by Warren Adler
She contemplated summoning the courage to get out of the car and closer to the house, where she could peek through the windows and inspect the inside more thoroughly. It seemed too risky. Besides, other people suddenly appeared, leaving through the front door. They were well dressed and, from experience, she suspected that they were heading to the funeral parlor.
So far she had only visited funeral parlors the night before a couple of times. There, the body, carefully groomed, was displayed and visitors viewed it in hushed silence. At times, depending on the wishes of the relatives, the coffin remained closed.
Jews, she had learned, buried their dead quickly, usually the day after the death, unless their Sabbath intervened. She was getting to be an expert on such matters.
She found such a visitation far more depressing than the funeral itself and hadn't made it a regular practice. Besides, she hadn't wanted to expose herself too blatantly to the mourning family members or court embarrassment by being asked questions about her relationship to the corpse.
But this time her earlier observation of the prospect was encouraging and she felt that, despite the risk, he deserved a closer look. She was not disappointed. The open coffin, with lighted candles in elaborate candelabra on either side, displayed what could be described as the vestiges of a once pretty woman.
The dead woman had bleached blonde hair, was appropriately made-up and laid out in an elaborate coffin dressed in what appeared to be an expensive designer gown. If she had to guess, Grace would say the gown was a Galanos. A diamond brooch, which looked like the real thing, was pinned to the gown. She looked vaguely familiar; but then, on the Saks floor, many of the customers looked as if they were stamped out by the same plastic surgeon, hair colorist and beautician.
The grieving husband, Sam Goodwin, was, indeed, the man she had seen the night before. He wore a dark pinstriped suit and sat on a velvet-upholstered chair along one side of the room. Seated beside him, each holding one of his hands, were a man and a woman, obviously, from the resemblance, his grown children. Their eyes were puffy and red.
At this close range she noted that the man's steel-gray hair was full and curly. His face was square, rugged and tanned. He might normally have appeared handsome and virile, but under these conditions he looked whipped, broken and grieving. The son was a younger version of his father. Grace estimated him as late thirties, the daughter younger. She wore round steel-rimmed glasses and her black hair was brushed back severely off her face, which was smoothly white and sharply contrasted against her hair. She wore no makeup. With the right makeup, Grace observed, she could be quite startling.
The room was filled with people, some of whom lingered respectfully over the body in the coffin, then moved to pay their respects to the three grieving people, who acknowledged them by a nod, a touch or a handshake. It was obvious that they were in a kind of mourning trance, barely able to be communicative. People spoke in whispers, offering condolences in the time-honored ritual.
Grace stood in a corner trying to appear equally concerned and respectful, while peripherally focusing her attention on Sam Goodwin. She did not want to stay too long or appear conspicuous. At one point the man's eyes rose and scanned the room. His gaze fell upon her briefly and she imagined he nodded in her direction, then passed on to others.
"Will you sign the book, Mrs.... ?" a tall man said. He was standing behind her, near a lectern on which was a visitors' book.
"Sorentino," she said. "I was a friend..." Her voice trailed off. The man had started a conversation with another person.
Grace signed the book and noted the various names on the list above her. She vaguely recognized some of them as names she had seen in the social pages of the Palm Beach Post. The name Goodwin seemed familiar. She noted, too, that the names in the book were not only Jewish names, but seemed to cover a broader spectrum. Also, the people in the room seemed more anglicized than those she had seen clustered together in other Jewish funerals.
To Grace, who had learned something about the social makeup of Palm Beach from her Saks experience, this meant that the man had crossed the rigid lines of social status and was equally acceptable to gentiles in the various social enclaves of the wealthy where money, at times, could cover a multitude of prejudices, at least partially.
A man she recognized as a former senator from Florida came in and immediately sought out the grieving trio, who rose in tandem. The man embraced the widower, who towered above him, and then embraced the children in turn.
"I'm so sorry, Sam," the former senator said. Sam Goodwin nodded and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.
She took one last look around the room, impressed by the people in attendance, the atmosphere and especially with the grieving man, who was distinguished-looking and definitely in the age range that she had set for herself. Unfortunately, she felt unworthy and remote, far below the man in social status and sophistication, definitely a class or two apart.
Contemplating her inferiority depressed her and made her feel clumsy and undeserving. She was ashamed of this cynical caper borne out of desperation and, probably, naïveté. Was she any better than Jason, chasing rainbows and impossible dreams? Where did she get the idea that she could simply snap her fingers and insinuate herself into the life of such a man, even in his present vulnerable state? She slinked out of the room feeling defeated and remote, woefully inadequate to the mad task she had assigned herself.
But as she drove farther from the funeral home, she made a valiant attempt to retrieve her courage. She did have assets, she insisted to herself. All right, she was not very educated or sophisticated, had not traveled in the same circles and was definitely not the traditionally glitzy trophy-wife type. Nevertheless, she was certainly ready and willing to fulfill all the obligations of being an exemplary, dedicated, sexy, loyal and supportive wife. She was a catch, she told herself, feeling slightly giddy.
