Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  Her eyes surveyed the ugly clutter of stores, fast-food franchises, furniture and car dealers, TV shops and shopping centers that serviced the army of what was euphemistically referred to as the middle class. Lower, she muttered, knowing exactly where she stood on the income continuum, despite the forty-two-hundred-dollar check in her pocketbook, feeling the full and stifling weight of her despair.

  Her thoughts, though depressing, managed to trigger her instinct for survival. She would have to remember to register at the state unemployment office and go through the usual processing to obtain her check. She had done that before, and it never failed to fill her with a massive sense of humiliation. Just standing in line with the rest of the losers was a horrifying prospect.

  The midday traffic crawled slowly as she squinted into the bright sunlight. Then she noticed an enterprise that her mind either had rejected or ignored in the past. brodsky's memorial chapel. On either side of the name was a Star of David.

  Mrs. Burns's advice suddenly replayed in her mind, bringing a smile to her lips. She felt a kind of hysterical giggle build in her chest. The advice, even the ethnic specificity, was one of the more enduring and amusing spoken clichés of the mating game. Under ordinary circumstances it would be taken as a joke. But Mrs. Burns did not have a shred of humor in her bones. Her advice was neither satire nor trivia. She meant it with all the force of her convictions.

  Nevertheless, it was unthinkable and ghoulish, a long way from her own frame of reference. But it did set her to wondering if she could ever be so cold-blooded, so calculating and amoral, to pursue this bizarre course of action. And if she did, would she have the resourcefulness, the acting ability, the blatant insincerity required to make a success out of such a strategy? She doubted it. And yet, despite its outlandishness, it did suggest a tantalizing opportunity.

  It surprised her that she didn't reject the possibility out of hand. Did it mean she would have to suspend her own sense of herself, her so-called dignity, a quality growing more and more illusory with each passing moment? And would the expenditure of energy be worth the candle? She imagined platoons of desperate single women of uncertain age with the same idea.

  Almost as if she were driving in a trance, she pulled into the parking lot of the Brodsky Memorial Chapel. It was totally filled and she was forced to exit the lot, which meant, in her present suggestive state, that fate had solved the problem for her. But when she reached the exit, a man wearing a Star of David armband waved the car to the left and another also wearing an armband gestured insistently that she park in the space he was designating.

  Choices were being made for her, she decided. Destiny was intervening, she thought foolishly, guiding her actions. She got out of the car hesitantly, not knowing what to do next.

  "This way," another man said. He, too, wore the official armband, and she found herself going with the flow. People were mostly silent and appropriately somber. A man at the door asked whether she was here for the Farber or the Schwartz funeral. The couple ahead of her said Farber and she nodded and followed the couple up a flight of heavily carpeted stairs to a darkened chapel crowded with silent, respectful mourners.

  Still following the couple, she moved to a seat on a long polished bench and sat down next to the woman. Gloomy organ music played in the background.

  "Molly was a wonderful person," the woman whispered to her.

  "The best," Grace said, afflicted with an accelerating desire to escape. Unfortunately, she was seated in the center of the row and there was no way to leave now without attracting attention. Instead, she resigned herself to the situation, as if she were watching a documentary entitled Jewish Funeral.

  She observed that the people did look different than she had seen at her mother's funeral in Baltimore, although many of their faces bore the familiar stamp of Mediterranean origin under their suntans. There were, of course, the regional differences of more colorful clothing and the absence of drab female papal groupies in somber black. The mourners, too, were better groomed than their Baltimore counterparts, which reflected both income and geographical disparity.

  There were, of course, vague similarities of ritual, although the Catholics hands-down offered more ornate spectacle, costuming, mystery and audiovisual effects than this grim, unadorned auditorium. Catholics, she told herself, gave great funerals. But then, wasn't their ceremony more of a bon voyage to a glorious heavenly resort reached through a corridor lined with angels with white wings playing long trumpets, which led to golden gates manned by St. Peter himself? Where, after all, did the spirit of dead Jews go? Was there a Jerusalem station in heaven accepting arrivals?

