Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  "It's your call, Grace," he replied evasively. "I'd like to meet her. She sounds quite wonderful."

  The idea filled her with dread. Even if she coached Jackie in the details of the big lie, she knew that Sam would discover the subterfuge with a few well-aimed questions. Such a meeting would be a disaster.

  "Why not invite her over, Grace?" he asked, in a sudden change of focus, which took her by surprise.

  "She's extraordinarily busy with her schoolwork."

  "On a weekend, then," Sam persisted.

  "Yes," Grace replied. "Might be a great idea."

  She paused for a moment, then winked and smiled, knowing it was pure sham.

  "First, I think I should explain to her what's going on here."

  Considering what she had discovered that morning, was she any worse than Anne?

  "And what exactly is going on here, Grace?" Sam asked playfully, raising himself on his elbow and studying her face.

  "An involvement," Grace said cautiously, putting her hand up to his face, patting his cheek.

  "With a very mature man," Sam said.

  "That again?"

  "It's on my mind, Grace."

  "Well, then, take it off your mind. Maturity is good, Sam. There's a lot to say for experience. Besides, I'm not exactly a spring chicken."

  "You are to me."

  He kissed her on the forehead, then insinuated his arm under her neck until her head rested on the crook of it.

  "We're lovers, aren't we?" Sam asked.

  "I'll buy that," Grace acknowledged. She reached for his hand, grasped it and kissed his fingers. She felt secure and comfortable in his arms, although her mind churned with nascent possibilities.

  Again she contemplated revealing what she knew about Anne. Perhaps in some way such a revelation would have some benefit to her. The evidence remained in the pocketbook that sat on a chaise in the bedroom not ten feet from where they lay. She even considered a new ploy, an accidental discovery. Maybe she would simply tell Sam that she had found the letters on Anne's closet floor, which wouldn't be that far from the truth. She would, of course, have to deny reading them. Another lie. No, she decided, not now, not yet, maybe never.

  "I love you, Grace," Sam whispered.

  "Love?" His assertion, coming when least expected, stunned her. It occurred to her now that they must have deliberately avoided the word, as if it were a dangerous shoal. Even in the throes of sexual ecstasy neither of them had uttered it out loud since, she was certain, the saying of it would somehow diminish its sincerity. Now he had said it. It was an admission that she wanted with all her heart but had dared not hope for. Nor did she expect what followed.

  "Beyond a shadow of a doubt, Grace. I long for you, yearn for you, hunger for you." He paused, kissed her on the cheek and placed one hand on her heart and one on his. It was a gesture she had never experienced before, a kind of oath, she assumed, made to dispel any doubts in her mind. "I swear it. I love you, Grace." He sucked in a deep breath and appeared to have entered a state of deep and demonstrative emotion. "I know I'm playing in a young man's arena. I don't even know how it happened or why. But I'm sure of it. I do love you, my darling. I do."

  He embraced her lengthwise, flesh to flesh, and looked into her eyes, searching, it seemed, for affirmation. His breath tasted sweet and his lips were warm against hers, just touching lightly.

  She felt a wave of giddy elation roll over her. Yet she could not find a touchstone for her own reaction. She was too confused, too overwhelmed and, despite hearing his words and wanting desperately to believe them, she sensed in herself a growing feeling of doubt; not doubt in his assertion, but doubt of her own worthiness.

  Suddenly, a brief phrase entered her thoughts. Beware of what you wish for; it may come true and be more than you bargained for.

  Above all, she wanted to accept his revelation as an indisputable fact. He loves me. The phrase rolled over and over in her mind. Had it come naturally, or was this the result of her blundering but apparently effective manipulation? Accept it, she goaded herself. Run with it. Tell him what you feel.

  She knew he was waiting for her declaration, knew that he was too clever a man to declare himself without having concluded what her own response was likely to be. Certainly she had demonstrated the supposition by her action, by her sexual response, by her body language, by the hundred little special ticks of affection, deep affection that could be interpreted as "love."

