Mourning Glory (10 page)

She deliberately took a seat up front, behind the first row
of mourners, where she could observe them more clearly. The scene was familiar.
The coffin was open, with the upper part of the body exposed for viewing.

The synagogue was packed. She had noted the lines of
Mercedeses, BMWs and Cadillacs lining up to get into the parking lot. Judging
by outward appearances, everything about this funeral said
money
and
upper
class.
It fit in very well with her fantasy.

The organ music boomed out its solemn dirge. She was
sitting a few feet away from the grieving Sam Goodwin. Sam! She called him Sam
now, having fantasized her familiarity. She noted his handsome face in profile,
dignified, calm, the eyes moist. Occasionally he looked back at the assemblage
and smiled thinly at various people. He wore a dark pinstriped suit and a
creamy white shirt. His hair, she noted, was carefully barbered with just the
right amount of steel-gray hair falling over the high collar.

On either side of him were the man and woman she had seen
the night before, obviously his children. She recalled other familiar faces
from the funeral parlor.

Suddenly the music trailed off and a man in a black robe
and yarmulke—by then she had learned the names of the various ritual trappings
of these people—entered. The man, she knew, was Rabbi Seltzer, and he made the
usual remarks about the late Anne Goodwin. Anne, Grace thought. A classy name.

Apparently Anne Goodwin was very charitable, loving,
compassionate and well regarded. This was not just lip service. The rabbi was
specific about various organizations she had supported, both Jewish and
non-Jewish. She made a note of them in her mind. His eulogy was exactly the
appropriate length and to the point. Then he said a prayer in Hebrew. Some of
the words she had come to recognize.

At the end of the prayer, the rabbi announced that there
would be one speaker, and he introduced Sam Goodwin, who rose solemnly. Patting
the yarmulke on his head, he pulled himself up to his full height and smoothed
the creases from his jacket, which fell beautifully on his slim frame. His
children touched him as he moved past them, walking solemnly and ramrod
straight to the lectern. He stood behind it for a long moment, scanning the
room, obviously gathering the strength to control his emotions.

"Friends," he began, his voice deep, mellow,
wonderfully resonant. Grace felt thrilled by its sound. Her pounding heart beat
heavily in her chest.

"Anne would have been delighted by the turnout."
He stopped abruptly, and Grace knew he was reaching for control with all his
resources. "She had this uncanny ability to relate to people. It was a
phenomena I observed the moment I met her at a sorority dance at Wellesley College. She was a magnet for people. They clustered around her, sought her out.
Like me. I remember how I, too, sought her out, basking in the light of her
lovely face, her beautiful eyes that radiated wonder and beckoned me, a rather
shy, stumbling and bumbling young man. I was captivated by her, charmed, and
passionately committed to this rare human being for forty years. For me it was
forty years of sheer joy and happiness. We enjoyed every moment we were
together. She was my pillar of strength, my lover, my confidante, my best
friend. She thought I was hopelessly disorganized and I probably was, because
she took on the job of organizing me from the day we met. She was beautiful,
vivacious, giving, a loyal and faithful wife, a cherished pal.... "He
paused and studied the assemblage through a long pause. Grace could not hold
back her tears. Sobs echoed through the auditorium, and she suspected that there
wasn't a dry eye in the house.

It was not just the words he spoke. It was the way he said
them, the wonderful resonance of his voice, its solemn lilt, the sincerity of
his meaning. Oh God, Grace thought, would anyone ever say such words about me?

"Good-bye, sweet Anne, my love. You are too soon gone.
I should have preceded you."

The sounds of grief, the sobs and coughing, accelerated as
he left the lectern and returned slowly to his seat.

Grace felt the urge suddenly to rise and embrace him. He
looked, to her Catholic-conditioned eye, positively saintly, a man to love. Was
he, Sam Goodwin, her destiny?

After the ceremony, she asked one of the men organizing the
ride to the cemetery if he might find her room in one of the cars in the
procession.

The man arranged for her to ride with two couples in a
Lincoln Town Car. In the front seat were the McDermotts, Sally and Mike, people
in their sixties, and in the rear were the Hales, Bob and Clara, slightly
younger.

