"Are you Pamela?" the woman asked.
"I am," Pam told her, wondering how many housekeepers her mother had been through since she'd last visited.
"She's been expecting you," the woman smiled, beckoning them inside and making Lillian sound like Darth Vader in the process. "Come this way, I last saw her in the kitchen."
Pamela followed silently, but Harley whispered, "I'm scared," as they crossed the threshold. Pam ignored her, prioritizing her own anxiety about this reunion.
As they walked, Harley took in her surroundings, her mouth falling open as they passed through the parlor and dining room on their way to the kitchen. "Do you think this house is bigger than Wayne manor?" she wondered.
"I never felt the need to compare square footage, but I doubt it," Pam answered, feeling dwarfed in the cavernous space, hushing her voice of her own accord, something that had been drilled into her as a child. Children should be seen and not heard, Pamela silently mocked.
Lillian Isley was standing with her back to them when they entered the kitchen, dressed all in black, her hair the obvious result of a professional blowout, which she'd found time to schedule despite her grief.
"Ma'am," the housekeeper announced their presence. "I have Pamela here for you."
Lillian's hands stilled in their work rearranging one of the many flower bouquets that lined the counters. "They won't stop sending these," she said, without turning around. "If they insist upon offering condolences, why can't they give me something with roots? In a week from now I'll have nothing but a house full of dead flowers."
"I have a few ways to make them last a bit longer," Pam offered. "Might buy you another week."
"Sure, what's the harm," Lillian said, running an elegant hand through her own red hair before turning to acknowledge her daughter. "Glad to see you've been able to keep yourself fed despite your busy schedule. I feel as though I've lost half my bodyweight during this whole ordeal."
She did look thinner than usual, Pam realized, which would have been concerning if she hadn't just called Pamela fat. "Having an ass is all the rage now, Mother. I suggest you give it a shot, does wonders for ones self-esteem."
"Really, Pamela, must you be so vulgar? On this day, of all days," Lillian wasn't angry, just disappointed.
"Right," Pam nodded. "The sacred day after daddy died but before the funeral."
Lillian dismissed that argument with a wave of her hand. "You'll stay in your old bedroom, have your bag girl drop your things in there and send her on her way. We'll be sitting down for dinner in 20 minutes."
"Actually, Mother, Harleen is my guest, not my bag girl," Pam corrected. "I brought her for moral support during this trying time."
Lillian gave Harley an icy look over, taking her time to examine her from head to foot, stocking her arsenal. "Is this the Brit or the child who keeps answering your phone?"
"You met Barbara, Mother, obviously this isn't the same person," Pam tried not to snap.
"Ah," Lillian nodded, continuing to study Harley. "She looks much older than I imagined. Perhaps even legally appropriate," she focused in on something specific before turning to Pam. "Why is her ear deformed?"
"What?"
"Her ear," Lillian repeated. "The one on the right. Just there," she pointed. "Why is it shaped like that?"
"Oh, we call it cauliflower ear," Harley spoke up, finally, like she was happy for the opportunity to educate. "Got it in one of my fights, can't remember which, my old coach didn't get it drained. But, anyway, I can still hear out of it. In case you, y'know…care…" she trailed off when Lillian's eyes narrowed in her direction. "You remind me of one of my foster moms, but you're much prettier."
Lillian just blinked at her, silently for a moment. "Thank you for that…I'm sorry, what was your name again?"
"Harleen," the blonde grinned. "But you can call me Harley, everyone does."
"Like the motorcycle?"
"Yep, exactly!"
"How…charming," Lillian decided, done with her by this point. "Did she bring formalwear, or will she be sporting sweat…shorts(?) at the funeral?"
Pam rolled her eyes. "I'm sure she brought something appropriate," though as soon as the words left her mouth, she began to wonder whether they were true. "We'll get settled and be down for dinner." She put her hand on Harley's back to guide her out of the kitchen.
"She can sleep in the guest room next to yours," Lillian said, stopping them in the doorway.
And there it was, the crossroads. As treacherous as ever. This time, she wanted to be clear. "That won't be necessary," Pamela made her statement, without turning back around. "We'll be sleeping in the same bed, just like we do in our home." Riding that swell of courage, she continued on her way before her mother could respond, dragging Harley with her out of the kitchen and towards the staircase to the second story.