  "I seem to have the same symptoms," she said, emphasizing it with the physical pressure of her embrace. She felt him waiting in silence for the ritual words to emerge. "I love you, Sam," she whispered finally. "I love you with all my heart, soul and body." They struck her as clichés, but they were the only time-honored way to articulate her feelings.

  She kissed him long and hard on the lips, reaching down to caress his genitals. His penis had hardened again.

  "I salute you, my sweet love," he whispered.

  "So I observe," Grace said, tracing his smile with the fingers of her free hand.

  "Is such an emotional condition possible for a man over sixty? Well over."

  "Apparently more than you think," Grace replied, caressing him. "As possible for a woman nearing forty."

  She giggled and kissed him again, then moved under him and inserted him.

  "We belong like this," she said.

  "Absolutely," he agreed. Eye to eye, they watched each other.

  "Say it again, Sam," she said, giggling with playfulness about that old movie line.

  "I love you, Grace."

  "Say it again, Sam."

  "I love you, Grace."

  For the first time since they had been intimate she sensed that they were sharing another dimension, beyond the pure pleasure of sexual stimulation and culmination. She felt a bonding process at work, an understanding that what was happening between them was important and enduring. She could not remember ever feeling happier or more joyful.

  "Good God, Sam, I am so happy, so fucking happy," she cried.

  "Say it again, baby."

  "I am so fucking happy."

  Tears welled in her eyes. Yet somewhere in the back of her mind, a nagging thought had begun to emerge. Would this have happened without the lies? She had no doubt about the shared truth between them, the fundamental essence of their genuine feeling for each other. Would it have happened naturally, without deliberate embellishment? Had the crooked means justified this honest end?

  They began moving in tandem, her pelvis circling as her sex tightened around his until they reached a simultaneous orgasm. No instructions were needed now. No words. Their bodies melted into each other, in perfect rhythm.

  In the languor that followed she waited through the silence for what she believed would be the next phase of his revelation, the plan for their future. They had discussed loving and need. That bridge had been crossed. What she wanted now was some practical assurance of permanency. Wasn't that supposed to happen next? Or was she being naïve?

  It did not come, not through the later walk along the beach, not during lunch or their afternoon lovemaking, not through their romantic candlelit dinner. Perhaps, she reasoned, their joint declaration of love had an odd silencing effect on him, on both of them, as if any further discussion beyond their feelings about each other was moot. Still she waited for his declaration. Surely it was running through his mind. Surely.

  The day slipped by in a euphoric haze. But as they stood sipping champagne on the back patio, watching the moon and stars throw spangles on the water, she began to feel a tremor of anxiety. Questions began to nag at her.

  Wasn't it in the natural rhythm of the mating process that commitment followed the affirmation of mutual love? And didn't this joint profession of love, in the case of two unattached lovers, define as its ultimate goal some traditional binding state, some promise of meaningful attachment? If that was the case, she told herself, then he was now supposed to declare himself.

  Why was he holding back? she wondered.
Was such an idea really under consideration by him? How high was it on his list of priorities? No, she had vowed to herself repeatedly, she would never consent to being a mere mistress, whether she lived on or off the premises. Discounting what she had been doing for the past month, she understood that consenting to such a role would sooner or later undervalue her. Ring around the finger; the words echoed in her mind.

  She wanted to be a wife, Mrs. Samuel Goodwin, with all the perks consistent with the role, the same perks that he had afforded to the deceased wife, the faithless Anne. Knowing what she knew, she was ashamed, ashamed for Sam, to see the props of his undeserving Anne worship strewn around the house. Row on row of photographs of her in silver frames scattered in every room, her image elaborately portrayed in three oil paintings, the endless racks and drawers of clothes, these assets of her memory, tangible and intangible.

