Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  "He said he's a driver and sees lots of strangers in a day. Says he's vulnerable to all kinds of savage attacks, including rape. Says the condoms are his protection against AIDS, which proves how much he loves me and the kids."

  "And you believe that crap?" the woman doing the nails asked.

  "Believe him? You think I'm stupid? But I told him I believed him and thought he had a good idea. I said I was going to carry them, too. Just in case."

  "And do you?" the woman doing the pedicure asked.

  "Always," Maggie said. "A half dozen. My husband counts them sometimes."

  "What if he finds one missing?" the woman in the next chair asked.

  "He did."

  "And what did you tell him?"

  "I told him I was attacked and had to protect myself," Maggie said, giggling.

  "And he believed you?"

  "He had to. It supported his story."

  The woman squealed with laughter.

  "Basically, men are idiots," Millicent Farmer said. "All their brains are in their dicks."

  "So what are your plans now, Mrs. Farmer?" Mary Jones asked.

  "I'll probably stay in Palm. Hell, I got the name, the club memberships ... oh, that was part of the deal. Mrs. George Farmer, that's me. I've been dating like mad, strictly sport trolling. I haven't found my next fish yet. But I will. Can't be too rich or too thin."

  Grace searched deep inside herself for the truth of her reaction to this woman. Did she envy her? Studying her, sitting there, reveling in her importance, satisfied that she was making an enormous impression on every woman in the room, Grace marveled at her cool amorality. What did the means matter? She had ten million dollars in her smooth, polished little mitts.

  This woman had no qualms, no second thoughts, no regrets. She reveled in her dishonesty, enjoyed the lies, the conspiring, the whole squalid routine. Grace felt sickened by the idea that she had entertained doing a variation of pretty much the same thing. Was she that crass, that unfeeling?

  It struck her, too, that she might have subconsciously used Jackie to force the issue, tempted her so that Grace could terminate her effort to capture Mr. Big Bucks on the grounds that it would further corrupt her daughter. But even that theory didn't erase the idea that she had gone into battle ill equipped materially and psychologically.

  She observed Millicent Farmer sitting on her throne, being ministered to by sycophants who laughed uproariously in the expected places, their attitude and demeanor geared to their tip expectations. It's the tips, dummy.

  Was Grace any better than any of them? At least Millicent had been amply rewarded for her dishonesty. And she probably had left Georgie none the worse for wear. Grace wished there was more Millicent in her; more brashness, more boldness, more shrewdness, more hypocrisy, more cynicism. Her talents were paltry in this regard, Grace acknowledged. Maybe she was genetically programmed to wither away on the bottom rung of the ladder.

  Or she was powerless to rise up against the ingrained, old-fashioned value system of her upbringing, a system bounded by Jesus, God, catechism, confessions, heaven and hell. However uneducated her parents were, they did convey to her the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, lies and truth. Under that system virtue and honesty earned their rewards in life, no less than the hereafter. Maybe such conditioning was impossible to get rid of, like a second skin.

  She watched the dynamic of power, the women sucking up to Millicent Farmer perched on her throne, dispensing wisdom and the favor of her witty confidences, while the impotent Grace Sorentino stood by, a silent, powerless observer, unable to control anything in her life, anything, not even her own daughter.

  "I have a question, Mrs. Farmer," Grace said suddenly. She felt a hot flush cover her neck and her chest.

  "Shoot," Millicent said. "I'm an open book."

  "How did you feel ... I mean..." She looked toward Mary Jones, who was smiling amiably. "Living with this guy. All that time, knowing you were out to ... you know."

  She felt herself faltering, losing courage. Again she looked toward Mary Jones. Her smile of amiability had disappeared. She looked downright hostile.

  "Fuck him over, right?" Millicent said.

  "You look at it from that point of view ... it's like ... I mean, you had no feelings for the guy...."

  "Feelings?" She emitted a high, cackling laugh. "Feelings? That'll fuck you up every time. You can't have feelings. This is business. Business and feelings just don't go together."

