Never Too Late for Love

by Warren Adler

  How come I lived? How come Mrs. Klugerman knew when I got home from the hospital? How come she knew exactly when to stop coming first thing in the morning? How come nobody knows anything about her early life? How come I am thinking what I am thinking?

  Sometimes his more practical side would win out, and he would go for days without giving Mrs. Klugerman much thought, spending his time by the pool or going to the clubhouse at night to watch the entertainment.

  But the idea always hung over him like a morning mist, and when he heard of a death, read about it, or felt an occasional twinge in his chest, it reminded him of his own mortality, and he would believe absolutely in the miraculous force possessed by Mrs. Klugerman.

  Sometimes, after a particularly disturbing night of doubt and debate with his more practical self, he would rise early and rush to find a vantage point near Mrs. Klugerman's condominium, and post himself there to await her exit. At precisely seven, he would see her open the door and leave--a tiny bent woman plodding along the neatly trimmed path while the dew still glistened on the tips of the grass. Her eyes were always slightly lowered, and if she saw him, she never acknowledged it.

  As the months wore on and his less-practical self became more ascendant, his morning assignations increased until it became a kind of ritual in his life.

  "Where do you go every morning?" his wife would ask.

  "I love the mornings," he would respond. "Walking in them refreshes me."

  His wife would shrug and turn her back to him as he sat on the bed putting on his shoes and socks.

  It was only natural in a ritual so precise and rhythmical that the least disruption could become a major source of anxiety. It had, of course, become the moment he most dreaded--the moment when Mrs. Klugerman would prove to him her vulnerability, her mortality, evidence of which he feared as much as death itself.

  When she did not leave her condominium precisely at seven one morning, he knew that the moment of truth had indeed arrived. He had, of course, shaken his watch to be sure of the time, reassuring himself by the position of the sun that the hour had come and gone. But even then he could think of many reasons for some delay, for even in his wildest musings he had invested the Angel of Mercy with human raiment. Whatever she was, she was still encased in a decrepit body, one in which the aging joints and muscles might interfere with the plans of the spirit, her spirit. He gave such a possibility the benefit of his growing doubt. As the morning wore on and the sun's heat became a hardship, he moved to the feeble shade of a palm tree. The morning progressed. People moved past him, eyeing him curiously as he leaned against the back of the bench concentrating on his vigil. As always, nothing stirred behind the drawn venetian blinds. And while he was tempted to ring her buzzer, he concluded that she might have left before he arrived. Perhaps an emergency case had intervened, he thought, leaving his post by the palm tree after being convinced of this assumption by his more practical self.

  But when he arrived earlier the next morning, and still Mrs. Klugerman did not appear, he began to lose faith in that assumption. Finally, he gathered the courage to ring her buzzer. There was no response, nor could he see anything through the drawn blinds.

  When he returned to his own condominium, he decided to enlist the aid of his wife, who, through her network of yentas, could be relied upon to ferret out all sorts of surreptitious information.

  "I think Mrs. Klugerman is sick," he said casually, feeling the tension build in his chest and throat.

  "That's funny," his wife replied.

  "Funny?"

  "Mrs. Zuckerman had a gall bladder and Mrs. Klugerman was paying her visits. Then two days ago she stopped coming."

  "Stopped completely?"

  "Mrs. Zuckerman decided that she was getting better."

  "Was she?"

  "Not really. I think the gall bladder was just a boobimeister. I think she's sicker than that."

  "Something is definitely wrong with Mrs. Klugerman," he said aloud. He could feel the panic grip him, and a cold sweat begin to drip down his back and under his arms.

  "You're pale as a ghost, Max," his wife said with some concern. "Do you feel OK?"

  "I'm worried about Mrs. Klugerman."

  Perhaps it was his paleness and the look of anxiety on his face, but Max Shinsky's wife swung into action on the telephone to investigate the disappearance of Yetta Klugerman.

  "You're right, Max," she said later. "Nobody has seen her."

