Family Dynamics (Pam of Babylon Book Five) (6 page)

He’d almost fainted the first time he saw June naked. She was in fabulous shape for a woman her age; she wasn’t a young girl like Carolyn thought, but in her late forties. She’d never had children, so her belly was flat and taut. But she worked out like a maniac, and it showed. Her legs were amazing—long and lean and as hard as rocks. She liked to sit on him backwards when they were screwing around, and he came just looking at the muscles in her thighs flexing, his penis looking bigger next to her lean ass. It was a coincidence that later that day he would watch his wife undress and snicker out loud when he saw the back of her thighs. It was all he could do not to say “Yuk” out loud. The snicker was bad enough; he could see he’d hurt her, and all that did was make him angrier. He exhaled a deep breath in the car.

“I’m in love with another woman,” he said flat out. “She’s in her late forties, so she’s no kid. I’m sorry I hurt you. I want a divorce.” He looked right at her face. “There. That’s the truth.” She’d asked for it. She didn’t realize the pain hearing the words “I want a divorce” would have. He didn’t love her anymore. It was pretty cut and dried. She thought for a moment what her response should be, but none was necessary. He was in love with another woman. She decided it would be safe to look at him. Her thoughts ricocheted between wanting to scream at him, “You nerd! I hate you!” and laughing out loud. She purposely thought of all the things about him that bugged the hell out of her: his bathroom habits and dinner table manners, his ratty undershirts with the grubby underarms. She’d wondered at one time if that was also the wife’s responsibility, to ensure that the husband had nice, neat underwear. And long ago she’d decided no. She wasn’t his mother. Did the girlfriend ever use the bathroom after he’d taken a dump? Or did she even notice the condition of his underwear? The thought of his less-than-Godlike mannerisms defused her anger and pain long enough to address him and hopefully get home without losing her composure.

“Well, I guess ‘Wow!’ is in order. I didn’t see that coming.” She looked over at him. They’d been friends for a long time. When did that end? “I’m happy for you, Frank. Sad we’re over, but happy you found someone you love.” She knew that her reasonableness may be short-lived, that she may scream “I hate your guts and hope your girlfriend has acid thrown in her face someday.” But right that second, she could be kind to him, the father of her children, the guy she’d grown up with. “Let’s get home,” she said. “I want to get my garden started before it rains.” The clouds were rolling in thick and gray. It would bring some relief from the heat. She closed her eyes as he reached for the shift to put the car in reverse. His look said about the same thing to her: “We can be kind to each other for the time being.”

A wave of regret washed over her, goose bumps rising on her skin again, her bowels rumbling. If she could just get to Point B without the drama of a divorce. It was that journey to becoming single again that scared her to death. But being divorced, being free of a grumpy, dissatisfied, and critical husband sounded wonderful. She had worked all her life anyway, so what was another ten years? Her parents lived with her, and they were well-off. Money would not be an issue. Could she just tell him to do whatever he wanted? Could she be that reasonable? The path of least resistance would be to give him everything. To want nothing from him. Not part of his pension, not healthcare, not child support—nothing. But the reality would be that the boys would love June Brooks. They would ride bikes together, go inline skating at the park, parasail, ski, hike, all the stuff twelve- and fourteen-year-old boys loved. Having to see their mother on the weekends would be torture. Carolyn didn’t anticipate not having her boys. She didn’t have the strength to fight for them, either. If they wanted to live with Frank and go off with him and June on vacations in the summer and on their trips to warmer climes in the winter, why would she stop them?

Now in the office with Steve, Carolyn thought of the recent time her sons stayed with her. They’d been miserable. It wasn’t worth it. Secretly, she would grow to hate her visits with her kids. It was demeaning and worse—boring. She didn’t have anything in common with her sons except what she was able to do for them, and now that was precious little.
Fucking brats
.

