Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  Let she who was without sin cast the first stone. What she really was, was a hunter stalking filthy lucre, out there armed only with a tight pussy, a lying heart and an educated tongue in more ways than one. Survival was a helluva lot more important than maintaining idealogical certitude and sisterhood loyalty.

  How could she fully argue that point without outlining all the true, dreary facts of her own life? It was becoming increasingly obvious that this man was far above her in knowledge and intellect. He had also lived with a woman for four decades who was certainly equal to him in brainpower. A Phi Beta Kappa, no less.

  She was hardly a match for this man. What had she to offer that would fill the gap of his beloved Anne? Her own inventory of her charms had been shallow indeed. She had been depending on her sexuality, as if she would provide a gift from God for an aging man. What a stupid idea she was pursuing. All right, she had cleverly insinuated herself into this man's company, but eventually he would find her out, would discover that she was a shallow, lying, grasping, phony bitch whose first priority was to putter in his money pot.

  Was she too hard on herself? Was she really the woman she had just described? Did she really have such evil intentions? Yes, she did. It troubled her to see herself in this light.

  She realized suddenly that she had become lost in her own thoughts. Her attention had drifted and she had been silent for a long time.

  "You seemed far away," Sam said. Apparently, he had been studying her.

  "I was just thinking of all the things I still have to do today," she said. Another lie.

  "You've been very polite, Grace."

  "Polite?"

  "Taking the time to keep me company. You've helped, too, I might add."

  He looked at her and smiled. She averted her eyes, as if they would reveal her shame. She had no business in this place.

  At that moment, she heard a telephone ring in the kitchen, then Carmen's voice.

  "Bruce," she said.

  "My son the lawyer. I suppose I'll have to take that."

  He stood up and held out his hand. She took it and noted that it felt smooth and strong. Had it lingered more than was expected? She wasn't sure.

  "I've kept you long enough," he said, then started to leave the room. Suddenly he turned, looked at her and waved his finger. "If you have the time ... tomorrow you can walk the beach with me. Bring a suit. And Marilyn better behave."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  As she drove home, she became increasingly depressed. How could she possibly survive in this tangle of lies? The image she had projected was a long way from what she really was. A graduate of Johns Hopkins, a daughter who wanted to go to Princeton and study medicine, a resident of a swanky condominium, a friend and peer of his late wife. And worst of all, making Jason a lawyer. Jason had barely gotten through high school.

  She had been tense and uncomfortable all through lunch, and the effort of keeping her wits about herself and concocting logical answers, mostly lies, had exhausted her. Her optimism about pulling this off was fading.

  She was also finding it difficult keeping her eye on the ball, which, in this case, was Sam's money. There was no escaping that motive. Certainly, money was at the root of most, if not all, her problems. There was no point in lying to herself. This ploy was about money. Money, money, money. But the human factor kept intruding, shifting her focus, revealing her own vulnerabilities.

  Reaching the goals outlined by Mrs. Burns, at this juncture, seemed impossible. Ring around your finger! No way. She had better step back and look for a more modest possibility, ratchet her goals downward where they belonged.

  Sam would be a fool to marry her. At best, he might offer her a brief affair, and even that was a dicey possibility. If he knew the truth about her, he would quickly show her the door. And yet he was an attractive man. She held that thought for a moment, then, sensing its danger, she brushed it aside. Such ideas were counterproductive. Why settle when you could go for the whole enchilada? She would have to guard herself against defeatism.

  Hadn't she succeeded, through lies and subterfuge, in worming her way, ever so slightly, into his life? Nevertheless she felt uncertain. It was scary, and she was uneasy about going on with this effort, convinced that she was getting way over her head.

  She had no doubt that Anne's friends were waiting for the appropriate moment to throw a woman Sam's way as a possible mate. They would be dipping into an entirely different gene pool. Widows would be the meat of choice, some Jewish, some, like Anne, not, bejeweled and dressed to the nines, with the experience and expertise to handle this multimillionaire who was used to living with a beautiful woman with a great education and a fine mind.

