Tom got up and tried to take her in his arms.
She resisted, saying, “My tears can infect you!”
He pulled her to him. “I can’t get HIV from your tears! Or from kissing you. I’ll be safe. You come here.” He held her for a long time, patting her head, hugging her. He kissed the top of her head, smelling her shampoo. Eventually, the sobs became less and less, Sandra reaching over for a tissue for the tenth time.
“I don’t expect anything from you. You can leave now and never speak to me again. I wouldn’t blame you.”
He continued to pet her, rubbing her back, kissing the top of her head. “No, I don’t think I will. Leave. I’m a cop. I know all about HIV and AIDS. I’m also a responsible adult man. I know how to protect myself from sexually transmitted diseases. If I did get it, I can’t think of a nicer person to get it from.”
Finally, she reached her arms around his waist and held him tightly. In four days, she had bonded with this remarkable man who didn’t flinch once when she told him about another man’s baby and now a deadly disease, all part of her package.
Here I am! Take me as I am! How do I
rate, having such a great guy who hasn’t run in the opposite direction?
Tom was there. He wasn’t going to run from her like he probably should. From now on, she would take what he was willing to give her and try to give as much as she could in return.
S
ummer nights at the beach were the best of any nights in Pam’s memory. She enjoyed them alone this summer, sitting on her lovely veranda by candlelight until the early hours of the morning. Before Jack died, she would spend it thinking of him. After he died, she found she could simply enjoy the passing of time for what it was—a rare, momentary freedom from worry. Marie had made the decision to go back to the city after the revelation of Pam’s AIDS because she wanted to see her doctor first thing in the morning. So instead of sharing this time with her sister as she had planned, Pam was once again alone. She always dressed, even though no one would see her. Tonight she put on a flowing pants and top outfit made of white gauze. Her hair was pulled up into a loose knot on top of her head with perfect makeup. She felt like a prop in a movie. There would be no dialogue or interaction with other players, although the stage had seen its share of dramatic reenactments in the past months.
A large crystal glass of iced tea with a lemon slice took the place of wine. The briny smell of the sea was strong tonight, the tide was out, and the heat from the sand added to the intense summer atmosphere. Lost in thought, she was startled by the “Hello!” that echoed from the dune that bordered her property.
“It’s Jeff Babcock, Mrs. Smith. Can I come up?”
Pam stood up and was able to see Jeff’s profile in the moonlight. “Absolutely!” she responded, walking down the path to meet him. She offered her hand, and he took it. They began talking like old friends who had just been reunited, first about the type of grasses she had planted in her garden and then an offer from Jeff to take her to see his award-winning landscaping. He had heard all about hers, being well known in Babylon because she designed and planted most of it herself, and she had read about his in the Sunday
Times
.
“Come have a seat. Can I offer you a glass of wine?” she asked. “It’s such a lovely night; I don’t want to go inside.”
“What are you drinking tonight?” Jeff asked, looking at her iced tea with suspicion.
Pam laughed out loud. “That’s tea! I have a bottle of wine in the fridge that I opened about three hours ago; you just missed Marie. I opened it for her.” He didn’t respond to her revelation, and Pam found that a little strange.
Hadn’t he introduced her to his family two days ago?
Maybe Marie was reading more into their relationship than met the eye. Pam took the bottle out and handed it to Jeff, who made a face.
“No thanks, I’ll pass! I’m not drinking anything from France these days. If it doesn’t come from the United States, I don’t buy it.” He went into a long diatribe about French wines.
Pam wasn’t hugely knowledgeable about wine, but thought some of what he said was ridiculous. She decided that moment to change her modus operandi and speak her opinion. “For me, it has always been about the taste. If I
don’t like the way a wine tastes, I can’t drink it!” Then she laughed. “It’s the simpleton’s wine philosophy.”
Jeff caught himself in his snobbery and laughed along with her. “Good point! Give me a glass!”
Pam poured one and gave it to Jeff. She took the bottle out to the veranda so, hopefully, he would finish it off, French or not. She wouldn’t be drinking it and hated wasting good wine.
“This is pretty good. My humble apologies for the lecture back there.”
They sat down and spent the next hour chatting about gardening, living at the beach, his love of cooking, and how it saved him from clinical depression. Pam asked if the depression might have stemmed from his divorce.
“No, the divorce was mutual. Mindy and I are best of friends now. We had to be for our girls. In retrospect, I think retirement was a shock. And it was a contradiction. I couldn’t stand the courtroom anymore, yet I missed it in theory. A dear friend suggested I try cooking classes, and that is how I ended up going to the CSI. I have a house in Rhinebeck, within walking distance of the school. I often say it saved my life.” He glanced over at Pam, noticing for the first time how slender she had become and stopped himself before he mentioned it. Not everything needed to be said. She had just lost her husband. No wonder she lost weight. “I’d love to cook for you sometime! What are you doing this weekend?” He noticed the suspicious look in her eyes and then, with horror, remembered Marie was her sister. “Is Marie going to be coming?” He was hoping to spend more time with this interesting woman, and Marie
would put a damper on it. But that couldn’t be helped. “We could make a party of it!”
Pam visibly relaxed. “She is supposed to be coming Saturday morning! How nice of you! I feel like it’s been a long, long time since I had fun.”
What is fun?
“What can I do to help?”
“Oh no, this is going to be my opportunity to pamper you. I’m sorry I haven’t been a better neighbor.”
Pam recalled that his food offerings on the day of the funeral were among the only that could be eaten. “Your gifts were wonderful lifesavers. We received some pretty nasty stuff! Oh! That was so inappropriate!”
