Never Too Late for Love

by Warren Adler

  "You like Halavah?" she might say, proffering a sticky piece of the heavy candy. Sheila would shake her head.

  "In Brooklyn, we used to get good Halavah," Mrs. Shrinsky opined. "Everything here is inferior, especially the food."

  "I'm strictly from the thaw-and-heat school," Sheila said.

  "You don't cook?"

  "Not a lick."

  "I'll teach you. When I was first married, my mother would come over and supervise my cooking. The first week, I made pot roast, kugel, lukshen kugel. You know lukshen kugel?"

  "No."

  "I'll teach you how to make lukshen kugel." The idea made Sheila slightly nauseated. Then Mrs. Shrinsky's talk would shift to other matters.

  "Mrs. Klein from two courts away had a breast removed today. That was her second."

  Sheila felt chills run up her spine, and her breasts began to ache. There was always similar tragic information to impart.

  "You hear so much, you know. Sarah Minkoff died from it last week. And her husband can barely walk. Heart condition. I tell you the things you see. The worst sight is Marvin's friend, Sam Horowitz, with Parkinson."

  A tightness gripped Sheila's insides as Mrs. Shrinsky continued her catalog of terrors. She might stop suddenly in her reportage if some other pressing matter came up. "Listen."

  Sheila listened. There was the faint sound of a siren in the distance.

  "An ambulance. Hear it!? The Sunset Village theme song."

  Bruce and Sheila talked on the phone frequently during the week. She often dropped remarks about Mrs. Milgrim and Mrs. Shrinsky, making them sound funny, although they didn't seem funny at the time.

  By the time Bruce came back for his first weekend off, Sheila had worked herself into a strange mood. They lay naked in bed passing a joint. The stereo played a Bonnie Raitt CD.

  "I'm an authority on breast cancer. Mrs. Shrinsky showed me how to test for lumps," she demonstrated. "And Mr. Parkinson is not a living person. He has a disease named after him."

  Bruce cupped the joint and inhaled deeply.

  "And did you know that Mr. Hyman from the medium-rise in the fancy section pisses through a bag?"

  "Everybody has their troubles," Bruce said, smiling.

  "You know what the worst thing is?"

  "Do I get guesses?"

  "You'll never guess this one." She paused, her large brown eyes widening and her nostrils dilating. She wondered if she was about to laugh or cry.

  "Mrs. Milgrim cuts farts--long vocal sidewinders that pass their stink into the air like poison gas."

  He doubled up in laughter, and she finally decided to laugh. Keep looking at the humorous side, she told herself. It was the only way to tolerate these people and keep her sanity.

  "I had a helluva week. Sold like hell."

  "Take me," she pleaded suddenly. "Please, Bruce, take me with you."

  "You've just started a new job," Bruce said."And we're saving. We have a goal."

  "I know. But I'd still like to go," Sheila said.

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  He slapped her buttocks playfully, the subject at hand obviously concluded. Maybe she was demanding too much, exaggerating, she thought. Occasionally, when Bruce was away, Mrs. Milgrim and Mrs. Shrinsky would converge on her simultaneously. To avoid them, Sheila began to develop little subterfuges, escapes, like going off to the movies after work. Sometimes she went to the Poinsettia shopping center, but how long could she shop? And watching the crowds of old people hanging around like teenagers was grating after a while. Sometimes she couldn't escape and had to endure the crossfire between Mrs. Shrinsky and Mrs. Milgrim.

  "My son Harold lives in Scarsdale. He tells me his house is worth more than a million."

  "My Lily lives in Westchester. The houses run a little more."

  "More than a million?"

  "Some even three million." The two yentas would go on interminably discussing figures. Everything--cars, vacations, clothes--had a price.

  "They took a $20,000 European vacation," Mrs. Milgrim might say.

  "My Jack took that $50,000 around-the-world cruise."

  "You told me he didn't like it."

  "Too many Orientals on the boat."

  "Orientals are everywhere now."

  "You can't believe where they are."

  When Bruce called from Birmingham one day and told Sheila he wouldn't be home for the weekend as expected, she felt her rage overflow. Up to then, she realized, she had not conveyed to him the full extent of her unhappiness.