  They would fuck him blind, even if they had never got off in their lives. Squirm and scream and swallow and lie like hell. Sam, oh Sam, the earth is going to move for you whether you like it or not. She felt suddenly jealous. She was there first, she told herself.

  By the time she got back to her apartment, she was nursing the wounds of her inadequacy. Those other women understood his lifestyle, his mind, his psyche and his world. Perhaps even his sexual needs, which could be far different than what she had assumed. She would be no competition. Maybe it was time to back off. The idea of retreat and surrender was beginning to take hold in her mind.

  She unloaded the car and carried armfuls of clothing into the apartment. It was unsafe to leave such valuable things outside all night.

  It took her three trips to carry the clothes inside. There she sorted the various items and prepared them for a pickup. She stored some in what little space was left in her and Jackie's closets. The rest was scattered in batches around the place.

  She called the Jewish Welfare League and told the nice lady who answered that she had clothing to donate that she wanted picked up first thing tomorrow morning. The nice lady thanked her and confirmed that a truck would be by early the next day.

  Despite the doubts she held about the possibilities of snaring Sam Goodwin as a husband, she did feel good about disposing of Anne Goodwin's clothes for charitable purposes. There was something cleansing in the act. She was doing a good deed.

  Jackie had come home early and left her a note telling her that she was going to stay on in school for tutoring, after which she would go on to her movie cashier's job.

  Don't wait supper for me, Mom, the note read. Although they were going through a rocky time together, Jackie was still considerate about not worrying her mother when there was a blip in her schedule. And the scrawled message had ended on a positive note: Love, Jackie.

  She slapped a frozen dinner into the microwave and put on the television set. She cycled through the remote without finding anything of interest, finally shutting the TV off. Her thoughts seemed uprooted, her concentration unfocused. When the food was done she discovered she had no appetite. She knew she was losing her courage and it agitated her. Unable to sleep, she paced the small apartment, tried the television again, then sat uncomprehending through some sitcoms.

  Jackie came in around ten. As expected, she was startled by the sight of the clothes.

  "I'm doing charity work," Grace explained. "There'll be a pickup tomorrow morning." She hadn't expected it to end there but hadn't adequately prepared a response.

  Jackie opened the closet. "You'd think you were opening a store. Where did they come from?"

  "From the relatives of people who died."

  It wasn't quite the truth, Grace realized, but it was close enough.

  "You mean these clothes belong to dead people?" Jackie asked, cocking her head, waiting for an answer.

  "The point is that they don't belong to them anymore and the relatives want them disposed of. Giving them to charity is a wonderful gesture."

  Jackie began to go through the clothes with rising interest.

  "This is expensive stuff, Mom. Look at these labels. Bill Blass, Geoffrey Beane, Sonia Rykiel. You know what these are worth?"

  "I hadn't noticed," Grace said. "Besides, it doesn'
t matter. They're for people who are poor."

  "The poor are getting this? You're kidding?"

  She hadn't calculated on Jackie's intense interest. She continued to look through the clothes, holding up particular outfits against her body and studying them in the mirror.

  Why don't you just put them down, dear? They're not for you."

  "Are you getting paid to do this, Mom?"

  "Not exactly."

  "What does that mean? Are you or aren't you?"

  At that moment she knew she had to bend the truth even further.

  "It's something to do while I'm looking for a job. Maybe if I did something for other people ... well, it might come back to us. Give us some luck."

  Jackie shook her head and stared at her, perplexed.

  "You just go into the houses of dead people and collect their old clothes?" Jackie asked. "I never heard of such a thing."

  "Whatever the family doesn't want is usually given away. I'm facilitating that. Sometimes it's too painful for a loved one to get rid of."

  Grace sensed that her explanation was floundering. As she spoke, Jackie removed her outer garments and, wearing her panties and brassiere, began to try on outfits she fancied.

  "I told you, they're not for you, Jackie. They're for charity."

  "I'm just trying them on, Mom."

