Pam of Babylon

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “Good evening, Mother!” Marie said. Nelda bent down and kissed her. She smelled of soap and water. At least she was bathing.

  “Mom, this is Sandra Benson. She holds an important position at Jack’s company.”

  Sandra stood up and reached over the table to grab Nelda’s hand.

  “Nice to meet you!”

  If things could just stay pleasant, or otherwise superficial, like this, Pam would be happy—no in-depth conversations, no psycho dramas. She noticed her mother’s concern at Marie’s appearance. She would take her aside later and tell her that she had been eating pretty much nonstop for the past twenty-four hours. Maybe she has just been lonely, or reverting from anorexia to a binge-purge cycle.

  The evening went well, although Nelda wasn’t herself. Later, Pam used the expression “bright” to describe the way her mother looked. Her eyes were glazed over, and she was smiling inappropriately.

  Pam whispered to her sister, “Maybe she’s been drinking.”

  Marie ended up asking her mother to stay; she offered to drive her home in the morning. She had a drawer in Marie’s room with clean pajamas and underwear, and there was nothing pressing for her to get back to Brooklyn.

  The next morning, Sandra came down with her suitcase. She was going to leave, too. She had a long train ride home and wanted to prepare for the week. Pam offered to drive her to the train station, but Marie had already said she could drop her off. They stayed for coffee and croissants and then left together. Pam felt the anxiety building. She thought she might be nervous about being left, but then realized she wanted them to move on. She wanted to be alone again.

  29

  The three women left the house together, cordiality swirling around them. The scene was so bizarre, even innocent Pam was in disbelief. She walked them out to Marie’s car and stood at the curb waving good-bye as they pulled away. The moment she was alone, she started thinking of what she could do next. She had a list of things that needed to be done that week. She was going to take Marie’s room and make it into a nursery. She was thinking that Sandra would enlist her aid in childcare from time to time. Of course, before she did anything permanent, she would ask her. Then she was going to move Marie upstairs. The rooms had great views up there and private bathrooms. It would be enough to keep her busy for a while.

  And, lastly, there was Jack’s den. Although it was the place the family gathered to watch TV or play games, it was really his room. It had a huge desk and chair and his books and papers. He didn’t want to be isolated from the family in a private office. He liked being part of the action. She thought about Jack. He was a dichotomy. Of course, she always thought he was so transparent, loving his kids and family, such an attentive son to Bernice, so many friends all over the country that loved him. And, if it were all true, adulterer, child abuser, and all the adjectives to describe someone who would molest his own sister-in-law for years and years and years, force her to have two abortions, and physically harm her. Could it really be? Although Pam had no intention of ever again discussing him negatively with either Marie or Sandra, she knew she had barely begun psychoanalyzing his behavior for herself. She didn’t know where to begin.

  She stood in the middle of the den and slowly turned around. Where to start? The apartment on Madison Avenue came into her mind. Oh boy, she thought, I have to deal with that as well. She walked over and sat at his desk. It was a gleaming monstrosity of a desk, with three big drawers down each side and three slim drawers across the top. She thought maybe she would start with a drawer that held paper. Paper was always so difficult to deal with. What was important? What was being saved as a memento? What was trash? She opened and closed drawers until she came to the second drawer from the top on the right. It held manila file folders, lying face up, stacked to the top. She would get a box from the garage and place the folders in the box and start going through them.

  The first folder contained letters from an organization that supported sports for teens on the island. She knew Jack was involved with the group and occasionally sponsored the lacrosse games. She set that folder aside; it might hold information that would be needed at tax time.

  The next folder held a spreadsheet and receipts pertaining to his expenses in the house. He rarely worked from home. She flipped through the receipts. It looked like he was using a portion of the apartment in the city as a home office. Folder after folder held nothing of interest to her. She wondered what she was looking for. Her motive of cleaning out his desk fell flat. She was simply searching for something to help her understand who he was.

