Pam of Babylon (14 page)

Sandra was speechless. She thought the idea of spending the night in Jack’s house, with his wife in the next room, was totally wrong. She didn’t know what to say, but the silence was awkward enough.

“I’ll think about it and call you later?” It wasn’t an unreasonable response, considering the circumstances.

“Absolutely!” Pam replied. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you then.”

They said their goodbyes, and Pam hung up, feeling better than she had all week. She put the phone down and walked back out on the veranda. It needed sweeping, so she went into the utility closet off of the mudroom and got a broom.
Maybe some good old-fashioned housekeeping was in order. The cleaning ladies would be here in the morning, but that was no reason to leave this mess for them.
She swept away, making a little pile of sand and pushing it off the stones into the sandy garden.

She continued sweeping down the pathway of boardwalk Jack had built for his mother when she broke her ankle. They could push her in a wheelchair to the end of the property, almost to the beach. She was content to sit there in the circle of wood, watching the sea gulls swooping and her grandchildren playing volleyball. Her son, always doting, brought her glasses of lemonade sweetened with aspartame, just the way she liked it. “Mother,” he would say, “How can you drink this crap? Why not let me make you some Kool-Aid instead?” She laughed at her son, amused at his concern for her. “Just give it to me, will you?” She would grab at his hand for the glass.

Pam thought about Bernice. Jack would take the subway up to her house and take her to lunch at least once a week. She liked a little café on Amsterdam, where she ordered the same lunch every time—a veggie burger with red onion and avocado on a whole wheat bun and sweet-potato fries. He said the same thing to her every week.

“How can such a demure little old lady eat red onion and then go out in public and breath on people all afternoon?” She would make a point of breathing her onion breathe in his face, and exaggerating her vowels, she’d say, “It’s not so bad, is it? You wouldn’t deny me this small joy, now would you?” They’d laugh about it each time. Or he’d look around furtively and, lifting one hip, let out a small amount of gas, just enough that only his mother would hear. She’d make a fuss, acting appalled, all the while the two of them hysterical at their bathroom-humor jokes. The waitresses were usually tolerant, but happy to see them go. Jack was a big tipper.

Pam hadn’t noticed, but it was so obvious now that those frequent mother-son reunions ended right around this same time last year.
Had he found out that Harold wasn’t his father? Did he confront Bernice then?
She would never know, having decided to not confront her mother-in-law. She’d been through enough without having that thrown in her face.

The day passed, Pam killing time, hoping for the night to come quickly and then be gone. She wanted Monday to come. Something about Monday was always so comforting to her—a clean slate to start the week, a week that would end alone. She saw her life stretch before her, empty, without purpose.
What was the point of it?

Marie decided she was going to take a walk. She needed some food in the apartment and was doing nothing but pacing back and forth all day anyway. She pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean shirt, combed her hair and pulled it into a ponytail, and walked out into the street. There wasn’t a chance in hell of getting a cab in this dead neighborhood, so she walked the few blocks to the subway. She’d run up to Zabar’s; there was nothing open closer to home.

The subway stop was the one at Broadway where she had last seen Jack a week before. She got off the train and stood aside to let the few other passengers pass her. She wanted to take her time there, to see if she could feel him. She walked up the steps to the street, trying to remember where it was that she saw him stop and turn around to look back up at Sandra. She thought she found the step and stood there for a moment with her hand on the railing. He had held the railing there, first his left hand, and then when he turned around, his right. She looked around to see if anyone was watching her, and when she saw that she was alone, she did the maneuver. Pretending she was walking down into the station, she paused, turned changing hands, and looked up. Someone was coming down so she went up the rest of the way. “Jack’s last move,” is how she would think of it.
He was so gorgeous. It was impossible that he was fifty-five years old. He looked more like he was forty-five.
His body was phenomenal. When he began to get weird about exercising, she believed his story about his cholesterol being elevated, but never imagined it was because he was taking his clothes off in front of someone else. And that the ‘someone else’ was young enough to be his daughter. It was sickening. She wouldn’t allow herself to think of it.

