Dream Lover (24 page)

“Mom, I heard something today that is bothering me and I need you to put my mind at ease.” Pam’s heart started beating wildly in her chest. She quickly tried to gather herself together before opening her mouth. She wanted her voice to sound normal, unsuspecting. But she wasn’t able to pull it off. The tremor was obvious.

“What’s going on?” Pam asked, knowing what was wrong, dreading to hear it from Lisa. She closed her eyes, silently praying.

“Do you remember Paulette Vargas?” Lisa asked. “She was in my Brownie Troop and then they moved to Smithtown in third grade.” Pam wracked her brain trying to remember how Paulette Vargas was related to either Jean or Marion.

“I think I remember her. She had brown braids, didn’t she?” Pam was stalling, trying to drag out this preliminary discussion as long as she could. She felt faint; the previous warmth that had spread through her body had gone, replaced with icy cold.

“She was blonde, but that doesn’t matter. Anyway, her aunt lives on West End, near Ninetieth. She knows Bubby. She told me her aunt swears she saw Bubby and Grandma in Zabar’s and they had been drinking, and it was first thing in the morning.”

Pam did her best to stifle the gasp that involuntarily escaped her mouth.

“Her aunt said that Bubby was a known lush for years. Could this be true, Mom?” Lisa asked, clearly concerned. Pam had lowered her head in relief. Now was the time to start being truthful.

“Lisa, I can honestly say that I never saw Bubby intoxicated, and Daddy never told me she drank excessively, but I have heard that she drank when Uncle Bill and Daddy were boys,” Pam admitted. “I wonder what Paulette’s aunt hoped to accomplish by passing that tale along to her niece? It seems sort of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it does. I told her that Bubby just lost my dad and her husband. But what about Grandma? It concerns me that the two of them are wandering around the city, drunk.”

“Okay, Lisa, I’ll look into it later. I don’t want you to worry about it though. Bubby has lived in the city all of her life. She knows her way around. As far as my mother goes, that’s another story. I know I shouldn’t laugh, but the thought of those two women calling attention to themselves in that way is totally out of character. When we hang up, I’ll call the house and talk to Ben. He should be driving them everywhere for the money I am paying him.”

Mother and daughter chatted for another fifteen minutes and finally when Lisa was laughing, Pam felt it was okay to end the conversation.

“I’ll call you later, after I’ve had a chance to find out what is going on in high-society New York.” Pam said good-bye to Lisa. She got up from her chair and walked back into the house to hang up the phone. Her relief that she wasn’t caught without her AIDS speech ready was enormous. Immediately, she went into the den to get some paper from Jack’s desk.

She thought she was past any further discoveries, but she was wrong.

She sat down in his chair and opened the top, middle drawer, expecting to find some blank paper. However, the drawer held only pens and stamps. She opened each drawer without luck, thinking,
Didn’t I do this once already? Or did I stop at the first drawer I came to, the drawer that held the cryptic notes from Marie?
Months before, shortly after Jack’s death, Pam had found a folder full of scraps of paper Marie had written on, some of the notes threatening him with exposure and others apologizing for some unknown misdeed. Pam promptly burned the notes. She couldn’t remember if she had gone through the entire desk. When she came to a locked door on the bottom left, she was certain she hadn’t tried to open it before. She went through the desk again, looking for a key. Nothing. She got up and went out to the mudroom to the key rack where she hung the keys to all the cars, and to Jack’s Lexus. She searched on the key ring; his keys to the Columbus Circle mansion, the key to his Madison Avenue apartment, the house key, the key to his locker at the club (she’d better empty that), and finally, a lone key that looked like it would work in a desk drawer. She took the bunch of keys back to the den and, bending over, slipped the key into the lock. It didn’t go in. “Humph,” she said aloud.

She went into their bedroom and stood in the center of it, slowly turning around. She eyed his nightstand. She hadn’t gone through it, or his clothes, or the garage. She sat on the edge of the bed and slowly opened the drawer. There was nothing private in her own nightstand drawer. Other women talked about their drawer like it held the key to their sexuality. She had whatever current book she was reading in bed, some earplugs, a small bottle of hand lotion, and a nail clipper. Jack’s held similar items, along with this favorite dental floss. She took everything out, having decided that she might as well be done with it and throw it all away. Keeping his intimate things would not bring him back, or change history. She went back into the kitchen and got a large trash bag. As she bent over to close the drawer where the bags were stored, she saw the light from the den.

