Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  "Asshole," he cried to his image in the mirror. "Asshole."

  Suddenly tears rolled out of his eyes, his nose reddened. How could this have happened to him? He, who had amassed a fortune. He, who had always been in control of his life. He, who prided himself on his judgment of other people. Suddenly he felt the full burden of his years. Old!

  Bruce was right. He had been vulnerable, an idiot. Worse, a slave to his hardon, a naive, vanity-obsessed moron. How easily he had been duped. God, how sincere she had seemed, how glib. Lying bitch, he cried to his image in the mirror. How dare Anne leave him in this state, alone, a target for a clever, fortune-hunting whore. He was a mark, a patsy, a sucker.

  Bending over the sink, he washed his face and tried to clear his eyes of any signs of tears.

  "Are you all right, Dad?" Bruce said from behind the bathroom door.

  "Of course," he grunted. "Can't a man go to the bathroom without being bothered?"

  "Sorry, Dad."

  He took a last glance in the mirror, feeling some semblance of control return. All right, he had been taken. But, hell, there was no damage done. Yet he had come this close. He lifted his fingers to the mirror to illustrate the margin by which he was rescued. This much, he sighed.

  In an attempt to rationalize his position, he characterized the episode as just what the doctor ordered to rescue him from his grief, the ministrations of a fuck-happy whore. And he certainly had fucked his brains out. That was one way to chase grief. Fuck your brains out. Maybe he could rent Grace out to other old widowers. Need a blow job to chase the blues? Got the goods, the real thing. He laughed at his image in the mirror. It came out as a cackle, but he felt secure enough to join Bruce again.

  "Stomach's been acting up," he told his son. He took his seat in the leather chair again.

  "Now, where were we?" Bruce continued. Sam was certain he was reveling in his newfound power. "This is obviously a woman who lived in the margins. I don't know how she got in your good graces, but she sure as hell did. I'm not saying that she might offer perfectly decent companionship, but beware of anything more. I'd say that if anything she told you didn't jibe with my investigator's facts, this seems like a classic case of deliberate and cynical fortune hunting."

  Sam forced a chuckle.

  "Do you think I'm that naïve, Bruce? Did you get it into your head that I was looking for a long-term relationship? The woman was pleasant and no threat at all. Did you think I was going to give away the store? Did you think your old man was an idiot?"

  "She's been here every day and night for weeks, Dad. You can't deny that."

  "That private dick of yours sure was thorough."

  "You want his opinion?"

  "If I didn't, I'd get it anyhow."

  "He thinks it was a setup. They were all in on it. He saw the kid's boyfriend on his bike watching the house. He thinks she found a way to pick up a few easy bucks on Mom's clothes. I'm not saying you didn't give her permission, but I'm sure you never expected her to sell them. Anyway, he thinks she was trying to get into your good graces, separate you from your bucks, Dad. I'm sorry to say it that way. But that's what he thought."

  "And you think I didn't know what was happening?"

  "I didn't know what to think."

  "I'll bet you thought your old dad had lost it, maybe was going to put a ring on her finger, right?"

  "It crossed my mind," Bruce said, smiling, as if he was certain his father was letting him in on some joke. "I've had some research done on the subject. A grieving man after a long and happy marriage can get carried away. And it doesn't really matter how old he is."

  "Well, I wasn't carried away." His courage was ebbing again, his heart sinking. Grace, he cried within himself. What did you do to me? "You wasted your money on that report. I know everything that was in it. She was useful to me in certain ways. She made me laugh, had a good gift of gab, and maybe in other ways as well. But, Bruce, there was never any danger of her taking your mother's place. No way. Your mother was everything to me. Everything."

  Bruce watched his father's face, then put the paper back into his jacket pocket.

  "I'm relieved, Dad. I hope you now see why I was so concerned."

  "As a matter of fact, I was getting ready to ... you know ... show her the door. What more is there for her to do around here? As for the clothes, believe me, I couldn't care less if she made a few bucks on them for her trouble. You saw your mother's closet. It would have been too painful for me to go near it. She did her job well as far as I'm concerned. Now that's over. Take a look yourself if you want to. The closet is bare."

