Mourning Glory (20 page)

Along with the others, Grace listened, spellbound.

"And now comes Miss West Virginia. Little me."
She grabbed her breasts. "Big tits, brassy, barrel of laughs. All his
buddies get a big kick out of her. Talks dirty. Keeps his mind on that thing he
loves the most. Easy on the booze during the courtship, shows him a thing or
two about working his libido and he thinks he's the star of the sheets. Hell, I
could give classes on faking orgasms. It's all in the squeal and the body
moves. You've got to keep your eye on the ring. Never let your eyes stray from the
ring. It's the ring, dummy." She held her hand out, lifting the third
finger of her left hand, where a huge rock embellished an engagement ring under
which was a diamond-studded wedding ring. "Too valuable to take the fucker
off. Forget this significant-other shit. Everything is in the expectation. Show
him the best product you got. Make him think he's found Nirvana and that the
best is yet to come."

Grace watched the faces of the other women as they
listened, mesmerized and awestruck, to Millicent's story. She looked like
royalty, a queen on her throne, being pampered, administered to by three women
at once, smug and satisfied that she had bilked some poor bastard out of ten
million dollars.

Once she got past the humor inherent in Millicent Farmer's
narrative, she felt a wave of sadness sweep over her. In a number of ways, her
story resonated with what had been going through Grace's mind when she went
looking for her own Mr. Big Bucks. She tried to imagine what it would be like
married to the drunken Mr. Farmer, a never-ending saga of fooling a very sad
alcoholic basket case. Weren't there limits to what one did for money?

"But how did you manage to get out of the marriage,
Mrs. Farmer?" Maggie asked. It was, Grace knew, the question on
everybody's mind.

"Never go into a deal unless you've got an exit
strategy. Suddenly Madame Sweetness and Light got to be Dame Big Bitch. By then
you know which buttons to push. You also know he's hung up on his drunken
lifestyle. It's a no-brainer to pick a fight with a drunk. We became
incompatible. I began to sleep separately. No more nose-between-the-tits sex.
But it was a symbol, you see. Hell, he was a fucking chairman of the board.
Thousands kissed his fat butt. He fantasized that he was Mr. Swinging Dick. I
took the swing out of it and got ten million to take a hike. Hell, it won't
make a dent in his lifestyle, and ten minutes after I was gone the groupies
started to gather."

"Did you ever tell him you loved him?" the woman
doing her pedicure asked.

"Ten million times. Hell, the first words he heard in
the morning and the last words he heard at night were 'I love you,
Georgie.'"

"What would have happened if he had died?" the
woman doing her nails asked.

"The prenup had it at two and a half mil. Old George
wasn't better off dead, let me tell you. That's another reason why I bailed out
while he was still kicking."

"Sounds like your marriage was like serving
time," the woman having her hair done in the other chair said.

"Soft time, as the convicts say, in more ways than
one." She enjoyed her joke and laughed uproariously.

"It should only happen to me," Maggie sighed.
"The man I married is a driver for UPS."

"It's not for everyone, dear," Millicent Farmer
said. "Be content. Your husband loves you."

"Loves me? If he loves me so much, why does he carry
condoms around in his back pocket? I found them and confronted him."

"What did he say, Maggie?" the woman in the next
chair asked.

"He said he's a driver and sees lots of strangers in a
day. Says he's vulnerable to all kinds of savage attacks, including rape. Says
the condoms are his protection against AIDS, which proves how much he loves me
and the kids."

"And you believe that crap?" the woman doing the
nails asked.

"Believe him? You think I'm stupid? But I told him I
believed him and thought he had a good idea. I said I was going to carry them,
too. Just in case."

"And do you?" the woman doing the pedicure asked.

"Always," Maggie said. "A half dozen. My
husband counts them sometimes."

"What if he finds one missing?" the woman in the
next chair asked.

"He did."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him I was attacked and had to protect
myself," Maggie said, giggling.

"And he believed you?"

"He had to. It supported his story."

The woman squealed with laughter.

"Basically, men are idiots," Millicent Farmer
said. "All their brains are in their dicks."

"So what are your plans now, Mrs. Farmer?" Mary
Jones asked.