  "But doesn't that make you like a ... like a..." She paused, swallowing hard. "A high-priced hooker?" Grace said, instantly regretting the remark.

  "Hey, Mary," Millicent said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "who is this little Miss Goody Two-shoes you got there?" She turned to Grace.

  "I'm sure she didn't mean it like it sounded," Mary Jones said, shooting an angry look at Grace.

  "Hookers never get the ring, asshole," Millicent said, directing her remark to Grace. She studied her from head to toe. "I see you're not wearing one. Problem with you, lady, you aim your cunt too low. But then, that's where it probably belongs."

  "I guess that's an insult," Grace said, shrugging, knowing, at that moment, that her job with Mary Jones was over.

  "You got that right, puss. I got enough fuck-you money to say it. Which I do to you. Fuck you." She turned to Mary Jones. "What do you need this little shit around for anyway?"

  Mary Jones pursed her lips, shrugged and said nothing.

  After Millicent Farmer, properly and expensively coiffured and stroked, left the store, Grace turned to Mary Jones.

  "I guess I'm over."

  "You pissed her off. You should have kept your lip buttoned. You're right, you blew it."

  "She's still no better than a hooker, Mary," Grace said.

  "Maybe so. Not for us peons to judge. Hookers or not, they're good customers, Grace. They know how to spend it and they tip good. They come here to be butt-kissed and worshipped, never contradicted. Get it?"

  "I got it."

  "Nice knowing you."

  That night, lying in bed, she realized how much it bothered her to be bereft, to be a loser in the game of life. She felt herself gliding into a swamp of self-pity. Somehow, hours into the night, she slipped into a deep sleep. But not before she made a fervent wish that she would miraculously awake a changed woman, devoid of conscience and guilt, dancing beside the flaming pyre of that old value system.

  Even after she had hung up from Sam's call she could not be sure she had the guts to carry the ploy forward, but she knew that blind fate had miraculously given her one more chance to find out.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  From the indifference he detected in her voice on the telephone, Sam concluded that Grace Sorentino, for whatever reason, had abandoned the idea of disposing of Anne's clothing. He decided not to brood about it. He would make other arrangements.

  He was already beginning to feel the first faint signs of the healing process. He still dwelled on Anne's absence in his life. The spirit of her presence still permeated the house. His mind had not quite accepted the idea that her voice was forever silent, and there were moments when he was certain he had heard her speak, heard her laughter or the sound of her footsteps walking through the room or coming up the stairs.

  Even Marilyn's sudden inexplicable bark, sometimes in the middle of the night, told him that she, too, sensed her presence and might have believed she heard Anne's voice.

  His other senses also reacted in odd ways. There were moments when he was absolutely certain he had just seen her turn a corner, not a full-bodied view, but the vision of a tiny wisp of her skirt or dressing gown. Reaching that place, he was certain he could smell the familiar scent of her perfume.

  At night, asleep, he was awakened abruptly on more than one occasion by her touch. That, too, was familiar, since she often touched him if he snored too loud at night, a gentle prod to break the rhythm of his breathing.

  He supposed that such experiences were common
to people who had lost a loved one, and he did not think of them as manifestations of the supernatural. He was too logical, pragmatic and earthbound to believe in ghosts, reincarnation, out-of-body experiences or anything remotely connected with the so-called occult.

  He was hardly surprised that the old nightmare of her infidelity had returned, although it came less frequently than it had when Anne was alive. It was a bizarre, repetitive scenario in which she was blatantly insulting and cursing him while having sex with a young stranger. The sense of intimidation was so intense after these dreams that, at times, he would awaken in a state of terrible anger, thirsting for revenge, his heart pounding, his body soaked with perspiration.

  He had never told Anne about this dream, except to say that he had hysterical anxiety dreams in which she was prominently featured.

  "I thought I was losing you," he explained when she had inquired about the dream.

  "Well, here I am," she would reply, kissing him on the forehead.

