Prayers for the Dying (Pam of Babylon Book Four) (17 page)

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

H
istorically, 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 deal 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.

“I’m glad you’re doing better. You sure know how to worry a guy,” he said.

“Thank you for being there for me, Jeff. I hope it’s the last time I need you. Are you getting ready for turkey day?” Pam asked, hoping to change the topic.

“Well, my plans just fell through. My sister-in-law called and my brother is sick. Flu, they think. Do you have extra room at your table?” Jeff asked.

It was uncharacteristic of him to be so forward. Pam thought for just a second before she answered him. Having a stranger there might be a good thing—a buffer to ensure against any intense conversation. “My friend! Please do come. I’m cooking about the same amount of food I did when we were expecting thirty people,” Pam said.

“Great! Thank you so much. I was hopeful you would have room for me. Can I bring anything? I was taking vegetables to my brother’s,” Jeff said. “Roasted root veggies and sautéed mixed mushrooms.”

“Vegetables would be fine. We have a few standards at our house that I’ll make, as well.” Since Jeff was a graduate of the Culinary Institute of America, she added, “Very non CIA…green bean casserole and spinach-and-artichoke casserole.” She started laughing.

“Oh wow! With canned soup and canned French fried onions? I love that!” Jeff said.

“Okay, let me get back to my pies. I’ll see you tomorrow at five sharp,” Pam said. She hung up the phone and was just turning to go to her room to freshen up when the phone rang again. Thinking it was Jeff again she allowed her jocular mood to show through her voice, sing-songing, “Hello.” But it was her mother.

“Someone’s in a good mood today. Must be nice to have something to be happy about,” Nelda growled.

“Yes, Mother! How nice to hear from you today. What can I do for you?” Pam said, turning back to the kitchen. She’d wash mixing bowls while her mother complained. “How’s the patient today?”

“She’s running me ragged, that’s how she is. But Marie isn’t why I’m calling. I noticed you didn’t invite us to have dinner with you tomorrow,” Nelda replied.

“I wanted to have dinner with my children here. I noticed you didn’t invite us there, Mother. Since my husband just died six months ago and I’ve been ill, it would be the least you could have done,” Pam said. She wasn’t taking any crap from Nelda about Thanksgiving.

“Well!” Nelda exclaimed. “Having a little tragedy in your life doesn’t give you the right to be disrespectful to your mother!”

Pam could hear Nelda begin to weep.
Oh crap, I don’t want to make her cry.

“We’ve spent every holiday with you since Genoa was alive! Daddy and I drove her out to Babylon the first year you lived there, and she died two weeks later. All she could talk about was what a wonderful time she had! Why’s that have to stop? Why? If you are too tired to make dinner for us, for heaven’s sake, ask for my help! I can’t read your mind, Pamela.” Nelda stopped to blow her nose, snorting loudly into the phone.

Pam pulled the phone away from her ear. Maybe she was being unreasonable. She’d only wanted to be alone with her kids to be free to talk. But now Jeff was coming. “I see your point. Well, of course, if it means that much to you, come.” What would Steve and Marie do if Nelda came here? What about Bernice?
Oh, for God’s sake.
“You might as well bring everyone else. Just let me know by tonight how many are coming so I can set the table.”

Nelda agreed and said she’d call after dinner. Pam walked toward her bedroom to get out of her flour-covered athletic suit and the thought crossed her mind that she’d better warn the children about Marie’s appearance. What she had hoped to avoid was about to be realized. Maybe she would let them think that Marie
was
a crystal meth addict.

.

24

A
shton and Jack slowly fell into a new routine that would take them to the end of Jack’s life. During the week, they got together every morning for coffee before Jack traveled downtown to his office. Rarely, they would meet for sex; although they didn’t call it that. Jack would call Ashton in the middle of the day and ask him if they could “reconnect.” “I miss you,” he’d say. Ashton never refused him. They would lie in bed together and hold each other, Jack often falling asleep for a few minutes in Ashton’s arms. Even Jack’s breathing concerned Ashton; was he the only one who noticed how sick the man was? After Jack’s death, it was clear that no one else did notice. Jack continued meeting Maryanne at the diner, but he went up to her apartment less and less often. He still refused to talk about her to Ashton. He stopped seeing Dale and the others.

But Jack mentioned Sandra’s name more and more often, always in terms of praise.
Sandra discovered discrepancies in lot lines of a building project that would save millions of dollars. Sandra wore a Camali knit dress that showed every curve on her body. Sandra agreed to spend the night with him.
They never went to his Madison Avenue flat, but always to a hotel. Sandra didn’t want to go to her apartment, either. “If you dump me, I’ll have your memories where I live,” she’d explained. Jack thought she was brilliant; here was a woman who stood up for what she wanted and wouldn’t compromise. Ashton thought that she sounded like a self-centered youngster who would get involved with a married man and not give his wife a thought.
Ha ha! What about me?
Ashton had been jealous of Pam. He’d never regretted taking time with Jack away from her. They were all amoral pigs.

Sandra Benson put herself in neutral for the long weekend. Tom’s family had traditions that were sacrosanct. He had brunch with his father and Gwen and dinner with his mother and sisters. Football was center stage. They got up early and had coffee together before leaving for Bayside. It was Tom’s responsibility to stop at a local baker and get a pastry tray for brunch and a pie for dinner. Sandra didn’t get it; it was clear from looking at both John and Gwen that nothing like one of the gooey caramel rolls Tom ordered would ever cross their lips.

A few days after their flea market expedition with John and Gwen, Tom had taken Sandra to meet his mother and sisters. His mother was adorable, but he sisters were real bitches. Faith and Emma had deluded themselves into thinking they preferred lonely, celibate lives that allowed nighttime cookie binges and ice cream pig-outs instead of relationships leading to independence from Mom. Tom’s mother, Virginia, was the sweetest little Scottish woman. She had a thick accent in spite of having come to the states forty years before. She worshiped Tom, and her adoration included anyone he was going to bless with their presence. He didn’t bring dates home. His sisters tried to get him to date their friends, and friends of friends. They even signed him up for online dating. But he wasn’t interested. He was waiting for Sandra.

When they pulled up in front of the apartment, Sandra thought she saw a quick motion at the window. They were waiting for a glimpse. They didn’t expect Sandra. Emma thought Tom would have a short, chubby girlfriend and Faith said she’d always pictured him with a small, athletic type, like a tomboy. Both of them held their stomachs in and tried to smile, but it was hopeless.