Steve Marks would be a convenient diversion. He was attractive in a blackjack-dealer kind of way. He had his hands full with a toddler and an aging mother-in-law. He might make demands on her, but she doubted it. It would be nice to have someone to lean on while she was going through a divorce. “Do you want to go next door after we are through here?” It was a dive bar they often frequented after work. He wanted to have a drink with her but was not sure if Nelda would appreciate extra time with Miranda. He stood up to go back to his office.

“Let me call home and see how it sits with Nelda. If she’s had enough toddler care for the day, would you consider coming downtown to my house?” His look said, “I’m interested and hope you’ll come.” It was enough encouragement for Carolyn.

“That would be fine. It’s right on my way home,” she said. Well, not exactly, but she’d make it work. Going home each night to the eager awaiting faces of her aging parents who looked to her as their last connection to the outside world took a toll on her. She couldn’t provide anything of value because she didn’t do anything but go to work. Maybe a visit to a coworker’s Washington Square brownstone would give them something to think about. She would do it for her parents!

Chapter 8

P
am took her time unpacking. She enjoyed the visits to California now, much improved since that awful time. It was still vaguely superficial, but slowly, she felt her children coming around. They would continue to question their father’s behavior but had absolved Pam from any wrongdoing. If the threat of being disinherited had done it, so be it. She was standing firm that no trust funds would be forthcoming. Her children would work for a living, at least until she died, not unaware that it was a matter of control. She dragged her now-empty bags out to the garage, where she would have the handyman put them up in the attic. Leaving her beach house in Babylon for California in the summer didn’t make any sense to her. If the children wanted to visit, they could come home. She was tired of their foolishness.

She walked into her beautiful kitchen and put the teapot on. Her friend, Jeff Babcock, had come daily to bring the mail in, arranging it in neat piles on the kitchen island: magazines, letters, junk mail. She went through it while her tea water came to a boil. Letters from the attorney, the retirement home on Madison Avenue where her mother-in-law Bernice lived, the quarterly report from Jack’s former business, which continued to support Pam and her lifestyle. She’d take it to her tax attorney. She didn’t trust Peter or Sandra, the current owners of her late husband Jack’s business, and the reports would be gone over with a fine-toothed comb. She thought of Jack’s mistress, Sandra. They’d stayed in touch, rarely seeing each other unless a matter arose regarding Jack or the business. Pam thought that their age difference was a hindrance to a real friendship, not the fact that Sandra slept with Jack.

“You need to do some serious self-worth soul-searching, my dear! That snake, as Marie so often referred to Sandra, had an affair with your husband. She cannot be your friend, no matter how forgiving you are,” Jeff said, laughing. Pam reached for his hand.

“You are the only person in my life who has never betrayed me in any way,” Pam said. “Thank you, Jeff. Even Dave has had to put his two cents in, and he talked about my children to his brother. I really had to debate whether I would stay in a relationship with someone who would talk about my kids. Beware! I can say whatever I want, but nobody else had better talk about my kids!”

“Oh, well, I can’t imagine life without you, so I promise I won’t say a word about the little darlings. My girls generate enough drama. My girls and my ex.” He leaned forward to pour more wine into their glasses. Pam drank wine when drinking it meant something. Spending an evening with Jeff was important to her, so she allowed the wine.

“Mmm,” she said teasingly, “New York wine.” Jeff was a terrible snob about wine, often to the point of being ludicrous, but Pam understood that it was just an interest taken a step further than most would do, sort of like her exercise regimen, or her multiple trips per week to the salon. It was what made up someone’s personality. She leaned forward to offer her glass up for more.

“Oh, I know! I’m sorry. I can’t help myself,” he said. “I’m a wine snob, go ahead and say it. By the way, what are we going to do with our summer?” Now, as she sorted through mail, she asked the same question: What was she going to do with her summer? It stretched out before her, empty time. Two years ago, she’d been suffocated with terror, her husband newly dead, and then last year, Marie dying and the baby lurking, beckoning Pam for involvement. She wisely resisted every impulse to take over. She had to extricate herself from the need to be a caregiver. It was crucial that she find a way not to need that role but to take care of herself and her own two grieving children and no one else. She’d have to think about what she would do with this summer.

