Mourning Glory (3 page)

For a while she took refuge in the idea that she was too
busy devoting herself to raising Jackie to have any time for a new
relationship. But that was a cop-out. Jackie was reaching new levels of
worrisome independence by leaps and bounds. She was losing her and knew it.

In a year or two she would consider Grace, except for a
marginal financing machine, irrelevant, worthy of lip service but little else.
The reality of parenthood was getting through to her hard and fast, the end
result would always be the ultimate conclusion that parents loved and worried
about their children far more than they could ever love and worry about their
parents.

She no longer blamed other people for her failures. She had
married in the midst of her first year of junior college, a mistake compounded
by a mistake. During her marriage, she had been a bank teller, a secretary, had
worked in boutiques and other department stores, but, because of her husband's
itchy foot and quixotic view of life, she hadn't been around long enough to
make much of a mark. Jason, chasing his own impossible and indefinable dreams,
had taken her and Jackie to points north, west and then south. In Florida she had taken a three-month cosmetician's course, had landed this job in the makeup
department at Saks Fifth Avenue Palm Beach store and had been slowly building
up a modest clientele.

The telephone near the register rang and she knew instantly
that it would be Pamela Burns, the store manager, on the other end of the line.
The gnome had struck.

"Can you see me for a moment, Grace?"

"Of course," Grace replied, reaching
unsuccessfully for an optimistic lilt to her tone. She hung up and proceeded on
rubbery legs to Mrs. Burns's office.

"Mrs. Milton-Dennison told me you insulted her,"
Pamela Burns began directly, playing with the triple string of pearls that hung
over her pink silk blouse. She was older than Grace, well-groomed, with hawk's
eyes that hid behind high cheekbones and jet-black hair parted in the center
and brushed straight back. Her lipstick, eye shadow and earrings glistened
brightly as they caught the light beams from the staggeringly brilliant
sunlight that blasted into the room from a high, round window behind her desk.

"I should have, but I didn't," Grace said.
"She was rude and insufferable."

"Customers are never rude and insufferable,
Grace," Pamela Burns lectured, talking slowly, enunciating clearly,
illustrating her version of how a successful manager deals with anger and
recalcitrant personnel, undoubtedly Grace. "Shopping at Saks is either
therapy or fantasy fulfillment. But however you define it, there is only one
object in mind as far as we're concerned. We check our egos and other
unnecessary hubris at the employees' store entrance. We smile. We ingratiate.
We flatter. We agree. Our mission, the sole objective of this enterprise, is to
move merchandise."

"I move merchandise, Mrs. Burns," Grace declared
with a feeble attempt at showing indignation.

"For which you are appropriately commissioned,"
Mrs. Burns shot back. "At the highest rate allowable in this
company."

With commissions, Grace had averaged during her three years
with Saks, a sum which, after deductions, barely qualified her for the working
poor.

"Mrs. Milton-Dennison is a major consumer of
merchandise. It is her addiction. We keep her supplied with the drug she
needs."

"Merchandise?"

"Exactly."

Mrs. Burns looked at a paper on her desk and tapped it with
long, polished fingernails, which also glistened in the sunbeams.

"Have you any idea what she spent with us last year,
Grace?"

"She asked me the same question," Grace murmured.

"And well she should," Mrs. Burns said, lifting
her eyes and studying Grace in their hot glare. "Eighty thousand a
month."

"That's nearly a million dollars a year," Grace
exclaimed, calculating quickly, stunned.

"A world-class movement of merchandise. That old biddy
is an industry for us. We pucker on demand."

"Hard to believe ... she's such a..." Grace
checked herself. But she hoped her expression would convey her honest
characterization of the woman, which was
miserable shit.

"...marvelous, generous, beautiful person," Mrs.
Burns said, completing the comment with a sly smile of understanding.

"I gave her my best makeover advice, Mrs. Burns.
Unfortunately, there is no product, except perhaps a complete face mask, that
could hide her wrinkles."

"If she wants her wrinkles hidden, Grace, then you are
charged with finding a way to hide them."

"Believe me, I tried," Grace said. A sob seemed
to catch in her throat.