  Thinking of the apartment again, she remembered the folder filled with the evidence of his birth. Maybe she needed to get in touch with Bernice. The idea that Bernice knew of Jack’s infidelity and the baby unnerved her. She wondered if Sandra was on the phone with Bernice this very minute, filling her in on the weekend. She doubted Marie’s shocking story was dinnertime conversation between Sandra and Bernice.

  At the bottom of the drawer, tucked away in the left corner, she eyed a strip of paper. It appeared to be stuck there. She pulled on it, and it was more than a strip. She stood up and pushed the chair away. Bending over, she pulled the drawer all the way out of the desk and let it drop to the floor. At the back of the outside of the drawer, a whole sheet of paper, the edge stuck in the drawer, had fallen out of a folder that was hidden in the body of the desk, behind the drawers.

  Pam was having a hot flash. She thought of the saying “curiosity killed the cat” as she reached for the folder. It was newer, not dust covered, so she felt it may have been put there purposely, recently.

  She put the folder on the desk, looking at it, not opening it. Her stomach rumbled. She was empty. It was time for more coffee and something to eat. Walking into the kitchen, she turned around and went back to the den and picked up the folder. She took it with her and placed it in the pantry. Then she locked the pantry door.

  30

  Sandra was suffocating in the backseat of Marie’s car. Nelda was obviously confused by her presence; she made that clear last night when she repeated five or six times, “Now, how do you know Jack?”

  Marie tried to talk Sandra into coming all the way into the city with her, but Sandra knew she would die first. She insisted that she be taken to the train stop; her excuse was she had a ticket that needed to be used or it would expire. Marie wasn’t buying it, but Nelda was relieved that she didn’t have to spend the next hour with a stranger.

  The train was on time, and Sandra found a seat with legroom so she didn’t have to struggle with her suitcase. She put her head against the headrest and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, the train was pulling into Penn Station. Oh, to find a cab, she prayed. There was a lineup of cabs when she stepped outside.

  It was hot in the city, and hotter in the cab. She dug through her purse for a tissue. The driver was a maniac, slamming the brakes at red lights, speeding off at green, and screeching the brakes when he went around corners. She screamed at him to slow down. At the corner of Broadway and 79th she told him to let her out. She threw the fare on the front seat and slammed the door. She’d walk the rest of the way before she would let that jerk see where she lived. When she got to H&R, she went in and got half a dozen bagels and a pint of vegetable cream cheese, her lunch for the next six days. With each step toward her apartment, her suitcase rolling behind her, she relaxed a little more.

  She wondered what she was thinking when staying at the beach seemed like such an enticing idea? There was nothing like the security of her own house. She unlocked the door and pushed it open, and the cool, dark safety enveloped her as she stepped over the threshold. She was home.

  Marie found a place to park the car on her mother’s street so she could go in. It had been weeks since she was in the house. They walked side by side down the street, talking about the evening at Pam’s. Marie was itching to tell her mother the news that Sandra was pregnant with Jack’s baby and, worse, that he had willed her his controlling interest in
the business. It hadn’t occurred to Marie until she was in bed, unable to sleep because she had slept most of the day, that Jack hadn’t remembered her in his will—the final slap in the face. Her mother had always been Pam’s champion. She would have to work her announcement carefully to illicit the most sympathy for herself. It would be intolerable if Nelda started ragging on her and praising Pam.

  She stood on the stoop while her mother struggled with the lock. Marie noticed the paper-thin skin on her mother’s hands and the way they shook. When had she gotten so old? At Jack’s funeral, her mother took charge. Pam had put her in control of Jack’s family, the kitchen, and calling friends and family. Had she aged like this in two weeks? Maybe hearing about the baby would be too much for her. Tough, it had to be done, she decided.

