Never Too Late for Love (28 page)

That was a long, long time ago and she had never even
entertained the idea of doing it with anyone but Jake. She didn't even do it
that much with Jake. The whole idea of it eventually became boring, unimportant
to their lives.

Sitting in the lounge chair, thinking about those early
days, made her smile. Such innocence, she thought. Incredible! How the world
had changed. Nothing was left to the imagination anymore. Why am I thinking
about this? she wondered, but the memories continued to make her feel good.

There was more to it than just feeling good. She felt a
heightened sense of perception and, later, when they went to the clubhouse to
see an amateur play, she turned and searched the faces of the audience. But the
face of the man who had sent her the note, who had winked, seemed blurred in
her mind and, besides, many of the men seemed to look alike. All the old men
look alike, her friend Minnie Halpern assured her.

Yet she persisted in her search, not admitting that this
was her sole intention as she became more mobile than usual, spending more time
in the clubhouse and the pool area. She even persuaded Jake to play
shuffleboard with her, a game she usually detested.

"Slow down," Jake protested.

"I don't like to just sit."

One day as she sat by the pool, she set aside her knitting
and, feeling drowsy, closed her eyes and dozed fitfully. Jake had stayed home
to watch a television program and she had declined to participate in the usual
yenta conversations that tinkled around her in the tropical air.

She might have been dreaming, though it was not clear, but
something passed near her or over her; a shadow had come and gone. Opening her
eyes, she saw his face again watching her from across the pool, a tall man with
a heavy shock of white hair. His head moved, jaw thrust forward, in a kind of
signal suggesting that there was something she must do.

Looking around her, she saw the white folded paper lying on
her half-finished knitted socks. Her reactions were confusing; she felt that
she wanted to grab for the note, but she was forcing herself to hold back. Her
heart was beating wildly in her chest. She also wanted to smile at the man who
continued to observe her at a distance, thrusting his jaw out--which she now
knew was a signal for her to read the note.

With trembling fingers, she opened it. But it was not clear
enough for her eyes to read and she had to dip into her knitting bag for her
glasses. Turning her back to him, she read the note.

"I really think you're cute." The word really was
underlined. The intensity of a hot blush increased the temperature of her skin,
which was already warm from the sun. But she did not turn to look at the man
again, although she was certain now that she had memorized his face. Yet she
felt the urge to turn and smile, actually to wink back at him, but she resisted
that, too. Instead, she picked up her knitting and, sitting awkwardly on the
side of the lounge chair, resumed her stitching. When she did finally turn, he
was gone.

But now that she had a clear picture of him, she found
herself imagining him in various situations and in conversations. She began to
daydream a great deal, sometimes as she sat at the table.

"What are you thinking?" Jake asked. He might
have made the remark before, but it had just penetrated her consciousness.

"Nothing," she answered, resuming her eating.

It was incredible to experience such thoughts and feelings,
she decided.

An old married woman like me. To have a secret admirer was
something that happened in movies. She had already determined that she would
never, never acknowledge the man's intentions, never stop to pass the time of
day. And if she passed close to him, she knew she would have to turn away.

But the more she would try to deny him, the more his image
grew in her mind. She wondered what his name was. He wasn't so bad looking
himself, she thought, mentally comparing his looks with Jake's. He didn't have
Jake's huge paunch and he still had all his hair. What a beautiful head of
hair! Did I think that, she admonished, as she began to clean her apartment
furiously, running the vacuum cleaner at a fast clip until even Jake began to
notice her uncommon speed.

"Take it easy, Rose."

She slowed down her efforts. It hadn't helped much anyhow
since she could not eliminate what was on her mind.

One evening, as she and Jake were coming out of another
show at the clubhouse, he loomed in front of her, full face, a sliver of a
smile on his lips, a brief wink, and thrust a paper into her hands. She
clutched the note, tightened her fist around it, and continued to walk past
him. It all happened in a split second. What surprised her most was that she
actually abetted the action, conspired with the strange man. Her hand opened
and closed as if she had expected the offering.