  "You had me really scared, Dad," Bruce said. It was hard to tell whether he had bought his story. But then, Sam had lost all confidence in his ability to read people. It galled him how easily he was taken in, believing that he loved her, actually loved her. It was ludicrous. Loving this woman who had betrayed him.

  Sam got up and poured himself another drink, then brought the bottle to where Bruce was sitting and poured him a slug.

  "Cheers, son," Sam said as they clinked glasses.

  After they had drunk Sam said, "You could have saved yourself the trip. Told me what you had to say on the phone."

  "I'm glad I came, Dad. It gives me a chance to discuss again what I think we should be doing about the estate."

  "Oh, I've been thinking about that, Bruce. I think you have made some good points. I'm almost there. Just give me a little more time and we can refashion things to your specifications."

  "That's great news, Dad." Bruce said, holding up his glass and shaking his head with obvious pleasure.

  This was all a charade, Sam was thinking as he looked at his son. The fact remained that his son had spied on him. Whatever the outcome, that was a terrible thing for a son to do. It was true that he had the urge, figuratively at least, to shoot the messenger. He had never been happier than his times with Grace, and he hated his son for bringing him the news of her treachery.

  "Well," Sam said, slapping his thighs and standing up, "I'm bushed. You can sleep in your old room. When are you heading home?"

  "First thing in the morning. I ordered a taxi for seven. This was just a quick trip, Dad, a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. As soon as I got this report, I knew I had to come."

  "Sure, son. In your place I'd do the same."

  He looked at Bruce, studied him for a moment, realizing suddenly that he held no love in his heart for him. Whatever obligatory love he had once felt for him, and for Carol, too, was little more than nostalgia for his own youth. Having progeny, he supposed, cheated death, kept the genes alive, assured immortality. So what? he told himself. His son had set out to destroy his father's hope and potential happiness, and he had. Sam didn't feel as if he had been rescued from a fate worse than death.

  On the contrary, he had been dealt a deathblow. He had no wish to see his son again, ever.

  After Bruce had left him, Sam walked out to the beach, then to the water's edge. The surf rolled and pounded and slapped against the wet sand. He took off his shoes and rolled up his pants. Above him stretched an infinite canopy of stars, ahead the vast expanse of endless ocean.

  He felt the terrible ache of abandonment, of total aloneness, as if he were the last person left on earth. Surely the Grace whom he adored, loved, longed for, was not the Grace of Bruce's report. The Grace he had loved had been strictly in his imagination. Hers was a giant hoax.

  He started to move deeper into the surf, to his calves, to his knees, still feeling the earth under his feet; then, suddenly, a wave lifted him and he felt weightless and strangely unburdened, detached from life, as if he were entering a void.

  He was aware enough to sense the temptation to end his life. Death did not frighten him, nor did he feel any need to sum up his life, which had, by his standard of truth, been disappointing—an incomplete marriage, unloving, greedy children, the dubious glory of wealth, hardly an asset in his present state. If there was a single positive note to all this it was that he would
leave his progeny in financial knots, all loopholes closed, forcing them to be the full partners of a covetous Uncle Sam. Oh, there would be more than enough left to sustain the most lavish consuming habits of his children, but the pain of unsatisfied greed would be unbearable.

  Perhaps it was the idea of that that lifted his spirits and restored him to the living again. It was indicative of the way he saw himself now. He was not a nice man. He was a fraud. An empty suit. He deserved the hand that fate had dealt him. Above all, he hated himself.

  He let himself float in on the incoming tide and lay, beached like a whale, along the water's edge. He imagined himself laying there, another of life's victims, an old man betrayed by the illusion that there was still much ahead to enjoy. This thing with Grace was to be his last hurrah. In the distance he had heard the applause of the gods. He had, for one brief, shining moment, actually believed that he had defeated age, found that illusive grail, a late and glorious love. It had turned out to be yet another of life's mirages. At the water's edge he knelt and, in a wave of anger and self-pity, pounded his fists into the wet sand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Immediately upon entering Sam's house, Grace was assailed by an odd feeling that somehow the environment had changed. Perhaps it was the fog, she thought. It was thick over everything, like a gossamer veil. She heard the pounding of the surf, but the ocean wasn't visible.