  "Let me come up there, Bruce. I spoke to my boss. I can arrange it. Without pay, but I can do it and still keep my job."

  "You're being silly. Why lose a week's pay? Not to mention the airfare. It's a waste."

  "Waste?" She felt ire well up inside of her.

  "It's one lousy week."

  When she hung up, she was aflame with indignation. She felt trapped.

  "He didn't come home this weekend?" Mrs. Shrinsky asked as she appeared at her door Saturday morning. It was more than mere telepathy. Bruce's car was not in its usual weekend parking spot.

  "Your surveillance is accurate," Sheila said. Even her obvious sarcasm did not have a cutting edge.

  "My what?" But Mrs. Shrinsky did not wait for an answer. Nothing could deflect her from her single-minded interrogation. "He's leaving you alone the whole weekend?"

  Sheila felt a lump begin to grow in her throat. Hearing someone else say it increased the pain of it.

  "He has some very important business in Birmingham."

  "More important than you?"

  In her tone, Sheila caught an implication that had not consciously crossed her mind. Not Bruce, she thought, dismissing the idea.

  "You want to come to the pool with us?" Mrs. Shrinsky asked.

  Sheila looked at the woman, on the verge of hesitation, but the prospect of spending the day in the empty apartment actually seemed even more foreboding.

  "Why not?"

  They drove to the pool in the Shrinsky car and found some empty lounge chairs on the sunny side.

  "What a figure," Mrs. Shrinsky said as Sheila removed her blouse and jeans. She was slim-hipped and her bust was firm beneath the bikini.

  Sheila smiled as she looked at the wrecked bodies around her, knowing that she was intimidating, with her smooth skin and youthful body.

  "I used to have a figure like that," Mrs. Shrinsky said. Marvin Shrinsky looked up from his paperback. She imagined he had snickered silently.

  She felt the eyes of the older people on her as she smeared sun oil on her body. Most of them were women, probably widows, the predominant population.

  "This is your daughter?" someone asked Mrs. Shrinsky.

  "My neighbor."

  "She lives here?"

  "Next door."

  "By herself?"

  "Her husband's on the road."

  They talked together as if Sheila were merely an object.

  "How come they live here?"

  "The parents died. Left them the condo."

  This seemed to satisfy the women for a few moments. Sheila tried to ignore them, lying back in her lounge chair and squinting into the sun.

  "They have children?"

  "Not yet."

  "He leaves her for a long time?"

  "Usually he comes home every other weekend. He was supposed to this weekend, but he didn't come."

  Sheila undid her straps and lay on her stomach. She tried not to hear their chatter, but it was impossible to shut it out. Finally it faded, disappeared, and she realized that she must have dozed. Awake again, she felt someone watching her. Lifting her eyes and holding up her palm to block the sun, she saw that Marvin Shrinsky was observing her carefully. Retying her strap, she sat up.

  "Where is Mrs. Shrinsky?"

  "Over there with the other yentas," he pointed with his book. Occasionally, Mrs. Shrinsky and her companions would look toward them. She sensed they were talking about her.

  "You're an object of some curio
sity," Mr. Shrinsky said.

  "Who cares?" Her nap had made her irritable and she was feeling sorry for herself.

  "And all the alta cockers have been walking past with their eyes falling out of their head."

  "Well then, consider me a geriatric therapist."

  He smiled, his eyes washing over her. She wondered how old he was. It was impossible to calculate age in this place. Everyone seemed so nondescript, uniform. Actually, they all looked alike, she decided, one big blurred image.

  "You like it here?" she asked suddenly. She had been thinking it, but had not intended to ask.

  "What's not to like?" he said, but he had turned his eyes away. "I'm here," he sighed, then he opened his paperback again and began to read. She lay back and concentrated on letting the sun wash over her skin, feeling its heat penetrate her. She wanted to cry. After a while, they left the pool and headed back to their condos.

  "Marvin wants to take you to dinner with us," Mrs. Shrinsky said after they parked the car.

  "Really, I'm tired." Sheila protested.

  "Well, if you change your mind ... Primero's has a special until six o'clock."