  Destiny again had intervened to point the way. The Anne he had lived with was a fiction, her life with him a story written in disappearing ink. Grace must think of herself now as a protagonist, an armed warrior in the battle against Anne's memory. It was a tissue of lies, pure bullshit.

  She was well aware of her changed mission, which was to wipe out all visible elements, remnants really, of the old Anne. The idea of eliminating Anne's clothes from the house now had a much higher priority than when it had first been suggested. Before it was a device for meeting Sam by allegedly sparing him the pain of removal. Now it was a first step in a campaign to rid the house of Anne's memory.

  Her growing belligerence surprised her. Was she simply taking out her frustration on the dead Anne, the memory of the dead Anne, because of Sam's unwillingness to speak about further commitment?

  She felt no serenity in the situation, despite her acknowledgment of loving him, which, to her total surprise, felt like the real thing. Now the dilemma for her was whether she had to take the bull by the horns and broach the subject of marriage. But how? Despite her earlier cleverness in insinuating herself into his life, she was frightened. Did he really love her, or the image of herself she had concocted out of thin air, out of desperation?

  Certainly there was no logical explanation for her being in love with him. Was it possible to induce such a feeling based on tangible considerations—his wealth, his character, his sexual performance? If so, it was certainly not in her frame of reference. Wasn't love, the romantic variety she was now experiencing, one of life's eternal mysteries? These were heady thoughts for a poor, not well-educated lady perched on one of the lower rungs of the ladder, looking upward, just another wannabe looking for a way to climb out of the crapper.

  As she looked out to sea, she contemplated the disaster that was waiting to happen. She had, she realized, done the unthinkable, according to the Millicent Farmer gospel. She had gotten emotionally involved, the ultimate no-no.

  It wasn't supposed to happen this way. The lies, as originally conceived, were only to be little white lies, inducements really, tiny falsehoods meant to boost herself in his esteem, a harmless sales device, not anything that might endanger the ultimate objective.

  Maybe, despite her deliberate effort, she hadn't really expected this to happen, not in her heart of hearts. He was, after all, far above her in background, status and intelligence. He was successful, older, presumably wiser, of another religion and background. Against that, what did she have to offer?

  It struck her that maybe, despite his declared feelings, he wasn't buying. So far he had made no further commitment. And if he had? She would be faced with yet another dilemma. How could she possibly explain away the lies? Perhaps she could downgrade them to silly little fictions of no merit or importance, even laugh them away as ridiculous notions, the figment of an overheated imagination.

  Would such explanations fly? she wondered. And the business about the disposal of Anne's clothes, the revelation that it was only a ploy to get to know him. Then further back in the chain of events, the deliberate haunting of funerals to find Mr. Big Bucks.

  Didn't love conquer all? Supersede judgment? She pondered her own reaction if the tables were reversed and he was the one concocting lies, piling lie upon lie about the state of his finances ... that he owned nothing, was in debt over his head, that he was on the verge, or already in bankruptcy, that he was not sixty-four but seventy-four, that he had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, that he had used these lies for the express purpose of getting him through his grief, consoling himself through sex.

  How would she react to those revelations? Not well. It was something she was almost too frightened to contemplate. She was certain his reaction would be explosive. He would surely ban her from his sight, like some stalker who is prevented from coming within a hundred yards of him by court order.

  But then it struck her that, perhaps, if she was clever enough and if she coached Jackie carefully or, better yet, bribed her with Sam's largesse, she might take this tangle of lies with her to the grave, just as Anne had done. How clever the bitch must have been. Grace envied her lying skills. For twenty-five years she had a secret lover to whom, wonder of wonders, she was apparently faithful, leaving poor Sam to fend for himself in the sex department. It continued to infuriate her. Perhaps it was time for him to learn the truth about that two-timing wife of his who had brainwashed him into believing she was little madame wonderful.

  Not yet, she decided. She needed time to consider her next move. She could blow the whole thing between them out of the water. People in such situations were known to shoot the messenger. Hold off, she begged herself. But for how long? Time was running out. She was going broke. Her personal position in practical terms was getting hairy.