Trying to change her thoughts, she contemplated what groceries to get. It was too expensive to buy a lot, but a few necessities, coffee and butter and something to eat for lunch the next day would do, just enough to get through the week until she could do a big shopping next weekend when she went to visit her sister—if she went.

Marie walked up Broadway, giving way to her thoughts, imagining she saw Jack and Sandra walking hand and hand toward her. She crossed the street to rid herself of that vision. Another vision popped into her mind, one she didn’t allow too often now, as it was too painful, too humiliating, but on the street it would be safe, it wouldn’t lead to anything she would later regret. She remembered his hands around her waist. She was a teenager, bending over at the beach house, pulling beach grass up out of Pam’s stupid flowerbeds, and she could see him coming toward her, upside down. He put his hands around her waist and pushed her down into a squat.

“It’s not good for your back to bend at the waist like that, my dear child.” She turned her head to look up at him, squinting into the sun overhead. “Someday, you’ll thank me for it. Bend at the knees.” He stood there looking down at her, an obvious erection tugging at his madras shorts. She wasn’t sure if he was purposely trying to show her he was hard, his crotch at eye level, or if he was hiding it from his wife who was just across the veranda. She fought the urge to take any jaunts down memory lane. She knew that it was just a matter of time before all of those incidents with Jack would rise to the surface to be dealt with, one way or another. It was entirely up to her how it would play out.

Sandra’s street was coming up. Marie acknowledged to herself for the first time, that her real reason for a late-afternoon stroll to Zabar’s was because she wanted to see Sandra Benson. She didn’t hesitate at the corner, but turned left to go down 82
^nd
toward the river. She came to Sandra’s building and went right to the door. She found the buzzer and pressed it. The speaker came on, and Marie could hear Sandra’s voice. There must have been a camera someplace because the door clicked, and Sandra said, “I’m at the end of the hallway, Marie. Come on in.” The door opened, and standing there, looking like hell, was the hated Sandra Benson.
She didn’t seem so threatening now. She looked sick
. Sandra stepped aside for Marie.

“Please, come in,” she said. Marie stepped through the door and looked around. It was a nice place, she had to admit. She found herself wondering if Jack had paid for it.

“Nice apartment,” Marie said. Sandra thanked her, telling her that she loved being there, and as long as her rent didn’t go up too much, she hoped to stay forever.

“I’ve been here for four years now. It feels like home. And I love the neighborhood.” She pointed to a table and chairs situated by a window. “Do you want something to drink?” she said.

Marie, looking out the window at the alley and the tree with the birdhouse, said okay. Sandra went to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of water. She filled the teapot and set it on the stove, turning the stove on. She seemed to measure each task, each movement, with purpose. Marie thought she might be feeling self-conscious. She noticed Sandra was painfully thin. Her legs, encased in skintight spandex shorts, were like sticks. Her arms were sticking out of her T-shirt like tree branches. When she bent over, Marie could see the bones in her hips. Suddenly overcome with compassion, she stood up and went into the little kitchen.

“Can I help you? You seem a tad tired.” Marie hoped her words sounded okay and not too critical. She wanted to take the kettle out of her hands and force her to sit down.

“I guess I am sort of tired. Can’t believe tomorrow is Monday already.” Sandra arranged cut lemon wedges on a little plate and put a sugar bowl, creamer, and tea bags on a tray. She brought the tray to the table and went back to get the mugs and teakettle. She debated putting the leftovers of her baking binge out, but wasn’t sure of the purpose of this visit. She thought it might be wise to keep the refreshments brief.

Marie put a tea bag in her mug, and Sandra poured the hot water in.

“What brings you uptown?” Sandra asked.

“I need some groceries, and there is nothing in my neighborhood,” Marie replied.