The blonde waited until she was sure they were out of earshot to say, "is my ear really that obvious?"
"No, no," Pam assured her, though she lowered her voice to add, "only from some angles."
Her childhood bedroom was the first door on the right after they reached the landing, and Pamela opened it so Harley could drag both of their bags inside.
"Hold on," Harley stopped near the foot of the bed, collapsing the suitcase handles and spinning in a slow circle to survey her surroundings. "I thought she said we were staying in your old bedroom."
"We are," Pam set her purse down on the dresser.
Frowning, Harley said, "So you were always 40 years old?"
Pamela was only partway paying attention, her thoughts preoccupied as she checked her waistline in the mirror. "Don't be silly…"
"Did you seriously frame an Emily Dickinson poem?"
"Mmm…" was Pam's only verbal response as she cocked her head at her reflection, stripping her jacket off and running a hand over her hips. "I haven't gained weight," she said, though there was a slight question in her statement.
Harley was off on her own trip. "I was just hopin' for some band posters or something…" she opened the bedside table drawer. "How bout a vibrator? Oh no, hold up," she'd evidently found something of interest. "Did teenage Pam Isley sleep with a copy of both Angelina Jolie Tomb Raider movies by her bed?"
That snapped Pam out of whatever crisis she was being lulled into. "I had needs, OK? What kind of things did teenaged Harley keep in her bedroom? Since you're so keen on mocking me."
Harley shrugged, putting the movies back where she'd found them and closing the drawer. "I never really had a bedroom to decorate, but I'd'a gone with Thirty Seconds to Mars and some Evanescence. How'd you get laid in here, for real?"
Rolling her eyes, Pam plucked her hand sanitizer from her purse, trying to rid herself of whatever she'd carried off the plane. "I had other things on my mind back then."
"Like Angelina Jolie in really tiny shorts?"
"You're having way too much fun with this," Pam sighed, tossing Harley the hand sanitizer. "You did bring something nice for the funeral, right?"
Dinner was predictably uncomfortable. For one, Lillian served a spiral cut ham, which had always been the default meal in their household and meant Pamela would only be eating a side salad and a garlic butter potato. It was one of those meals that looked impressive, although it really only required that the oven be pre-heated and the potatoes be seasoned, all of which Pam was sure the housekeeper had done.
Lillian watched critically as Harley loaded her plate up with meat. "Goodness gracious, where are you planning to put all that?"
"I was thinkin' I'd eat it," Harley grabbed a second roll for good measure. "I skipped lunch because I was too excited about the plane."
"Harleen had never been on a plane before," Pam lent some context, absently picking at her salad. "Who will run the company, now that daddy is gone?"
Lillian seemed unfazed by the abrupt change in subject. "He rarely discussed business matters with me, but I imagine we'll find out on Monday during the will reading."
"Well, I have zero interest in running a slaughterhouse," Pamela made that clear.
"I'm shocked, truly," Lillian mocked, pouring herself a glass of wine. "We always imagined our liberal, husbandless, Ivy League educated daughter would someday return home to ensure our meatpacking plants continued to be prosperous."
Pam rolled her eyes, taking the wine bottle from her mother to add some to her own now half-empty glass. "Glad we're on the same page, then."
"So," Harley decided another subject change was in order. "How long were you and Pam's dad married, Lillian?"
"You can call me Mrs. Isley."
"Oh, gotcha, no problem, Mrs. Isley," Harley quickly applied that correction. "How'd you two meet?"
Lillian set her fork down to answer. "We were married for 36 years and met at a company function. My father worked as Mr. Isley's plant manager at his first location before the expansion and introduced us."
"Yes, I'm sure his intention was to set his 20-year-old daughter up with his boss," Pam said over the lip of her wine glass.
"My father gave us his blessing without hesitation," Lillian snapped. "Something you'll never get."
"Yes, well, daddy is dead, so I suppose you're right," Pam pointed out.
They sat in silence while Lillian watched her daughter take a bite of salad. When she spoke again, her tone was far more measured. "I loved your father, Pamela Lillian. And he loved you, in his own way."
"Ignoring me for my entire childhood and then failing to respect my professional expertise and qualifications is a strange way to love someone," Pam said, cutting into her potato.
Lillian shook her head, her fingers struggling not to clench into a fist. "I would suggest you try to do better with your own child, but I think we both know it's unlikely you'll have the chance."