But then she began to project herself into reality. This handsome widower would be a magnet for battalions of single, attractive ladies with extraordinary trophy-wife potential, divisions of accomplished and athletic widows who would fling themselves in his path, women from his own class who knew him and did not have to contrive subterfuges to meet him, who would park their shoes under his bed at the lift of his eyebrow. How could she possibly compete against them?
Her courage dwindled further as she got closer to her apartment. It wouldn't take him five minutes to discover what she really was, a lowly, out-of-work cosmetician, a fancy name for makeup salesperson, with no prospects or money, who had, so far, made a mess of her life.
It was all right for Mrs. Burns to suggest this course of action. She was educated, polished, articulate, self-confident, a born leader and executive with a proven track record and a great job. She could attract men like moths around a candle. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm.
She took a realistic inventory of her present position, and it offered a dreary prospect. People should stay within their own circle, she decided, as she let herself in the door of the apartment. Jackie wasn't home yet from her job in the movie theater.
She went into her bedroom, took off her clothes and lay on the bed. Often in this state of uncertainty and despair she had turned to her dildo for comfort. She got up, fished in her lower drawer and took it out. But when she lay back in the bed, activated the device and began the process she felt nothing. She shut off the motor and put it aside. Sex, in this artificial manner, struck her now as repugnant, humiliating in its implications. Her mind continued to dwell on the crazy premise that had dominated her life for the past few weeks.
She had been a fool to consider such a patently cynical and stupid idea. It was time, instead, to deal with real alternatives, like a job. Suddenly her life seemed to have stopped on a dime. Yet, in an odd way, she likened her present state to that of Sam Goodwin. His life, too, at least temporarily, had also stopped on a dime.
He was probably, at this very same moment, considering his future without his b
eloved wife. The manner in which he was grieving, she assumed, attested to his devotion to her. She admired that kind of devotion.
It was the curse of her early Catholicism that made it impossible for her to be morally neutral. She was, after all, engaging in a cynical, dissimulating, hypocritical act, building her future prospects on a tissue of lies. She could not escape the clearly defined sense of right and wrong promulgated by the Church. According to those strictures, she was doing wrong, something sinful. At times such ironclad, uncompromising definitions seemed more powerful than the act of survival itself. Wasn't that what she was pursuing in these funeral capers? Survival. Deliberately, she pushed aside the concept of sin as presenting far too rigid a barrier and began to rationalize her intent.
Was it really sinful to want to replace a man's loving departed wife, to bring him joy and rejuvenation? She pictured him as she had seen him earlier that evening, looking after his dog. He was graceful and elegant, handsome.
In her mind, she imagined him coming closer to where she was observing him in her car. He smiled at her and offered his hand, which she took. It was strong, yet gentle. He eased her out of the car and, hand in hand, moved with her into the house. Inside, he turned to her and they embraced. He kissed her deeply, his tongue caressed hers, as he enveloped her in his arms. She responded, felt all the wonderful sensations of his embrace.
A sudden thrill charged through her and she reached for the dildo again, activating it, placing the tip on her clitoris, picturing him now naked, erect, entering her. She felt open, moist, accepting, as he moved deeply inside her, speeding his strokes. After awhile she felt the first signs of an oncoming orgasm. Finally the spasm came, and it seemed more intense than usual.
She calmed slowly, surprised how strongly Sam Goodwin had entered her fantasy life. Hold that thought, Grace, she told herself as she dropped into a dreamless sleep.
She awoke in a turmoil. It was still dark. Her body was hot and moist and her heart was racing. By some miracle, she had held the thought, and she remembered the fantasy that had stimulated her. But, she discovered, there seemed a lot more to the fantasy than the sexual component, and she gave it full reign as she remained in bed waiting for daylight.
She saw herself as the chatelaine of his big Tudor house on the beach, the new Mrs. Goodwin. It was morning and she imagined herself locked in his arms as she awoke, the sun peeking through the blinds, lighting the room, dancing along the walls bedecked with works of art and ornate ormolu-trimmed mirrors and antiques. The sunlight would awaken the colors of the gorgeous Oriental rugs on the floor.
She would stretch and observe the silken lining of the canopied bed, and soon he would stir beside her and they would make love, a long, lingering episode of foreplay and glorious orgasms for both of them, then the delicious time of leisurely afterglow.
Later there would be breakfast on the terrace. She would be wearing a long, silk, embroidered morning gown enhanced by a delicate gold necklace around her neck. The maid would serve them, cold orange juice in stemmed glasses, eggs, over light the way she liked them, and crisp bacon, toasted bagels, strawberry jam and wonderful coffee, the aroma complementing the sea air.
They would read The New York Times and occasionally comment about various events in the news, lock eyes at times and purse lips in a mimed kiss. Before them would stretch the white sands of the beach and beyond, the glistening sea, twinkling in the sunlight.
Sam would enter his study and do his various business chores, perhaps overseeing his investments, calling his brokers. He was still in action, of course, a captain of industry, offering suggestions to his colleagues and underlings in the business community in which he operated.
She would be involved in her many activities, running the house, meeting with the staff to plan the evening dinner party. The governor would be coming, of course, along with his lovely wife and two or three other couples, perhaps a famous movie actress and her industrialist husband and, for extra excitement, a duke and duchess from Great Britain laden with the latest gossip of the royal family. A cozy little dinner for eight by candlelight. On the good china, of course, the set that had previously belonged to the czar of Russia.
