Mourning Glory (17 page)

He looked at her, and for a brief moment she had the
sensation that their eyes had locked.

"Have we ever met before, Grace? At the club? A charity
ball maybe? Some party somewhere?"

"I don't think so," Grace said.

He was probably confused, having seen her briefly at the
funeral parlor the night before the funeral. They had exchanged glances. But
her mind explored other possibilities. Perhaps he had seen her behind the
counter at Saks. It was a possibility she dreaded. For her part, she had no
memory of him or his wife. How could she? They had lived on different planets.

"Do I know any of your beaus?"

"I don't go out that much. Remember, I have a teenage
daughter to keep an eye on."

"No significant other on the horizon?"

"I date. But no, nothing serious. Which is fine with
me."

"You're a very attractive woman. I'm sure someone will
sweep you up and carry you off on his white steed."

"I'm not holding my breath."

"I'll bet your standards are quite high."

"So I've been told."

"Why compromise? You're an independent woman,
obviously financially secure. Why settle?"

"I agree."

He studied her again, shrugged, smiled and was silent for a
while as he sipped his coffee.

"Anne was a passionate feminist," Sam said
suddenly, apropos of nothing. Perhaps the fact that he was having a discussion
with a woman had triggered the idea. "We had some knock-down-drag-outs
over that one. I consider myself a supporter of women's rights, but some of
those ladies seem to be going too far. Am I out of line, Grace? What do you
think?"

"I have mixed feelings," she said. Better to be
noncommittal and avoid a discussion in which she would reveal the shallowness
of her knowledge.

The fact was that she had thought about that subject, but
from her perspective the woman's movement hadn't done much for her. They were
always shouting about the expansion of opportunities for women and how great it
was that women's voices were being heard. She wondered where all the
opportunities were for women like her, and it didn't seem much like her voice
was being heard or ever had been.

Oh, it did make her feel some pride in seeing women break
into all those places once forbidden to them, and she was genuinely inspired
when she saw women rise to the top in fiercely competitive corporate America
and in the military. But what of her class, the underachievers, the
bottom-of-the-barrel broads, the down-on-their-luck ladies? Wasn't only glass
ceilings. There were also glass walls and she was trapped, boxed in by them on
all sides, closed in on top and bottom.

Was she trying to justify her motives in going after a guy
with big bucks to solve her problems? Damned straight she was. In spades. Okay,
she was a throwback. Her activist sisters out there would see her as a
Neanderthal female, a kind of prostitute, a lying, designing bitch, a
male-dependent sell-out, a cynical gold digger on a campaign to snare a wealthy
man at his most vulnerable moment.

Let she who was without sin cast the first stone. What she
really was, was a hunter stalking filthy lucre, out there armed only with a
tight pussy, a lying heart and an educated tongue in more ways than one.
Survival was a helluva lot more important than maintaining idealogical
certitude and sisterhood loyalty.

How could she fully argue that point without outlining all
the true, dreary facts of her own life? It was becoming increasingly obvious
that this man was far above her in knowledge and intellect. He had also lived with
a woman for four decades who was certainly equal to him in brainpower. A Phi
Beta Kappa, no less.

She was hardly a match for this man. What had she to offer
that would fill the gap of his beloved Anne? Her own inventory of her charms
had been shallow indeed. She had been depending on her sexuality, as if she
would provide a gift from God for an aging man. What a stupid idea she was
pursuing. All right, she had cleverly insinuated herself into this man's
company, but eventually he would find her out, would discover that she was a
shallow, lying, grasping, phony bitch whose first priority was to putter in his
money pot.

Was she too hard on herself? Was she really the woman she
had just described? Did she really have such evil intentions? Yes, she did. It troubled
her to see herself in this light.

She realized suddenly that she had become lost in her own
thoughts. Her attention had drifted and she had been silent for a long time.

"You seemed far away," Sam said. Apparently, he
had been studying her.

"I was just thinking of all the things I still have to
do today," she said. Another lie.

"You've been very polite, Grace."

"Polite?"

"Taking the time to keep me company. You've helped,
too, I might add."

He looked at her and smiled. She averted her eyes, as if they
would reveal her shame. She had no business in this place.

