A Daughter's a Daughter Page 2

  Pam turned on her cell to call Steve and noticed a series of calls from Linley. No messages, though. She pressed Send.

  “Linley? You called several times. I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I want details about the Menahl collapse.” Linley’s crisp tone showed her impatience, her barely leashed contempt.

  Pam absorbed the slap contained in Linley’s hard accents. Linley didn’t care that her mother was standing on the sidewalk with no job anymore. Pam took a deep breath, fighting down her hurt. “It’s a huge company. It was, anyway. I’m not privy to the big picture.”

  Linley said, “We have a special coming up in one hour, and I can be on it if you tell me what happened.”

  For once, she could help Linley. She sighed. “What do you need to know?”

  “How did they tell you? What did they say? Are you being paid for time worked? What about severance?”

  Pam recited everything that had happened, everything she knew.

  “Thanks, Mom. Gotta go.”

  Linley clicked off.

  Pam was left staring at the silent phone. Linley had actually thanked her. Called her Mom. That hadn’t happened in years. If only there was some way to continue this friendlier contact instead of returning to the cold distance Linley usually kept between them.

  Her phone rang again, surprising her. She was still standing on a downtown city sidewalk, jostled by fast-moving people. Seeing a bench nearby, she sat.

  It was her son, Steve. A half hour later, as she started walking again, she contrasted the one minute Linley spared for her to Steve’s lengthy, concerned call. He had wanted to know how she felt. He’d invited her to stay with him and his wife Callie and the grandchildren for a while. He’d asked if she had enough money and offered some of his own. What a wonderful son he was. But he had a wife and children to think of. Pam did not want to impose on them. She could fend for herself.

  She made her commute back to Ardsley, her green suburb north of the city, in a daze, returning to consciousness only when she walked in the door of her home. She put her keys on the polished brass key rack she had installed inside the kitchen door. She gazed across at the beautiful yellow granite countertops, which she had highlighted with the occasional pop of a red accent. She had carefully and lovingly decorated each room of this typical suburban house to be the perfect nest for her husband and children. All of whom were gone. A family’s life had been centered here. No more. Had she been living in the past, like a ghost wandering the rooms of an abandoned house?

  If so, it was over. Time to get on with her life.

  #

  Dorothy, Suffolk County, Long Island

  Dorothy Duncan took her morning stroll along the beach near the house that had been her home for over thirty years. She’d always loved the south shore of Long Island. When she and Malcolm had saved enough, they had built a lovely place right on the water. By then, the children were off to college or launched as adults. Malcolm was about to retire early from the advertising business. They had planned to spend many long years walking on the sand, enjoying the play of the tides.

  Of course, it was not to be. Malcolm was of the generation of American men who smoked a couple of packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day, drank a couple of martinis at lunch, and had a couple of highballs at a bar near the office before coming home via the Long Island Railroad. Those men died years earlier than anybody expected.

  She had loved the life they led together. He had been in charge of earning the money and she had been responsible for raising their four children and making a home. It had worked fine throughout the 1940s and 1950s, and even into the 1960s. She was an organized and energetic person and her children were all healthy. She had a weekly maid at first, and then a housekeeper. Even before all the children were out of diapers, she had thrown herself into community activism and political causes. She’d marched in many protests, painted many signs, and knocked on many doors.

  She’d never spent much time in Manhattan, except on ladies’ lunches with her girlfriends. Once a month, they’d dress in their best and go to Schrafft’s down on 5th Avenue near the arch where Greenwich Village began. Or the Russian Tea Room on 57th Street next to Carnegie Hall. Or the Women’s Exchange on Madison Avenue at 59th Street. After lunch, they’d attend a matinee on Broadway, with intermission cocktails for spice. When the play ended, they would split up and return to their suburban lives.

