Mourning Glory (8 page)

Then there were the various eulogies, all of them sounding
alike. Why did people wait until death to say such nice things about each
other? She wondered if people would say nice things about her when she died.
Except for the priest, she doubted it. There would probably be less than a
handful of mourners present. Maybe Jackie would attend on Darryl's motorcycle.
Her father, she supposed, would be long gone, and Jason, by then, would have
forgotten who she was.

Of course, if her consciousness were still alive to observe
it, she was sure she, or it, would feel humiliated by the low turnout. She
began to contemplate cremation. Quick and clean. No fuss, no muss, no bother.
She'd have her ashes flushed down the toilet of Saks Fifth Avenue's employee
rest room.

It occurred to her that attending these funerals was
encouraging a macabre sense of humor, or was it masking a growing feeling of
personal depression and frustration? So far the only thing she seemed to have
gained was a modicum of insight into the finite nature of time and the inevitability
of death.

Unfortunately, it hadn't put her one step closer to finding
her quarry.

Until the Goodwin funeral.

By then, not wishing to waste her time on marginal
opportunities, she had taken more care with her research and had, as best she
could in a short time, checked out Sam Goodwin's situation. She had learned
that he was a successful businessman, meaning rich, that he was sixty-four
years old and that his wife had died of cancer.

He had a large house on the north side of Palm Beach, the
only place on the island where the houses were directly on the beach, an
excellent measure of his net worth, which had to be considerable. The house was
close to the former Kennedy compound, as well as other homes reputed to be the
property of old moneyed families. She had actually toured the area the evening
before the day of the funeral, stopping to get a better look at the house.

By chance, as she observed the area, a man came out of the
house with a golden retriever who relieved himself on the manicured front lawn.
The man was tall, slender and handsome, with steel gray hair and a strong chin.
She wondered if this was "the" Sam Goodwin, the grieving widower. She
hoped he was, and she observed him with more than proprietary interest until he
went back into the house.

The sight of the man and the property she wished he was
inhabiting did set off her fantasies. The house was lovely, designed in a Tudor
style. She sat in the car as the sun went down and the house lights came on.
From her vantage, with the blinds only half drawn, it appeared to be tastefully
furnished.

She contemplated summoning the courage to get out of the
car and closer to the house, where she could peek through the windows and
inspect the inside more thoroughly. It seemed too risky. Besides, other people
suddenly appeared, leaving through the front door. They were well dressed and,
from experience, she suspected that they were heading to the funeral parlor.

So far she had only visited funeral parlors the night
before a couple of times. There, the body, carefully groomed, was displayed and
visitors viewed it in hushed silence. At times, depending on the wishes of the
relatives, the coffin remained closed.

Jews, she had learned, buried their dead quickly, usually
the day after the death, unless their Sabbath intervened. She was getting to be
an expert on such matters.

She found such a visitation far more depressing than the
funeral itself and hadn't made it a regular practice. Besides, she hadn't
wanted to expose herself too blatantly to the mourning family members or court
embarrassment by being asked questions about her relationship to the corpse.

But this time her earlier observation of the prospect was
encouraging and she felt that, despite the risk, he deserved a closer look. She
was not disappointed. The open coffin, with lighted candles in elaborate
candelabra on either side, displayed what could be described as the vestiges of
a once pretty woman.

The dead woman had bleached blonde hair, was appropriately
made-up and laid out in an elaborate coffin dressed in what appeared to be an
expensive designer gown. If she had to guess, Grace would say the gown was a
Galanos. A diamond brooch, which looked like the real thing, was pinned to the
gown. She looked vaguely familiar; but then, on the Saks floor, many of the
customers looked as if they were stamped out by the same plastic surgeon, hair
colorist and beautician.

The grieving husband, Sam Goodwin, was, indeed, the man she
had seen the night before. He wore a dark pinstriped suit and sat on a
velvet-upholstered chair along one side of the room. Seated beside him, each
holding one of his hands, were a man and a woman, obviously, from the
resemblance, his grown children. Their eyes were puffy and red.