  "Well, don't get too attached to them."

  "Six," she said. "That's exactly my size."

  She had put on a Sonia Rykiel skirt and an Yves St. Laurent blouse. She looked great in the outfit.

  "Too old for you, Jackie," she said, noting her daughter's expression of admiration as she modeled in front of the mirror.

  "You think so? This is great stuff. Look at the designers—Lagerfeld, Valentino, Givenchy. Mom, this is a gold mine."

  "I don't think you understand, young lady. These aren't for us. They're for charity. Why must I keep repeating myself?"

  "Are they counted? I mean, does somebody check on it?"

  "That's not an issue, Jackie. They're earmarked for poor people. And that's where they're going."

  "We're poor, Mom," Jackie said, snickering.

  "You know what I mean."

  "Is there more where this came from?"

  "That's beside the point."

  "That is the point, Mom."

  Jackie took off the outfit she was wearing and tried on another.

  "I look great in these, Mom."

  "Don't even think it," Grace said.

  "Who's gonna know?" Jackie said, studying her mother's face.

  "I will."

  "Don't be an idiot, Mom. If nobody but you knows ... I have an even better idea. You know those places where you buy secondhand clothes? Heck, you just bought stuff there. Mostly they take them on consignment. These are all designer clothes. I'll bet they buy them outright. They'll go like hotcakes. Why don't..."

  "I won't listen to this," Grace cried.

  "Be practical, Mom. You're out of work. We need the extra money. I'm sick and tired of doing without."

  "So am I. But the answer is no. I've made a commitment and have given my word, and I intend to do the honorable thing."

  "Honorable?"

  Jackie shook her head.

  "You're as dumb as Dad," she sneered. "Here we are with the money shorts. Your unemployment checks will probably barely cover us. Stop living in a dream world. This family is broke. It's time you faced reality, Mom. Nobody gives a shit about us."

  "I don't intend to stand here and be lectured to by a greedy adolescent. I'm your mother, Jackie."

  "Dammit. And there I was begging you to buy me that Donna Karan outfit. Some of this stuff is great, Mom. What I don't wear, you can sell. Maybe some of these will fit you if you take them out. Use your head, Mom." Jackie pouted into the mirror. "Sometimes I feel like I'm the mother and you're the daughter."

  "It's stealing."

  "You're making me want to barf. Who from? Dead people. How will they know?"

  "It's wrong. I won't have it."

  "You know what I think?" Jackie said. "You're too scared, too afraid to take risks. Mom, this is money for us. Who do you think we are, Mom? We're the working poor, the people at the bottom. We're the ones who always get shafted. Here's a golden opportunity to do something for ourselves for a change."

  Grace's stomach knotted as she watched her daughter studying her face in the mirror, waiting for a reaction.

  "What am I bringing up here?" Grace said, her anger churning inside her.

  "Get real, Mom. Stop being a loser."

  "Bringing this stuff here was definitely not a very good idea," Grace muttered, thinking that maybe this business with Sam Goodwin was not a very good idea either. This was a bad sign. Her destiny seemed to be taking a permanent detour.

  "I can't believe this," Jackie said. She turned and looked directly into Grace's face. "You're an idiot, Mom," she shouted. "That's why you'll never make it. Never. You'll always be nothing."

  "That's it. Take those things off immediately. They do not belong to you. I gave him ... gave them my word." She forced herself to remain calm. Pausing for a moment, she cleared her throat. "The Jewish League is picking up these clothes early tomorrow."

  "The Jewish League?" Jackie exploded. "This stuff is for Jews?"

  "I promised..."

  "Shit, Mom," Jackie persisted. "Most Jews are filthy rich. They don't need these clothes. Don't you get it? They've got so much they're giving them away."

  "Case closed," Grace said, trying to regain some authority over her daughter.

  "If I know Jews, they'll probably be selling them anyway."

