Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  "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."

  Grace was confused, not only by Mrs. Burns's advice, but by her own weird interest in it. She found herself actually contemplating the idea in the light of her own situation, her own dismal reality. How could she, a nobody from the lower classes, an obvious loser, come in contact with such people. Multimillionaires. Jews. They weren't exactly in her circle. It struck her finally that Mrs. Burns was teasing her, getting her jollies by putting a sinister spin on the act of termination.

  "Am I really being fired?" Grace asked suddenly, not without optimism.

  "Afraid so."

  "Then this is a very strange exit interview, Mrs. Burns," Grace said. "I don't appreciate it at all. I feel as if I'm some object of ridicule and I'm pretty pissed off. Is it in lieu of severance?"

  "Not in lieu of, Grace. A
lthough the advice I offer is more precious than coin." She took a paper from a pile on her desk and slid it across to Grace.

  "What is that?"

  "It is a release form. Sign it and you will receive two months' severance pay based on your year's best salary. In this case..." She glanced at the paper. "Two thousand two hundred a month. Comes to four thousand four hundred dollars. Very generous, I must say."

  "Blood money," Grace said. "To protect you from litigation."

  "Your choice, dear," Mrs. Burns said. "We have lawyers on retainer."

  "Do I also lose my employee discount?" Grace asked, thinking of her promise to Jackie.

  "When you are no longer an employee, you no longer have an employee discount."

  Furious, Grace scribbled her name on the paper, and Mrs. Burns opened a drawer and handed her a check already cut for the amount mentioned. Grace studied the check for a moment, as if to illustrate her distrust, then stood up.

  "It's an unfair world, Grace," Mrs. Burns said. "Nevertheless, if Mrs. Milton-Dennison should take her business elsewhere or die, believe me I can make a firm commitment at this moment to give you back your job."

  "You are one cold-blooded bitch, Mrs. Burns," Grace said. They exchanged glances, and after a moment of staring each other down, Mrs. Burns nodded.

  "I pride myself on that perception," she said.

  Grace turned and started toward the door, stopping suddenly when she heard her name called. She turned again and faced the woman behind the desk.

  "In the enterprise I suggest, Grace, there is one more caveat. It is fundamental."

  Grace looked at the woman, a commanding presence behind her desk. Mrs. Burns lifted her left hand. At first Grace wondered if she was giving her the traditional gesture of contempt.

  "Ring around your finger," Mrs. Burns said cheerily. She directed Grace's attention to the glittering diamond marriage band on the finger of her left hand. "This is essential. And beware the prenup, the deal before you get it."

  "You make it sound like a sales agreement."

  "Now you're getting to the heart of the deal. Especially if he's got kids. They'll guilt him into a tough prenup. Fight it. My advice ... get him while he's hottest."

  "Is this stuff relevant to me? Really, Mrs. Burns. Never."

  "Never say never."

  Speechless, Grace turned to the door with a heavy heart.

  "Last word of wisdom, Grace," Mrs. Burns said. "Never move in before..."

  "Before what?"

  She lifted her left hand again.

  "This," Mrs. Burns said. "Ring around your finger."

  "Screw you," Grace muttered.

  This woman is off the wall, she thought, slamming the door after her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Her daily routine disturbed by these incredible experiences, Grace felt disoriented and rootless. She had no idea how she was going to spend the rest of the day, no less the rest of her life. She headed back to her apartment for no apparent reason except that that was the only destination that offered a haven.

  She lived in Palm Tropics, a small garden apartment community a few blocks south of the Tamiami Trail built sometime during the bucolic fifties. She shared a one-bedroom apartment with Jackie, who slept on a studio couch in the living room.

  It wasn't exactly what she preferred as the perfect living environment for raising a teenage daughter, but she lived with the sense, despite her daughter's daily harangues, that all this hardship was merely a passing phase. Unfortunately, after five years of living in this place, the hope of imminent escape had become a cruel illusion. Jackie was exactly right: The place was a dump.

  The management company prided itself on its maintenance performance, the result being that the plumbing and kitchen fixtures were very workable and, as a consequence, very unmodern, and the vomit-green-painted stucco made the building rows look like World War I army barracks.

  Grace referred to the project as "shabby genteel," which took the sting out of the inescapable fact that this was a place for the downwardly mobile, of which she was a fellow traveler. Especially now. Still, she refused to allow herself to brood, fearful that overanalyzing her present condition would lead to depression in all its many facets.

  Call it lousy luck, she told herself, which sounded a lot better than a squandered life. Besides, thirty-eight was still young in this land of the blue hair, Social Security checks and Medicare. Maybe it was time to go back to Baltimore. It was a thought that called her to attention. She hated Baltimore and the rigid little lives her father and mother had lived. Besides, there was nothing in Baltimore for her now or ever again. The image of her father, Carmine the barber, still living there as a widower in the rooms above the shop, completed the circle of dread. Baltimore was dead. She had escaped along with many of her childhood friends. Escaped to where?