  They stepped over the threshold. Marie involuntarily gasped when she saw the interior of her mother’s house. Always compulsively neat, it was trashed. It smelled like garbage, and worse, there was food and dirty dishes all over the kitchen. Marie paused and took it in, finally addressing her mother. At first, she wondered if the place had been vandalized. And then realized what could be happening.

  “Mom, what the hell is this? Why aren’t you cleaning up?”

  Nelda put her purse down on the counter. She sat down in a kitchen chair.

  “I haven’t felt up to cleaning. I guess I got used to it looking like this,” she said.

  Marie stepped forward, doing a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn.

  “Well, this is not acceptable. Go change your clothes and make us a pot of coffee. I’m glad we left Pam’s when we did because this is going to take all day to clean up, and I have to go to work tomorrow.”

  She literally rolled up her sleeves. Moving over to the sink, she fished through rank-smelling water and found the plug, lifting it so the foul mess would go down the drain. She started running the hot water while she rummaged through the cabinet under the sink for some kind of detergent. Replacing the plug, she squirted in a generous amount of the stuff and let the sink fill up.

  She yelled to her mother, “Is the dishwasher working?”

  Nelda yelled back, “I think so.”

  Marie thought to herself, Oh, for God’s sake. What next? She would handle this mess, but it was evident that something was going to have to be done for her mother, either Pam or her keeping an eye on the house or a cleaning lady coming in once a week, probably a combination of both.

  Marie worked for a few hours, washing up, throwing trash away, running the vacuum, and dusting. She tackled the bathroom downstairs, but was afraid to go up to her mother’s room. She didn’t think she had the energy for it. But when she was done with the public rooms, she went upstairs anyway, concentrating on her mother’s bedroom and bathroom, changing sheets, picking up dirty towels and clothes for the washer, and emptying trash bins.

  She hauled several loads of dirty clothing down to the basement and got the washer going. She went back up to the kitchen and got herself a cup of coffee. She picked up her mother’s phone and dialed Pam’s number. Pam answered on the first ring.

  “Mom?” she answered. “No, Pam, it’s Marie. I decided to come in with her, and you would not believe the mess I found. I don’t think she has been doing dishes or cleaning for a couple of weeks. I am just starting the laundry now.” She described the filth and smell.

  “Oh my God! I wonder what is going on? What is she doing now?”

  Marie looked in the living room. Her mother was sorting through magazines, dusting bookshelves as she went. She looked pale, ill.

  Marie yelled in to her, “Mother, sit down and relax, will you? She looks like shit. Did you notice? I didn’t! Guess I was too wrapped up in myself. I wonder if she had a stroke?” Marie whispered into the phone.

  They planned for Pam to visit her on Monday and, if she thought it was necessary, bring her home. They were both concerned about leaving her alone, but she would hate being in the city with Marie, left alone in the apartment while she went to work.

  Marie checked the pantry and the refrigerator to make sure there was food there. It was adequate. She went in and sat down in her father’s old recliner.

  “Mom, what should we fix for dinner?”

  “Oh, is it that time already? I’m not really hungry,” she said.

  Marie got out of the chair and went into the kitchen again. She opened the pantry door and started listing what they could have.

  “Chicken noodle soup with a tuna sandwich,” she said. “Or beef stew? Yuck, never mind.” Opening the fridge door and assessing the contents, she said, “Okay, Mom, I know what you would like. How about a grilled-cheese sandwich?”

  “That sounds good,” she said. She walked into the kitchen, unsteady on her feet.

  Marie couldn’t believe she didn’t notice this before. She suddenly felt overwhelming love and compassion for her mother. Turning her back so her tears wouldn’t show, Marie busied herself at the stove. What more could go wrong? All of the shit with Jack and now this? My mother failing? Pam would say, “This is just life.” She prepared the sandwiches and took them to the table.

  “Come, Mom, let’s eat together.” At least she would have a meal tonight, and then Pam would take over tomorrow.

