Mourning Glory (12 page)

Bruce had come by later and assured him that, to keep the
peace, he had made sure that Carol had received more than her share and that it
was all right as far as he and Harriet was concerned.

"Is it too early to talk about the artwork, Dad?"
Bruce asked.

Sam repressed his anger.

"Not yet, Bruce."

"Sure, Dad. I understand. I assume it depends on
whether you intend to keep the house."

"I haven't thought about that," Sam sighed.

"Might be a good idea to sell it. For one person it
seems ... well ... very large."

"Where else would I go?"

"I don't know. Maybe a smaller place. A condo,
perhaps. Someplace you wouldn't have to think about. In that case you wouldn't
really need all this artwork and furniture."

"I'll have to sort that out," Sam had said. He
really hadn't wanted to discuss his future with his son.

"You're vulnerable, Dad. I just don't want you to do
anything foolish."

"Vulnerable to what?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. There are a lot of predatory females
around."

"At this moment, it's the furthest thing from my
mind."

"You're a rich widower, Dad."

"Thank you, Bruce, for the observation."

"I'm only thinking about your interest, Dad. Your
future. I want you to be happy."

"You'd make me really happy if you'd drop this subject
for awhile. I'm in no mood to discuss changes."

"Whatever you say, Dad," Bruce said. "I just
want you to understand your vulnerability."

"I appreciate your concern, Bruce."

"I'm your son, Dad. Also a lawyer. In fact, I think I
should be executor of the estate."

"Do you?"

Sam had given that assignment to David Berkowitz, a lawyer
friend in New York with whom he had grown up.

"I'm many years younger than David. I'm a damned good
lawyer and I'm your son. I think you owe me this, Dad."

"I'm not planning to check out just yet, and David is
in very good shape."

"Dad, I'm only discussing this as a precaution. I hope
you live a long time. You know I do. I just worry about you and want to do the
best by everybody."

"I'll think about that, Bruce."

"And you know that I'll be fair to Carol."

"I wouldn't think otherwise."

"As you know, there are lots of tax consequences to an
estate your size," Bruce pointed out. "You should really start
thinking of lifetime disposition."

"I have been, Bruce. I've discussed this with
David."

"And made provisions?"

"Is this really the time to discuss it, Bruce?"

"I'm afraid it is. Sad to say. I assume Mom was
insured."

"Yes. I have a last-survivor policy, which should take
care of a chunk of the estate taxes."

"You see, as an heir, I should know about those
things."

"I've just told you."

"Before the fact. Not after."

"Well, I
am
the last survivor."

"Is the insurance enough to carry the tax
burden?"

Sam noted the lawyerly talk and intonation. Sadly, he had
no illusions about Bruce's motives, which were control over the estate and an
excuse to discuss ways to hand parts of it over in Sam's lifetime.

It was, Sam knew, awful for him to ascribe such maneuvering
to his son. Despite the lawyerly and logical way in which Bruce approached the
subject, it struck Sam as unsavory, not what he would have expected from a
loving son. Sam had loved his own father, who had not been able to leave
anything of material value behind. To this day, he continued to love and revere
him. Such affection seemed so natural, so fitting, so comforting. If only he
could sense the same deep feeling he held for his father in his own children.
Instead, he felt a widening irrelevance, an ever-opening chasm growing between
them, a relentless separation.

In Bruce, beneath the reasonable language, the heartfelt
expressions and protestations of sincerity, he sensed a disturbing hint of
greed. He hoped he was wrong, but he felt such acute disappointment in both of
his children that he couldn't bear to continue the conversation. He wished they
would leave.

"I'm sure there'll come an appropriate time to discuss
the future, Dad," Bruce said, hoping, Sam supposed, to plant such a
thought in his mind. "It's a subject that can't be avoided."

He felt considerably relieved when they finally said their
appropriate good-byes and left to return to their respective homes.

For the last few days, he let the answering machine take
his calls, responding only when it was absolutely necessary. So far he had
eschewed the computer on the grounds of it being a kind of generational
protest. He had his private unlisted number for the children to use when
anything important came up. Important or not, they both called him daily, but
the conversations with them were getting repetitive and further assailed him
with feelings of guilt as he continued to distrust their sincerity.

Mostly, Bruce gave him dire warnings about his current
vulnerability, especially when it came to designing women. Carol, allied with
her brother for her own obvious self-interest, echoed the warning. The fact
was, as he reiterated to them ad infinitum, the very last thing on his mind at
this moment was consorting with other women.

The fact was, he could barely contemplate a future without
Anne. She had been integral to his life, his friend and companion. In many ways
she had run his life, organizing the business of living, administering the
smooth running of their household, tending to all the little details of
personal and material maintenance, their social life, a roundelay of charity
events, of big and little dinners, of cocktail parties, of travel, tennis
games, bridge, gift-giving, shopping, directing his health concerns,
supervising his diet, choosing his clothes. She was the planner, the scheduler,
the arranger of his time.

Now he was adrift on a sea of ennui, ignoring all forms of
organization. Her absence collapsed all routine. Even in the throes of her
illness, despite her pain, Anne had continued to direct the minutia of their
daily existence. It had by necessity run at a reduced pace, but it had been as
efficient as ever.

Out of habit, he continued to make some business calls.
Most of his efforts these days were to monitor his investments, which he had
entrusted to a varied group of money managers. He hadn't been involved in
acquiring businesses in many years. He had made his fortune, and all his
efforts now were involved in preserving it. For what? he often wondered.

Anne's illness had complicated things considerably. All of
his financial planning was based on the statistical premise that he would be
the first to die. Actually, he was still considering the possibility up to the
moment she had expired, hoping for the miracle that would reverse the
situation. It hadn't happened.