"I'll probably stay in Palm. Hell, I got the name, the
club memberships ... oh, that was part of the deal. Mrs. George Farmer, that's
me. I've been dating like mad, strictly sport trolling. I haven't found my next
fish yet. But I will. Can't be too rich or too thin."

Grace searched deep inside herself for the truth of her
reaction to this woman. Did she envy her? Studying her, sitting there, reveling
in her importance, satisfied that she was making an enormous impression on
every woman in the room, Grace marveled at her cool amorality. What did the
means matter? She had ten million dollars in her smooth, polished little mitts.

This woman had no qualms, no second thoughts, no regrets.
She reveled in her dishonesty, enjoyed the lies, the conspiring, the whole
squalid routine. Grace felt sickened by the idea that she had entertained doing
a variation of pretty much the same thing. Was she that crass, that unfeeling?

It struck her, too, that she might have subconsciously used
Jackie to force the issue, tempted her so that Grace could terminate her effort
to capture Mr. Big Bucks on the grounds that it would further corrupt her
daughter. But even that theory didn't erase the idea that she had gone into
battle ill equipped materially and psychologically.

She observed Millicent Farmer sitting on her throne, being
ministered to by sycophants who laughed uproariously in the expected places,
their attitude and demeanor geared to their tip expectations.
It's the tips,
dummy.

Was Grace any better than any of them? At least Millicent
had been amply rewarded for her dishonesty. And she probably had left Georgie
none the worse for wear. Grace wished there was more Millicent in her; more
brashness, more boldness, more shrewdness, more hypocrisy, more cynicism. Her
talents were paltry in this regard, Grace acknowledged. Maybe she was
genetically programmed to wither away on the bottom rung of the ladder.

Or she was powerless to rise up against the ingrained,
old-fashioned value system of her upbringing, a system bounded by Jesus, God,
catechism, confessions, heaven and hell. However uneducated her parents were,
they did convey to her the difference between right and wrong, good and evil,
lies and truth. Under that system virtue and honesty earned their rewards in
life, no less than the hereafter. Maybe such conditioning was impossible to get
rid of, like a second skin.

She watched the dynamic of power, the women sucking up to
Millicent Farmer perched on her throne, dispensing wisdom and the favor of her
witty confidences, while the impotent Grace Sorentino stood by, a silent,
powerless observer, unable to control anything in her life, anything, not even
her own daughter.

"I have a question, Mrs. Farmer," Grace said
suddenly. She felt a hot flush cover her neck and her chest.

"Shoot," Millicent said. "I'm an open
book."

"How did you feel ... I mean..." She looked
toward Mary Jones, who was smiling amiably. "Living with this guy. All
that time, knowing you were out to ... you know."

She felt herself faltering, losing courage. Again she
looked toward Mary Jones. Her smile of amiability had disappeared. She looked
downright hostile.

"Fuck him over, right?" Millicent said.

"You look at it from that point of view ... it's like
... I mean, you had no feelings for the guy...."

"Feelings?" She emitted a high, cackling laugh.
"Feelings? That'll fuck you up every time. You can't have feelings. This
is business. Business and feelings just don't go together."

"But doesn't that make you like a ... like a..."
She paused, swallowing hard. "A high-priced hooker?" Grace said,
instantly regretting the remark.

"Hey, Mary," Millicent said, her tone dripping
with sarcasm, "who is this little Miss Goody Two-shoes you got
there?" She turned to Grace.

"I'm sure she didn't mean it like it sounded,"
Mary Jones said, shooting an angry look at Grace.

"Hookers never get the ring, asshole," Millicent
said, directing her remark to Grace. She studied her from head to toe. "I
see you're not wearing one. Problem with you, lady, you aim your cunt too low.
But then, that's where it probably belongs."

"I guess that's an insult," Grace said,
shrugging, knowing, at that moment, that her job with Mary Jones was over.

"You got that right, puss. I got enough fuck-you money
to say it. Which I do to you. Fuck you." She turned to Mary Jones.
"What do you need this little shit around for anyway?"

Mary Jones pursed her lips, shrugged and said nothing.

After Millicent Farmer, properly and expensively coiffured
and stroked, left the store, Grace turned to Mary Jones.

"I guess I'm over."

"You pissed her off. You should have kept your lip
buttoned. You're right, you blew it."