  He had been walking for an hour, his usual halfway point. Marilyn loped along beside him, occasionally dashing off course in a futile attempt to catch a sandpiper whose survival skills were based on the speed of its tiny toothpick legs.

  He started the return journey heading toward his house. The sun had risen to an angle that gave him a clearer view into the distance, where he saw a moving figure heading in his direction.

  Grace!

  There was nothing to indicate that it was she except his intuition. He stepped up his pace, almost to a jog. Marilyn surged ahead, as if the sudden change of pace was a signal for rough play.

  As he drew closer, he saw the outlines of a woman, but it wasn't enough to validate his intuition. Then he saw her clearly, and his expectations were not disappointed. She was barefoot, wearing a long T-shirt over what he assumed was a bathing suit. Her black hair, which she wore long, was braided in the rear. She wore eyeliner, which seemed to frame her hazel eyes, greener now, enhanced by the sunlight and the color of the ocean. It surprised him that he noticed these details.

  She smiled as she came closer, showing even white teeth. Marilyn started to jump on, but Sam called her back. The dog hesitated, then turned and came back to him. He grabbed her collar and held her.

  "It seemed like a nice day for a walk and a swim," she said, with a glance at Marilyn.

  He released her and gave her the "sit" command. Marilyn, none too happy, obeyed.

  "Yes, it is," Sam said, surprised at his sense of elation at seeing her. "I had just about decided you weren't going to show."

  "I wasn't sure myself," Grace said.

  "You sounded ... not very interested."

  "Well, here I am."

  They headed back toward the house, walking slowly. Sam snapped his fingers and Marilyn shot forward; then, looking back, slowed her pace and began chasing the sandpipers along the shore.

  "I suppose it was because I had just gotten up. I'm always foggy in the morning."

  "Are you?" He felt his mind drifting, then coming back. "Anne was a little like that in the morning. She was more of an evening person than a morning person."

  "Yes. Apparently so ... I mean, I could tell from her clothes. Lots of gowns and cocktail dresses. I figured her for a night person."

  "She sure loved a party."

  "And you, Sam? Did you?"

  "Most were interesting. A few were boring. It was like playing roulette. We lucked out more than most. Anne saw to that. She had great instincts when it came to people, and she protected me from the idiots, of which there are many in this town. Among other things, I'll miss the way she organized my life."

  "I wish someone would organize mine," Grace said. It struck him as an incongruous remark, but he let it pass.

  "Anyway," he said, "I'm glad you came. I wanted to call earlier. It bugged me that I might have said something that put you off."

  "I should have contacted you," Grace said. "I'm sorry. Anyway, I've finished my commitment. Now I'll be able to devote my time to tackling the job of disposing of Anne's clothes.... That is, if you haven't made other arrangements."

  "Nearly did," Sam said.

  "I'm glad you didn't. It would have bothered me ... not keeping that promise to Anne."

  "Well, then, I'm glad I took the bull by the horns and called you."

  "So am I."

  Somehow, he felt that he required more of an explanation for her absence, but he let it pass. They walked for a while, then Sam stopped, looked out to sea and contemplated the horizon.

  "Looking out there gives you the illusion that life is unending, an infinity. It's a damned lie, of course."

  "Would you want to live forever, Sam?"

  "Maybe. If everyone else did. I'd hate to have to do it by myself. Contemplating an endless life of been-there, done-that. Watching friends and loved ones expire. I don't think I could cope with this kind of grief over and over again."

  "Who knows?" Grace said. "You might get used to it. Discover that people are interchangeable."

  "I doubt it and they're not."

  "You're probably right. I guess I'm being insensitive, considering what you're going through."

  "I'm afraid it's not exclusive to me, Grace. When you get right down to it, loss is a pain in the butt. And it can really discombobulate your sense of reality."

  "I don't understand."

  "It was a sort of ritual for me to bring Anne a cup of coffee in the morning. I usually got up before her. Carmen would make me breakfast, then I would take a cup of coffee upstairs for Anne, put it on the table beside the bed." He shook his head. "Do you know, I actually did that two days ago? Habits sure die hard."

