Family Dynamics: Pam of Babylon Book #5

by Suzanne Jenkins

  “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

  Pam 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.

  Dear Mrs. Smith,

  I represent the estate of Cynthia Thomasini. Her heirs have requested that I file a wrongful-death suit against the estate of your late husband, Jack Smith, on their behalf, asking for $3.5 million. I am authorized to inform you that a motion will be filed in this respect on July 2nd in the State of Pennsylvania.

  Yours very truly,

  Roderick Fausett, JDR

  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

  Ashton 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 ad
dict?” 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.

  They walked up to the door hand in hand, nervous and excited at the same time. Natalie buzzed them in; her building had no doorman, another fact Ted remembered. They took the elevator up, and Ashton, always the perfectionist, pointed out at a wad of gum stuck on the carpeting in the hallway. “Disgusting,” he whispered. Natalie was waiting for them when they stepped off the elevator. She burst into tears when Ted introduced “Ash”—Ashton, not Ashley. His gay husband, not his straight wife. Ashton held in a sigh of relief that Natalie was a portly Earth Mother with a whiskered chin and frizzy hair, Birkenstock sandals, and a blue-jean skirt who held Ted and apologized to him over and over again for springing this on him, as if she had any control over it. Ted was suddenly protective of her, flattered that another human being would feel so much loyalty to him, a relative stranger, and because she was the mother of his child. “Group hug,” Ashton demanded, and the three of them held each other until Ted and Natalie felt better.

  She led the way down the dark hallway to her apartment door. Not knowing what to expect, Ashton imagined a hoarder’s house—a dark, smelly apartment with cardboard boxes and moldy books and take-out food containers stacked to the ceiling. Instead, it was neat, empty. She lived sparsely, with the old-fashioned furniture of her parents still exactly the way they had it when she was small. On the backs of the upholstered pieces, crocheted doilies rested. They were also on the tables and under the crystal lamps and candy dishes. Ashton noticed a mezuzah; a small case which held sacred scripture, on the door jamb just inside the apartment. It was made of sterling silver with tiny beads applied in a mosaic pattern. Up against the interior wall there were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, jammed with volumes stacked on their sides and up on end. Also, books were heaped in neat piles on the floor and on the tables and a desk, oddly pushed up against the shelving, but then Ashton saw the wisdom of it: she could work and see the books, choosing what she needed. It was an academic’s work space. Ashton looked over at Natalie Borg and suddenly felt love for her. She was watching him and smiled at him, and that was all the opening he needed. They embraced, and Ashton fought back the tears. Ted thought, All will be well. He walked over to a large picture window that faced Broadway, and not believing his eyes, saw a man standing on his head with his legs crossed yoga fashion, playing the guitar, and a three-legged dog standing next to him.

  “Am I really seeing this?” he asked. The others walked over, and laughter followed.

  “He begs there all weekend,” Natalie said. “I’ve heard he has a full-time job during the week. Open the window, Ted. He plays a good guitar.” But Ted declined. It was too hot out to be opening up windows. And he was starting to get nervous again. Thankfully, Ashton would get the ball rolling for them.

  “So, my friends, what do we do now?” Ashton asked.

  “Let’s eat, and we can talk then,” Natalie said. “Follow me.” They walked through a doorway to the left of the bookshelves and into a small kitchen that was large enough for a table and two chairs and a barstool. “Sit,” she said, pulling out the chairs. She had the food arranged, fresh bagels from a local bakery, lox and cream cheese, sliced tomato, and onion. She had a bowl of whitefish salad and coleslaw and a fresh pineapple she’d sliced. Also, some decadent-looking pastries.

  “Oh, my,” Ted said, and Ashton nodded in agreement. They enjoyed the brunch, but the conversation remained awkward until Ashton finally brought up the girl’s name: Deborah.

  “So what do we do now? Will Penny Able arrange a meeting? How does this work?” Ashton asked.

  “That’s probably exactly how it will work. Let’s call her now, OK?” The men nodded in agreement again. Natalie got her cell phone from the counter, dialed the number, and got an answering machine. She gave the message as if they had written a narrative for her to follow. Ashton found himself wondering how lucky they were to have a like-minded person in this difficult situation.