"Apparently not hard enough," Mrs. Burns told her
between tight-pursed lips. "She wants you fired."

"Fired? Because I couldn't find a product to hide her
wrinkles?"

"Apparently it was also the manner in which you
trumpeted your failure."

"I didn't trumpet anything."

"That was your mistake. She needed trumpeting, the
flattering kind. You should have trumpeted her assets."

"They escaped my notice."

"Therein lies the nub of the problem, Grace. She
craved the licking of her
tuchas.
This is where she gets it. It is not
for nothing that this store is named Saks."

She searched Mrs. Burns's face to find some recognition of
the double
entendre
as a joke. It wasn't apparent. The woman was dead
serious.

"Understand the deeper psychological implications of
our role here, Grace. Mrs. Milton-Dennison gets off on shopping. This is where
she comes to replace the fucking she does not get at home."

"Jesus!"

"I detest this kind of pressure, Grace. It frustrates
me and I hate dealing with frustration. My only goal is to make numbers, to
increase these numbers year after year. Numbers are what determines my bonus.
We are not dealing here with the human equation. Numbers provide the true
meaning of our existence. Mrs. Milton-Dennison represents only numbers, Grace.
She is a factor here only because she puts a lot of bread into the oven. She is
the soul and spirit of the capitalistic machine."

Mrs. Burns's sudden mixing of metaphors was disconcerting.
Grace wondered if she should be respectful of Pamela Burns's remarkable candor
and realism. The woman was generally admired for "telling it as it
is," which was exactly what she was doing now. But to whom? Grace
pondered. Certainly not to Mrs. Milton-Dennison.
To me, poor impoverished
servile loser me.

"I do not like to be forced to grovel before
Mammon," Mrs. Burns said, as if reading Grace's mind. She lowered her
voice. "We both know what Mrs. Milton-Dennison is." Suddenly no sound
came out of her mouth. "A fucking miserable cunt" were the words her
lips seemed to have formed.

Grace was encouraged by the intimacy.

"A mover of merchandise," Grace said, the fear of
firing suddenly diminishing as a possibility. She felt oddly relieved.
"Then you're not terminating me," Grace said after a brief pause.

"What would you do if you were being threatened with a
million-dollar loss of custom, Grace?"

"It would be like..." Grace searched her mind for
an adequate image. "Like being caught between the devil and the deep blue
sea."

"That represents a choice. Mrs. Milton-Dennison didn't
give me such a wide range of options."

"So I am fired?"

"I hate to put it that way, Grace. It makes me feel
like an instrument of cruelty. I do know your situation Grace. We have to know
about our employees in these litigious days."

"Am I or am I not?" Grace said, raising her
voice.

Mrs. Burns shook her head. She seemed genuinely grieved,
although Grace distrusted the pose. Dissimulation was part of the stock in
trade of winners like Mrs. Burns. They wore their bitchery like a badge of
honor, proof that their ruthlessness was equal to men's.

"I'm going to give you a bit of advice, Grace,"
she said, her eyes glazing as she moved her head in the direction of the
window, as if she were speaking to the pedestrians along Worth Avenue. "We
are in Palm Beach, Florida, the ideal hunting ground for Mr. Big Bucks. In this
wasteland, they are everywhere, like pebbles on the beach." She sucked in
a deep breath and lowered her voice.

Pamela Burns paused; her nostrils flared, a tiny smile
lifted her lips. "Find yourself an older wealthy man, a widower, fresh
from the burial ground, someone who in his vulnerability can appreciate a
good-looking woman like yourself to share his bed and his fortune. Mostly the
latter, of course, although the bed will be the conduit. You should hone your
technique in that department, Grace.

"To a successful man of declining years, used to
control, that part, man's best friend, is your ally. Pay it special attention.
Secure your old age. No one will do it for you. Make yourself a mover of
merchandise instead of a mere dispenser. It is better for your
tuchas
to
be a receiver of the pucker than to be obliged to offer it. Seek out and find
Mr. Big Bucks."

Grace was stunned and incredulous by the cool cynicism of
Mrs. Burns's remarks. She couldn't believe her ears.