  "My husband never did that for me. I envy you your great marriage, Sam."

  "We had that. Oh, I traveled a great deal for business, although not in the last few years. Maybe absence is good for a marriage. Puts you on your mettle."

  They were standing at the water's edge, the foam lapping around their toes.

  "You were trusted, Sam. That's part of it."

  He felt an inner gulp, imagining he heard the sucking sound. So she, too, had bought the concept of his being the faithful husband. He wished he could tell her the truth. I cheated, he wanted to say, enjoyed it, reveled in it, but, above all, I loved Anne and was faithful to her in my heart. Good God, he thought, what skewered reasoning. And yet he knew it to be the truth.

  "Did you trust your husband, Grace?"

  "Afraid not."

  "Too bad. I trusted Anne. And she trusted me," Sam said. He grew reflective, and in the long silence he pondered the idea of trust. It was an irony that in business he was above reproach. His word was his bond. In his marriage, trust had a different definition. He had been scrupulously evasive, which meant that honesty was selective. Dishonesty evaded was, he had once decided in a convoluted definition, a form of honesty.

  "So you didn't trust your husband?" he asked suddenly, realizing that his ruminations had caused him to be silent for a longer period of time than seemed polite. "Why not?"

  "My husband was a man in the wrong situation, and therefore his entire life with me was a lie. I don't think he could help himself."

  "Was he unfaithful?" Sam asked, confused by her answer. He watched her purse her lips.

  She grew hesitant, then turned away for a moment. Finally she spoke. "Always. My husband was a homosexual."

  "Actively unfaithful?" Sam asked.

  "I never knew for sure. But I assume so. He tried, I think, to be straight. Managed to fake it. In the end, he left me for a man."

  "That must have been a shocker."

  Again, she hesitated.

  "It was devastating. Made even worse by the fact that I never had a clue."

  "He must have been very good at keeping his secret."

  "A master."

  "How long since you were ... well ... since you split?"

  "Twelve years. Imagine that. Jackie, my daughter, was four."

  "At least he did the right thing by you, left you
financially independent."

  "Did I mention that? Oh, yes. He did the right thing. We've managed very well."

  "From just a short time knowing you, I'd say that was pretty predictable," Sam said.

  It wasn't flattery. He attributed it to insight. His business insight had always been acute. His greatest gift, he had discovered, was accurately reading other people.

  "And since your divorce..."

  She looked at him, smiled and caught his meaning.

  "Slim pickings, Sam. No hits. No runs. Lots of errors."

  His eyes roamed over her face and what he could see of her figure under the T-shirt.

  "That's hard to believe."

  "Believe it."

  "Am I out of line, asking you these questions?" His own curiosity surprised him.

  "I'm an open book, Sam. Ask me anything."

  Her candor amazed him. "Don't you hold anything back?" he asked, looking at her archly.

  "So far you haven't asked me any hard questions."

  "Like what, for example?"

  "Now there is a hard question, Sam."

  There was another long silence between them, until Sam said, "You haven't asked me many questions, Grace, soft or hard. Or maybe you don't think I'm that interesting, someone not worth asking about."

  "Now you're fishing for compliments."

  "From you, I am."

  "From me? Do you really need compliments from me, Sam?"

  "Now there's an easy question. Yes, I do. That would be very nice."

  "Okay, then. I think you're quite a guy."

  "Damning with faint praise," Sam chuckled. He was enjoying the banter. She was keeping him on his toes.

  "I practically just met you, Sam. It takes a while to know how a person really is."

  "Sometimes it's quick." He snapped his fingers. "A feeling, a gut reaction. That feeling can never be captured in a résumé. I've hired people based on that feeling, ignoring references and experience. And so far I haven't been disappointed."

  "And I hope you never will be," Grace said.

  Not in your case,he wanted to say, but held off. Was that a sign that he was still unsure about her?

  "You're a very nice person, Grace," he said, meaning it, maybe meaning more. Her presence was, above all, comforting.