  In their younger days, the lunches had been less lavish but more frequent. They’d gone to Horn and Hardart, the Automat. Or the Chock Full of Nuts coffee house. That was when they briefly were working girls, first in the war effort and later in clerical jobs or teaching until they found husbands. Once they were married and the babies came, they were busy being homemakers.

  She had filled many long, happy days painting and sewing for the home she had made for her family. Plus carting the children around to their activities. She had easily moved into running the PTA and organizing local fund drives, and more.

  It had been a lovely life. She missed it. She missed her oldest friends too, but one by one, they had died. Ethel Bush had dropped dead of a stroke twenty years ago, which shocked them all. Ethel had never seemed the high blood pressure type. In fact, she had been the quietest of their group. For good reason.

  Colleen Murphy, a hearty Irish girl from Queens, had developed Alzheimer’s and been locked up in a nursing home for years before she finally died. Dorothy had visited her long past the point when Colleen recognized anyone. A protracted travail for the family.

  And Greta, dear Greta. She had died so young. Over fifty years ago now. Dorothy had never forgotten her. Lately, she thought about Greta often. How wrong it was Greta died as she did.

  Greta’s tragedy had changed Dorothy. After Greta died, no vulnerable, oppressed group lacked a spokesperson if Dorothy could help it. She had thrown herself into countless causes that helped the abused, the forgotten, and the poor. Malcolm had tolerated it without understanding exactly why she was so driven. He was proud of her achievements in the community.

  Malcolm. He’d not lived to enjoy the beach house for long. All the years of work stress, the cigarettes, and the alcohol had caught up with him. She had found him dead in the bathroom one morning. A heart attack in his fifties.

  Ah, well, it was a long time ago now. Over thirty years already. Her life was simple here at the beach. The children had grown up. All four were self-supporting, even her little shy one, Pamela. When their children were young, they made many family visits during summer vacations. They still visited, but not often anymore.

  How odd that she thought about Greta so much lately. Perhaps it was part of getting old, truly old, at last. She took a walk each morning, down the beach and back, to keep herself from falling apart. Maybe it wasn’t working. Her thoughts kept returning to the past, to Greta.

  She had reached the old stone pier, built a long time ago, when fishing had been important in a tiny village that no longer existed. It was warm on the beach, but she was getting hungry. Time to turn back and have her morning tea. She began to retrace her steps.

  What lovely homes these were. Weathered clapboard, painted grey or white. A few newer homes had vinyl siding, although that was a mistake. The winds could be fierce in winter. They could blow such light siding right off a house. The newcomers would soon learn.

  The grey house was attractive, but it looked empty. All the shades were drawn. Probably the people only lived there in summer. It was late season, already September. The Smiths, that was their name.

  The white house showed signs of life. There was a car in the driveway and a little dog running around the small fenced side yard, barking. A wire-haired fox terrier. Like Asta from the Thin Man movies. Wire hairs were popular in the 1930s because of those movies. She’d had one as a girl. Later she bought one for Greta’s boy. A very long time ago. Now she didn’t have a dog. Maybe she should get one. It was a bit lonely out here sometimes.

  A tall man ca
me outside to stop the dog barking.

  “Hello, Mrs. Duncan,” he called, and sent a casual wave her way.

  “Good morning,” she replied, but she did not linger to chat. It was time to be getting home.

  She had always liked a yellow house and there was a beautiful one coming up. Two stories, with a slate roof, and a sunroom running the length of the back of the house with French doors leading out to an old-fashioned flagstone patio. It connected to a path and steps leading down to the beach. A little white wooden gate at the top of the path politely reminded beach walkers that although the beach was public, the homes were private property.

  She liked a yellow house. She approved of this one. Silvery dusty miller and pink petunias bloomed along the path and steps. Above, on the patio, large planters held orange gerbera daisies, deep blue lobelias, and contrasting greenery. A charming old-fashioned iron patio set, painted white, with an umbrella, was perfect for sitting outside and enjoying the air without too much direct sun. Lovely. The black shutters and white trim lent a crisp air to the home. How pretty it was.