  Sam, who usually met her at the front door, was not there. Felicia, whose presence in the house was tangible, even if it was merely the odor of her cooking, was nowhere around.

  "Sam," she called. There was no answer, only an odd echo. Perhaps the strangeness in the house was merely the effect of her own resolution.

  Today was the day, the moment she had chosen to put herself finally and irrevocably in the hands of fate. She wondered if she was going against the grain. Had she received a sign that this was the moment? She wasn't sure. Certainly the evidence that both Jackie and the evil Darryl knew her secret was an absolute sign that she had to go through with her confession. Admittedly, their knowledge had forced her decision.

  "Where are you, Sam?" she cried, walking to the rear of the house. Even if he were outside, she would not be able to see him. The fog blocked all vision. Seeing no sign of him, she walked up the stairs.

  "Sam," she called again, coming into the bedroom. It, too, was deserted, but as she was about to leave, she saw him sitting on the balcony, barely visible in the mist.

  "There you are," she said cheerily, coming closer so that she could see his face, which was unshaven, an uncommon occurrence in itself. She noted his dark mood instantly. He was dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, not shorts and a T-shirt, his usual attire for their beach walk.

  On his lap was the framed photograph of Anne that he kept on the night table next to his bed. Despite the mist, he wore sunglasses, and it was difficult to see where his eyes were focused. Observing him sapped her courage. Perhaps she had better postpone her confession, she told herself. Something was obviously bothering him.

  "Is there something wrong, Sam?" Grace asked.

  She waited a long time for him to respond.

  "Everything," he muttered, turning his face toward her. Although she could not see his eyes, his expression, his aura, seemed to reflect anger and hostility, which startled her. Her instant reaction was that Darryl had taken his revenge and told him the truth about her.

  "Something concerning me?" she asked with alarm and trepidation.

  "All about you," he croaked, making it clear, beyond a shadow of a doubt.

  "You know then?" she asked. It was hardly a necessary question.

  "Yes," he hissed. "I know."

  The game was up. His words and demeanor confirmed that fact. The truth of her treachery was exposed. Any opportunity for an explanation from her had been usurped. How he came by the information was hardly relevant at this juncture. He knew.

  Yet despite the sick feeling in her heart, she felt oddly relieved. The burden of keeping obscene secrets, of dispensing lies and mentally cross-indexing them, had finally been lifted.

  "Well, then, you must think I'm a monster," she sighed.

  He nodded, confirming her speculation. There was no ambivalence about his reaction. Even through the mist, his expression of utter contempt and profound disgust were clearly visible.

  "Oh, God, I'm so sorry, Sam. I know you won't believe me now," she said. "But I was going to tell you today, the whole awful story. I'm so ashamed."

  "There's no need," Sam said, looking into the cloud of invisibility that hid the pounding surf. "No matter how one tries, the indefensible can't be defended. Bottom line: I was a gullible old fool."

  She understood his anguish and observed him for a long moment before speaking. As if trying to ignore her presence, he did not turn his face in her direction.

  "I know how you must hate me, Sam. All I ask is that you respect my need to explain. I can't hold it in any longer. I hadn't expected to have to do it under these circumstances.... I..." She swallowed hard, determined to find her voice.

  "It's pointless."

  He lifted the picture of Anne and studied it. Grace noted that it was beaded with moisture. At that moment she was strongly tempted to lash out, to reveal the ultimate secret that would explode the myth of Anne's saintliness. Ironically, the evidence, the letters, were still in the bag that hung from her shoulder.

  "What goes around comes around," he sighed. "I got my comeuppance. I would appreciate your leaving as soon as possible."

  She felt both the pain and the anger of his dismissal. Her fingers reached for the clasp of her handbag. But they went no further. To inflict such additional pain on someone she loved so deeply would only make her detest herself even more.