"What are you saying, Mrs. Burns?" Grace said,
barely able to absorb the information presented. It seemed so out of character,
so ruthless and calculating. Mrs. Burns turned her gaze from the window and
focused on Grace.

"I'm simply saying find yourself a wealthy man who has
just buried his wife."

"A wealthy widower?" Grace muttered, still in
disbelieving mode. "A millionaire?"

"My dear girl,
millionaire
is such a passé
term. It no longer connotes serious money. Learn the modern interpretation of
numbers. It will open your eyes. Think in terms of a section."

"A section?"

"A hundred mil. You may not make it, but as the poet
said, let your reach exceed your grasp. They are out there, believe me."

"Why are you telling me this, Mrs. Burns?"

"Because I am wracked with guilt. I hate doing this to
you. I also hate Mrs. Milton-Dennison." She lowered her voice. "Lousy
old cunt."

"Is there a guidebook on how one goes about
accomplishing this feat?" Grace asked, hoping that Mrs. Burns would get
the facetiousness and sneering sarcasm of her remark.

"Published every day," Mrs. Burns shot back
without batting an eye. "The obituary columns, Grace. Make it your daily
Bible reading."

"You are serious."

"Dead."

Grace, for the moment forgetting her situation, considered
the irony implicit in the word.

"Are you saying that I should attend these
funerals?"

"Consider it research."

"And then?"

"Assess the situation. Be sure there is money there.
Survey the mourners. Evaluate their wealth and lifestyle. If possible, check
beforehand. See where they come from. Look at their houses. Make a careful
evaluation. Don't make the mistake of choosing a target with anything less than
big money. Keep your eye on the ball, then find a way to make contact."

"But why a recent widower?" Grace asked, feeling
foolish. The idea seemed preposterous, ghoulish. Here she was in the midst of a
personal disaster and she was listening to what seemed like nonsense. Worse,
she was asking questions.

"With a long marriage," Mrs. Burns said,
expanding on the idea. "Preferably a first wife."

"Why a first wife?"

"Because men in a long marriage are more accustomed to
the ministrations of women, Grace. Like horses, they have been broken,
domesticated."

Is she playing with me?
Grace thought. Despite her misgivings, Grace found herself bizarrely
interested, as if the strange idea might divert her mind from this train wreck.

"Are there any other considerations?" Grace
asked, thinking:
She wants to pull my chain. I'll pull hers.
"Is
there an age requirement?"

"I'd put a cap of seventy-five on the choices, although
the sixties would be better. You run into protective relatives when you go
higher in age. And they need less of what a woman has to offer. They figure you
are only after that person's money."

"Isn't that the purpose of the exercise?"

"I'm talking time here, Grace. Under seventy-five the
lure is still there." Mrs. Burns winked.

"You sound like you've made a thorough study of the
subject."

"I have. I found one."

"Mr. Burns?"

"I followed the formula. It is the best advice you
will ever get in your life."

"Then why do you have to work?"

She felt compelled to keep the interrogation going. It
struck her that perhaps she was not being fired at all. Perhaps Mrs. Burns had
gone crazy and this interview was simply the babbling of a diseased mind.

"I don't. I need the stimulation and sense of
accomplishment. Mr. Burns is very old now."

"How long have you been married?"

"Fifteen years. He was sixty-five at the time. Except
for longevity, he was the perfect choice."

"How so?"

"He was Jewish. I'm an Episcopalian."

"Why Jewish?" Grace asked, mesmerized by the
conversation.
Am I really buying this?
she wondered.

"Their mothers worshipped them. Because of this, they
are addicted to mothering. And they are very good to their wives, particularly
their second wives, especially if they are
shiksas,
like you and me ...
not Jewish. I think they see us as the forbidden fruit. That's why I'm
emphasizing sex. And ... I hope this doesn't sound anti-Semitic, but maybe
their circumcisions have made them more sensitive to pleasure. Who knows? Many
of them have been starved in that department by their first wives. Frankly, I
don't know why this is true, but I believe it is. To them a good
shtup
is a
mitzvah,
a gift from God. These attitudes make them more
vulnerable. Of course, I'm not counting out any racial or religious persuasion
as a possibility. I can only give you the benefit of my own experience."