Pam of Babylon (2 page)
Pam had planned what everyone would eat down to the last crumb. She loved that sort of thing. She did her food shopping on Friday morning and would pick up fresh vegetables and fish on Sunday. She couldn’t wait for Marie to come; they would run all over town shopping together for last minute party items.
Pam was ten years older than Marie. Marie was there for her while Jack was in grad school, during the lean times, through two pregnancies. She was her mother’s helper when the kids were little; never turning down an opportunity to stay with Pam and Jack on the Upper West Side when school was out for the summer. She eventually got her own apartment Midtown. When they left the city for the island, she wept. She knew she would be welcome to visit every weekend and holiday, but there was something so nice about being able to drop in for coffee in the morning or run to a last-minute movie.
Pam rarely came into the city. Although her friends told her she would probably be in every weekend for shows during the fall and winter, the truth was that she never really enjoyed the nightlife and once they moved, the apartment became Jack’s private domain while he worked during the week. He left Babylon for work Monday morning and stayed in town unless he got homesick for the beach house and his wife. Rarely, he would come home in the middle of the week and leave early the next morning.
He never asked Pam to visit him in the city. Their relationship had lost that urgency of needing each other. Once or twice when they were first separated during the week, she had woken in the night crying, reaching out to his side of the bed. If that had happened in their youth, he or she would have picked up the phone for reassurance and connection. When had that stopped being necessary?
Lately, Pam had been a little worried about Jack. There was a tiny, itsy bit of doubt, a niggling worry, an insecurity in the back of her mind. He was disconnected from her. He still seemed eager to get home and reluctant to return to the city, but that stemmed more from his love of the house she had made for him and the peace and quiet of the beach. He never reached out for her anymore, didn’t hold her in bed at night, and hadn’t initiated sex in months.
She didn’t notice it at first. She made love to him when she needed to and left him alone when she didn’t. And that was where the worry came in. Unless she reached out for him, they didn’t do it. At first, she thought it might be his age. They were both nearing fifty-five. She didn’t dare complain to him. What man’s ego could take that from a middle-aged wife?
Those worries were buried in the busyness and anticipation of his return home every Friday night. She made mental lists of plusses and minuses; it was enough that he came home to her. But she’d noticed another change. He started being very picky about what he ate when he was home. In the past, a big steak, a baked potato and a salad with blue cheese dressing would make him happy. He loved her home-baked bread and pies. Now, he seemed to be counting calories. He didn’t come right out and say he wouldn’t eat something she had prepared, but she noticed he watched the size of the proportions, ate more salad, and used less dressing. He skipped dessert. Then he requested more vegetable dishes, even fish.
He started working out at her gym; one day he just showed up while she was there. It should’ve been enough of a warning sign, but when she said something to him about it, teasing him because of all the years she invited him to come, he told her that their family doctor recommended he lose some weight, that he was a walking heart attack. She was frightened. Now watching him eat a veggie burger was a contradiction.
The day before, he had called her after lunch and said he was staying in town that night because he had a late meeting. He had stayed before on Friday if the weather was horrible or the train wasn’t running for whatever reason, but rarely for business. She didn’t suspect a thing until she tried calling their apartment at eleven that night, right before the news came on. There was no answer.
It was so strange for him not to answer she thought she’d dialed the wrong number and hung up the phone to dial again. But the second time, letting it ring and ring, she wondered if maybe he was in the shower, or worse if he had fallen. Not knowing his cell phone number by heart, she dug through her purse to find her own and hit his number, letting his cell ring until the call answer picked up. She hung up without leaving a message, not having anything to say to him other than that she was thinking of him and suddenly missed him. There was that seed of doubt.
So as she puttered around in the morning expecting him any minute, she wondered if she should say something to him about the unanswered phone call but decided to let it go. If there was anything to learn, she supposed she would find out soon enough and was more than willing to let things remain as they had always been—peaceful, content, and happy.
J
ack stopped by his downtown office first and then took the subway north to Grand Central, hopping on the train home. Once he was in his seat he pulled out his cell phone to call Sandra and make sure she got home safely after her shopping expedition. When he opened his phone, he saw he had a missed call. Thinking it was from her; he pressed the button and saw it had been from Pam the night before. A sick feeling washed over him. He needed to think of what to say to her, to call her right away and apologize.
“Oh my God, I just saw you had called. My phone was off, and I went right to sleep. I’m so sorry.”
“Okay. That’s okay, Jack. I didn’t really have anything to say anyway.” Was she buying it? He could never tell with her. She was so patient but she was cool, too.
“When will you be home?” she asked, her voice neutral.
“I’m on the train now so by noon. See you then.” They said goodbye and he put his head back on the headrest. He remembered he wanted to call Sandra. He keyed in her number but there was no answer. He put the phone away as he waited for the train to leave the station. It would be good to be home.