At that moment, she heard a telephone ring in the kitchen,
then Carmen's voice.

"Bruce," she said.

"My son the lawyer. I suppose I'll have to take
that."

He stood up and held out his hand. She took it and noted
that it felt smooth and strong. Had it lingered more than was expected? She
wasn't sure.

"I've kept you long enough," he said, then
started to leave the room. Suddenly he turned, looked at her and waved his
finger. "If you have the time ... tomorrow you can walk the beach with me.
Bring a suit. And Marilyn better behave."

As she drove home, she became increasingly depressed. How
could she possibly survive in this tangle of lies? The image she had projected
was a long way from what she really was. A graduate of Johns Hopkins, a
daughter who wanted to go to Princeton and study medicine, a resident of a
swanky condominium, a friend and peer of his late wife. And worst of all,
making Jason a lawyer. Jason had barely gotten through high school.

She had been tense and uncomfortable all through lunch, and
the effort of keeping her wits about herself and concocting logical answers,
mostly lies, had exhausted her. Her optimism about pulling this off was fading.

She was also finding it difficult keeping her eye on the
ball, which, in this case, was Sam's money. There was no escaping that motive.
Certainly, money was at the root of most, if not all, her problems. There was
no point in lying to herself. This ploy was about money. Money, money, money.
But the human factor kept intruding, shifting her focus, revealing her own
vulnerabilities.

Reaching the goals outlined by Mrs. Burns, at this
juncture, seemed impossible. Ring around your finger! No way. She had better
step back and look for a more modest possibility, ratchet her goals downward
where they belonged.

Sam would be a fool to marry her. At best, he might offer
her a brief affair, and even that was a dicey possibility. If he knew the truth
about her, he would quickly show her the door. And yet he was an attractive
man. She held that thought for a moment, then, sensing its danger, she brushed
it aside. Such ideas were counterproductive. Why settle when you could go for
the whole enchilada? She would have to guard herself against defeatism.

Hadn't she succeeded, through lies and subterfuge, in
worming her way, ever so slightly, into his life? Nevertheless she felt
uncertain. It was scary, and she was uneasy about going on with this effort,
convinced that she was getting way over her head.

She had no doubt that Anne's friends were waiting for the
appropriate moment to throw a woman Sam's way as a possible mate. They would be
dipping into an entirely different gene pool. Widows would be the meat of
choice, some Jewish, some, like Anne, not, bejeweled and dressed to the nines,
with the experience and expertise to handle this multimillionaire who was used
to living with a beautiful woman with a great education and a fine mind.

They would fuck him blind, even if they had never got off
in their lives. Squirm and scream and swallow and lie like hell.
Sam, oh
Sam, the earth is going to move for you whether you like it or not.
She
felt suddenly jealous. She was there first, she told herself.

By the time she got back to her apartment, she was nursing
the wounds of her inadequacy. Those other women understood his lifestyle, his
mind, his psyche and his world. Perhaps even his sexual needs, which could be
far different than what she had assumed. She would be no competition. Maybe it
was time to back off. The idea of retreat and surrender was beginning to take
hold in her mind.

She unloaded the car and carried armfuls of clothing into
the apartment. It was unsafe to leave such valuable things outside all night.

It took her three trips to carry the clothes inside. There
she sorted the various items and prepared them for a pickup. She stored some in
what little space was left in her and Jackie's closets. The rest was scattered
in batches around the place.

She called the Jewish Welfare League and told the nice lady
who answered that she had clothing to donate that she wanted picked up first
thing tomorrow morning. The nice lady thanked her and confirmed that a truck
would be by early the next day.

Despite the doubts she held about the possibilities of
snaring Sam Goodwin as a husband, she did feel good about disposing of Anne
Goodwin's clothes for charitable purposes. There was something cleansing in the
act. She was doing a good deed.

Jackie had come home early and left her a note telling her
that she was going to stay on in school for tutoring, after which she would go
on to her movie cashier's job.

Don't wait supper for me, Mom,
the note read. Although they were going through a rocky time
together, Jackie was still considerate about not worrying her mother when there
was a blip in her schedule. And the scrawled message had ended on a positive
note:
Love, Jackie.