The last letter to be dealt with came from an unfamiliar attorney. Pam took the letter opener and slashed it across the top.

What else?
Still holding the letter, Pam sat down on a kitchen stool. She looked out over the water, at the sun as it glinted on the waves, and the birds diving for fish. It was early in the season, but sunbathers were out on the sand in beach chairs with brightly colored umbrellas protecting them from the sun. They could waste a day at the beach because they didn’t have to worry about things like AIDS and angry children and lawsuits. Who was Cynthia Thomasini? Now, there was a name that escaped her. Her estate was suing Jack, so she must be dead. Was she an AIDS victim like Marie? A chill went through Pam’s body. A lawsuit meant public disclosure, humiliation. Where would it stop? What if all the women he’d infected came forward? Betty James from the Health Department had confided in Pam that fifteen women were known to them as infected partners of Jack’s. She wasn’t supposed to divulge that information to Pam but had promised her early in the investigation that she’d be honest with her about who they found. The number made Pam sick to her stomach. If they all sued Pam, she would be ruined. Pam forced herself to take a deep breath and focus.
Have no fear of sudden disaster or the ruin that overtakes the wicked
. Old Testament wisdom, convenient for times like this.
Oh, God!
She went to the phone and looked for her attorney’s number on speed dial, number three. She left a message for him; he would get back to her as soon as he could. What was she going to do until then? Drink herself into a stupor? Slit her wrists? She decided to take a walk on the beach; there was no one left whom she could call to commiserate with except for Sandra, and it didn’t seem fair to pull her into the quagmire. She grabbed a straw hat and a grocery bag and headed out of the veranda, down the wooden path to the beach. She’d hunt for beach glass and shells until the sun started to fall behind the row of houses on the water.

Chapter 9

A
shton Hageman-Dale looked about as dapper as a man can look. Ted whistled at him.

“My God, you are handsome!” he exclaimed. “I look like a frump next to you.” Ashton laughed.

“Oh, stop. You look great. We want to make a good impression on Ms. Borg, don’t we? We don’t want her to regret getting involved with you,” Ashton teased. He was trying for the comedic effect, but his heart was sad. His husband had a child. This was going to completely change their lives, even if Ted made the tough decision not to be involved with her.

“You didn’t sign on for a family, did you?” Ted asked, going to Ash and embracing him. “I hope this doesn’t ruin us.”

“Oh, stop,” Ashton said again. “Why would this ruin us? You’re just paranoid.” He stood in front of the mirror and straightened his tie and then his suspenders. “All I need is a straw hat and I’ll be ready for a garden party.”

“OK, let’s get going then,” Ted said, looking around the apartment. “I’m getting nervous.”

“You’ll be fine,” Ashton said. “We’re just going for brunch, not an inquisition. If it gets too weird, we’ll leave. Even if you decide to be involved with Deborah, how much interaction are you required to have with her mother?” The ethics involved were mind-blowing. Just being related by genes didn’t guarantee that people would be compatible. “I mean, what if she’s a drug addict?” His words would come back to haunt them, but not for the reasons he thought.

“I don’t think she is. She teaches at NYU. As a matter of fact, she knew Dale,” Ted explained, referring to Elizabeth Dale, his aunt. Ashton stopped in his tracks.

“Did Dale know about you and Natalie?” Ashton asked. It was suddenly important to him to know all the facts. Ted didn’t know about Dale and Jack Smith’s affair; Ashton was almost positive Dale had AIDS, but he certainly wasn’t going to reveal that to Ted. Ted nodded his head.

“I think she may have because she warned me once that there was a young woman, an anthropology student, who asked about me. Now that I find Natalie teaches Native American studies, what are the chances that they are the same person?” They both laughed. “What are we getting ourselves into?” Ted asked. “We’d better be careful.” They took the elevator down to the ground floor and waited for their car in the cool lobby. They were silent on the ride downtown. When they pulled in front of the yellow brick building that Natalie lived in, Ted had a small glimmer of memory, but not much. “Well, let’s go!” he said.