Mourning Glory (9 page)

She would stretch and observe the silken lining of the
canopied bed, and soon he would stir beside her and they would make love, a
long, lingering episode of foreplay and glorious orgasms for both of them, then
the delicious time of leisurely afterglow.

Later there would be breakfast on the terrace. She would be
wearing a long, silk, embroidered morning gown enhanced by a delicate gold
necklace around her neck. The maid would serve them, cold orange juice in
stemmed glasses, eggs, over light the way she liked them, and crisp bacon,
toasted bagels, strawberry jam and wonderful coffee, the aroma complementing
the sea air.

They would read
The New York Times
and occasionally
comment about various events in the news, lock eyes at times and purse lips in
a mimed kiss. Before them would stretch the white sands of the beach and
beyond, the glistening sea, twinkling in the sunlight.

Sam would enter his study and do his various business
chores, perhaps overseeing his investments, calling his brokers. He was still
in action, of course, a captain of industry, offering suggestions to his
colleagues and underlings in the business community in which he operated.

She would be involved in her many activities, running the
house, meeting with the staff to plan the evening dinner party. The governor
would be coming, of course, along with his lovely wife and two or three other
couples, perhaps a famous movie actress and her industrialist husband and, for
extra excitement, a duke and duchess from Great Britain laden with the latest
gossip of the royal family. A cozy little dinner for eight by candlelight. On
the good china, of course, the set that had previously belonged to the czar of Russia.

Later there would be tennis doubles at the club ... what
club ... perhaps the Everglades, which was, she knew, notoriously anti-Semitic.
In this fantasy, Sam had been chosen their first Jewish member. Initially, he
had refused, but the club president had persuaded him after a long private
dinner that it was time that class, not religion, should dominate the selection
process. She, his new wife, had been mentioned, of course. A distinct asset,
the president had said, a wise and glorious match.

After tennis, an exquisite lunch, overlooking the
eighteenth hole with the retired chairman of AT&T, after which they would
be driven back to their home, still a little tipsy from the Dom Perignon that
they had imbibed a bit too freely.

Back home they would have a brief swim in the pool, then
retreat to the beach house and have a delicious sexual episode before falling
off into a delightful nap, rising with just enough time to dress, supervise the
table settings and discuss the final arrangements with the cook and the couple
who would be serving.

Dinner would go off without a hitch and they would linger
over the brandy, while the men smoked their Havanas and the talk waxed eloquent
about the current state of affairs in Washington and the world. They would
listen with rapt attention to her views as she outlined the prospects of
monetary reform based on her assessment of the latest conference of the World
Bank.

Before the guests said good-bye, Jackie, coming home from
the dance at the club, looking radiant in the latest Oscar—by then she would be
referring to all designers by their first names—would introduce them to her
date, the son of the owner of the largest cruise company in the world, and they
would remark on Jackie's beauty and poise and her date's good looks and
sophistication.

Just past midnight they would bid their guests good-bye
with effusive two-cheek kisses, and she and Sam would be alone for one last
nightcap and, before going upstairs, they would take off their shoes and walk
to the water's edge and kiss in the moonlight, finally going to bed, but not
before one last slow turn at lovemaking to cap off the day as they fell asleep
in each other's arms.

Then, suddenly, the first beams of the rising sun revealed
the truth of her present reality, her dreary bedroom, the sounds of the early
morning army of drab working people setting off to their dead-end jobs, all of
them two paychecks from oblivion and the unemployment lines. The long fall from
fantasy to reality had taken merely seconds, and she was back to the decisions,
anxieties and poverty of the present.

She heard Jackie in the shower, put on her quilted,
much-abused robe and went into the kitchenette to make coffee, pour the juice
and make toast. It was certainly a long cry from the breakfast she had created
in her imagined world.

"Sleep well, Jackie?" she asked when Jackie came
out of the bathroom, her skin pink with youthful health, her teeth glistening
in a broad smile. She bent down and kissed her mother's cheek.