  Inside her apartment, she took a shower, then, as she dried herself, she suddenly felt the terror of being alone. The bleak emptiness of the apartment made her shudder with desolation. I won't feel sorry for myself, she vowed, slipping on slacks and a blouse. But her resolution was not enough to muster the courage to cope with being alone. Hearing the Shrinsky's leave their apartment, she ran after them.

  "Might as well," she said, getting into the back seat.

  Primero's was crowded, as the people from Sunset Village piled in to get the discount that was offered for those seated before six-o'clock.

  "Tell them, Marvin," Mrs. Shrinsky urged. "We were here on time. We shouldn't be penalized if that dumb hostess doesn't seat us on time."

  "Don't worry."

  "What do you mean, don't worry? You're talking five dollars more a dinner."

  Marvin looked at Sheila helplessly, and she sensed his entrapment. I understand, she wanted to say, as she touched his arm in sympathy. She sensed the tension among the waiting crowd as the time reached six, though an announcement over the loudspeaker seemed to mollify the crowd.

  "We will honor our commitment for the 'Early Bird Dinner' for everyone now in the restaurant," the voice said, with a touch of contempt.

  When they finally were seated and their orders taken, Mrs. Shrinsky looked around the restaurant.

  "There's Mrs. Morganstern. She just lost her husband last week," she whispered. "I'm surprised to see her out already enjoying herself."

  "What would you expect her to do?" Marvin asked, looking at Sheila. She imagined that he was begging for her support, but she pretended not to notice.

  "It doesn't look right, that's all I'm saying." Mrs. Shrinsky said. A waitress passed with a heavily laden tray.

  "Sure they give you a discount. But look at the portions. You get what you pay for."

  Their food came and, after more complaints about the size of the portions, Mrs. Shrinsky nudged Sheila's elbow.

  "Watch how many leave with doggie bags. They also steal the bread, the pigs," she hissed.

  Sheila picked at her food without appetite. The noise level of the restaurant heightened. Marvin remained silent, occasionally watching her through his clear blue eyes in their frameless lenses.

  "Look, Marvin," Mrs. Shrinsky said suddenly, nodding in the direction of a departing couple. "Harvey Bernstein is getting better since his stroke, although he still drags one leg."

  The harassed waitress came back to their table to take their dessert order. She reeled off the list of pies and ice creams by rote.

  "Not for me," Sheila said. She had been watching a man at the next table masticating his food with badly fitting false teeth, and it had brought her to the edge of nausea. She had had to swallow repeatedly to keep down what she had eaten.

  "She'll have chocolate ice cream," Mrs. Shrinsky said. "And we'll have one apple pie and one lemon meringue."

  "No, really," Sheila protested.

  "It's included," the waitress said.

  "Don't worry," Mrs. Shrinsky said. "Nothing goes to waste,"

  Mrs. Shrinsky ate the chocolate ice cream, in addition to her pie.

  Back in her apartment, Sheila turned on the stereo, but the music grated on her ears. Then she went to the telephone and dialed Birmingham information for the Holiday Inn. It turned out that there were three Holiday Inns and she dialed all of them, knowing that Bruce would note her extravagance when the bill came in. He always stayed at Holiday Inns, where he received a special discount.

  "Twenty percent off. How can you beat it?" he told her proudly.

  On her last call, when the clerk informed her that there was no Bruce Sonnenschein registered there, she lost her temper.

  "You're full of shit," she screamed. "He has to be there."

  "Did you try the other Holiday Inns?" the clerk said with annoyance.

  "Of course, I did, you schmuck." She hung up the receiver angrily and paced the apartment, trying to calm herself. Was it rage or self pity? she asked herself. She passed a mirror and looked at herself.

  "You're twenty-one years old!" she screamed, watching the tears spill over her lids and roll down her cheeks.

  When she got out of bed the next morning, she was exhausted. Her mind refused to simmer down and, though she might have dozed, she knew she had not truly slept.

  "You look tired," Mrs. Milgrim said, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

  Sheila groaned, but she could not find the courage to be impolite. Besides, Mrs. Milgrim had a plate in her hands filled with bagels, lox and cream cheese.

