.”
“I feel a little claustrophobic. Do you have time for lunch?” Sandra said. Pam nodded yes.
“I have to call home first. I left without telling them I was coming here, and this phone has been ringing all morning.” Pam excused herself and went into the bedroom and dialed home. Lisa picked up.
“Mom, I would have gone with you. Everyone is concerned here.”
“Please tell them I am fine. I had some business to take care of, Lisa. I really wanted to be here, in the apartment, alone. I hope you understand. I’ll call you when I am on my way home.” They said good-bye, and Pam hung up. Lisa would be her advocate.
She went into the bathroom and reapplied her lipstick for the third time that day.
“This crying garbage has really taken a toll on my makeup,” she said. They left the apartment. Pam made small talk on the way down in the elevator, telling Sandra how they found the apartment. “We had a place on the Upper West Side when the kids were little. We loved it there. When we moved out onto the island, Jack wanted to be closer to work. We were eating dinner at the place in the basement here—Grendels, I believe it was called—and the man who owned the apartment was eating at the table next to us, eavesdropping on our conversation. ‘I just heard you say you like this building. My apartment is for sale. Right here on the fifteenth floor,’ he said. Just like that. We went up to look after we finished dinner, and Jack bought it then and there. It’s not really close to his office, but closer than if he’d stayed on the Upper West Side.”
Sandra smiled politely. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, but was grateful Pam was keeping the conversation going. It would be easier to talk about important matters if they could keep talking. They stepped outside. It had stopped raining and the air was cool, the sun was peeking out from behind the clouds. It would be a good day after all.
Do you mind if we walk a while?” Pam asked. Sandra said, “No, that would be nice.” As they walked down Madison Avenue, passersby gave admiring glances at what they thought to be a lovely young woman and her mother. Both attractive, they got the same kind of attention that Jack and Sandra used to get. Pam didn’t notice.
They arrived at a coffee shop and found a table for two at the window. Pam was starving. The waitress brought coffee and menus. Usually a light eater, she ordered a burger and fries. Sandra got a salad.
“I haven’t had a burger in years. My husband died, so I guess I can eat a burger if I want.” She looked up at Sandra. “That was tacky, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me,” she said.
“Don’t give it another thought,” Sandra said, thinking, how bizarre can this get?
“I feel like I can be honest with you,” Pam said. “My family is waiting for me to fall apart or do something dramatic. I have to be careful what I say. Evidently, I fainted at the funeral home yesterday. Oh, yes, I was quite a spectacle.” She paused, careful about how she approached the next topic. “Evidently, the man who we thought was Jack’s father wasn’t his father at all. I found some documents that spelled it out in the apartment just now.” She picked up her coffee cup and took a sip, looking over the rim at Sandra. “Did Jack ever mention that to you?”
“No, but I knew that something life changing had taken place shortly after his father died. He kept saying things around the office like, ‘Make sure you know who your parents really are,’ and ‘I wonder if we are related,’ to one of the black men who worked with us. No wo
nder!” Sandra couldn’t believe the conversation.
“Well, I have to decide to keep it a secret or confront my mother-in-law. What do you think?” Her food had arrived and she dug in like a truck driver.
“Don’t ask me! I’m terrible at that sort of thing. I mean, look at us. What would Jack say if he could see us together like this?” Sandra was still unsure of the reason for this meeting. She hoped that Pam would hurry up say whatever it was that needed saying.
“We never have to worry about Jack again, that’s one thing for sure. Can I ask you a personal question?” Pam said. Oh, here goes, Sandra thought to herself. She nodded yes.
“Did you love him?” She was looking up at Sandra, not with dread, but really interested. “I mean, it is clear why he was with you. You are beautiful. You’re nice. What’s not to like? I can’t be angry about it, at least not now. At first, I was hurt. For about ten minutes, I thought, ‘He found someone he liked better than me.’ But then I rationalized that maybe he needed both of us for some reason.”