  She felt convicted about her own nutrition, about the way she didn’t care for herself. She wasn’t a child anymore, with years ahead of herself to make amends for the damage done to her body. She wondered what was happening to her family and what else would happen before this downward spiral would end. She waited while Nelda had her shower and got clean pajamas on. She was lucid, but so frail. Marie was worried about her while she bathed. She tried to imagine how day after day, the woman lived alone, managed the stairs, took the bus to the train, did her own shopping, and it had come to this—her daughter standing outside of the bathroom door, just in case.

  Nelda promised Marie she would stay upstairs until the morning. She didn’t want her mother walking up and down the stairs at night. Preparing a snack for her, Marie gathered up everything her mother could possibly want in the evening. She put crackers and cheese on a small plate, a package of cookies, and a glass of milk. Watching her daughter, Nelda asked if she could have tea, too. Marie put the kettle on and found an old china teapot. She took the tray of snacks up to the bedroom and then made another trip with the teapot, a mug, and cream and sugar.

  She got Nelda situated in bed, sitting up, the remote on the night table, the tray of food and tea things on a small folding table she had dragged in from her old room. She poured the tea and placed the mug on the night table. Her mother, a statuesque woman in her youth, looked like a small bird propped up in bed.

  She went downstairs and checked the door locks to the garage and backyard and the closed windows. Remembering the basement, the creepiness factor multiplied by the darkness, and made sure the windows were closed and locked there as well. What am I worried about? Her mother had lived in that same house, raised her family there for sixty years, and never had a problem. She felt as though she were leaving a small child to sleep in the house alone.

  Suddenly, Marie knew she couldn’t leave her mother. She would spend the night, make sure she was okay in the morning, and go in to work late. She called Pam to tell her the plan so she would feel at peace about her mom and not make herself crazy trying to get there in the morning. They talked for an hour. They had their mother’s best interests at heart. And it was wonderful to have something to talk about that didn’t revolve around the sin of Jack Smith.

  Pam took the news of her mother’s decline in stride. She didn’t notice it when they were together the night before. She was too worried that Marie would slip and say something about the baby. It was just another thing to deal with. She would devote her life to her mother, if necessary, driving to Brooklyn every day to care for her and moving her to live at the beach when she would submit.

  She walked into the wing of the house that the children and Marie had shared. It was going to be the nursery wing soon. I
t would be a suitable place for her mother to live, if need be. Maybe because of what the past two and a half weeks had been to Pam, she was thinking more rationally about Nelda. The first thing she would do tomorrow would be to take her to the doctor. What if she did have a small stroke, as Marie had suggested? It was too late to do anything about it. That was one of the drawbacks of living alone.

  31

  Although it was late, Pam wanted to take a look at the folder Jack had hidden away. Looking around her kitchen, she knew she was alone and unobserved, but irrationally, she needed to be certain. Unlocking the door, she opened the pantry and reached for the folder. She looked into it and saw odds and ends of paper and what looked like random notes. It wasn’t Jack’s writing.

  Sitting down on a stool, she took the top note and unfolded it. It looked like Marie’s writing. There was no date or any reference to time. It was crisp, so she didn’t think the paper was old.

  “Jack, I can’t deal with you anymore. I’m not coming to the beach tonight. If you try to force me, I am telling Pam. Marie.”

  Pam put the note down. Why would he have saved this? She tried to remember a time when Marie didn’t come to a planned visit. There were a few over the years—Marie not feeling well at the last minute, a flat tire, a leaking toilet.

  The next one was also written in Marie’s hand, on nondescript notepaper: “Jack, Everything you said to me was lies. I don’t believe any of it. You are purposely trying to make me look crazy, and it won’t work.” A third note said, simply, “Jack, I’m sorry about last night. It won’t happen again. Marie.”

  Wow, Pam thought, a lot of drama. How did he juggle everything and still run a business and be a husband and father? She would never know. She thumbed through the rest of the notes, and they were all the same genre—two or three lines and no date or identifying marks to tell when they were written.