Prayers for the Dying (Pam of Babylon Book Four) (7 page)

Dave was smiling at her. He didn’t want to treat her confession too lightly; it was serious, life-threatening, even. But it didn’t mean anything to him outside of how it affected her well-being. “Well, it is upsetting because I want you to be safe, but it doesn’t affect how I feel about you at all. As far as I’m concerned, nothing has changed between us. Except I made a pass at you and you turned me down!” Pam giggled, still red-faced at her faux pas, but relieved that he wasn’t angry with her.

Their relationship stayed comfortable after that day, although they still hadn’t gone to bed. Pam just wasn’t ready for it; she didn’t know if she ever would be.
Sex outside of a committed relationship? What was the point?
She had meant it when she said it to Dave. If the day came when she was ready for sex, they would talk about it. But for now, it wasn’t going to happen. What was surprising was that Dave agreed. He thought that letting Pam know he wanted her in spite of having AIDS was important, and in retrospect, she was grateful. But they didn’t need to do it yet. He was of an age; you couldn’t see a TV program without the ads about low testosterone. So his low libido may have been a blessing in disguise. If he had been a younger man, her reluctance to sleep with him might have been a problem.

Dave spent some of his time thinking of ways to make Pam happy. Unfortunately, he had to work a lot, but when he wasn’t at his store, he tried to make sure her needs were met. If she wanted to go somewhere, they went. Dave loved to dance and when he discovered that Pam did as well, he took her to a local dive bar and they danced with the house band until midnight every Saturday night. Pam admitted that she hadn’t had so much fun since high school. The owner of the bar told Dave under his breath that the simple act of having Pam walk into his establishment had increased business dramatically after word got around that the beach house crowd was welcomed.

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7

A
fter Pam hung up on her, Marie was stunned. Pam had never, ever spoken to her as she had during that phone call.
Was it inevitable? Was I deluding myself that life could go on as before?
She got up from bed, slightly nauseous. Having a fight with Pam was the last thing she thought would happen today. She’d hoped to go to the beach later that afternoon. She had imagined being away from Steve for a weekend, lazing around her room at the beach, eating delicious food. Now she wondered if she even had a room there.
Had Pam been planning this? Just waiting for the right moment to tell me off?
She ran to her bathroom to throw up; rarely spontaneous, barfing was something she made herself do by sticking her fingers down her throat. It would appear that she was more upset by Pam’s treatment of her than she thought possible. After she brushed her teeth and tidied herself up, she left the bedroom and went out into the living room to find Steve Marks reading the paper. He looked up at her, not liking what he saw. She was even paler and skinnier than she usually was.

“Do you want some breakfast before you head east?” he asked. She pulled her robe around her knees and sat on the couch.

“I’m not going,” she replied. She leaned her head on her hand, looking at him. “Pam said I wasn’t welcome at the beach anymore.” Steve put his paper down.
Now what the hell was this all about?

“What happened?” he asked, almost afraid to hear about it. Marie looked embarrassed.

“She finally came to her senses, I guess,” she said. “I could tell something was wrong when she didn’t call me back all week. That something had changed. It was due, you know? I had it coming. I was hoping she would stay in her ‘Pam Mode’ and let me get away with it. With everything. The worst if it is she doesn’t want me to see the kids when they come home for Thanksgiving. She doesn’t even want my mom to come for the day.” Marie was miserable.

Steve looked out the window.
More drama. Hell
. “Can I call her for you?” he asked, eager to do anything he could to make things right for Marie.

She laughed out loud. “No offense, dear, but I doubt a call from you would improve the situation. No, I think I am getting my ‘just desserts,’ as my mother used to say. I have it coming to me. Now the only question is what the hell are we going to do for Thanksgiving?” Marie asked painfully. “I have never spent it anywhere but the beach from the day they bought the place.”