Slowly standing up, she opened the cutlery drawer and took out a steak knife.
Why would that desk drawer be locked?
She walked back to the den. When she got to the desk, she sat down in Jack’s chair.
Should I? Should I risk my well-being for the day?
“What the hell is in there?” she asked aloud. She stuck the tip of the knife in the lock and jimmied it around, bending it back and forth, trying with all her strength to turn it. Nothing.

She stood, now more determined to get the lock open just for the sake of it and not because she was even thinking of the contents. Putting the knife down, she went out to the garage. Jack’s tool chest was to the right of the workbench. She went to open the top drawer, hoping to find a tool that would allow her to pick the desk lock and discovered that the tool chest was locked, too.

Now frustrated, she ran back to the mudroom and retrieved the unknown key. It slid easily into the lock of the red metal chest. The drawer popped open without her touching it. The tools were lined up perfectly, the bottoms of the handles precisely aligned, the sizes graduated from largest to smallest. So like Jack to insist on his tools being perfectly lined up like a surgeon’s instruments. She was reaching for an awl when she saw it. The crisp, white edge of paper peeking out from under the red rubber drawer liner.

Pam pushed the tools aside and lifted the drawer liner. She saw what she thought was a leg, and then realized she was looking at the back of Jack’s thigh with his small, brown birthmark visible, and as she pulled the photo out further, the inside of a woman’s leg and her crotch. Pam’s heart beat wildly, yet again.
How often could you raise your heart rate like this and survive
? Intense heat flooding her body, she shoved the tools to the back of the drawer and exposed the photo. It was a stack of them. Pam wrenched them out of the tool chest and then opened each succeeding drawer, discovered more of the same thing. She methodically removed all of the pictures from the chest and turned to go back into the house as she picked the stack up. A large sledgehammer caught her eye on the way out of the garage; she grabbed that as well, surprised but not hampered by its weight. She didn’t notice she was stomping her feet with each step back into the house. She threw the photos into the kitchen pantry and locked the door, stomping back to the den. Without thinking, without a wasted second, she brought the sludge hammer up over her head and down on the desk with a crack. The report was so loud that beachgoers walking in front of her house looked up, wondering if it was gunfire.

Over and over again, tiny Pam Smith brought the heavy sledgehammer up over her head and smashed it down on what had once been the beautiful, handcrafted desk of her late husband, Jack. Once the top was destroyed, she was able to reach into the offending locked drawer and pulled out its contents. Seeing what could be more photos, she took the entire drawer into the kitchen, unlocked the pantry, put the drawer inside with the porn, and locked the door again, putting the key down the front of her bra. Going back out to the garage with the sledgehammer dragging alongside her, she put it back on the hooks in the pegboard and walked to the other side of the garage where the recycling was kept. She found a large, cardboard box, flattened, and a roll of packing tape. She struggled with it to get it into the house, not because of its weight, but because it was so awkward in size. Back in the den, she taped the box back together and started picking up the shattered wood that had once been the desk at which her husband sat to do whatever it was he did when he was home. At that moment, she couldn’t honestly say she knew what he did. Now it looked like he might have been cataloging his photography collection.

The pieces of wood that were too large to manage in the box where broken over Pam’s knee. She knew she might suffer the consequences of this madness later, but for now, it was serving its purpose. Her mind was crystal clear. Any doubts, muddled thoughts, or sadness had been banished. After the destruction was completed, she boxed up the rest of the impersonal contents of the desk and hauled them and the desk remains out to the curb. What was left of the top was cumbersome and she struggled to get it through the doorway and down the path to the street. A neighbor raking leaves heard the ruckus and yelled to Pam, “Need a hand?”

“No Ed! But thanks, anyway!” She brushed her hands off, admiring her pile of junk, turned her back on it, and returned to the house.