"She's still no better than a hooker, Mary,"
Grace said.

"Maybe so. Not for us peons to judge. Hookers or not,
they're good customers, Grace. They know how to spend it and they tip good.
They come here to be butt-kissed and worshipped, never contradicted. Get
it?"

"I got it."

"Nice knowing you."

That night, lying in bed, she realized how much it bothered
her to be bereft, to be a loser in the game of life. She felt herself gliding
into a swamp of self-pity. Somehow, hours into the night, she slipped into a
deep sleep. But not before she made a fervent wish that she would miraculously
awake a changed woman, devoid of conscience and guilt, dancing beside the
flaming pyre of that old value system.

Even after she had hung up from Sam's call she could not be
sure she had the guts to carry the ploy forward, but she knew that blind fate
had miraculously given her one more chance to find out.

From the indifference he detected in her voice on the
telephone, Sam concluded that Grace Sorentino, for whatever reason, had
abandoned the idea of disposing of Anne's clothing. He decided not to brood
about it. He would make other arrangements.

He was already beginning to feel the first faint signs of
the healing process. He still dwelled on Anne's absence in his life. The spirit
of her presence still permeated the house. His mind had not quite accepted the
idea that her voice was forever silent, and there were moments when he was
certain he had heard her speak, heard her laughter or the sound of her
footsteps walking through the room or coming up the stairs.

Even Marilyn's sudden inexplicable bark, sometimes in the
middle of the night, told him that she, too, sensed her presence and might have
believed she heard Anne's voice.

His other senses also reacted in odd ways. There were
moments when he was absolutely certain he had just seen her turn a corner, not
a full-bodied view, but the vision of a tiny wisp of her skirt or dressing
gown. Reaching that place, he was certain he could smell the familiar scent of
her perfume.

At night, asleep, he was awakened abruptly on more than one
occasion by her touch. That, too, was familiar, since she often touched him if
he snored too loud at night, a gentle prod to break the rhythm of his
breathing.

He supposed that such experiences were common to people who
had lost a loved one, and he did not think of them as manifestations of the
supernatural. He was too logical, pragmatic and earthbound to believe in
ghosts, reincarnation, out-of-body experiences or anything remotely connected
with the so-called occult.

He was hardly surprised that the old nightmare of her
infidelity had returned, although it came less frequently than it had when Anne
was alive. It was a bizarre, repetitive scenario in which she was blatantly
insulting and cursing him while having sex with a young stranger. The sense of
intimidation was so intense after these dreams that, at times, he would awaken
in a state of terrible anger, thirsting for revenge, his heart pounding, his
body soaked with perspiration.

He had never told Anne about this dream, except to say that
he had hysterical anxiety dreams in which she was prominently featured.

"I thought I was losing you," he explained when
she had inquired about the dream.

"Well, here I am," she would reply, kissing him
on the forehead.

He had been walking for an hour, his usual halfway point.
Marilyn loped along beside him, occasionally dashing off course in a futile
attempt to catch a sandpiper whose survival skills were based on the speed of
its tiny toothpick legs.

He started the return journey heading toward his house. The
sun had risen to an angle that gave him a clearer view into the distance, where
he saw a moving figure heading in his direction.

Grace!

There was nothing to indicate that it was she except his
intuition. He stepped up his pace, almost to a jog. Marilyn surged ahead, as if
the sudden change of pace was a signal for rough play.

As he drew closer, he saw the outlines of a woman, but it
wasn't enough to validate his intuition. Then he saw her clearly, and his
expectations were not disappointed. She was barefoot, wearing a long T-shirt
over what he assumed was a bathing suit. Her black hair, which she wore long,
was braided in the rear. She wore eyeliner, which seemed to frame her hazel
eyes, greener now, enhanced by the sunlight and the color of the ocean. It
surprised him that he noticed these details.

She smiled as she came closer, showing even white teeth.
Marilyn started to jump on, but Sam called her back. The dog hesitated, then
turned and came back to him. He grabbed her collar and held her.

"It seemed like a nice day for a walk and a
swim," she said, with a glance at Marilyn.

He released her and gave her the "sit" command.
Marilyn, none too happy, obeyed.