“I think I did,” Sandra replied nervously. “I mean, it wasn’t real, if that makes any sense. It was all wrong, and we both knew it. Plus, it wasn’t what you think an affair is. All sexual, I mean,” she started to stammer, but Pam put her at ease.
“You can speak of sex without incurring my wrath, if that is your concern. I know you slept together. Okay?” Pam smiled at her, but Sandra noticed she had gone pale. She hoped Pam wasn’t going to faint in the restaurant.
“I’m no expert psychologist, but I just think he was lonely. He may have thought it was expected of him to sleep with me. He…well, he didn’t really seem like he was into it.” She thought she had blown it for sure now and waited for the firestorm that comment was sure to start. Pam heard the words spoken and was eternally grateful. She reached across the table and took Sandra’s hand in hers.
“Thank you, Sandra, for trying to preserve my pride. I will always be grateful for that,” Pam said, finding it difficult to believe that someone as sexual as Jack always was wouldn’t jump at the chance to ‘be into it’ with someone like Sandra.
“No! It’s true! Oh, this is so weird, talking about it to you. But you have to believe me. He loved you. He loved me too, but in a different way. We were playing. It wasn’t real. I didn’t come to your apartment, and he never came to mine because we both knew it wouldn’t last. We were already getting bored. I hated the sneaking around as much as he did. He was too old for me, or I too young for him.” She bowed her head and fought the tears. Really, why the hell are we here—together? Pam pushed her plate aside and started rummaging through her purse.
“Let’s go, dear. You’ll feel better when you get out of this stuffy place.” Pam put some money down on the table, and they got up and walked out. Pam took Sandra’s arm. They walked like that for a while, an attractive middle-aged woman and her beautiful companion.
“I would like to be your friend. For more than the obvious reasons, not just that you understand something about my life that no one else on earth does, but because I like you,” Pam said. Sandra didn’t know what to say in return, so she just smiled at Pam. She didn’t have girlfriends, especially older women, and especially the wife of her late lover.
“I was thinking, if you want to come over tomorrow night and stay the night, it would be easier for you to get to the funeral home by nine.” Pam knew she was on unexplored territory here. Inviting her late husband’s lover to spend the night in their home was probably not the best plan. How would I explain it to Marie, who knew all the details? She would have to get tough, tell her sister that it is was her house, her husband.
“Thank you for offering, but really, I’ll be fine. I don’t drive, so I will take the train and then a cab.”
“Okay,” said Pam, hiding her disappointment. She was hoping that they would have a better opportunity to talk in the comfort of the house. They walked in the direction of Jack’s apartment.
“You don’t have to walk me back, Sandra,” Pam said. She stopped and turned to face her, having to look up to see her face. “I enjoyed being with you today. It is the first time in twenty-four hours that I felt relaxed.” She dug through her purse and came up with a pen and a grocery receipt and started scribbling her address on it and then added her cell phone number. “If you get stuck or can’t get a cab, call me. I’ll send someone to pick you up from the station.”
Sandra took the scrap of paper from her. Then she bent over to kiss Pam on the cheek. Pam stood on her toes. Sandra felt genuine affection for her.
“Thank you, Pam. Thank you for validating me. I don’t deserve it, but thanks anyway.”
They said their good-byes and then parted, Pam walking east one block to Madison and Sandra going south toward 79th. She would walk across the park.
As she walked along, Sandra felt a moment of rare and unexplainable joy. Her boyfriend was dead, she had a job she hated, both of her parents were dead, and her sister couldn’t stand the sight of her. So what is going on? Having lunch with Jack’s wife was probably one of the strangest experiences she could have had at that place and time, but it left her with a feeling of contentment. She would have to think about this for a while, figure out how to make this moment last.