  Grace shook her head in despair. She had always taught tolerance for others, live and let live. It was one of the reasons she had left Baltimore and its tribal ways, its ghetto mentality. Italians stuck with Italians. Poles with Poles. Jews with Jews. Blacks with blacks. Not to think like that was a measure of her inner esteem. She was not a prejudiced person, not a bigot. Suddenly, a wave of fear engulfed her. Would Jackie's attitude be another obstacle to face with Sam Goodwin, Sam the Jew?

  "Where do you pick up this stuff?" she sighed.

  "I'm stating facts."

  "Facts?" Revelation came suddenly. This time it was Grace who exploded. "Its that idiot horror with the motorcycle. He's brainwashing you, teaching you to hate. You're becoming a bigot like that moron, that's what's happening to you. I think it's disgusting."

  Staring her down, Jackie looked at her as an adult mocking a child.

  "What's disgusting is that you don't face reality. I don't care what you say, Jews are pigs. As for us, we're at the bottom of the barrel, Mom. So what if we rip off some rich kikes. Who will know?"

  "I refuse to be that hateful. What's got into you? Don't you have a mind of your own?"

  "Damned straight I have. Where the hell is your mind? You haven't got a clue. Look around you. See the way you live. Then take a look at how the Jews live...."

  "Stop lecturing me," Grace cried. "This is for charity. Period."

  "You're so naive, Mom."

  "Maybe so. But I gave my word...."

  "Your word?"

  "People do that. People who still have a shred of integrity. Some of us are still ... honorable."

  "Honorable. Holy shit. Like you, huh, Mom? Well, I have a question to ask: Where has all that honorable stuff got you so far? I'll tell you where: in the toilet."

  Grace was too infuriated to continue. She decided to retreat, end the confrontation, which was getting ugly. "Just take those damned things off and hang them up again. The charity people are coming early to collect them."

  Mother and daughter exchanged angry glances; then Grace turned, went into the bedroom and slammed the door. Fuming with frustration and anger, she lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Jackie was getting increasingly difficult to handle, and Grace's role as mentor and mother was slipping away.

  Worse, aside from this business about Jewish people, which was awful, she had stated a partial
truth. Perhaps it was naive to have integrity, to be honorable. It stood for honesty and decency and keeping one's word and doing the right thing. Unfortunately, Jackie's argument was compelling. Being honorable had, indeed, gotten her nowhere. Besides, wasn't she lacking integrity in lying to Sam? What was one more packet of lies?

  She knew she was living a paradox, being honorable on the one hand and being dishonorable on the other. The fact was that she was a goddamned hypocrite. Certainly she wasn't being honorable with Sam Goodwin. Who was she kidding? If she knew about Sam, Jackie would see right through her. All Grace's high-minded preaching would explode in her face.

  It was a subject she wished she could exorcise from her mind. She opened the drawer in the end table next to her bed and took out the bottle of sleeping pills she kept for emergencies. Shaking two into her hand, she gulped them down without water, then lay down and waited for their effect to begin.

  CHAPTER NINE

  She was awakened by a persistent ringing of the front door-buzzer, which pulled her out of a dreamless void. Stumbling to the door, she opened it a crack, surprised that the chain lock had been unlatched. A young black man stood in front of her.

  "Pickup for Jewish Welfare Services," the man said.

  "Oh, yes," she mumbled, still groggy. "Just a moment."

  She returned to the bedroom and put on her terry-cloth robe, then opened the door and let the man inside.

  "Over there..." she began, then stopped abruptly. The pile of clothes on the couch was gone. She looked in the closet. With the exception of two outfits that Jackie had tried on last night, the others were gone as well.

  "I don't know what to say," she muttered, looking at the young man. Her head had cleared instantly and she needed no mental prompting to know what had happened.

  "Is there some mistake?" he asked.

  "Gone. All gone."

  The young man shrugged.

  "Guess there was some mistake."

  "I'm so sorry."

  He seemed puzzled, shrugged again and left the apartment. Seething with anger, she sat down on the couch. Then she spied the note that Jackie had left her on the Formica counter. Grace rose and ripped open a sealed envelope.