  Later that day, he went back to Mrs. Klugerman's condominium and rang the buzzer for a longtime. He also banged on the door, despite the fact that he could clearly hear the sound of the buzzer. Then he called out her name in ever-increasing crescendos.

  "Mrs. Klugerman! Mrs. Klugerman!"

  A door opened beside him. It was Mrs. Klugerman's neighbor, someone he had talked to earlier.

  "I don't think she's home. I haven't heard a sound," she said.

  "You think we should call the management?" he asked.

  "Maybe she went away."

  "Where?"

  "To visit. How should I know?"

  "All of a sudden?"

  "I think maybe we should call the management," Max said and quickly walked to the end of the court and took the open-air shuttle to the management office. A woman with harlequin glasses on a chain and blue-gray hair smiled at him, showing slightly yellow teeth.

  "You got a record of Mrs. Klugerman leaving?" he asked, giving her the name and address of the Angel of Mercy.

  "You're the third person today that has asked," she said. "No, we haven't heard anything."

  "Then I think you had better open her place."

  "I'll have to talk to Mr. Katz."

  "Of course," he said, wanting to add "and hurry," but he lacked the courage. He now was afraid of what he might find behind her closed door. He watched the woman with the blue-gray hair dial the phone and speak to someone on the other end.

  "Yes, of course. I'll go myself." She nodded into the phone, then hung up.

  "I knew he'd approve," she said.

  "This happens often?" he asked, as he climbed beside her into the Sunset Village station wagon.

  "When you have this many old people and lots of them living alone, you have to expect it." She seemed indifferent, looking at him through faded blue eyes, the harlequin glasses hanging over her thin chest.

  "Found one last week," she said, gunning the motor and accelerating out of the parking lot. "Had been dead for three weeks. It was actually the odor that prompted our going in there." He felt his stomach turn. "Actually, it's a tremendous complication in terms of the estate. Sometimes we can't find the children or any heirs. It makes it rather difficult, considering the condominium fees." He sensed her feeling of superiority over him. Old shiksa, he thought contemptuously.

  She parked the car in front of Mrs. Klugerman's condominium and searched in her pocketbook for a ring of keys. Then, perching her glasses on her nose, she observed the numbers on the keys, singled one out, knocked and waited, then inserted the key in the lock. Max felt his heart beating. Could he explain to anyone what he was feeling? The door opened and the woman flicked a switch, lighting up the interior.

  The odor was heavy, but it was the familiar one of musty dampness. The bedroom was sparsely furnished, a narrow sagging bed with an embroidered foreign-looking bedspread. In the living room was an upholstered chair, with starched doilies pinned to the backrest and arms, and a little Formica table. There were no pictures on the walls, no books, no television set, no radio, no photographs. There was a battered unpainted chest, a few sparse articles of clothing, but no visible make-up tubes or vials, or medicines. In the closet, however, was a large cardboard box filled with little cellophane bags of candy. In the kitchen, the refrigerator was empty. There was no sign of food and the shelves of the cabinets contained only a few chipped dishes and cups.

  "Well, that's a relief," the woman said, after he had inspected the premises. "She's probably gone on a trip. It's quite obvious that she'
s not living here now."

  "Yes," he said, "that's quite obvious." But he dared not explore the thought further. He needed time, he told himself.

  The woman went through the door before him and, as he moved the door back, he unlatched the lock in the doorknob. He closed the door after him and fiddled with it to illustrate that he was checking it.

  "Make sure it's locked," the woman said as she got into her car.

  "I'll walk," he said, waving her on, watching her drive to the main road. When she turned the corner, he opened the door of the condominium again and slipped into the darkened living room. He did not turn on the lights. Sitting down on the chair, he put his head back and let his eyes become accustomed to the darkness. He sat there for a long time, calm, not frightened.

  "Mrs. Klugerman," he whispered, listening. "Mrs. Klugerman," he repeated, feeling the first faint bursts of elation. "I know you're here, Mrs. Klugerman." He sat there for a long time, until he could see through the thin strips of the closed blinds that darkness had come. Then he got up from the chair, walked to the door, and let himself out.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Klugerman," he said as he closed the door. He was certain that she had heard his voice.