"Did you know Anne long?" Clara Hale asked as the
car moved along in the line of the long procession. She was a bleached blonde
with thin parchment skin and the pale, mottled look of a woman who received
most of her calories from alcohol. Her husband Bob had a complementary
appearance, and Grace had the impression that tippling was their principal
common bond and the basis of their marriage.

"About five years. I was involved with one of her
charities."

"She was a helluva lady," Mike McDermott said as
he drove.

"A little imperious," his wife Sally said, realizing
suddenly that the remark seemed inappropriate under the circumstances.
"But giving. Very giving."

"Jewish people are very charitable," Grace said.
"I'm Italian. Most of our charity goes to the Church."

"They do give," Clara said. "But you've got to
admit, they are different from us."

Grace wondered about that remark. They did seem different,
but she attributed that more to the difference in economic status than to their
being Jewish. Were they different? It was hard for her to know.

"How did you know her?" Grace asked.

"Mike was the contractor for their house," Bob
said. "Have you seen it?"

"Yes," Grace said.

"She was one tough lady, that Anne. Jewed us down to
rock bottom."

"Be careful about your remarks, Mike," Sally
said, looking around her reflexively.

"I'm among friends, aren't I?"

Grace felt him eyeing her through the rear-view mirror.

"She ran the roost," Sally said. "Never met
a man so pussy-whipped in my life."

"Except me," Mike chuckled.

"Not me," Bob interjected. "I'm the absolute
master of my home and hearth."

"Bullshit," Clara said, poking Grace in the ribs.

"I would think," Grace said, "from the way
he spoke about her, it was so beautiful, he must have adored her."

"Yes, he did," Sally said. "He gave her
anything she wanted."

"He was scared shitless of her," Mike said.

"Scared," Sally said. "No way. Sam Goodwin
is not afraid of anything. Frightened people don't get that rich."

"He respected her," Clara said. "That's a
lot more than I can say for the way you two treat us. Right, Sally?"

"I'll take this bastard. Warts and all."

"They say that Jewish men are good to their
wives," Grace said, hoping it sounded more like a question.

"These bozos could sure learn a lot from Sam about how
to treat a wife," Sally said. "Say what you want, Anne led a charmed
life. And I don't think he ever fooled around."

"How the hell would you know?" Mike snapped.

"Women know."

"Women know shit," Mike said.

"They know," Sally said, as if she was determined
for her own reasons to have the last word. Grace noted the sudden tension
between them.

"If he did," Clara said, "Anne would never
know it. He'd never embarrass her. Not Sam. But then, you never know what goes
on behind the bedroom door."

"Nothing goes on behind ours," Mike said, lifting
his hand in mock self-protection.

"Your definition of
nothing
leaves much to be
desired," Sally said. She turned to those in the backseat. "To him
nothing means never enough."

They were silent for a long time while each, Grace
supposed, contemplated their own relationship. She wished she had one to
contemplate.

"Anne was tough," Bob said, turning to Grace.
"But she did have great taste. I did their landscaping. You had to be real
alert when you dealt with her. Tell you the truth, I liked her a lot. Poor
woman. I'll say this for Sam: He stood by her to the end. She suffered like
hell."

"I guess I liked her, too," Mike agreed.
"Once I got past my anger, she was okay. I think she knew just how far she
could go. I'll say this for old Sam: He was a good soldier. He went
along."

"He seems to have a lot of class," Grace
interjected. "And he's quite distinguished-looking."

"And available. Are you married, Grace?" Sally
asked.

"Divorced."

"Well, there's your big chance," Mike chuckled.

"They'll be crawling over him like flies on
honey," Sally said. She looked at her husband and poked him in the ribs.
"Stop thinking what you're thinking."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" Mike
protested good-naturedly.

"I know where your thoughts come from," Sally
said.

"I hope he finds what he wants," Grace said.

"He will," Bob said. "Men like Sam always
find what they want."

It was an observation that did not augur well for Grace's
ambitions. The competition alone would be daunting. How could she possibly get
a man like that to notice her?