Together, they laughed out loud as Pam related some of the food they received, including a casserole that was made of canned peas and bologna. Jeff told stories about his dogs and their antics. Pam relived her childhood adventures at Coney Island. Before either of them knew it, time had flown by, and it was almost 2:00 in the morning.
“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Jeff said, putting his hand out to Pam.
She took it and they shook. “It was,” she said. “I can’t tell you the last time I laughed so much.”
They walked together down the path to the end of the dune, continuing to talk. Jeff walked backward toward his house so they could continue talking, and they finally said goodnight. Disappointed that the night was over, Pam walked back up her path and resolved to call it a night herself, although she could have stayed up until sunrise. AIDS, Jack, lies, and betrayal had not entered her thoughts since Jeff Babcock’s visit. She cleaned up their glasses, thinking about him. There was no physical attraction
at all for her, and it seemed on his part as well. She found herself wondering if he was gay. And she felt badly about reducing her evaluation of him to stereotypes; it was the entire package that made her think that. His grooming, interests, mannerisms…
But wouldn’t Marie have suspected it?
She was dating him. Most of her friends were gay men; she should have picked up on it right away. Well, Pam decided she was not going to question her about her boyfriend’s sexual preferences. It was not her business.
She locked up the sliders and made sure the front door and the door to the garage were secure before she got ready for bed. While she was taking the makeup off her face, she had a pang of worry about Sandra, which she quickly squelched. She would not be taking on that burden. Jack got her pregnant. Jack gave her HIV. Not Pam. It was so like her to start thinking about something like this right before it was time to sleep!
Once again, her bed did its magic. The cool sheets and the darkness pulled her in, and she was sound asleep within seconds. But it wouldn’t last, because at 5:00 in the morning, her phone started ringing, waking her with a start.
“Hello?” Her heart was pounding so loud she was sure the caller could hear it, but there was no answer. “Hello?” she said again. “Who is this?”
And then a recording, “This is an automated call from the New York State Prison System. Please press one to continue.”
Oh crap
, Pam thought. She had a choice here: respond with pressing the key that could lead to a verbal
boxing match with her brother-in-law or hang up and let the peace of the day continue. She hung up.
“Your party hung up,” a recorded message said. “God damn it!” Bill Smith yelled into the phone.
“Pipe down, Smith,” a prison guard said.
Bill thought,
Now what the hell am I going to do?
He needed Pam to vouch for him while bail was being set that morning.
She owes it to me to pay up. Her late husband was my brother, for God’s sake!
He started pacing. A court-appointed attorney was due in by 7:00 that morning. The guard came and unlocked the phone room and took Bill by the arm, his hands cuffed in front of him, shackles on his ankles. He shuffled along with his head down, embarrassed.
How did I get into this mess again?
He vacillated between remorse that he had so little self-control and rage, wanting to kill his sister-in-law. She was the only one who could help him. His mother was dependent on Pam as well and had no money of her own. He didn’t know if she was following through on the art auction because he was unable to talk to her until visiting day. He’d ruined his chances of getting Sandra on his side. The police had informed him that she had taken a restraining order out against him, and that is why they were parked in back of her building.
Don’t they have anything better to do than be lookouts for that whore?
The attorney, a pimply faced, twenty-something girl found out for Bill that Anne was being held in a lock-up downtown instead of bringing her to Rikers, for her own protection. Unless Pam dropped the charges against her, she would be going to trial early next week for theft; she had pleaded not guilty. His attorney was supposed to have
asked his mother to call Pam and beg her to drop the charges. Their boys were being cared for by Anne’s sister, and Bill cringed every time he thought of it. She was a lazy pig of a woman with an unkempt house and drunk for a husband. He laughed out loud!
Sounds like my own family
, he thought.
The guard unlocked his cell and let go of his arm. He walked in and didn’t turn around, for fear that he would lunge at the guard and tear him from limb to limb, controlling his normal aggression. There was nothing he could do now but wait—for Pam to make a move on his behalf and that of his wife.
After just two days, Anne Smith loved prison life. She was told when to bathe, all her meals were served to her on a tray, sex with Bill was the last thing she had to worry about, and there were endless expanses of time with nothing to do. No phones ringing, no television blasting away, no shopping to be done, and she didn’t have to think about bills to pay and lack of money. It was the ideal life. She made the decision to plead not guilty because she wanted a trial. The longer she could drag out this stint in the city jail, the better. There were only six women in her block—five prostitutes and Anne. She didn’t have to go outdoors if she didn’t want to, and there were no work details. Being there was like having a long vacation, and she hoped it would last the rest of her life.
F
irst thing the next morning, Marie found herself sitting in one of a long line of plastic chairs at a public health clinic in Manhattan. There was no way she was going to her regular doctor with this problem. She’d become a ward of the state first. Arthur had taken the day off from his stage-setting job at the Lincoln Center to be with her.
“You always call at just the worst possible time,” he told her the night before. “We were just getting ready to consummate our love,” he said, speaking of his new boyfriend, Peter.
“Yes, well, I figured you owed me,” she reminded him.
“Will you ever forget that?” he asked, making reference to the night he called her many years ago, a victim of Rohypnol and stranded at a club in the Meat Packing District.
She had been lying in bed with Jack, who wouldn’t wait for her if she left the apartment, ensuring that their night together would be over. He left while she got into her car and drove the short distance downtown to pick up her pathetic friend, standing on the corner of Hudson and Jane.
Poor Arthur
, she thought.
If ever there was a candidate for sexual reassignment surgery, it was Arthur
. When she told him that, he lit into her.
“That is a tacky generalization, if I ever heard of one. I love being a man! I love my package! You are the one who wants me to be a girl. You! Because then, if I’m a girl, you’ll stop lusting after me.”
“Keep dreaming, asshole,” she said to him, and they laughed together.