  Her steps had slowed to a stop. Of course. It was her house.

  #

  Bruce

  “Calm down, Yappie,” Bruce Wicklow spoke quietly to his wire-hair fox terrier as he watched Dorothy Duncan slowly make her way up her beach steps and into her house. The little dog loved to bark.

  “We want to be friends, boy,” Bruce said, giving the dog a consoling pat as he picked him up and carried him inside.

  Bruce was a writer, although he was quick to point out to new acquaintances that he was the unglamorous kind. He didn’t pen daring thrillers or hard-boiled detective novels. He made his living synthesizing information about global economic trends and science. Dry stuff to some, but he’d had reasonable success, mostly in magazines and newspapers, and lately in books.

  Renting this big beach house in the off season was something new for him. The people living in these fine homes along the shore liked to pretend it was an exclusive enclave. Take old Dorothy Duncan next door. Bruce had of course introduced himself to her when he’d moved in. She had been gracious but regal and somewhat aloof.

  Yet in the town she had the reputation of being a tireless activist and do-gooder. When he mentioned her, people praised her to the skies. Maybe his lack of appeal to her was his self-sufficiency. He was well launched in his book writing career. Doing fine. He didn’t need anything or anyone.

  What a lie. He needed the truth from Dorothy Duncan. She was the entire reason he’d come here.

  Chapter 2

  As the news special ended and the credits rolled, Jason turned to Linley. His smile was triumphant.

  “We won. Our report aired first.”

  Before she could think of a reply, he stacked his notes, closed his laptop, unhooked his microphone, and stood.

  “We’ll be airing at our regular time, but mostly to talk more about the Menahl collapse. See you then.”

  After he left, Linley slowly removed her clipped-on mic and walked back to the cubicles, trying not to let her frustration show. The special news hour had gone well. She’d been a key part of it because of all the details she’d gotten from her mother. She should be happy she had received the extra air time.

  Jason had been meticulously polite and even friendly on air. Off air, he kept it strictly impersonal. Completely professional. Jason acted impervious to her as a woman.

  It should be enough for Linley that being around Jason advanced her career. He was a rising cable star with an ambitious eye on a late-night talk show gig. Powerful people kept checking out their regular show, and she sat right next to Jason, looking good and saying all the right things. She was being noticed, too.

  Yet, Jason ignored her personal appeal. Being an attractive blonde was one of her major assets. She expected men to react, to grant her favors. Not that she hadn’t worked hard to get this far in a super-competitive field. She’d put in the long hours, the extra effort. The other men on their daily show, Ernie, Mike, and Ralph, were softened by her classic blondness. Only Jason showed no sign he felt the same. He didn’t address flirtatious comments to her. He didn’t favor her during the show. In fact, he called on the guys more often, and he looked at them most of the time. Even his posture leaned away from her.

  She didn’t like feeling this way. Most men were interested in her. She could have her pick of dates and hookups. She didn’t need Jason. Marty had hired her. She appeared on several lifestyle and consumer-oriented programs each weekday for the cable network. Why should she care that Jason didn’t act interested?

  In spite of her feelings, she behaved like a complete professional. At least, she hoped so. Maybe some of the other sharp men or women at the station noticed how girly she felt around Jason. She fought not to show it, but she might not be succeeding. She hoped Jason had no clue, either. Each time he looked at her, she held her breath, hoping he saw nothing of her interest in him.

  #

  Pam dreaded telling her mother she had lost her job, but couldn’t put it off any longer. Dorothy Duncan was retired now but she still watched television news and would surely find out about Menahl soon.

  Would Dorothy be sympathetic to Pam’s situation? Right now, Pam felt bruised. She could use a hug. Few of her friends or relatives were the hugging type, certainly not her mother. Instead, Dorothy would say something to make the bankruptcy of a huge multinational corporation a result of Pam’s lack of spine. Dorothy Duncan was a fighter who had never understood Pam’s retiring nature.