“This is a long way to come for food,” Sandra said. “I don’t tell everyone this, but I go into New Jersey once in a while to stock up.” She laughed.

“I imagined I was walking in your footsteps along Broadway,” Marie said. Sandra looked at her, questioning. “You know; the path you took with Jack on that Saturday.”

“I don’t understand,” Sandra said.
What the hell was she talking about?
And then she remembered. Marie had told her at the hospital that she saw Jack and her together on the street. She shook her head yes. “Oh, right.” She felt so tied.
What did Marie want?
“I guess I didn’t realize that when you said you saw me that it meant you followed me.” Marie ignored her.

“When I came up the subway steps, I imagined I was Jack. I saw him turn around and look at you before he went down. It was the last time you saw him before the hospital, wasn’t it.” She stated it as a fact. She stood up and went to the window again. “I was so angry at him that day. I kept thinking, ‘How am I going to face Pam?’ I would make him tell her himself, I decided. Then, of course, he died. If only I had stopped him on the street that day. He wouldn’t have been on the train. I could tell from across the street that he was in love with you. I never saw him look at anyone with that intensity.” She lowered her head, tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “I don’t know what I am going to do with myself now.” Marie stood up and walked to the window, weeping.

Sandra couldn’t move from her chair.
Why did this have to happen now?
She couldn’t find it in her to say anything comforting. There was a tone in Marie’s voice, an accusatory undercurrent. She was probably imagining it. Marie was losing it, she knew it, but was unable to control herself.

“Pam wanted me to contact you to make sure you were okay. I kept telling myself, ‘Fuck Sandra!’ I knew there was something wrong with Jack, I was just too stupid to know it was another woman.” Sandra was getting tired of this conversation, frightened of Marie, sensing she might be unbalanced.

“I’m sorry,” was all she could think of to say. Marie looked at her, frowning.

“You are so young,” Marie said. “You don’t realize the impact his infidelity will have on the whole family.” Sandra put her hand on her belly under the table, thinking,
Oh, I think I do.

“Are you going to the beach next weekend?” Marie asked, changing the subject. Sandra was confused again, but then realized she was talking about Jack’s house on Long Island. “I know Pam is thinking of asking you, if she hasn’t already.”

“Would it be a problem for you if I go?” Sandra asked. “I’m not sure what good it would do for me to go regardless. If you would rather I not go, please don’t hold back.”

“I don’t want you to go. But it doesn’t make any difference what I want. Jack wasn’t my husband. Pam wants you there. For some reason, you make her feel better. She feels close to you, did you know that?” Marie wasn’t giving her time to respond, and Sandra didn’t know what to say anyway. “All I can picture is you fucking my brother-in-law.” She started crying again. “Oh God! Oh God! Jack!” She slumped into her chair.

Startled at Marie’s choice of words, Sandra was becoming concerned. Marie hated her, and now she was losing control. She worried that she wasn’t safe in her own apartment. She stood up and went into the bathroom to get a washcloth, squeezing cold water through it. She went back into the kitchen and approached Marie, saying, “Here’s a cold washcloth; let me put it on your neck.”

Marie complied, leaning forward slightly in her chair and pulling her ponytail around to the front. Sandra, who was not nurturing in the least, folded the cloth in half and placed it across the back of the crying woman’s neck. Its effect was immediate, Marie taking a deep breath and saying, “That feels good. I’m sorry I am giving you such a hard time.”

Sandra didn’t reply, but stood at the side of the chair. She had not touched Marie’s neck with her hand, nor did she place a comforting hand on her shoulder or arm. She was really confused. Jack had never even mentioned a sister-in-law in all the months they were a couple, yet this woman was talking as though he was integral to her life, to her overall well-being. Suddenly, Sandra had an epiphany.
Had Jack been intimate with his wife’s younger sister?
Smiling behind Marie’s back, she put a serious expression on her face.