"Mmm…" Pam pulled her lips into a thin, condescending smile. "It would seem the lack of maternal instinct is hereditary."
"Mrs. Isley, this ham is like, crazy good," Harley interjected, attempting to cut the tension…or maybe just legitimately moved to comment on the ham. "Did you put butter on this? I miss butter. Pam doesn't let me add butter to things anymore, but man does it really take things to the next level."
"Thank you, Harleen," Lillian acknowledged her, though her eyes didn't leave Pamela. "I wish my daughter was equally grateful."
There's no way I can make it another two days here. "I haven't had a pork product since I was 26 years old, you know that."
"Yankee nonsense," Lillian mumbled.
/
Pamela found herself alone in her queen-sized bed when she awoke the next morning. The sun was spilling through the lace curtains in familiar patterns, the birds outside singing the same tune in the tree branches outside her window.
With a stretch and a quiet yawn, Pam rose, deducing Harley had gone on a run based on how her suitcase lay open, its contents strewn about and tennis shoes missing.
She'd slept in a bit, it was already 9:43 according to the manual alarm clock that sat on her bedside table. The funeral was supposed to start at 3pm and would be held in the private, family cemetery that sat on a hill, overlooking the pond near the eastern border of their property.
Pam thought it would be wise to take a shower and brainstorm a few responses to her mother's typical lines of attack before she went downstairs to face the music. She took her time getting ready, doing her hair and makeup but waiting to change into the black dress she'd brought. Harley still hadn't returned when she emerged from the bathroom, though from the window in the hallway Pam did spy her in what could only be described as a deep, pelvic lunge on the front lawn.
Mother will love that.
On her way down to the kitchen, Pamela walked past her father's study. The door was open, just a crack, and for a split second she was transported back to school mornings during her childhood. The housekeeper would bring daddy his breakfast and he'd eat it at his desk, visible only for that brief moment before the housekeeper would leave and shut the door behind her.
Pamela stopped, feet glued to the spot just outside the door, to gaze at the empty chair behind that handsome mahogany desk. With an outstretched hand, she pushed the door open a few inches further, just enough to allow her to slip inside. Pamela felt like she was getting away with something being in here. Like she'd entered his inner sanctum without his permission, then again, his permission hardly mattered anymore.
On her father's desk sat two fountain pens, capped upright in a stand made from polished wood, an ornate letter opener with his initials carved into the handle, and a leather bound padfolio like the one Barbara carried. No computer, though, so Pamela had no idea how he managed to get any work done. The far wall was one large bookshelf, stacked from floor to ceiling with books likely written by old men with shitty opinions.
She was crossing the room to examine his personal library more closely when a picture frame on the shelf behind his desk caught her eye. Brow furrowing, she approached it slowly, realizing it held a picture of her from the debutante ball she'd attended at 16. She remembered the exact age because her mother had been so disappointed that Pamela's braces hadn't been ready to come off for her big debut as an official member of society.
With a smile and a shake of her head, Pam pulled her phone out of her pocket, taking a picture and texting it over to Selina with the caption "This look took sacrifice". Selina didn't respond immediately, so Pam slipped the phone back into her pocket and continued her exploration.
She glanced over her shoulder before quietly opening the desk drawer on the left-hand side. It mostly contained business statements and invoices, but near the back she found a thick envelope. Curious, she picked it up, examining it carefully first before extracting the stack of paper found inside. She immediately registered her name on the cover page and realized she was looking at a copy of the report she'd submitted to his company detailing recommendations for the streamlined application of sustainable and ethical changes to his processing procedures.
Frowning, Pamela flipped through the pages of the report she'd written 9 years ago now. Why would he keep it if he hadn't planned to implement any of it?
"Ma'am."
Pam jumped, clutching the report to her chest as she spun around in surprise at the voice.
"I'm sorry," the housekeeper said. "Didn't mean to startle you, but Mrs. Isley is still upstairs, and the caterers just arrived. They want to know where to set up."
"Of course," Pam nodded, her heartrate dropping back down to normal as she filed the papers back into the envelope and closed the drawer. "I'll be right out."
"Also, your friend was looking for you," the woman added. "She's having trouble with her suspenders."
Exhaling, Pam joked, "You probably should led with that emergency," inspiring a smile in the other woman.
"Yes, Ma'am."