Everything was green in the park. The trees full and lush. The freshly cut grass smelled wonderful. Children were playing, running after each other and throwing balls, while couples sat on blankets and read the Sunday Times. She and Jack never did that. She couldn’t think of a Sunday they had spent together. She had her own routine on the weekends and didn’t mind that he was unavailable. She didn’t miss him now.
She’d have to take Tuesday off for the funeral; the whole office would be there. She didn’t think of that. Suddenly, she wanted, or rather, needed, Pam Smith. She needed to talk to her. Turning around, she ran up Fifth Avenue to the cross the street to Madison. She turned the corner just as Pam was walking into her building.
“Pam!” she called. “Wait!” Not caring if she looked foolish, Sandra ran toward the building. Pam walked back out onto the sidewalk.
10
Marie was in a quandary. On one hand, she was happy her sister was adjusting so wonderfully to the news that her husband was screwing some tramp and then dropped dead without being able to explain himself. On the other hand, she was furious that something was going on and Pam wasn’t including her.
When she got up that morning and found the note, she knew right away that her sister was going to the city to see Sandra. Angry, she felt left out, unappreciated. If Pam only knew, if she had known what Marie saw Saturday morning she wouldn’t be so damn accommodating to Sandra Benson. She had to pull herself together, she was being irrational. It was moments like this that destroyed families and relationships. She mustn’t lose control. She must try to understand her sister and show her some respect.
She poured old coffee down the drain, rinsed out the pot, and filled it with fresh water. Her favorite routines would help pull her out of this mess. The kids needed her to be strong. Making coffee and busying herself in the kitchen would be a panacea to madness.
None of the food gifts looked appetizing, so she would bake muffins. When the family got up, when Bill and Anne came in, she would prepare whatever kinds of eggs they wanted. In the meantime, she would fry bacon, too. Those aromas would surely get everyone up. If she were surrounded with people, she would have purpose. Then the fears that were tormenting her, fears that she would no longer be useful in this house, would abate for a while.
She took flour, eggs, and butter and measured out the correct portions, washed a quart of fresh blueberries to add. Greasing muffin tins drove the demons back. Pouring the creamy batter with soft, juicy berries into the tin, Marie began to relax. The smell of the coffee made her mouth water.
Once the muffins were in the oven and the timer was set, she poured herself a cup of coffee, suddenly grateful for the morning solitude. She decided to hold off on cooking the bacon. She took her coffee out onto
the veranda. The rain had stopped for the time being. She wiped the chair down with a kitchen towel. A freighter, probably loaded with trash, was visible in the distance inching along toward Staten Island. What am I going to do now? She never felt so alone. Being needed had filled a void so big and so obvious that now she almost couldn’t bear it. She set her cup down on the table and put her face in her hands. Whispering, although no one was up yet and there wasn’t anyone around to hear her, she prayed, “God, please take me, too. Please don’t leave me here.”
Pam left Manhattan at four. She would be home in time for dinner with her family. Right before she left the apartment, she called home, Marie answered the phone laughing. She was playing cards with Lisa and Brent and Sharon’s family.
Marie confirmed that everyone would still be there when Pam got home and told her to drive safely. Pam was glad Marie was okay, worried that going to the city without inviting her to come along would have been an issue.
She turned the radio on and switched the tuner until something familiar came on. It was Vivaldi. She didn’t want to think about the day while she was driving. Traffic was horrendous, and the music helped her to stay focused and keep up. At the speed everyone was going, she would get home in record time—if she didn’t crash first.
When she pulled off the expressway the back roads were deserted, a sign that Sunday dinner was being served. She remembered the weekend before. Jack had stopped at the farmers’ market in town on his way home from golf. He got freshly caught flounder and the makings for a salad. They prepared dinner together, grilling the fish out on the veranda. Pam made a huge salad and opened a bottle of wine. They sat outside until the sun disappeared behind the house. The sky was clear that night, and the stars were so bright you could see them all the way down to the horizon.
Pam of Babylon Page 6