At this close range she noted that the man's steel-gray hair
was full and curly. His face was square, rugged and tanned. He might normally
have appeared handsome and virile, but under these conditions he looked
whipped, broken and grieving. The son was a younger version of his father.
Grace estimated him as late thirties, the daughter younger. She wore round
steel-rimmed glasses and her black hair was brushed back severely off her face,
which was smoothly white and sharply contrasted against her hair. She wore no
makeup. With the right makeup, Grace observed, she could be quite startling.

The room was filled with people, some of whom lingered
respectfully over the body in the coffin, then moved to pay their respects to
the three grieving people, who acknowledged them by a nod, a touch or a
handshake. It was obvious that they were in a kind of mourning trance, barely
able to be communicative. People spoke in whispers, offering condolences in the
time-honored ritual.

Grace stood in a corner trying to appear equally concerned
and respectful, while peripherally focusing her attention on Sam Goodwin. She
did not want to stay too long or appear conspicuous. At one point the man's
eyes rose and scanned the room. His gaze fell upon her briefly and she imagined
he nodded in her direction, then passed on to others.

"Will you sign the book, Mrs.... ?" a tall man
said. He was standing behind her, near a lectern on which was a visitors' book.

"Sorentino," she said. "I was a
friend..." Her voice trailed off. The man had started a conversation with
another person.

Grace signed the book and noted the various names on the
list above her. She vaguely recognized some of them as names she had seen in
the social pages of the
Palm Beach
Post.
The name Goodwin seemed
familiar. She noted, too, that the names in the book were not only Jewish
names, but seemed to cover a broader spectrum. Also, the people in the room
seemed more anglicized than those she had seen clustered together in other
Jewish funerals.

To Grace, who had learned something about the social makeup
of Palm Beach from her Saks experience, this meant that the man had crossed the
rigid lines of social status and was equally acceptable to gentiles in the
various social enclaves of the wealthy where money, at times, could cover a
multitude of prejudices, at least partially.

A man she recognized as a former senator from Florida came in and immediately sought out the grieving trio, who rose in tandem. The man
embraced the widower, who towered above him, and then embraced the children in
turn.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," the former senator said. Sam
Goodwin nodded and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

She took one last look around the room, impressed by the
people in attendance, the atmosphere and especially with the grieving man, who
was distinguished-looking and definitely in the age range that she had set for
herself. Unfortunately, she felt unworthy and remote, far below the man in
social status and sophistication, definitely a class or two apart.

Contemplating her inferiority depressed her and made her
feel clumsy and undeserving. She was ashamed of this cynical caper borne out of
desperation and, probably, naïveté. Was she any better than Jason, chasing
rainbows and impossible dreams? Where did she get the idea that she could
simply snap her fingers and insinuate herself into the life of such a man, even
in his present vulnerable state? She slinked out of the room feeling defeated
and remote, woefully inadequate to the mad task she had assigned herself.

But as she drove farther from the funeral home, she made a
valiant attempt to retrieve her courage. She did have assets, she insisted to
herself. All right, she was not very educated or sophisticated, had not
traveled in the same circles and was definitely not the traditionally glitzy
trophy-wife type. Nevertheless, she was certainly ready and willing to fulfill
all the obligations of being an exemplary, dedicated, sexy, loyal and
supportive wife. She was a catch, she told herself, feeling slightly giddy.

But then she began to project herself into reality. This
handsome widower would be a magnet for battalions of single, attractive ladies
with extraordinary trophy-wife potential, divisions of accomplished and
athletic widows who would fling themselves in his path, women from his own
class who knew him and did not have to contrive subterfuges to meet him, who
would park their shoes under his bed at the lift of his eyebrow. How could she
possibly compete against them?