  She brushed off her long-term problem and concentrated on her immediate dilemma, which was to fill up that time normally devoted to her job. She ticked off possibilities. There was always a movie, but they didn't open until later. Or the beach, but that meant exposure to the enemy, the sun.

  An errant fantasy of hitting South Beach in Miami and picking up a young hard body surfaced, but briefly. The risk of humiliation or worse, rejection, would be too much to bear. There were bars, some probably just opening, but the prospect of both lonely drinking and the possibility of small talk and flirtatious innuendo made her nauseous. There was always the comfort of food, but events had demolished her appetite, and she had no desire to threaten one of her last remaining assets, her figure.

  She pulled into her parking space and sat for a moment in the car, unable to gather the energy to emerge. On a weekday, with most of the residents off to work, the area seemed desolate. Most of the cars were gone. She noted a motorcycle parked nearby that she had never seen before. At least on Sundays, she had the sense that she was not alone, that others shared her fate.

  Fighting off a wave of self-pity, she got out of the car and let herself into her apartment. But she had barely shut the door behind her when she heard odd sounds emanating from her bedroom. Frightened, she held herself still, feeling the pounding of her heart against her rib cage.

  But fear quickly turned to shock and anger as she observed what was happening. Jackie was strenuously engaged in a pretzel-like sexual escapade with a young hard body with a shiny shaved head. Their clothes were strewn about the room, testifying to their abandon.

  They were so focused on their activity that they did not respond to her presence, and since she was too stunned to announce herself she was forced to witness more of this sexual theater than she might have wished.

  "Oh, no!"

  It was Jackie herself who sounded the alarm and began a panicky extrication of the young man's firm embrace. The sight of a glistening naked male penis emerging from the sex of her daughter finally broke the spell of paralysis, and Grace sprung into action.

  She grabbed the young man by his ear and pulled him screeching from the bed as Jackie escaped into the bathroom. In an effort to free himself, the young man punched her in the stomach, blasting the air out of her. She doubled up in pain and fell to her knees.

  "You were killin' me, lady," he cried. "Bet you're her mama, right?"

  Grace nodded, unable to find her voice. She looked up at him, suffering the indignity of watching him pull on his pants.

  "Hell, we was only balling."

  Grace's breath came back finally, but she could only shake her head in despair. On her knees, barely able to accept the reality of what she had witnessed, she felt a profound loss of dignity, a sense of acute degradation.

  "Where's the harm in that?" the young man continued, tightening his belt. She noted that his large silver belt buckle sported a raised black swastika. Only when he turned slightly did she see the leather sheath that hung on the belt. In it she could see the handle of a knife, also emblazoned with a swastika. He must have seen her look of fear. Apparently to enjoy it further, he pulled the monster
out of its sheath, brandishing it, making circles in the air.

  She was too angry for tears, and the image of the young man who stood above her playing with this terrible weapon only increased her desolation. He was scruffy, unkempt, with recently shaved head scarred with razor nicks. His body was tightly muscled and slender, and he observed her through small, intense, angry eyes, half hidden behind high cheekbones. He was hardly from the world Jackie claimed to aspire to enter. Smiling crookedly, he grabbed his crotch, a conspicuous bundle in his tight jeans.

  "Got some left, Mama. Want some?"

  "Get the hell out of here," she cried to the young man, staggering to her feet, finally finding her strength. As she watched him, she noted an odd tattoo crawling across a muscled arm, a dagger, not unlike the one that hung from his belt, complete with swastika and encircled by a coiled snake and the words death before dishonor. The illustration seemed even more intimidating than the real thing, and she felt a shiver of fear ratchet up her spine.

  She watched him slide into a torn T-shirt, over which he put on a black leather jacket festooned with metal rings on which hung silver swastikas. He clumped around in high-heeled white lizard-skin cowboy boots.

  "I could send you right to heaven, Mama. Just like Jackie. Man, you got the hottest little lady in South Florida."

  "Get out of here, you pig," Grace shouted shakily, trying to stare down the arrogant expression of disdain on the young man's face. Dressed now, his lips formed in a cocky smile.

  "Pig you say," the young man said, turning to the closed bathroom door. "Hey, Jackie, your mama thinks I'm a pig." He turned again to Grace. "Hell, you got that right. I been porkin' your daughter." He let out a high-pitched laugh.

  "Just leave, please," Grace snapped.

  The young man shrugged, then opened his hands palm upward.

  "Not like I raped her. Other way around, Mama. Little girl of yours goes for the meat." He cupped his crotch again.