  "I thought maybe you'd like some bagels."

  "I hate bagels," Sheila said.

  "These are not the frozen ones," Mrs. Milgrim said, unperturbed. "Real water bagels. Mrs. Bromberg from across the street sent her husband ten miles to the bagel place." She placed the plate on the kitchen table and began poking around in the cabinets for the instant coffee.

  "You went out last night with the Shrinskys?"

  "We were the early birds."

  "What did you eat?"

  "I had the chopped steak."

  "And a baked potato?"

  "Yes, with the baked potato."

  "And the sour cream and chives? I love the sour cream and chives."

  Mrs. Milgrim sighed. "I don't go too often. It's very expensive." She smeared some cream cheese on half of a bagel. Sheila watched the woman's wrinkled hands shake slightly as she performed the act. The thin gold wedding band looked forlorn on her shriveled finger. She smeared some lox on a fork, pressed it over the cream cheese and handed it to Sheila. A bit of cream cheese lingered on a fingernail. Sheila felt her stomach retch.

  "What did you have for dessert?"

  Sheila put the bagel on the table and went to the bathroom, where she poured cold water on her face. She stayed in the bathroom a long time, hoping that when she got out, Mrs. Milgrim would be gone. But she was still there when she returned and the coffee had been poured.

  "They have a terrific cheese cake," Mrs. Milgrim went on, revealing that she had been contemplating the Primero desserts. "My Eddie loved cheesecake. It was his hobby, he used to say. Cheesecake and Malox."

  "You don't look so good," Mrs. Milgrim said suddenly, concentrating on Sheila's face.

  "Maybe I'm coming down with something."

  "It may be the water. Not like New York."

  "The water?"

  "There's a lot of things here that are very suspicious. Things spoil quickly. The milk is different, too. You got diarrhea?"

  She couldn't stand it any longer. Rising, she forced a smile, feeling that it was making her face crack. I've got to get the hell out of here, she decided.

  "I've got an appointment, Mrs. Milgrim."

  "An appointment?" It was obvious that the explanation would have to be fleshed out with details.

  "I'm m
eeting some friends in Fort Lauderdale."

  "You're going to the beach?"

  "Yes, to the beach."

  "The beaches in Fort Lauderdale are not bad, although the water is polluted." Water again.

  "Stay as long as you like, Mrs. Milgrim. Just let yourself out and lock the door."

  She went into the bedroom, grabbed her pocketbook and, leaving a confused Mrs. Milgrim in the kitchen, raced to her car. She drove around for hours, coming home long after dark. Thankfully, the apartment was empty.

  Bruce called her Monday night. She had phoned in sick and stayed in the apartment the entire day, bolting the door and drawing the blinds. There were repeated knocks on the door throughout the day. She had already begun to identify which knock belonged to whom."

  Mrs. Shrinsky had knocked at least five times. Once she had actually turned the knob.

  "Sheila, darling," she had called. She realized too late that they must have been confused by Sheila's car parked in its space.

  "I called you in Birmingham," she told Bruce. Her tone was aggressive, although she had tried to compose herself beforehand. "I tried every Holiday Inn."

  "What did you do that for?" He was annoyed.

  "You mean a wife is not supposed to call her husband?"

  "I didn't say that."

  "Well then, where the hell were you?"

  There was a moment of hesitation, a long pause on the line. In it, she discovered the full impact of its meaning. He could be lying.

  "I stayed with a customer," he said. "What's wrong with that? I saved thirty-five bucks."

  "Big deal."

  "What the hell is wrong, Sheila?" She sensed his panic.

  "Come on home and get me the hell out of this place."

  "Are you crazy? I've got a million appointments. I'm about to close some big orders."

  Her teeth began to chatter and she felt her throat constrict.

  "I can't stand it here Bruce. I'm twenty-one years old. All they talk about here is sickness, dying and food."

  "Food?" He seemed confused, giggling as if she had meant it to be some kind of a joke.

  "And television." Her voice rose. "I can't stand it anymore." She must have conveyed the full impact of her anxiety.

  "Baby, I love you," he said unctuously. It did not placate her. "We'll talk about it next weekend."