She slapped a frozen dinner into the microwave and put on
the television set. She cycled through the remote without finding anything of
interest, finally shutting the TV off. Her thoughts seemed uprooted, her
concentration unfocused. When the food was done she discovered she had no
appetite. She knew she was losing her courage and it agitated her. Unable to
sleep, she paced the small apartment, tried the television again, then sat
uncomprehending through some sitcoms.

Jackie came in around ten. As expected, she was startled by
the sight of the clothes.

"I'm doing charity work," Grace explained.
"There'll be a pickup tomorrow morning." She hadn't expected it to
end there but hadn't adequately prepared a response.

Jackie opened the closet. "You'd think you were
opening a store. Where did they come from?"

"From the relatives of people who died."

It wasn't quite the truth, Grace realized, but it was close
enough.

"You mean these clothes belong to dead people?"
Jackie asked, cocking her head, waiting for an answer.

"The point is that they don't belong to them anymore
and the relatives want them disposed of. Giving them to charity is a wonderful
gesture."

Jackie began to go through the clothes with rising
interest.

"This is expensive stuff, Mom. Look at these labels.
Bill Blass, Geoffrey Beane, Sonia Rykiel. You know what these are worth?"

"I hadn't noticed," Grace said. "Besides, it
doesn't matter. They're for people who are poor."

"The poor are getting this? You're kidding?"

She hadn't calculated on Jackie's intense interest. She
continued to look through the clothes, holding up particular outfits against
her body and studying them in the mirror.

Why don't you just put them down, dear? They're not for
you."

"Are you getting paid to do this, Mom?"

"Not exactly."

"What does that mean? Are you or aren't you?"

At that moment she knew she had to bend the truth even
further.

"It's something to do while I'm looking for a job.
Maybe if I did something for other people ... well, it might come back to us.
Give us some luck."

Jackie shook her head and stared at her, perplexed.

"You just go into the houses of dead people and
collect their old clothes?" Jackie asked. "I never heard of such a
thing."

"Whatever the family doesn't want is usually given
away. I'm facilitating that. Sometimes it's too painful for a loved one to get
rid of."

Grace sensed that her explanation was floundering. As she
spoke, Jackie removed her outer garments and, wearing her panties and
brassiere, began to try on outfits she fancied.

"I told you, they're not for you, Jackie. They're for
charity."

"I'm just trying them on, Mom."

"Well, don't get too attached to them."

"Six," she said. "That's exactly my size."

She had put on a Sonia Rykiel skirt and an Yves St. Laurent
blouse. She looked great in the outfit.

"Too old for you, Jackie," she said, noting her
daughter's expression of admiration as she modeled in front of the mirror.

"You think so? This is great stuff. Look at the
designers—Lagerfeld, Valentino, Givenchy. Mom, this is a gold mine."

"I don't think you understand, young lady. These
aren't for us. They're for charity. Why must I keep repeating myself?"

"Are they counted? I mean, does somebody check on
it?"

"That's not an issue, Jackie. They're earmarked for
poor people. And that's where they're going."

"We're poor, Mom," Jackie said, snickering.

"You know what I mean."

"Is there more where this came from?"

"That's beside the point."

"That
is
the point, Mom."

Jackie took off the outfit she was wearing and tried on
another.

"I look great in these, Mom."

"Don't even think it," Grace said.

"Who's gonna know?" Jackie said, studying her
mother's face.

"I will."

"Don't be an idiot, Mom. If nobody but you knows ... I
have an even better idea. You know those places where you buy secondhand
clothes? Heck, you just bought stuff there. Mostly they take them on
consignment. These are all designer clothes. I'll bet they buy them outright.
They'll go like hotcakes. Why don't..."

"I won't listen to this," Grace cried.

"Be practical, Mom. You're out of work. We need the
extra money. I'm sick and tired of doing without."

"So am I. But the answer is no. I've made a commitment
and have given my word, and I intend to do the honorable thing."

"Honorable?"

Jackie shook her head.

"You're as dumb as Dad," she sneered. "Here
we are with the money shorts. Your unemployment checks will probably barely
cover us. Stop living in a dream world. This family is broke. It's time you
faced reality, Mom. Nobody gives a shit about us."