The mourners gathered under a green-and-white-striped tent
in front of a freshly dug hole. On the side of the hole was Anne Goodwin's
coffin, on a specially built contraption used for lowering it into the grave.
Grace took a seat next to the couples who had brought her.

There were about a hundred seats, which were quickly
filled. An overflow crowd clustered in a semicircle around the seats. The
coffin was lowered into the grave as the rabbi read from a Hebrew prayer book.
Grace never took her eyes off Sam Goodwin, all her thoughts concentrated on how
she could possibly open up a dialogue with him. This was now the central
question in her mind.

She watched him stand up, then reach down into the mound of
earth. He picked up a handful of dirt and threw it into the hole. It made a
hollow sound as it landed on the coffin, triggering in Sam a brief sobbing fit.
His pain transmitted itself to Grace, and she, too, began to sob. Again, she
wished she could take him in her arms and comfort him.

Recovering himself, he wiped his eyes and returned to the
tent. At one point he lifted his eyes, which seemed to meet hers, lock into
them for a brief moment, then pass on. She wondered if it had been her
imagination or merely a response to her own intense staring. But she could not
deny the thrill that had gone through her.

"One thing we'll get at Sam's house is a good
feed," Mike said when they were back in the car. The procession was looser
now and no longer had the luxury of being able to pass through lighted
intersections in a single group.

"I'm starving," Sally said.

"I could use a drink," Bob said.

"Likewise," Clara said. "These events tend
to make one thirsty." She turned to Grace. "What about you,
Grace?"

"Maybe a drink would do me good," she said,
surprised at her candor. To approach Sam Goodwin she would need a drink, maybe
more than one. What troubled her now was that she might not be able to muster
the courage to open a dialogue with the grieving man. She felt this moment of
opportunity swiftly approaching and all it did was inspire fear. She could not
think of a single opening line.

"You suppose he'll keep the house?" Sally asked.

"No way of knowing," Mike said. "He
certainly doesn't need it. One person thrashing around in all that space."

"He won't be one person for long," Clara said.

Grace felt suddenly in touch with her own inadequacy. It
was panicking her.

"It'll be tough trying to determine the real thing.
He'll wonder if they're after him for his money or his character," Sally
said.

"Character shmarachter," Mike said. "Bottom
line: his shekels are the big lure."

"Were the two people beside him, his children?"
Grace asked, suddenly feeling the need to glean more and more information about
Sam and his life.

"The son is a fancy lawyer in San Francisco, a real
tightass. The daughter lives in New York with some weirdo. Sam has been very
good to his kids."

"Lucky bastards," Clara said.

"Chose the right pop," Mike chuckled.

"Jewish daddies are very good to their kids,"
Sally said.

"Guess you have to be circumcised to be a good
daddy," Mike said.

"I don't think you should personalize this,"
Sally said, barely repressing a giggle.

"Very funny," Mike snickered. "But the fact
is, Jews think their shit don't stink."

"Come on, Mike, cool it," Sally said. "We're
going to Sam's wife's funeral, for crying out loud."

"It's all propaganda. They create it, then everybody's
got to think it," Mike said. "Isn't that right?" He looked
sharply in Grace's direction.

"I don't think I'm qualified to be a judge of
that," Grace said, stumbling over her words, surprised at his outburst.

"I'm not anti-Semitic," Mike said. "It's
just sometimes they act so fucking superior. Good husbands. Good daddies. Hell,
why not? They got all the goddamned money in the world."

"He gets that way when he's hungry," Sally said,
embarrassed for him. Clara and Bob exchanged glances.

"They treat me okay. That's all I care about,"
Bob muttered.

"I need a drink," Clara said.

They had to park a good distance from the Goodwin
residence. It looked like the entire funeral group had arrived.

The house was large but deceptively cozy. It was as if one
entered a colonial home in Virginia. Walls were rich, dark, polished panels,
floors were heavy oak. American antiques were everywhere, accentuated by oil
paintings depicting early Americana, except for those painted of the deceased
Anne in various stages of her life.