"Yes, it is," Sam said, surprised at his sense of
elation at seeing her. "I had just about decided you weren't going to
show."

"I wasn't sure myself," Grace said.

"You sounded ... not very interested."

"Well, here I am."

They headed back toward the house, walking slowly. Sam
snapped his fingers and Marilyn shot forward; then, looking back, slowed her
pace and began chasing the sandpipers along the shore.

"I suppose it was because I had just gotten up. I'm
always foggy in the morning."

"Are you?" He felt his mind drifting, then coming
back. "Anne was a little like that in the morning. She was more of an
evening person than a morning person."

"Yes. Apparently so ... I mean, I could tell from her
clothes. Lots of gowns and cocktail dresses. I figured her for a night
person."

"She sure loved a party."

"And you, Sam? Did you?"

"Most were interesting. A few were boring. It was like
playing roulette. We lucked out more than most. Anne saw to that. She had great
instincts when it came to people, and she protected me from the idiots, of
which there are many in this town. Among other things, I'll miss the way she
organized my life."

"I wish someone would organize mine," Grace said.
It struck him as an incongruous remark, but he let it pass.

"Anyway," he said, "I'm glad you came. I
wanted to call earlier. It bugged me that I might have said something that put
you off."

"I should have contacted you," Grace said.
"I'm sorry. Anyway, I've finished my commitment. Now I'll be able to
devote my time to tackling the job of disposing of Anne's clothes.... That is,
if you haven't made other arrangements."

"Nearly did," Sam said.

"I'm glad you didn't. It would have bothered me ...
not keeping that promise to Anne."

"Well, then, I'm glad I took the bull by the horns and
called you."

"So am I."

Somehow, he felt that he required more of an explanation
for her absence, but he let it pass. They walked for a while, then Sam stopped,
looked out to sea and contemplated the horizon.

"Looking out there gives you the illusion that life is
unending, an infinity. It's a damned lie, of course."

"Would you want to live forever, Sam?"

"Maybe. If everyone else did. I'd hate to have to do
it by myself. Contemplating an endless life of been-there, done-that. Watching
friends and loved ones expire. I don't think I could cope with this kind of
grief over and over again."

"Who knows?" Grace said. "You might get used
to it. Discover that people are interchangeable."

"I doubt it and they're not."

"You're probably right. I guess I'm being insensitive,
considering what you're going through."

"I'm afraid it's not exclusive to me, Grace. When you get
right down to it, loss is a pain in the butt. And it can really discombobulate
your sense of reality."

"I don't understand."

"It was a sort of ritual for me to bring Anne a cup of
coffee in the morning. I usually got up before her. Carmen would make me
breakfast, then I would take a cup of coffee upstairs for Anne, put it on the
table beside the bed." He shook his head. "Do you know, I actually
did that two days ago? Habits sure die hard."

"My husband never did that for me. I envy you your
great marriage, Sam."

"We had that. Oh, I traveled a great deal for
business, although not in the last few years. Maybe absence is good for a
marriage. Puts you on your mettle."

They were standing at the water's edge, the foam lapping
around their toes.

"You were trusted, Sam. That's part of it."

He felt an inner gulp, imagining he heard the sucking
sound. So she, too, had bought the concept of his being the faithful husband.
He wished he could tell her the truth.
I cheated,
he wanted to say,
enjoyed
it, reveled in it, but, above all, I loved Anne and was faithful to her in my
heart. Good God,
he thought,
what skewered reasoning.
And yet he
knew it to be the truth.

"Did you trust your husband, Grace?"

"Afraid not."

"Too bad. I trusted Anne. And she trusted me,"
Sam said. He grew reflective, and in the long silence he pondered the idea of
trust. It was an irony that in business he was above reproach. His word was his
bond. In his marriage, trust had a different definition. He had been
scrupulously evasive, which meant that honesty was selective. Dishonesty evaded
was, he had once decided in a convoluted definition, a form of honesty.

"So you didn't trust your husband?" he asked
suddenly, realizing that his ruminations had caused him to be silent for a
longer period of time than seemed polite. "Why not?"

"My husband was a man in the wrong situation, and
therefore his entire life with me was a lie. I don't think he could help
himself."

"Was he unfaithful?" Sam asked, confused by her
answer. He watched her purse her lips.