Sandra let herself into her apartment. It smelled musty, closed in. She put her bags of groceries down and went around opening windows. She was on the ground floor of the building and had a door that lead out to a concrete slab, which she and her neighbor used as a patio. The only drawback was that it faced the back of a commercial building on 81
st
Street. There wasn’t much privacy during the day. But after five the building was empty. Sandra would make herself a cup of coffee and go out to sit. It was about as relaxing a place as you could get in the city. There would be no relaxing now, however; she had to clean her apartment and get ready for next week so she could play the rest of the weekend.
She loved her apartment. It had a galley kitchen on the first floor with a big window facing a brick wall, a small sitting room, a full bath, and a nice sized bedroom. On the lower floor there was a huge room that she used as a combination den/guest room and another full bath. This level also had a door that lead out to the patio. She realized how lucky she was to have a two-bedroom, two-bath place with outdoor space in New York City. She would hold on to it as long as she could. Her rent went up every year and was now hovering at $3,000 a month—a steal in the city. But that was half her salary. Soon, she would either have to leave and move to Brooklyn, or worse, New Jersey. She didn’t mention her dilemma to Jack; he’d surely offer to pay the rent and then she would have to allow him admittance. No, she wasn’t ready to be kept.
She changed out of her white sundress into black spandex shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt—her outfit of choice for cleaning sprees. She went from room to room, homemaking. At three she stopped for a bite to eat, just a piece of fruit and a cup of coffee. By five, she was finished. She showered, debating whether or not to put her nightgown on or get dressed and go out.
An unexpected phone call from a nurse at St. Vincent’s Hospital made the decision for her. A man had had a heart attack on the train. And if that wasn’t bad enough, thugs had taken his wallet. The only thing left on him was his phone and she was the last person he had called. The nurse asked Sandra if she knew who he was hoping she could verify his identity.
Once she caught her breath, she said she would be right there, not thinking of the consequences, not caring about being discovered. She dressed, pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, grabbed her purse, and ran out of the apartment.
B
y the time she got to the hospital, Jack had regained consciousness long enough to give them the name and phone number of his wife. Then he died.
Sandra was not a drama queen. She was composed in the worst of circumstances; her father’s death was just such an example.
Her mother had suffered with breast cancer for ten years. The first six or seven years were spent taking rounds of chemotherapy, radiation, and experimental drugs. Finally, she couldn’t take the punishment of the drugs and succumbed to the vileness of the disease. It spread to her bones first, causing agonizing pain and debilitation, and then it went to her brain. She was a dynamic, aggressive woman in her day but the brain tumor reduced her to a meek and passive mouse.
She began to waste away, growing thinner as the days pasted until she was skeletal. And then her body began to die. Her strong heart continued to beat, her brain stem working to maintain her breathing and heart rate, while gradually her circulation shut down. First the tips of her toes turned black. Slowly, death worked its way up, her legs turning purple then blue. Finally, mercifully she died in her sleep.
Sandra thought it would be a huge relief when she finally died. How wrong she was! The family was devastated. Sandra’s father couldn’t control his sadness. He cried uncontrollably for the first few days and was unable to get out of bed or get dressed, refusing to eat. She missed feeding her mother, tempting her with her favorite foods, plying her with sweets, anything to get her to eat. At the time it was the most frustrating experience she had often thinking,
God, please take her
. And now all she wanted was one more chance to feed her, to serve her in some way. Her mother. Gone.
Preparing for the funeral was hell. Sandra knew her mother hated pomp and circumstance, but her sister Sylvia, was hell-bent on throwing the biggest party they could afford for their friends and family. Sylvia interviewed the priest; her mother would have hated a religious ceremony being a passionate atheist. She rented a banquet room at the Bentley in Bergen, an over decorated monstrosity of a place that reminded their mother of the Palace of Versailles. Now the final indignity was having the wake luncheon there. Sandra did what she could do to try to dissuade her sister from the plans, but it was hopeless. She prayed that something would happen to change Sylvia’s mind.
The evening of the viewing was cold and windy. Sandra struggled to get her father up and dressed. He was still despondent, begging her to allow him to stay home.
“Just tell everyone I am ill,” he said. “Mother would have hated all this fuss.”
“I know Dad. But it will help us to go, to see it through. I miss her too. I don’t know how I am going to look at her.” In addition to the expensive funeral, Sylvia had also insisted on an open casket. Sandra thought of those black toes, that almost dead body. Maybe she should have insisted that Sylvia help with the caregiving. She may have had a different perspective if she had.
Sandra pulled the car out of the garage and drove to the front of their building to pick him up. He stood under the awning, waiting. She was shocked at how frail he looked, bent over and shaking. He was only sixty-one years old yet he looked like he was ninety. She wondered if they should bypass the funeral, do as her father said and just stay home and pretend they were sick. Sylvia would never have allowed it; she would come and drag them out.
The rain made the air in the tunnel stagnant and toxic. Of course, traffic was backed up, and they were forced to breath exhaust fumes and who knew what else. Coming out the other side, they pulled onto the turnpike and started heading north toward Bergen. Sandra would ask Sylvia if Dad could stay with her tonight; the trip back into the city would be too much for him.