  In front of the auditorium was a closed coffin and on a small stage behind it was a lectern. The men wore funny little black hats stamped with the name of the funeral parlor. In the first row, she noted a group of sniffling and red-eyed mourners of both sexes, who, she assumed, were the immediate family.

  Was this what Mrs. Burns had meant when she advised her to read the obituaries? Somehow Grace had interpreted this to mean that one made the initial "contact" at the funeral parlor, simply appearing, becoming visible to the ... she hesitated as her mind searched for an appropriate definition. Target? Pigeon? Victim? Mark?

  Studying the group in the front row, she could not pick out anyone who might fit the profile suggested by Mrs. Burns of a distinguished, very rich Jewish gentleman. She felt a hysterical giggle crawl up her chest and knew she did not have the restraint to hold it back. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she felt the sound emerge despite her valiant effort to stifle it.

  "I know. I know," the woman next to her whispered. "Molly Farber was the salt of the earth. Charitable? Nobody was more charitable. She will be sorely missed by all of us."

  Grace nodded, her hands hiding much of her face, making sounds that were open to the woman's interpretation of stifled sobbing. She took deep breaths to get herself under control. It was, she knew, less a giggle of humor than a kind of hysterical comment on the events transpiring before her eyes.

  Again, she surveyed the all-important first row. Still, she couldn't find anyone who might fill the bill according to Mrs. Burns's suggestion, although she could sense the logic in what, on the surface, was a serviceable but bizarre idea.

  If one bought into Mrs. Burns's weird premise—and, so far, Grace was still eons away from a true believer—the ritual of the funeral offered a kind of preview, an opportunity for observation that was a lot more efficient than a blind date. She could get a good look at the prospect, study him under fire, even, if the size of the funeral was any measure, assess his standing in the community and, perhaps, his financial status. Was it not logical to assume that the more the widower grieved, the more compelling his need to assuage his loss?

  Mrs. Burns hadn't invented the idea. It was a generally accepted pop-psychology hypothesis that a widower who was happily married was more likely to seek to replicate such a situation. Now, how had she come to such knowledge? Television talk shows, newspapers, comments on the radio, bits and pieces of trivia from somewhere out there in the glutted information firmament? Was this insight or bullshit, she wondered, suddenly questioning the powerful desperation that had driven her to this place.

  When the gloomy musical background sound ceased, a man rose to the lectern. He was youngish, wearing one of those funny black hats, and he spoke in what seemed like a carefully practiced, mournful cadence, offering the assemblage a picture of a woman who had devoted her life to husband and children and who had managed to live to the ripe old age of ninety.

  Wrong place, wrong range, Grace realized suddenly. Perhaps she should have chosen the Schwartz funeral. She felt the hysterical giggle begin again. This time, she fished quickly for a tissue and used it to press against her lips and muffle the sound.

  She could never do this, she told herself. It would be impossible for her to be so calculating and cynical. How could she live with herself? She wished she could get up and leave. The words of the man behind the lectern
lost all meaning as she delved deeper into her thoughts, rebuking herself for giving in to such cynicism.

  But as she debated the question in her mind, she realized how detached she really was from these proceedings. I am not here to do evil, she assured herself as the logic of the idea began to grow in her mind. It wasn't as if she would be causing the death of a spouse. She would simply be taking advantage of an opportunity to bring joy, affection and rejuvenation, perhaps even love, to a grieving man, filling the void caused by a profound loss. Where was the harm in that? She could be the silver lining in the dark cloud.

  On the practical side, at least she would be trolling where the fish were. That, too, was not a crime. All right, so she had a hidden agenda in the pursuit, and the means might be considered blatantly cynical and parasitic, but the end result, if it occurred, would be beneficial to both parties.