  TELL ME THAT I'M YOUNG

  When Mr. and Mrs. Sonnenschein died within a year of each other, their son, Bruce, inherited their condominium in Sunset Village. He had just turned twenty-three and lived in the Bronx with Sheila, his bride of three months. The unexpected bequest gave the ever-practical Bruce an idea. Above all things, his parents had taught him the value of a dollar.

  "We could live there," he told Sheila with enthusiasm, suggesting it as a stroke of rare good fortune. Bruce was a natural salesman and already beginning to make a name for himself as his company's top producer. He sold ladies' slacks in six southern states, including Florida.

  "It's all paid for," he pointed out. "Best of all, it's right in the heart of my territory." He had been on only one selling trip since their marriage, and Sheila was still suffering from the trauma of that absence.

  "Will I be able to see you more?" she asked timidly, kissing his hand.

  "Simple logic," he pointed out. "Arithmetic. Less mileage for me. More time together for us. And you can always get a job in the area. Hell, there's big demand for dental technicians."

  Sheila contemplated the idea, then shook her head in the negative.

  "Everybody's so old there," she said. "Really old."

  "It won't be forever," Bruce persisted, ignoring her protests. "But the money we save on rent and the appreciation on the property could mean we could afford to buy a new house in about a year." He watched her vacillate, absorbing his arguments. He knew instinctively that he was getting close to a deal.

  "And you'll have all those grammas and grampas around to pamper you while I'm away." He paused again, watching her stroke her hair. She, too, had lost both of her parents.

  "And when I'm on the road, I'll feel secure that someone is taking care of my baby."

  "There's only one person who can take care of your baby," she said, pecking at his earlobe. After a while, he kissed her deeply on the lips, knowing that he had "gotten the order."

  The day that Bruce and Sheila moved into their condominium, Mr. and Mrs. Shrinsky, their neighbors on the right, came in laden with jars and plates of food, covered with tinfoil. Later, Mrs. Milgrim, their neighbor on the left, came with a cake she baked from a Betty Crocker recipe.

  "Your mother and father were my dearest friends," Ida Shrinsky told them. She was a tiny woman with three chins and scraggly over-bleached blonde hair.

  Her husband, Marvin, was tall and distinguished, with steel gray hair and clear blue eyes that peered out through rimless glasses. He had retired from the New York City School system, where he taught English for more than forty years.

  "Why do you want to live with all of us antiques?" he asked pleasantly.

  "They have their reasons," Mrs. Shrinsky snapped, embarrassed by Marvin's forwardness and the obvious touch of sarcasm.

  "We're not chained to anything," Bruce said, explaining the conditions of his employment.

  "Maybe it's not such a bad idea," Mrs. Shrinsky said. "You shouldn't worry, Bruce. We're right next door." She turned to Sheila. "Ask anything. Don't be bashful."

  "I really appreciate that," Sheila said with grave sincerity, though she groaned silently within herself. They're so old, she thought.

  "And lots of young people come to visit," Mrs. Shrinsky added. "Sons and daughters, in-laws. We'll check around." Sheila sensed the beginning of Mrs. Shrinsky's proprietressship.

  "One thing we know about young couples," Mrs. Shrinsky said coyly--and Sheila imagined that she had winked lasciviously--"and that's that they like their privacy." She tugged at Marvin's sleeve and he followed her obediently out of the apartment.

  "Wonderful," Sheila mocked. "I'm surprised they didn't ask if I play canasta or Mah-Jongg. Yuk."

  "They build these condos with doors," Bruce said testily. "I thought they were rather considerate."

  Mrs. Milgrim also was considerate. She, too, had been a good friend of Bruce's parents and, on their first meeting, insisted on recounting the events of their death, although Bruce was well aware of them.

  "Can you imagine?" she said, making the traditional sound of pity--like the noise of an overeager cricket--by rubbing her tongue along the roof of her mouth. "They died within nine months of each other. He died of a broken heart, Bruce. You could just see him pining away in that chair." She pointed to what had been his father's favorite chair.