  “Ms. Able,” Natalie Borg said, “regarding Deborah Phillips, I’m with Ted Dale, and we are in agreement that we would like to meet Miss Phillips together at her earliest convenience. Please call me as soon as you are able.” She hung up and had a little chuckle. “Sorry, Ms. Able, call me when you are able.” They laughed out loud. “I must be giddy from nerves.”

  They talked about their current life situations into the late afternoon. Neither Ted nor Natalie did any reminiscing, for which Ashton was grateful. Once they started talking, the men no longer noticed how unattractive Natalie Borg was trying desperately to be, and she no longer noticed that the father of her child was gay. A process of alchemy was taking place, bonding them so that at the end of their time together, they would be fast friends who would spend Sundays together, have brunch on Saturdays, and visit each other’s homes, regardless of what the young woman who was their daughter would do. It was this united front that Natalie would meet the following day, when she met her daughter for the first time.

  The hardened, sarcastic Deborah Phillips would burst into tears when she met them, crying out, “You are exactly as I imagined you both!” The Earth Mother and the father with a joint and long hair—well, not exactly—but a gay man with a beautiful husband? Almost as nice. Zach accompanied her to meet her birth parents, for moral support.

  Ted and Natalie felt terrible about the Phillipses. It wasn’t fair to them. Ted would make it his duty to speak softly but sternly to his daughter about honoring them for caring for her when her birth parents were unwilling to. It hurt Natalie to hear it put that way, but it was the truth, and the only way the odd quartet would survive was by total honesty.

  “I knew from the time I could reason that I didn’t belong to them,” Debbie argued.

  “But it wasn’t their fault,” Ted countered. “They unselfishly took you to love and to raise as their own. They picked up the slack when we had our heads up our asses.” Ashton rolled his eyeballs.

  “Great imagery for your new daughter, pal,” he hissed.

  “Sorry, dear,” Ted said. “Let’s take this slowly. You are staying with your boyfriend, correct?” She nodded. “Well, then, you don’t have to worry about going back to Princeton. But I just don’t feel right about not getting in touch with them myself. What do you think, Mother?” Both Ted and Ashton had taken to calling Natalie “Mother,” and when they first said it in front of Deborah, she looked confused. She was ready to call her “Natalie,” as she called her adoptive parents “Beverly” and “John.” Ted was “Ted” and Ashton was, strangely, “Uncle Ashton.” Zach was obviously as uncomfortable as Deborah was happy. Natalie nodded, indicating that she agreed they should contact the Mr. and Mrs. Phillips.

  Addressing Deborah, Natalie said, “To be respectful, we should contact them right away. The last thing we need is bad karma. You may change how you feel in time, and I don’t want you to have any regrets.” They decided that Deborah would call her adoptive mother and father and share the
news. It would be up to them to decide whether or not they wanted to meet the new family. Ted secretly hoped they wanted to stay involved because he didn’t know if he had the stamina to be a real father to Deborah. Ashton, on the other hand, was ready to take it on.

  Chapter 10

  Pam’s attorney got back to her that afternoon.

  “A warning letter doth not a lawsuit make,” he said condescendingly. She wasn’t to worry, he said; he lived in the neighborhood and would pick up the letter on his way home if she would stick it in her mailbox. It would be one less thing for her to worry about.

  The thought that it could easily be made public bothered Pam enough to finally have to call a friend, quagmire or not.

  “Sandra, it’s Pam,” she said. Sandra was surprised and pleased that Pam was calling her again. “Is this a bad time for you?”

  “No, no, not at all. Tom’s not home yet, and I was puttering around. What’s new?”

  “Well, I do have a reason for calling. More drama about Jack. If Tom’s not home yet, can you talk?” Pam asked.

  “Yes, sure. What’s wrong?” Sandra’s heart had picked up a few extra beats; she could feel the reaction that Jack’s name caused in Pam.

  “Did you ever hear the name Cynthia Thomasini?” Pam asked, slowly pronouncing the name so she’d get it right.

  Sandra didn’t answer right away. “Yes, unfortunately. Why do you ask?” Sandra was playing it cagey; if Pam wanted facts, she was going to have to dig. Sandra wasn’t willing to initiate anything that might hurt Pam.