“I’ll cook! Or we can go out. Don’t worry about Thanksgiving,” Steve said. He got up from his chair and went to Marie, sitting down on the sofa next to her. “I think what we need to do now is get you fed and dressed, and shovel our sidewalk before someone slips and breaks their neck out there. He put his arm around her and squeezed. “Come on, you’ll feel better if you keep moving.” There was no way he was going to let her take to her bed. She had done it in the past, not moving for the entire weekend, nor eating, for that matter.

“Not shovel! I don’t do physical work,” she whined. “I’ll stay in here while you do it.”

But Steve wasn’t standing for it; he pulled her off the couch. “Come on, I’ll fix you something to eat and then we’ll do it! You aren’t staying in today.” Marie allowed herself to be led to the kitchen. Maybe he was right; maybe if she kept busy, the sadness she felt because of her sister’s rightful anger wouldn’t take hold, wouldn’t smother her as it was trying to do. She wanted to lie in bed and remember days at the beach when Jack was alive. How they would play all day—tennis or golf, or running on the beach—and return to the house, sneaking into her bedroom for sex while Pam was shopping or napping and then spend a mealtime eating the delicious food she had prepared for them. She’d wasted an entire weekend doing it in the past, but Steve wouldn’t allow it now.

“If you’re going to live with me, you’re not moping around here,” he’d say. “Get moving and do something worthwhile.” She’d pout for a while, but then she did as he told her and felt better for it.

Sandra Benson woke up Saturday morning to the smell of coffee and cinnamon.
Tom must be baking something again.
She’d been living with him in his Brooklyn condo since September and so far, it was working. He drove into work every day, and she went with him, avoiding having to take the train. They drove home together, too, unless work required one of them to stay later in the day and she was forced to take the train.

Her job was evolving into a huge problem for them. She didn’t want to be a business owner. Her partner, Peter Romney, was expecting more and more from her and she was finding that what she wanted was just a job, not a career. She wanted to be home for dinner every night, to be free to spend the weekends playing with her boyfriend. It was a problem because of its origins, too. Her late lover, Jack Smith, had willed the business to her, more out of his concern that it would be too much trouble for his wife to deal with rather than for the benefits it would offer Sandra. Half of the profits went to Pam and Sandra collected a substantial draw. Resentment was growing daily between Sandra and Peter, and now Tom was starting to pressure her about the time she was putting in at the office. It was a losing situation. She made the decision that she would follow through on a proposal she had made to Pam after the will was read and Pam discovered that Jack had left the business to Sandra. She was going to offer the business to Pam and her son Brent, first. She would arrange for them to pay Sandra a small stipend; she knew its value would be more, but she only wanted enough to live on until something else materialized for her. Peter would have a fit when he found out. But she would offer it to him only if Pam declined, and then it would be have to be at its full price.
Thanks, Jack.

Her plan was to call Pam that Saturday and make her offer. Slowly, their relationship was fizzling out. It was okay; Sandra knew it to be for the best. If she could get rid of the business, the final link to Pam would be broken and therefore the final threat for Tom eliminated. Sandra knew that the “Jack issue” between Tom and her may not ever go away, but she had to find out. She wanted to give their relationship every chance possible. She reluctantly got out of bed. It was cold and snowy outside and warm and toasty in the apartment. The steam-heat radiators were whistling away. She never wanted to leave.

Tom had heard her getting up and had her coffee poured. He leaned in to peck her on the cheek when she came into the kitchen.

“Good morning! How’d you sleep?” he asked, handing her a cup.

“I slept great, thank you. How about you?” She smiled her Cheshire grin; they’d had wonderful sex in the middle of the night. Sandra had never lived with anyone and she and Jack rarely had spent the night together, so middle-of-the-night sex was something new. She woke up with Tom’s arms around her and his lips on her neck. The next thing she knew, he was wedging his knee in between hers, prompting her to spread wide so he could climb on top. It was quick and wonderful. She fell into a deep sleep immediately afterward. Tom laughed his light laugh, almost high and girlish. She loved it.

“I slept like a log, thanks to you.” Tom raised his coffee cup in salute. “Now this is what being in love is all about!”

She shook her head yes, laughing at him.