They rode the shuttle bus back to their apartment. Her hand
was moist as she clutched the paper, and both her curiosity and anxiety were
churning her insides. They had barely opened the door when she made a beeline
for the bathroom and, locking the door, stood for a moment against it, calming
herself, getting her breathing to function properly. Then she took her glasses
out of her pocketbook and opened the note, soggy with perspiration. She had to
read the note three times before she could believe its meaning.

"Please meet me by the water tower at 3 p.m. tomorrow.
Please." Under the note was a P.S. "I think you're the cutest thing I
ever saw."

She tried to urge indignance upon herself, to will it. The
idea of it, she whispered. I have got to tell Jake, she decided, wondering what
his reaction would be. She had been a good and faithful wife for nearly fifty
years, fifty years. No other man had ever touched her and, even in her
memories, she could not think of a single other man who had ever kissed her,
although she vaguely remembered playing spin the bottle when she was a little
girl, during which some of the boys had kissed her cheek. Nobody had ever, ever
written her such outrageous notes; nor had any man ever gotten fresh with her.

She read the note again, refolded it and put it in her
change purse, discovering that the other two notes also were hidden there. Why
am I saving them? she wondered. Someday I might need the evidence.

She lay in bed that night unable to sleep, listening to
Jake's heavy breathing that, she knew, soon would turn into deep, resounding
snores. It had been her natural habit to drop off to sleep before the snoring
began in earnest. Now, the opportunity had passed and the noise was deafening.

Slipping quietly out of bed, she wrapped her dressing gown
around her and sat on the living-room couch. The note was still disturbing her.
She could not get it out of her mind. It was not a question of her going. That
would be unthinkable. She would feel ridiculous. What would she say to him?
Besides, he might by a psychopath, although she did not feel that his face was
that of a crazy man.

Just suppose, just suppose I did go, she thought suddenly,
ashamed of the idea of it. But the possibility loomed, rose in her mind, like
the beginning ripple of a giant wave, forming far out to sea. Nothing like this
had ever happened to her. Finally, she admitted to some curiosity.

Just this once, she thought. What harm would there be in
it, after all? The wave continued to form, and she felt its power, its urging,
heard it crash inside of her. Just once, she thought, her face growing hot. She
also felt some odd stirrings in her body, warm, pleasurable. Her nipples were
erect. My God, she cried to herself, watching the hardness in the large puddle
of her nipple.

There could be no question of sleep that night, and she
stayed up, trying to concentrate on her knitting until it began to turn light
behind the blinds and, for appearances sake, she slipped into bed beside the
snoring Jake.

But in the full light of morning, her resolve strengthened
again and she saw how utterly preposterous it was to entertain thoughts of
meeting this man. Besides, the lack of sleep had given her a slight headache,
enough to rationalize her not being able to make her regular Mah-Jongg game.

She called her friends and told them to get someone else to
fill in. She wondered why she had made the call after Jake had left the
apartment. She washed the breakfast dishes and cleaned the apartment, then sat
on the lounge chair in back of the apartment and busied herself with knitting.

A light breeze rustled the stalks of Bermuda grass and she
heard the insects buzzing in the flowers she had planted near the screen porch.
While she knew she was having a conflict within herself, it did not affect her
sense of up-lift. 'What could he possibly see in me?' she thought, feeling good
about his interest, her curiosity expanding.

By the time the sun stood high in the early afternoon, she
had decided to go. What harm would there be? Besides, it was quite possible
that he was only fooling. There were a lot of old kibbutzers around Sunset
Village who did things just for laughs. He probably wouldn't even show up, she
decided, although the sense of anticipation stayed with her, rising as she
combed her hair and dabbed on some light make-up.