  She fully realized now how out of step she was with her generation. Yes, she told herself, she had been overlooked, uninformed, left at the post. Absolute candor would have been the way real women, aware women, stronger women, today's women, would have handled this situation. And let the chips fall where they may.

  She envied them their courage and fearlessness, their arrogance and independence. She was no better than her mother, and all the women who came before her, frightened and dependent. Jackie would tell him to fuck off. Shit or get off the pot. Where would that have got her? She dismissed such a course, not only because of her lack of courage but because she was fearful that Sam would be confused by this new attitude on her part.

  Let it simmer, she told herself, disappointed but optimistic. They went through the ritual of parting for the night with their usual fervor.

  "Tomorrow," he said, holding her in a tight embrace.

  "Tomorrow," she agreed.

  "Same time, same station." He paused, kissed her eyes. "I love you, Grace."

  "And I love you, Sam."

  So, she thought, what the hell are you going to do about it?

  He walked her to her car and she got in, waved and drove away. She was both relieved and regretful at the same time. But as she drove across the bridge, facing the prospect of Palm Court, her regret held sway over her relief. He hadn't offered any option at all. Apparently this arrangement was to stay exactly where it was for the foreseeable future.

  In the face of such inaction, how could she remain silent? She contemplated calling him on the telephone, having it out, maybe telling him the truth about Anne. Hell, she had the evidence right here beside her. She patted her pocketbook. Right here.

  Where do we go from here, Sam? You can't just leave me in limbo. Not now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  As she neared her apartment, Grace grew increasingly depressed. Was this her fate, to live in this dump forever? Had she constructed too noble an image of herself? Too independent? Too self-contained? Was she wrong in not telling him about Anne, Anne the faithless, Anne the cheat and liar?

  By the time she reached Palm Court she was too mentally exhausted to reason logically. Opening the mailbox, she took out the contents, knowing without even looking that they were either overdue bills or junk mail.

  She dreaded any confrontation with Jackie
. Jackie the needy. Jackie the wanter. She let herself into the apartment, noting that she had kept to her schedule of arriving home before her daughter.

  As she slumped in the chair of the darkened living room, she felt a sense of cold remoteness. She wished she were someone else, in some other place. What she craved now was blankness, invisibility. Then she heard a click. The door opened and Jackie came in. Because of the darkness she didn't see Grace and moved quickly to the little kitchen and flicked on the light.

  Throwing her books on the Formica breakfast counter, Jackie grabbed the phone from its wall cradle and dialed. Grace was about to make her presence known but, for some unknown reason, she hesitated, listening instead to her daughter's voice.

  "Mr. Barlow, this is Jackie," Jackie said, uncharacteristically breathless. "You have to make it fifty. Twenty-five is just not enough. And you promised that this would not have anything to do with my job at the theater. Right? It's just a business deal between you and me. Forty? But I needed fifty. How about forty-five?"

  Grace's first instinct was pride; her daughter was asserting herself, standing by her guns. Good girl, Jackie, she thought, listening further.

  "Okay. An hour then. As much as you want. Yes. Everything. That, too. I'll come in an hour before the theater opens on Saturday morning. No. You don't have to worry about my mother finding out. And you can trust me, Mr. Barlow. Yes. I know you are, and I know you'll keep your word about the condoms. No, we don't want any repercussions. Not from your wife or my mother. Just for the fun of it. Believe me, I won't make trouble. But only on Saturday. Anything you want. I'm not exactly a dumb little virgin. Yes, Mr. Barlow. Not a word. I promise." She hung up.

  Grace felt the sensation of a fist squeezing her gut. Her heart suddenly pounded like a sledgehammer in her chest. At first she thought she had mistaken the context. No. It wasn't open to misinterpretation. Jackie was making a deal to prostitute herself. After a brief pause, during which she tried unsuccessfully to get herself under control, Grace erupted.