  At least she would have a well-defined objective, and the fact was that she considered herself a good person, a well-brought-up woman from a traditional Catholic, rigidly moral and religious Italian family. Certainly she would be closer in generational mores to such a man than she was to her own daughter. She would be an asset to a good man, especially a kindly, decent and generous man, a very generous man. To whom, she vowed, she would be exceedingly grateful, body and soul.

  Yes, she decided, she would repay a man dearly for such kindness and generosity. Images of herself engaged in the required sexual gymnastics stimulated another rising giggling hysteric. She would practice giving great head with a banana and encourage the use of Viagra. Stop this, she urged herself, remembering with a hot, angry blush the scene with her daughter and her disgusting copulation a mere couple of hours before.

  Marrying rich would certainly offer expanding opportunities for Jackie. She would meet a better class of people the higher up they went on the economic ladder. She'd be driving a great car, a Porsche maybe, and buy her clothes at Saks or Bonwit's or Bergdorf's, clothes of her favorite designers.

  Perhaps, too, the boost in fortune might get her into a good Ivy League college like Harvard or Yale, which would give her opportunities for success unimaginable in her present status. She would be able to network, meet the offspring of America's elite, connect with the people who made the big decisions and meet well-bred young men and women. God knows she needed that. Especially young men who respected her. No more skinhead idiots brandishing swastikas, white trash animals on motorcycles who forced her into unsafe sex. Money attracts money and a better class of people, she decided; the more money the better.

  It comforted her to daydream about a brighter future for her daughter. Of course, this did not detract from the benefits that would accrue to her. She supposed she was not without her material needs. She could envision her own closets full of designer clothes and velvet-covered boxes filled with jewelry, the real thing, and a regimen of exercise and massage to keep her figure tight and, when the time came, a tuck or two here or there. Were these crass aspirations? Perhaps. But her man might want her to obey the conventions of the class, and she would be a willing participant.

  Then there were the house or houses they would live in. She would read Architectural Digest with a specific purpose in mind. After all, she wouldn't be expected to live in the same house where he had lived with his late wife. No way. She would have to put her own stamp on things. Create her own individualized world for his new life. Indeed, it would be her house that would be a candidate to appear in Architectural Digest, and she would be featured in those photos entering some posh ball in Palm Beach or New York or Paris, London, Venice. God, it was wonderful to think about.

  Such thoughts convinced her that there was, indeed, a point to Mrs. Burns's suggestion, once one got beyond the bold idiocy of the idea and the necessary subterfuge that would be entailed. That was the hard part. The initial phase, the acting, the dissimulation. And, calling a spade a spade, the lying, the outright lying. But if her intentions were basically honest and good, not evil or sinister or selfish, where was the harm?

  It was certainly a better course of action than living on empty dreams and surrendering to the inevitable life in the lower depths, the slow lane, the bottom of the barrel. Time for a little realism here, she rebuked herself. Better to try for the roses than settle for the weeds. Her optimistic speculation was exciting her.

  She thought about possible ages in her target range. The fifties, of course, would be ideal. But rich men widowed at that age, she had observed, seemed to look for girls in their twenties, trophy wives. Sixty to seventy would probably be the logical range for her. Even a young over-seventy might fill the bill.

  Mrs. Burns had suggested a Jewish widower and had given her reasons, which had at first seemed shallow, stereotypical and comical. She had heard that oft-repeated cliché, reiterated by Mrs. Burns, that Jewish men were supposed to be steady family types. They also did not drink, like non-Jews. Their loving over-possessive mothers were supposed to have instilled in them gobs of guilt, and when they fooled around they compensated by being even more generous to their wives, as she had learned by observing them at Saks. Of course, that wasn't the life she wanted. She would much prefer a faithful husband who was satisfied with her in every respect.

  Certainly, from her observations and experience, Jewish men seemed to treat their wives a lot better than Italian men, who preferred the company of other Italian men to their spouses. In her mother's case, she couldn't blame her father. To her mother every man was a perpetrator of sinful acts. In fact, most things, especially thoughts, were sinful to her and required weekly and sometimes daily exorcism by the priests. Grace considered it a minor miracle, coming from that background, that she had, defying the devil, ever summoned up the courage to get laid.