  "All right, Sam, I'll leave if you want me to, but first I'd appreciate it if I could tell my side of it."

  He shrugged, which she interpreted as a kind of grudging consent. She paused, gathering her thoughts, forgetting how she had originally planned to begin. Above all, she decided, she must find the discipline not to show him tears. Not tears. In her state, tears would cheapen her motives, make her an object to be pitied.

  It's over, she told herself. What does it matter? Whatever I say, she vowed, will be the complete, uncensored, unvarnished truth. She owed him that.

  "I was financially desperate and I set out to find a rich man," Grace began, her voice wispy at first, growing stronger as she continued. "I know the means I chose were cynical and beyond forgiveness. But it did work. I found what I was looking for, a rich, grieving widower, and I took full advantage of him. My objective was, pure and simple, marriage, and all that went with it, to rescue me from the hole I had slid into."

  "All that crap about not wanting anything," Sam muttered. "Then selling Anne's clothes. It makes me want to puke."

  "Who can blame you?" Grace said, groping for some more palatable way to explain what she had done. Unfortunately the little speeches she had concocted in her mind earlier seemed inadequate and bumbling.

  "Why don't you just leave?"

  "Sam, please. Let me unburden myself. Give me that. I know we're finished. Just give me the courtesy..."

  "Courtesy? Good God."

  He appeared suddenly old, depleted. It was a condition she knew she had caused, and it broke her heart. He shook his head and turned away from her to peer toward the unseen ocean.

  "Just let me explain, Sam," she said, turning to face him.

  He did not reply.

  "All I ask is that you listen. I know it won't redeem me in your eyes, but I need to say it. Grant me that."

  He remained silent and immobile, shifting his glance now to Anne's image in the photograph. Again she assumed his silence meant a kind of consent, more like sufferance.

  Grace hesitated for a moment, losing her train of thought. She was sure she knew what was going through Sam's mind. The verdict had already been handed down: guilty as charged. What she needed to do was explain the extenuating circumstanc
es.

  "I don't know how much you know, Sam, so I guess I have to start from the beginning." She took a deep breath and walked the short distance to the edge of the balcony. Not seeing the ocean, she felt constricted, imprisoned by the fog. Then she turned again and stood before him, confronting the blankness of his dark lenses.

  "I just got tired of the struggle, Sam," she began. "I wish I could convey to you what it means to be desperate, financially desperate, not in control of your own destiny, lonely, defeated, totally down on your luck. It is a very horrible feeling. You feel useless, left out, cast aside like garbage, always at the mercy of others. It kills your spirit. It makes you crazy, willing to do anything to regain your dignity. You feel deprived. You see others prospering, in good shape, not scratching around just to survive." She paused and sucked in a deep breath. "You know you're a loser. Everybody around you knows you're a loser. Here you are, a single mother with a teenage daughter going bad, and you just feel powerless, helpless, lost. Why me? you wonder. Why have I been left out? You're a loser, so you have nothing more to lose. I know I'm whining, Sam, but for me life has been one long self-pitying whine. It takes its toll, Sam, makes you do things that never crossed your mind before. Anything to climb out of the hole."

  She discovered that she could barely hear the sound of her voice, only that continuing inner whine.

  "So here it is, Sam. Warts and all."

  She took him through her actions from the moment she was fired by Mrs. Burns. Deliberately, she did not look at his face as she spoke. She wanted nothing to inhibit the fidelity of her revelation. She wanted to give him the whole truth. Nothing but.

  She told him how she had haunted funeral parlors, looking for the right target, preferably Jewish. Why Jewish? She tried to explain that as well, citing Mrs. Burns's various dictums and distortions. She told him how she had adopted the disgusting but apparently clever ploy of suggesting to the bereaved widower that she dispose of the deceased's clothes. Could anything have been more cruel, taking advantage of someone's vulnerability in his moment of grief? Worst of all, she confessed that she had never known Anne, had never heard of her, had made it all up from beginning to end.