  "They were very close," he mumbled, looking at Sheila, who had raised her eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of exasperation. Will I have to hear this again? she asked herself.

  "So far, your idea stinks," she said to Bruce, after Mrs. Milgrim left.

  "You'll get used to it," Bruce said unctuously. He gathered her into his arms and inhaled the smell of her hair. "There's a house at the end of the tunnel. Keep your eye on the objective, and it won't be that bothersome."

  "When you're around, it won't be so bad." She shrugged, dreading the time she would have to stay alone.

  "You play canasta or Mah-Jongg?" Mrs. Shrinsky asked her after they had been there a week and Bruce was on his first road trip.

  "I hate cards. And I especially hate Mah-Jongg," Sheila replied, wondering if Mrs. Shrinsky felt the cutting edge of her polite contempt.

  "They're wonderful games, and you shouldn't close your mind to them," Mrs. Shrinsky scolded with good nature.

  Later, Mrs. Shrinsky came by again. "You need anything from the store?"

  "No. Besides, I have my own car. I like to do my own shopping."

  "So do I," Mrs. Shrinsky agreed.

  Bruce had been on the road just one day when Mrs. Milgrim came to visit. Sheila had easily found a dental-technician job just five minutes from Sunset Village. Her hours were eight to four, which meant she could be home by four-fifteen.

  When she returned from her first day at work, she had been in the condo for a scant few moments when she heard a knock on the door. Without an invitation, Mrs. Milgrim came in and sat down beside Sheila on the couch.

  "Your job was good?"

  "I think I might like it," Sheila replied, hoping the woman would leave quickly. But that wasn't to be.

  "You watch 'As The World Turns?'"

  "No."

  "You watch Barbara Walters on '20/20?'"

  "No."

  "You watch the shopping channel?"

  "No." Sheila smiled to herself.

  "So what do you watch? Like last night, what did you see?"

  On Bruce's last night before his road trip, they had made love repeatedly. She wanted to shout aloud: 'We fucked last night.' The thought seemed to have shot an idea into Mrs. Milgrim's mind.

  "You gonna have babies right away?"

  "Not if we can help it."

  "I had babies right away, one after the other. My children are all less than two years apart. All three."
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  When Sheila deliberately didn't respond, Mrs. Milgrim went on. "He stays on the road long?"

  "He comes home every other weekend."

  "It gets lonely? You want I should come in when you get home and keep you company?"

  Definitely not, she whispered. "I usually have chores to keep me busy when I get home."

  "You want me to get tickets for us at the clubhouse? They have terrific shows at night."

  "I don't think so, Mrs. Milgrim." She simulated a yawn. "I think I'm going to wash my hair and read a good book before I go to bed." Mrs. Milgrim was slow to take the hint.

  "I always watch Jay Leno in bed. When my husband Eddie was alive, we always watched Johnny Carson in bed."

  "We do other things when we get to bed, Mrs. Milgrim," Sheila said, smiling and forcing her demeanor to mask her sarcasm. Mrs. Milgrim blushed.

  "I forget you're not married so long." Mrs. Milgrim stood up and stretched, and a noisy fart escaped from her. "Oops," she said apologetically. "You get old, you sometimes haven't got such good control."

  When she left, Sheila sprayed the room with air freshener. She made herself a sandwich for dinner, then, true to her word, washed her hair and read until it was time to get into bed.

  She put cream on her face, slipped into her nightgown, turned on Jay Leno and crawled into bed. She lay there watching him for a moment, then sprung out of bed again, clicking off the program. "Shit!" she cried aloud, admonishing herself for yielding to the suggestion.

  Compared to Mrs. Shrinsky, Mrs. Milgrim, who visited almost daily, was practically a stranger. At least twice a day, once before Sheila went to work and then again before she went to bed, Mrs. Shrinsky rapped her knuckles against the door. Her exchanges with Sheila were repetitive in concept, providing kindly offers, nostalgic homilies, unsolicited advice and tragic information.