"You were asleep when I came in, Mom. I didn't have
heart to wake you."

Grace reached up and caressed her daughter's cheek, wary of
showing too much demonstrative affection, fearful that it might be interpreted
as phony or manipulative. She loved this child with every fiber of her being,
but guiding her through this crucial period of her life was both baffling and
extremely worrisome.

"That's my girl," Grace said.

Jackie threw off her robe, revealing her nakedness. Her
figure was perfect: high, beautiful breasts with round pink nipples, flat
stomach, a patch of rich black curly pubic hair, the finely rounded rump, the
long legs, tight thighs, shapely calves. This was a beauty. And the
face—gorgeous, long curling black lashes shading light brown eyes, a curving
Italian nose chiseled into high cheekbones and angel lips over a cleft chin.
She knew that Jackie could feel her inspection.

"You think I'm pretty, Mom?"

"A knockout."

"Lot of good it does me," Jackie pouted.

"Just have patience, Jackie. Things are beginning to
turn around. I can feel it. You'll see."

"Sure, Mom." Jackie sighed, stepping into her
panties and bra, then fastening a beige skirt around her slim waist and
slipping into a cream-colored blouse. Yes, Grace thought, she was bright and
beautiful, with enormous potential to make the jump into the best circles. She was
aware of her sexiness, too aware. She needed to learn how to use her allure for
her own advantage, not to dispense her favors indiscriminately.

"Really, Jackie. Something's in the wind."

"Like what?"

"I can't say."

"Are you keeping something from me, Mom?" Jackie
asked.

"Not really," Grace replied, thinking of Sam
Goodwin. "But I do believe I have possibilities." It was, of course,
pure fantasy at that point, but she felt she needed to offer something to keep
hope alive.

"Possibilities?" Jackie sighed. "Sure, Mom,
possibilities."

"And if I latch on to something good, first thing we
do is get you that car."

"I've heard that before, Mom."

"I mean it. Maybe even..." She recalled her
fantasy. "Lots of things."

She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee and
delicately buttered her toast.

"It's nice thinking about."

"Yes, it is," Grace agreed. "Very
nice."

"Things just can't stay like this."

"No, they can't."

"It's the pits."

"We have to make good things happen," Grace said
suddenly. "Take the bull by the horns."

She knew she was giving herself a pep talk, trying to work
herself up to continuing her quest, despite the odds against it ever being
fulfilled.

"You're right, Mom. We can't just let things happen to
us."

"We've got to
make
them happen. We've just hit
a bad patch is all."

"To put it mildly," Jackie said.

"I'll find a better way for us Jackie. I
promise."

"Sure, Mom," Jackie agreed, studying her mother's
face with a wry smile.

"What are you looking at, darling?" Grace asked.

"I do think about you a lot, Mom."

"You do?"

"Darryl is probably right."

"Not him again," Grace snapped, her mood
changing. "I thought we had an understanding."

"No. You did. I didn't."

"He's trouble, Jackie. Dangerous and
mean-minded."

"Shows how much you know."

"We both know where his brains are," Grace said,
remembering his swollen genitals. Jackie sneered.

"He has convictions. And he's smart. He knows what's
really going on. He's against the government and he thinks there's a conspiracy
to make us all slaves to the Jews."

Grace felt her stomach tighten.

"Oh, my God. Not one of those."

"One of what?"

"A troublemaking bigot, a Nazi creep from one of those
militias."

"He's not a creep either."

"He's a menace, Jackie. He's just using you for his
own gratification. Can't you find someone decent?"

"Can't you?"

"People like that are scary, Jackie. Just look at that
ugly knife he carries. Gave me the shivers, and he's probably got guns all over
the place."

"That's his business."

Grace felt a shiver of fear roll through her.

"He does have guns, doesn't he?"

"Considering what's going on in the world, it's not
such a bad idea."

"Jackie ... I ... I don't think he's a good influence
on you. Can't you see how awful ... how can I put this? You really have got to
stop seeing him. For your own sake. No good can come of it."