“What’s on the schedule for you today?” Tom asked. They never made plans to do anything together on Saturdays. It had just evolved that way. They would go about their separate ways, taking care of business, catching up from the week, and if there was time or energy, they might do something together in the afternoon or early evening. Tom often went to his mother’s on Saturday afternoon, giving Sandra time to be alone and do whatever it was women needed to do.

“I’m going to call Pam as soon as I have my coffee,” she said. “You know, about the business deal.” Earlier, she’d told him her plan and although he was worried that she might regret letting that much money get away, he knew that it was best to keep his opinions to himself. He didn’t realize that she was doing this mainly to eliminate the unhappiness Jack’s business was causing Tom.

“Oh boy, that’s a tough one,” he countered. “What do you think she’ll say?”

Sandra just frowned. “I have no idea. Her life won’t change one way or the other.” The more they talked about it, the more certain she was that getting rid of Lane, Smith and Romney was the wisest thing she could do after only six months. She was sure that Jack had left it to her to protect Pam from his greedy brother. Once again she thought,
Thanks a lot, Jack.

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8

J
ack was true to his word. He did make time for Ashton after he and Pam returned to Manhattan from the honeymoon in Hawaii. Years later, Ashton would wonder if it wasn’t during the famous honeymoon that Jack picked up HIV. It was easier to blame the Hawaiians even though Jack’s behavior was suspect in New York long before he got married.

Jack and Pam were gone ten days. Jack said it was torture being away from the city for that long. The only way he survived it was by continuously fucking his wife.

“I hope she doesn’t expect that attention now that the ‘honeymoon’ is over,” he said. “I almost killed myself.”

Ashton rolled on the bed laughing hysterically as he listened to Jack’s exaggerated tales of their daily lovemaking marathons, and then late at night after Pam fell asleep, the wild sex with Hawaiian “she-males.” He said he’d had his fill of that strangeness and didn’t intend to seek it out on the mainland. But Ash was never sure. He knew that once Jack had a taste of something different, it would be very difficult for him to not try it again and again.

“She-male is a derogatory term to transsexuals,” Ashton told him. “You can use it talking to me, or to your hookers in Maui, but don’t try it in town. You’ll end up with a knife in your back.” Jack tried to limit his involvement with illegal prostitutes because he was afraid of getting caught by the police. Ashton struggled with his feelings about his strong, omnipotent lover being afraid of anything, especially the law.

“Most I know are too passive from estrogen injections to knife anyone, especially me!” Jack exclaimed with his usual arrogance. “They love me. Come with me downtown sometime. I don’t have to pay for it.”

“You just lied to me!” Ash exclaimed. “I thought you said you weren’t going to do it here.” But Jack just giggled and gave him his sheepish, “you caught me” look.

Jack discovered that he also liked a little violence with his sex. Ashton wasn’t a willing partner, but he knew of a group in their circle who had the same proclivity and they were thrilled to have Jack join them. Ashton would marvel again and again how Jack could satisfy his need for the exotic while being married to Miss Fabulous. He would stay out late, night after night, using the excuse of business, which was sometimes true. With all of his extracurricular activities, he needed a huge income. Jack was known as a maniac in his sector of the real estate market, so the work came steadily. He had so much at stake, and was able to juggle everything smoothly for years, right up to the end.

After old man Lane died, Peter and Jack left his name on the marquee. Mr. Lane left his share of the business to them, his only relative an ancient sister living in Florida. The men faithfully sent her generous checks and took care of her living expenses until her death. Jack had karma coming from every direction: goodness and generosity from his over-the-top gift giving and depravity and cheating from his trysts and liaisons. His friends couldn’t rationalize why someone who was a satyriasis would jeopardize another’s life by getting married. It was so selfish, so cruel, that no amount of excuse-making could explain it. As time passed, it became obvious that Jack was mentally ill. How he managed to support his lavish lifestyle, have a lovely, devoted wife and two beautiful children yet continue on a road to destruction baffled even his most immoral friends.