Later there would be tennis doubles at the club ... what club ... perhaps the Everglades, which was, she knew, notoriously anti-Semitic. In this fantasy, Sam had been chosen their first Jewish member. Initially, he had refused, but the club president had persuaded him after a long private dinner that it was time that class, not religion, should dominate the selection process. She, his new wife, had been mentioned, of course. A distinct asset, the president had said, a wise and glorious match.
After tennis, an exquisite lunch, overlooking the eighteenth hole with the retired chairman of AT&T, after which they would be driven back to their home, still a little tipsy from the Dom Perignon that they had imbibed a bit too freely.
Back home they would have a brief swim in the pool, then retreat to the beach house and have a delicious sexual episode before falling off into a delightful nap, rising with just enough time to dress, supervise the table settings and discuss the final arrangements with the cook and the couple who would be serving.
Dinner would go off without a hitch and they would linger over the brandy, while the men smoked their Havanas and the talk waxed eloquent about the current state of affairs in Washington and the world. They would listen with rapt attention to her views as she outlined the prospects of monetary reform based on her assessment of the latest conference of the World Bank.
Before the guests said good-bye, Jackie, coming home from the dance at the club, looking radiant in the latest Oscar—by then she would be referring to all designers by their first names—would introduce them to her date, the son of the owner of the largest cruise company in the world, and they would remark on Jackie's beauty and poise and her date's good looks and sophistication.
Just past midnight they would bid their guests good-bye with effusive two-cheek kisses, and she and Sam would be alone for one last nightcap and, before going upstairs, they would take off their shoes and walk to the water's edge and kiss in the moonlight, finally going to bed, but not before one last slow turn at lovemaking to cap off the day as they fell asleep in each other's arms.
Then, suddenly, the first beams of the rising sun revealed the truth of her present reality, her dreary bedroom, the sounds of the early morning army of drab working people setting off to their dead-end jobs, all of them two paychecks from oblivion and the unemployment lines. The long fall from fantasy to reality had taken merely seconds, and she was back to the decisions, anxieties and poverty of the present.
She heard Jackie in the shower, put on her quilted, much-abused robe and went into the kitchenette to make coffee, pour the juice and make toast. It was certainly a long cry from the breakfast she had created in her imagined world.
"Sleep well, Jackie?" she asked when Jackie came out of the bathroom, her skin pink with youthful health, her teeth glistening in a broad smile. She bent down and kissed her mother's cheek.
"You were asleep when I came in, Mom. I didn't have heart to wake you."
Grace reached up and caressed her daughter's cheek, wary of showing too much demonstrative affection, fearful that it might be interpreted as phony or manipulative. She loved this child with every fiber of her being, but guiding her through this crucial period of her life was both baffling and extremely worrisome.
"That's my girl," Grace said.
Jackie threw off her robe, revealing her nakedness. Her figure was perfect: high, beautiful breasts with round pink nipples, flat stomach, a patch of rich black curly pubic hair, the finely rounded rump, the long legs, tight thighs, shapely calves. This was a beauty. And the face—gorgeous, long curling black lashes shading light brown eyes, a curving Italian nose chiseled into high cheekbones and angel lips over a cleft chin. She knew that Jackie could feel her inspection.
"You think I'm pretty, Mom?"
"A knockout."
"Lot of good it d
oes me," Jackie pouted.
"Just have patience, Jackie. Things are beginning to turn around. I can feel it. You'll see."
"Sure, Mom." Jackie sighed, stepping into her panties and bra, then fastening a beige skirt around her slim waist and slipping into a cream-colored blouse. Yes, Grace thought, she was bright and beautiful, with enormous potential to make the jump into the best circles. She was aware of her sexiness, too aware. She needed to learn how to use her allure for her own advantage, not to dispense her favors indiscriminately.
"Really, Jackie. Something's in the wind."
"Like what?"
"I can't say."
"Are you keeping something from me, Mom?" Jackie asked.
"Not really," Grace replied, thinking of Sam Goodwin. "But I do believe I have possibilities." It was, of course, pure fantasy at that point, but she felt she needed to offer something to keep hope alive.
"Possibilities?" Jackie sighed. "Sure, Mom, possibilities."
"And if I latch on to something good, first thing we do is get you that car."
"I've heard that before, Mom."
"I mean it. Maybe even..." She recalled her fantasy. "Lots of things."
She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee and delicately buttered her toast.
"It's nice thinking about."
"Yes, it is," Grace agreed. "Very nice."
"Things just can't stay like this."
"No, they can't."
"It's the pits."
"We have to make good things happen," Grace said suddenly. "Take the bull by the horns."
She knew she was giving herself a pep talk, trying to work herself up to continuing her quest, despite the odds against it ever being fulfilled.
"You're right, Mom. We can't just let things happen to us."
"We've got to make them happen. We've just hit a bad patch is all."
"To put it mildly," Jackie said.
"I'll find a better way for us Jackie. I promise."