She feared making her suggestion seem like an absolute
command, which, so far, hadn't done much good and would only push her closer to
Darryl.

"You never like my boyfriends anyway."

"He's trouble, Jackie. I'm your mother and I'm just
thinking of your welfare. You're still young, sweetheart. I'm just trying to
keep you from making a terrible mistake. Men like that are ... well, just no
good. Why look for trouble? Haven't we got enough on our plate without
that?"

"You're still angry because you caught us in bed
together and he hit you."

"Two very good reasons ... among others," Grace
muttered, her patience ebbing. The joy of her morning fantasy had disappeared.
"Besides, you're under age. How old is he, anyway?"

"That's dangerous talk, Mom. Very threatening."
Jackie paused and clicked her teeth. "It's no joke."

"I just asked how old he was."

"I wouldn't advise your finding out, Mom."

"Now who's threatening?"

"It's you who's looking for trouble, Mom. If you're
thinking of turning him in, don't."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea."

"You'd be making a big mistake."

"What are you now, a gun moll?"

"Very funny." She began to pace the room like a
caged tiger. "I'll see who I want to see. I want to see Darryl. And I'd
advise you not to make threats. You don't know him. He's exciting and smart and
sexy. And he likes me."

"Big deal. He likes you. Ho ho," Grace mocked,
her anger bursting through her self-imposed barrier. "Why shouldn't he
like you? Sweet jailbait flesh."

"That was out of line, Mom." She paced for a few
moments more, then turned to Grace. Her look seemed softer.

"Not to me."

"What is it with you? Every time I mention Darryl you
go up the wall."

"Not at the mention. It's because of the reality. I
can't believe you can't see what he is."

"I know what he is, Mom. You don't." Jackie
clicked her tongue. "Here we go again. Let's both cool it. Okay?" She
came close to Grace and kissed her forehead, but it struck her as mechanical,
more like a dismissal.

"Tell you the truth, he likes you, Mom. Maybe I'm
jealous."

"Of me?"

"He said he thought you were sexier than I was."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment to me or an
insult to you? He did make an obscene offer, if I recall. It was
disgusting."

"He also said that you really didn't look like a mom.
That you seemed to be hiding your light under a bushel."

"I can't believe you're repeating this ... making this
asshole's words seem profound."

Jackie smiled and shook her head, as if Grace was the
errant child.

"You just don't know about men, Mom. That's why you
haven't got any. You need to tune in more to your real self. Give your desires
more room to breathe."

"Where is this shit coming from?"

"I know you think I'm a stupid teenager. But I think I
know more about the opposite sex than you do."

"Is this your big talent, Jackie?"

"I know this: If I put my mind to it, I can really
manipulate the opposite sex. I know my assets in that regard."

"You're sixteen, Jackie. Going on fifty." Grace
stood up, the last vestiges of restraint collapsing. "And this is the most
ridiculous and eccentric mother-daughter conversation we've ever engaged in.
You're recycling his bullshit as true wisdom. He's a dangerous wacko with all
his brains in his dick."

"Mind your tongue, young lady," Jackie mimicked,
laughing. She reached out, took her mother's hand and kissed it.

At that moment, she heard the raucous sound of a motorcycle
as it stopped nearby.

"Stop diddling me, Jackie."

"I'm not going to stop seeing him. Get that through
your head."

She ran out of the door before Grace could respond. Looking
out the window, she watched Jackie put on a helmet and straddle the bike behind
Darryl as they roared away. The sound was ominous, like distant thunder warning
of an impending storm.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a
long moment. Somehow she felt chastised, as if her daughter and she had
reversed roles. But as she thought about it, she felt more challenged than
rebuked, and the image of Sam Goodwin refocused itself in her mind. Suddenly,
all options seemed closed. Except one.

When you're drowning,
she
thought,
you grab anything that floats.
Then she rushed into the
bathroom, removed her quilted robe and jumped into the shower.