She dragged out the vacuum and ran it over the entire den. Her hand on her hip, she looked at his desk chair. She’d take it to Bernice. Whenever there had been a family get-together, Bernice ended up in that damn chair. Pam wanted to annihilate it along with the desk, but she decided the bigger thing to do would be to haul it into the city. It would bring Bernice happiness. Once again, she went through the steps of struggling to get something that weighed almost as much as she did out of the house, into the garage, and into the back of her SUV. Back in the den, she looked around with satisfaction. The bookcases were a little too sterile for her liking. Jack’s books so neat and organized that they looked like a law library. She would tackle that another time.

Suddenly lighthearted and carefree, the last thing she wanted to do was to talk to her kids about AIDS. But then she thought it might be the best time. It would take a lot to get her down. She tried to remember why she had gone into that damn den in the first place; it was to get paper to write a script. No longer needing the support, she would just come out and tell them.

Making herself a cup of coffee, she took it and the phone out to the veranda. She’d call Brent first; he was often the quieter of the two children. He may need more from her than Lisa would. Brent answered on the first ring. He was alone; studying for a quiz, chillin’ out.

“Brent, I want to say something to you, so just hear me out, will you dear? I’ll give you plenty of opportunity to ask questions.”

“Jeez Mom, are you getting married again?” he asked with just a hint of teasing in his voice. “Sorry,” he said when she didn’t respond right away.

“Brent, I was ill a few weeks ago and the tests came back positive for AIDS. It sounds worse than it is. The stigma is the most unfortunate part of it.” There was the slightest tremor to her voice, barely noticeable to anyone but those who knew her well. Her son picked up on it immediately. Brent didn’t say anything. Pam allowed the silence, not knowing what to say to break it. Finally, he spoke.

“I heard you, Mom. But I’m speechless. I need to think for a minute.” He wanted her to know he was listening, but he had nothing to say because it didn’t mean anything to him yet. He almost wished he were appalled, that he could start screaming and hang up on her. But that wasn’t where he was being taken. He thought of AIDS and what it meant. Certain death? He’d just lost his father. What would it be like to be an orphan at the age of twenty-two? The first question that occurred to him was how had his gentle mother gotten AIDS? But he wouldn’t do that to her. His lovely, perfect mother. His brain finally clicked into gear.

“Mom, how awful for you! How can I help you?” Brent asked, head bowed, just hopeful she wasn’t all that sick.

A wave of relief flowed over Pam. “Thank you Brent. I’m doing well, better than I thought. Redoubling all my efforts in the fitness and health routine. It seems to be paying off.” She wanted to move on now, call Lisa, and get that over with, but she knew he had to have questions that he may not know how to ask. “Do you need any information about AIDS? You can still hug me. I can cook for you when you’re home and you will be safe.” Pam struggled to get those last words out. Would he ever want to come home again?

“I know about AIDS, Mom. You’d better be planning Thanksgiving dinner since you are talking about cooking for me!” They laughed. She was relieved he was planning to spend the day with her. “I’m worried about you, though. Are you sure you are okay?” He didn’t add,
because my dad gave you AIDS. There was no other way, was there
? he thought.

“I’m fine, Brent. Telling you and Lisa has been my biggest concern. Thank you for being so gracious. If you don’t have any questions for me now, I am going to say good-bye because I have to call Lisa.”
I hope she takes it as well as you did
, she thought. “I love you, Son. Thank you again.” That tremor. They said goodbye and Pam hung up the phone. She was emotionally spent, the lump in her thought making breathing difficult. She put her head down on her arm and started to cry.

Brent had been her talisman, her touchstone, all of his life. She had heard other mothers talking about their sons as if they were gods, and although she didn’t quite look at him like that, she understood where they were coming from. Brent had a charm about him that was honest and kind. She believed him when he complimented her. Unlike his father, Brent had no reason to lie to her. Pam remembered her own father weeping at the dinner table one night, telling his daughters that their presence on earth validated him as a man. That is what Brent’s birth did for Pam. Confessing her health problems to him was the most grievous thing she could imagine doing to him. What a way to reward her son after all he had given to her. It just made her sick. Her anger at Jack renewed yet again, she wished she could destroy another piece of furniture before she called Lisa. And then she thought of something better, more satisfying. She visualized taking that wonderful sledgehammer to Jack’s beloved Lexus. It brought a smile to her face, seeing the windshield smashed in her mind’s eye, the roof collapsed in, the doors and hood bashed in. Never one to concentrate on the negative, this meditation was having a powerful effect on her.