She had never fussed with herself with such diligence
before, rubbing in a little rouge, leaving a faint glow at the edge of her
cheekbones. When she was finished, she smiled at herself, a contrivance, to see
how badly her face wrinkled when she did it. I'm an old woman, she said with
resignation, but secretly, inside herself, her body was stirring with feelings
she had never had before, or, if she had, she could not remember them.

Jake had come home and was watching television when she
left, presuming her to be on her way to her Mah-Jongg game. She felt too much
guilt to say good-bye, but slipped out, holding her knitting bag, a permanent
fixture, and headed in the direction of the water tower, which rose above the
low barracks-like white building of her condominium section. It actually was a
short walk, but she timed it to arrive later, slowing her pace as she got
closer to be able to observe whether he was really there.

When she saw him, she stopped dead in her tracks, hoping he
had not seen her, but her legs would not move in retreat and, for a long
moment, she stood frozen, indecisive. The area around the water tower was
completely deserted and he was leaning against the slats looking in the
opposite direction.

She could leave, she knew. She had not been spotted. Her
heart was pounding in her chest and she felt a sudden tightness in her stomach.
Just once, an inner voice might have been telling her as she responded to a
compulsion, urging her on, and she felt her legs carrying her forward. The sudden
action made him turn, and he moved from his leaning posture and stood up as she
approached.

A handsome man, she decided, as she came closer. It was an
odd thought, quite without logic in her state of mind. New things were
happening fast, new sensations.

"I didn't think you would show up," the man said.
He was a good head taller than her and the lines in his tanned face were deep,
as if he had spent years outdoors. He was smiling, showing even teeth. Probably
implants, she thought. She imagined his age about the same as Jake's, late
sixties, early seventies, but there was a more youthful cast to his features
and his body had not run to fat.

"I figured maybe if I came, you would stop bothering
me." She smiled thinly, as if it were a joke, then lowered her eyes.

"You've got to be thinking that I'm crazy."

"Aren't you?"

He was looking at her directly with an odd intensity. She
felt a warm flush cover her body. Then, without contriving, she smiled broadly.

"I couldn't help myself. I've been watching you for a
long time. Then, finally I couldn't help myself. I really think you're as cute
as a button."

She felt herself relaxing, unwinding. She liked being here,
liked this bantering.

"You're blind as a bat. I'm a grandmother six times
over and I just looked at myself in the mirror. Besides, I'm married and have
been for nearly fifty years."

"Big deal."

"It is a big deal."

He reached out, touching her arm, squeezing the flesh
lightly.

"I've got seven grandchildren." He lifted his
hands, folding three fingers of one hand, to emphasize the number. "Also a
wife. And we've been married for forty-eight."

"It's a miracle," she said coquettishly,
"considering that you're such a flirt."

"Me? A flirt?" He looked at her in mock
innocence.

"What then? A masher?" She was surprised that she
had not moved away when he touched her. His hand had lingered and she was
conscious of it, deeply conscious of his flesh touching hers.

I'm the one that's crazy, she thought. What am I doing
here?

"I may be old, but I'm far from dead."

"Who said that?" She hated any reference to
death. He must have sensed the offense.

"I thought it would be nice to meet you
face-to-face," he said, almost as if his confidence had wavered and he had
run out of brashness. "Ever since the first time I saw you, I have not
been able to get you out of my of mind." He paused. "There. That's my
confession."

He looked at her and rubbed his hand up and down her arm.
Her eyes darted quickly to each side of her. The area was deserted and she let
him continue to touch her.

"Anyway," he said, "I got you here. And
that's what counts."

"So I'm here. So what happens now?" She regretted
it instantly, knowing it was not what she meant. He removed his hand.

"I'm not so sure about that," he said, his smile
disappearing. "I just know that I wanted to see you, that I'd like to see
you from time to time."

"I know what you're looking at," she said
seriously, hitting the nub of her own curiosity. "But I don't know what
you see."