  It occurred to her suddenly that she was really ignorant about the aging process of men, especially their sexual capacity. Her experience with Jason and the dentist had validated Mrs. Burns's assertion that man's best friend was, indeed, their penis, and getting it up was a matter of utmost importance to them. They were proud of their erections, especially their endurance and capacity for orgasms. When that diminished Grace assumed that their self-worth would be negatively affected. Viva Viagra, she thought.

  Thinking about this brought on another hot blush that crawled up her back. She had never gone to bed with anyone over sixty, but the dentist did have episodes when his erection had abruptly collapsed. The thing had just deflated, as if someone had put a pin in a balloon, and no amount of ministering brought it immediately back to life. The dentist was initially depressed by the episode, although luckily, after a brief nap, he was able to rise to the occasion, not that it performed any great feats that gave her any pleasure.

  But the experience had taught her that an erect penis was a very delicate and important instrument and meant more to a man than was commonly thought among women. She suspected that men over sixty required a great deal more sexual inspiration than younger men, and she would, of course, be fully committed to providing that ingredient. Why was she dwelling on this aspect? Had what she had witnessed with Jackie aroused such thoughts?

  She had heard many jokes about Jewish women and their disinterest in sex, which might or might not be true. Certainly, she was prepared to provide a marked contrast to that supposition.

  Depending on the man, she would show an aggressive interest and an adventurous spirit in the sex act and whatever special desires the man might have, especially at the beginning. She would encourage him to confide his sexual preferences to her and would be enthusiastically open to everything for his pleasure and appreciation. If the man would offer the same service for her, so much the better.

  Nor was she a stranger to a circumcised penis, which had not been the case with Jason. The dentist, who had not been Jewish, was circumcised. As for her penile preference, it was a toss-up, although she did have a brief experience with a bent erection, which had been a definite turnoff. But that would be the luck of the draw.

  A healthy interest in sex, of cou
rse, feigned or real, would be an essential part of the package she would bring with her, aside from companionship, devotion and faithfulness, a sense of humor and, of course, keeping herself as attractive, well-groomed and as interesting as possible, presenting herself in a way that would make the man proud of her. She would be cooperative but not servile. Above all, her dignity must remain intact. In every way, she would try to remake herself into a trophy wife. In public she would present herself as an elegant, enviable asset. In private a great lay.

  She would subscribe to the daily New York Times and the news magazines, become conversant with the computer and the Internet, watch Lehrer and PBS, keep up with politics, read all the best-sellers, see all the latest plays, concerts and movies and generally enhance her knowledge of the world around her and thereby increase her ability to discuss things of importance. She would learn how to be a great hostess, take courses in art, learn French, take up golf or tennis, support every appropriate philanthropy and participate in all activities in which her mate required her presence.

  She was surprised at the absolute candor and raw honesty of her thoughts. There was no point in self-delusion. If she were to take this road, she had to be fully provisioned for the journey, without cant or wishful distortion. Was she ready for such a commitment? And if so, did she have the courage and equipment to pursue it?

  When she returned to her sense of place, the coffin was being wheeled down the aisle toward the exit, followed by the grieving relatives. She realized that in reading the obituary notices she would have to pay particular attention to the age of the spouse. Eighties and nineties would have to be screened out, even if it required some telephone calls or advance visits to the funeral parlors.

  "What a wonderful person," the woman next to her said as Grace filed out and followed the flow of the crowd to the back of the chapel.

  As research, Grace decided, this was a very profitable experience. Not that she had fully decided to pursue this course of action. She would hate to be beholden to Mrs. Burns on any matter. Besides, such a course would take a massive effort of time, total focus and commitment. And if she put all her energy and resources behind the process there would be no assurance of success. In fact, this would have to be her full-time job.