She grew hesitant, then turned away for a moment. Finally
she spoke. "Always. My husband was a homosexual."

"Actively unfaithful?" Sam asked.

"I never knew for sure. But I assume so. He tried, I
think, to be straight. Managed to fake it. In the end, he left me for a
man."

"That must have been a shocker."

Again, she hesitated.

"It was devastating. Made even worse by the fact that
I never had a clue."

"He must have been very good at keeping his
secret."

"A master."

"How long since you were ... well ... since you split?"

"Twelve years. Imagine that. Jackie, my daughter, was
four."

"At least he did the right thing by you, left you
financially independent."

"Did I mention that? Oh, yes. He did the right thing.
We've managed very well."

"From just a short time knowing you, I'd say that was
pretty predictable," Sam said.

It wasn't flattery. He attributed it to insight. His
business insight had always been acute. His greatest gift, he had discovered,
was accurately reading other people.

"And since your divorce..."

She looked at him, smiled and caught his meaning.

"Slim pickings, Sam. No hits. No runs. Lots of
errors."

His eyes roamed over her face and what he could see of her
figure under the T-shirt.

"That's hard to believe."

"Believe it."

"Am I out of line, asking you these questions?"
His own curiosity surprised him.

"I'm an open book, Sam. Ask me anything."

Her candor amazed him. "Don't you hold anything
back?" he asked, looking at her archly.

"So far you haven't asked me any hard questions."

"Like what, for example?"

"Now there is a hard question, Sam."

There was another long silence between them, until Sam
said, "You haven't asked me many questions, Grace, soft or hard. Or maybe
you don't think I'm that interesting, someone not worth asking about."

"Now you're fishing for compliments."

"From you, I am."

"From me? Do you really need compliments from me,
Sam?"

"Now there's an easy question. Yes, I do. That would
be very nice."

"Okay, then. I think you're quite a guy."

"Damning with faint praise," Sam chuckled. He was
enjoying the banter. She was keeping him on his toes.

"I practically just met you, Sam. It takes a while to
know how a person really is."

"Sometimes it's quick." He snapped his fingers.
"A feeling, a gut reaction. That feeling can never be captured in a résumé.
I've hired people based on that feeling, ignoring references and experience.
And so far I haven't been disappointed."

"And I hope you never will be," Grace said.

Not in your case,
he wanted
to say, but held off. Was that a sign that he was still unsure about her?

"You're a very nice person, Grace," he said,
meaning it, maybe meaning more. Her presence was, above all, comforting.

"Swim?"

"Why not?"

He jumped into the water, Marilyn following. She removed
her T-shirt and jumped into a wave. Looking back as she dived, he observed her
figure, remarking to himself that she was in mighty good shape. He decided that
she was somewhere in the middle thirties. Her bathing suit, he noted, was a
modified bikini.

The water was calmer and they cavorted like porpoises for a
while.

"Feels great," Sam said. He hadn't felt so good
for months. Not since before Anne was first diagnosed. For a moment he felt a
stab of guilt.
Should I be feeling like this?
he asked himself.

"Wonderful," Grace shouted, swimming parallel to
the beach. She lifted her hand and waved. He waved back.

Then he signaled her to come in and they walked together
back to the water's edge, then headed again on the beach toward the house.
Grace's black hair glistened, catching the rays of the sun. Her body was tight
and athletic, he noted, forcing himself, with difficulty, to be indifferent.
His sensory perceptions surprised him. After all, he was in mourning.

As they moved toward the house, he looked at his
wristwatch.

"I hadn't realized. It's nearly time for lunch. I hope
you'll join me."

"Sure," she agreed. "I brought a change.
And, remember, I've still got work to do."

He was very pleased. They walked in silence for awhile,
getting closer to the house.

"Was the charity pleased with Anne's clothes?" he
asked suddenly.

"Oh, yes," Grace answered, hesitating
momentarily. "Very much so. It was something of a bonanza for them."

"Anne would have loved that. She took great pleasure
in spreading happiness."

"Yes, she did."

They came close to the house. Grace picked up her sandals,
which she had left sitting in the sand just outside the beachfront entrance,
and followed him into the house. She hadn't rung the front door and Carmen
seemed startled to see her come in with her boss.