"I don't intend to stand here and be lectured to by a
greedy adolescent. I'm your mother, Jackie."

"Dammit. And there I was begging you to buy me that
Donna Karan outfit. Some of this stuff is great, Mom. What I don't wear, you
can sell. Maybe some of these will fit you if you take them out. Use your head,
Mom." Jackie pouted into the mirror. "Sometimes I feel like I'm the
mother and you're the daughter."

"It's stealing."

"You're making me want to barf. Who from? Dead people.
How will they know?"

"It's wrong. I won't have it."

"You know what I think?" Jackie said.
"You're too scared, too afraid to take risks. Mom, this is money for us.
Who do you think we are, Mom? We're the working poor, the people at the bottom.
We're the ones who always get shafted. Here's a golden opportunity to do
something for ourselves for a change."

Grace's stomach knotted as she watched her daughter
studying her face in the mirror, waiting for a reaction.

"What am I bringing up here?" Grace said, her
anger churning inside her.

"Get real, Mom. Stop being a loser."

"Bringing this stuff here was definitely not a very
good idea," Grace muttered, thinking that maybe this business with Sam
Goodwin was not a very good idea either. This was a bad sign. Her destiny
seemed to be taking a permanent detour.

"I can't believe this," Jackie said. She turned
and looked directly into Grace's face. "You're an idiot, Mom," she
shouted. "That's why you'll never make it. Never. You'll always be
nothing."

"That's it. Take those things off immediately. They do
not belong to you. I gave him ... gave them my word." She forced herself
to remain calm. Pausing for a moment, she cleared her throat. "The Jewish
League is picking up these clothes early tomorrow."

"The Jewish League?" Jackie exploded. "This
stuff is for Jews?"

"I promised..."

"Shit, Mom," Jackie persisted. "Most Jews
are filthy rich. They don't need these clothes. Don't you get it? They've got
so much they're giving them away."

"Case closed," Grace said, trying to regain some
authority over her daughter.

"If I know Jews, they'll probably be selling them
anyway."

Grace shook her head in despair. She had always taught
tolerance for others, live and let live. It was one of the reasons she had left
Baltimore and its tribal ways, its ghetto mentality. Italians stuck with
Italians. Poles with Poles. Jews with Jews. Blacks with blacks. Not to think
like that was a measure of her inner esteem. She was not a prejudiced person,
not a bigot. Suddenly, a wave of fear engulfed her. Would Jackie's attitude be
another obstacle to face with Sam Goodwin, Sam the Jew?

"Where do you pick up this stuff?" she sighed.

"I'm stating facts."

"Facts?" Revelation came suddenly. This time it
was Grace who exploded. "Its that idiot horror with the motorcycle. He's
brainwashing you, teaching you to hate. You're becoming a bigot like that
moron, that's what's happening to you. I think it's disgusting."

Staring her down, Jackie looked at her as an adult mocking
a child.

"What's disgusting is that you don't face reality. I
don't care what you say, Jews are pigs. As for us, we're at the bottom of the
barrel, Mom. So what if we rip off some rich kikes. Who will know?"

"I refuse to be that hateful. What's got into you?
Don't you have a mind of your own?"

"Damned straight I have. Where the hell is
your
mind? You haven't got a clue. Look around you. See the way you live. Then take
a look at how the Jews live...."

"Stop lecturing me," Grace cried. "This is
for charity. Period."

"You're so naive, Mom."

"Maybe so. But I gave my word...."

"Your word?"

"People do that. People who still have a shred of
integrity. Some of us are still ... honorable."

"Honorable. Holy shit. Like you, huh, Mom? Well, I
have a question to ask: Where has all that honorable stuff got you so far? I'll
tell you where: in the toilet."

Grace was too infuriated to continue. She decided to
retreat, end the confrontation, which was getting ugly. "Just take those
damned things off and hang them up again. The charity people are coming early
to collect them."

Mother and daughter exchanged angry glances; then Grace
turned, went into the bedroom and slammed the door. Fuming with frustration and
anger, she lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Jackie was getting
increasingly difficult to handle, and Grace's role as mentor and mother was
slipping away.