Her courage dwindled further as she got closer to her
apartment. It wouldn't take him five minutes to discover what she really was, a
lowly, out-of-work cosmetician, a fancy name for makeup salesperson, with no
prospects or money, who had, so far, made a mess of her life.

It was all right for Mrs. Burns to suggest this course of
action. She was educated, polished, articulate, self-confident, a born leader
and executive with a proven track record and a great job. She could attract men
like moths around a candle. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm.

She took a realistic inventory of her present position, and
it offered a dreary prospect. People should stay within their own circle, she
decided, as she let herself in the door of the apartment. Jackie wasn't home
yet from her job in the movie theater.

She went into her bedroom, took off her clothes and lay on
the bed. Often in this state of uncertainty and despair she had turned to her
dildo for comfort. She got up, fished in her lower drawer and took it out. But
when she lay back in the bed, activated the device and began the process she
felt nothing. She shut off the motor and put it aside. Sex, in this artificial
manner, struck her now as repugnant, humiliating in its implications. Her mind
continued to dwell on the crazy premise that had dominated her life for the
past few weeks.

She had been a fool to consider such a patently cynical and
stupid idea. It was time, instead, to deal with real alternatives, like a job.
Suddenly her life seemed to have stopped on a dime. Yet, in an odd way, she
likened her present state to that of Sam Goodwin. His life, too, at least
temporarily, had also stopped on a dime.

He was probably, at this very same moment, considering his
future without his beloved wife. The manner in which he was grieving, she
assumed, attested to his devotion to her. She admired that kind of devotion.

It was the curse of her early Catholicism that made it
impossible for her to be morally neutral. She was, after all, engaging in a
cynical, dissimulating, hypocritical act, building her future prospects on a
tissue of lies. She could not escape the clearly defined sense of right and
wrong promulgated by the Church. According to those strictures, she was doing
wrong, something sinful. At times such ironclad, uncompromising definitions
seemed more powerful than the act of survival itself. Wasn't that what she was
pursuing in these funeral capers? Survival. Deliberately, she pushed aside the
concept of
sin
as presenting far too rigid a barrier and began to
rationalize her intent.

Was it really sinful to want to replace a man's loving
departed wife, to bring him joy and rejuvenation? She pictured him as she had
seen him earlier that evening, looking after his dog. He was graceful and
elegant, handsome.

In her mind, she imagined him coming closer to where she
was observing him in her car. He smiled at her and offered his hand, which she
took. It was strong, yet gentle. He eased her out of the car and, hand in hand,
moved with her into the house. Inside, he turned to her and they embraced. He
kissed her deeply, his tongue caressed hers, as he enveloped her in his arms.
She responded, felt all the wonderful sensations of his embrace.

A sudden thrill charged through her and she reached for the
dildo again, activating it, placing the tip on her clitoris, picturing him now
naked, erect, entering her. She felt open, moist, accepting, as he moved deeply
inside her, speeding his strokes. After awhile she felt the first signs of an
oncoming orgasm. Finally the spasm came, and it seemed more intense than usual.

She calmed slowly, surprised how strongly Sam Goodwin had
entered her fantasy life.
Hold that thought, Grace,
she told herself as
she dropped into a dreamless sleep.

She awoke in a turmoil. It was still dark. Her body was hot
and moist and her heart was racing. By some miracle, she had held the thought,
and she remembered the fantasy that had stimulated her. But, she discovered,
there seemed a lot more to the fantasy than the sexual component, and she gave
it full reign as she remained in bed waiting for daylight.

She saw herself as the chatelaine of his big Tudor house on
the beach, the new Mrs. Goodwin. It was morning and she imagined herself locked
in his arms as she awoke, the sun peeking through the blinds, lighting the
room, dancing along the walls bedecked with works of art and ornate
ormolu-trimmed mirrors and antiques. The sunlight would awaken the colors of
the gorgeous Oriental rugs on the floor.