  Taking a deep breath, Pam tapped in the familiar numbers. “Hello, Mom?”

  “Speak up. Don’t be tentative, Pamela. You’re a grown woman.”

  “Uh…I have some news.” She paused, then pushed on in a hurry. “Everybody at my company was laid off today. Including me.”

  “You’re not going to accept that, are you? This is why you should have unionized. Is anyone picketing? Speaking out to the media? What about hiring an employment lawyer to fight wrongful termination?”

  “Mom, the entire company has gone belly up,” she said, stopping Dorothy’s rapid-fire strategic questions in mid-flow. “Bankrupt. It can’t satisfy its major creditors, let alone what it owes its employees.”

  “Then you and the other employees should start a class action suit as creditors. Get in at the head of the line.”

  “I—I can’t.”

  “I still know people,” Dorothy continued. “They’d help you organize a protest and find you the right lawyers.”

  “I don’t want to—”

  “Immediate action works best.”

  “Uh…I’m going to have lunch now,” Pam finally said in a strangled voice.

  “Pamela.” Her mother’s voice was stern, but also resigned. “Call me when you’re ready to fight for yourself.”

  “Thanks for your support, Mom. Bye.” Pam clicked off.

  Pam had not expected her mother to offer any consolation. Dorothy Duncan was made of such stern stuff it didn’t occur to her that her daughter’s feelings were fragile.

  Pam sighed as she prepared a simple lunch. A sandwich was enough. Two years ago, Dorothy had given up her leadership of the local civic group out on Long Island where she lived, but she was still the same as she’d always been. Eager to right wrongs, to charge in and demand the big guy make it right for the little guy. Pam felt small by comparison.

  She was proud of her mother’s activism, but Dorothy was exhausting to be around. Pam usually ended their conversations feeling she had failed, that she was lacking somehow, and Dorothy knew it.

  Still, her mother’s disappointment was better than the open scorn her own daughter dished up. Linley disdained Pam’s housewife career. It bothered Linley that her mother had “gone along with the program,” as she put it, instead of breaking free of mid-twentieth century social norms and pursuing a career outside the home. Pam hadn’t even kept her own last name, but had taken Jeff’s, a complaint Linley had voiced during her school years
. Linley wanted a hyphenated last name like the other kids. In vain, Pam had argued she liked Jeff’s last name. She was happy not to be associated with Dorothy Duncan’s vociferous activism that had often brought Pam unwelcome notoriety while growing up. Linley even was embarrassed because her mother had the free time to make cupcakes for the class.

  Enough wallowing. Pam sat up straighter. What could she do with the rest of her day, and with the rest of her life?

  First, she should file for unemployment benefits. That was likely to be the only money she ever saw from Menahl in the future. How unfair not to pay the last paychecks.

  She spared a thought for her former coworkers. Most of them were not the only breadwinners in their family. Probably they would be okay. But what about poor Magda? She was on her own in her new country. Her son’s tuition bill was due soon. Maybe Pam could help with that. She had savings. She could make a private loan, perhaps. Although she needed to live on her savings from now on. Maybe it would be better to find a way for Magda to get the loan, to spare her pride.

  Filing for unemployment benefits should take fifteen minutes, and calling Magda to arrange a meeting would take another five. That still left Pam with far too much time on her hands for the rest of her life.

  Her house did not need cleaning, but her closets were filled with Jeff’s things. After he’d died, she hadn’t felt up to dealing with them. She had simply packed them away into the spare bedrooms. She was overdue to confront the relics of her married life. Now that her situation had changed again, surely she could face her past?

  #

  A few hours later, Pam had bagged a huge pile of clothing up to give to charity. She’d boxed up Jeff’s accounting books and his adventure novels to go to the public library. She’d also set aside odds and ends she’d pass by the children in case they wanted them. Done.