It was ironic now that he had spent the last few years
simplifying their existence. He had given up their London flat and their New York apartment, had sold their log ski chalet in Aspen. Anne had centered their life in
Palm Beach, had established her circle and had found time to participate in
her various charities.

Aside from the efficient organization of his life, he missed
her presence, her voice, her movement, the aroma of her perfume. Not having her
around was eerie. He hadn't yet accepted her absence. He actually felt that she
was still moving around in the house. At times he was sure he heard her voice
calling his name.

He missed her jokes, wisecracks, put-downs, laughter. He
missed her quiet breathing next to him at night, another sound he continued to
hear or sense or feel. When he awoke, it surprised him that she was not
sleeping beside him.

Reminders of her were everywhere, of course. It pained him
to see her things around the house and he could not open the huge closet they
had built to house her considerable wardrobe without his eyes filling with
tears. It was unbearable.

She had always been a beauty, with a natural elegance and
taste that had been embellished by her being able to afford the best of
everything that money could buy, especially things that she wore. Her wardrobe
of designer clothes was monumental. She possessed extraordinary self-confidence
and assurance, as well as impeccable societal instincts. She could mix with
anyone, of any persuasion, social position, race or religion. Instinctively,
she knew when to be imperious, when to be soft, when to flaunt, when to demand,
when to surrender.

Despite their wealth, she had died a liberal, although the
way they lived seemed a mockery of that ideal. Their circle, mostly
ultra-conservative, tolerated their politics on the grounds of their
considerable wealth. Because of this, too, they were able to cross the fault
line that still existed in Palm Beach between Jew and gentile, a much-denied
hypocrisy that remained a persistent reality.

Although they lived a life of evasion and isolation from
the poverty, danger and turmoil of the inner city, Anne never lost her
compassion for the unfortunate, and her charity work was evidence of this
continued interest. Of course, she understood that her lifestyle, her passion
for expensive, tasteful possessions was an example of her own liberal hypocrisy
and, at times, she allowed such feelings to agitate her. But those episodes
were rare. She thought of herself, as he did, as a good, decent, loving and
caring person.

He made no apologies for his wealth and never felt the
slightest guilt about the fortune he had acquired. She was in charge of charity
giving and he gave her carte blanche, although he would have preferred to keep
his name out of it. His ego simply did not need the stroking.

In the past week he had relived their courtship, marriage
and life together so many times that his mind finally refused to recycle the
memories. Mysteriously, they had become different people from the days of their
youth, or so it seemed. At this moment he wasn't so sure. He felt more like
Sammy Goodwin, only son of Gladys and Seymour. "My Sammy," Gladys had
called him. My Sammy got all
A
s, she would tell the girls, her cronies
at their mah-jongg games. To her, Sammy could do no wrong.

Her "my Sammys" had become a litany. They made my
Sammy a partner, she had boasted. Then, a series of "Can you imagine my
Sammy? He bought us a place in Florida." He was hardly a
What Makes
Sammy Run?
Nor did he ever consider himself anything more than lucky, with
a flair for numbers. He was always good at arithmetic, a talent inherited from
poor, luckless Seymour, who had zero talent for making money or even holding a
job.

In fact, when he analyzed his so-called success, his
accumulation of wealth, he characterized it as a kind of poetic justice for the
treatment his father had received at the hands of the bosses. Never once after
he graduated from college as an economics major had he even considered spending
a lifetime working for other people, being subject to the whims and foibles of
bosses. The first chance he got, he went into his own business, then businesses,
then big businesses. It didn't matter what kind of businesses, except that they
had to make money.

If he had a talent, it was in picking good people. He made
money on their labor, their ingenuity and their creativity, and he rewarded
them handsomely. So he had made money, lots of money. At this stage it was
somewhere between fifty and sixty million, a pittance in comparison to the
dot-comers and computer zillonaires, but more than enough for two or three
lifetimes. What did it matter now? Once it had seemed to be a goal, his
passion; now it struck him as quite meaningless and of lesser and lesser
importance as he grew older. In fact, it was becoming more of a burden than a
comfort.

To Gladys and Seymour, Sammy's "success" was as
natural as his daily bowel movement. He had never given them a moment's worry
and their expectations of his success was simply the natural order of things,
Sammy's destiny. The odd thing about his parents was that they never craved the
creature comforts he was easily able to give them, preferring to live modestly,
more on the scale of their friends, ordinary people who still counted their
pennies.

Sitting now on the terrace outside his bedroom, he
contemplated his destiny. Life, at the moment, was shit. All his money was so
much garbage. In fact, he had been feeling this for years, even when Anne was
alive. He pushed such thoughts from his mind. It wouldn't be fair to her
memory.

It was simply inappropriate to contemplate the other life
he had lived, his secret life. Not once had he given Anne a hint of this secret
life, the yearnings, the secret longings and the numerous culminations among
the vast worldwide army of prostitutes he had frequented. He had been crafty
and cautious and secretive and had never let this other world interfere with
his mainstream life, the life that Anne had constructed for him.

There was a moment when she lay dying that he wanted to
tell her, to explain the drives and compulsions that led to this other life.
But he could not summon the courage. He would never dare the risk.

He had justified this secret life on the grounds of
personal necessity, and he had been clever and lucky enough to avoid it biting
back and embarrassing Anne by its revelation. He could never abide the thought
of hurting Anne in any way. There had been guilt in it and justification and
torturous remorse, but he had miraculously escaped any emotional involvement
and, also miraculously, any disease. Nor had he blamed Anne for his resorting
to such habits.

Actually, he had reasoned, the sheer excess of this secret
life had probably increased the tranquility and happiness of his life with
Anne. They had never really argued, although at times he had expressed himself
forcefully, if only for appearances' sake. When, in his present state, thoughts
about this other life surfaced, he pushed them from his mind as he had always
done.