by Warren Adler
"Sure, Mom," Jackie agreed, studying her mother's face with a wry smile.
"What are you looking at, darling?" Grace asked.
"I do think about you a lot, Mom."
"You do?"
"Darryl is probably right."
"Not him again," Grace snapped, her mood changing. "I thought we had an understanding."
"No. You did. I didn't."
"He's trouble, Jackie. Dangerous and mean-minded."
"Shows how much you know."
"We both know where his brains are," Grace said, remembering his swollen genitals. Jackie sneered.
"He has convictions. And he's smart. He knows what's really going on. He's against the government and he thinks there's a conspiracy to make us all slaves to the Jews."
Grace felt her stomach tighten.
"Oh, my God. Not one of those."
"One of what?"
"A troublemaking bigot, a Nazi creep from one of those militias."
"He's not a creep either."
"He's a menace, Jackie. He's just using you for his own gratification. Can't you find someone decent?"
"Can't you?"
"People like that are scary, Jackie. Just look at that ugly knife he carries. Gave me the shivers, and he's probably got guns all over the place."
"That's his business."
Grace felt a shiver of fear roll through her.
"He does have guns, doesn't he?"
"Considering what's going on in the world, it's not such a bad idea."
"Jackie ... I ... I don't think he's a good influence on you. Can't you see how awful ... how can I put this? You really have got to stop seeing him. For your own sake. No good can come of it."
She feared making her suggestion seem like an absolute command, which, so far, hadn't done much good and would only push her closer to Darryl.
"You never like my boyfriends anyway."
"He's trouble, Jackie. I'm your mother and I'm just thinking of your welfare. You're still young, sweetheart. I'm just trying to keep you from making a terrible mistake. Men like that are ... well, just no good. Why look for trouble? Haven't we got enough on our plate without that?"
"You're still angry because you caught us in bed together and he hit you."
"Two very good reasons ... among others," Grace muttered, her patience ebbing. The joy of her morning fantasy had disappeared. "Besides, you're under age. How old is he, anyway?"
"That's dangerous talk, Mom. Very threatening." Jackie paused and clicked her teeth. "It's no joke."
"I just asked how old he was."
"I wouldn't advise your finding out, Mom."
"Now who's threatening?"
"It's you who's looking for trouble, Mom. If you're thinking of turning him in, don't."
"It wouldn't be a bad idea."
"You'd be making a big mistake."
"What are you now, a gun moll?"
"Very funny." She began to pace the room like a caged tiger. "I'll see who I want to see. I want to see Darryl. And I'd advise you not to make threats. You don't know him. He's exciting and smart and sexy. And he likes me."
"Big deal. He likes you. Ho ho," Grace mocked, her anger bursting through her self-imposed barrier. "Why shouldn't he like you? Sweet jailbait flesh."
"That was out of line, Mom." She paced for a few moments more, then turned to Grace. Her look seemed softer.
"Not to me."
"What is it with you? Every time I mention Darryl you go up the wall."
"Not at the mention. It's because of the reality. I can't believe you can't see what he is."
"I know what he is, Mom. You don't." Jackie clicked her tongue. "Here we go again. Let's both cool it. Okay?" She came close to Grace and kissed her forehead, but it struck her as mechanical, more like a dismissal.
"Tell you the truth, he likes you, Mom. Maybe I'm jealous."
"Of me?"
"He said he thought you were sexier than I was."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment to me or an insult to you? He did make an obscene offer, if I recall. It was disgusting."
"He also said that you really didn't look like a mom. That you seemed to be hiding your light under a bushel."
"I can't believe you're repeating this ... making this asshole's words seem profound."
Jackie smiled and shook her head, as if Grace was the errant child.
"You just don't know about men, Mom. That's why you haven't got any. You need to tune in more to your real self. Give your desires more room to breathe."
"Where is this shit coming from?"
"I know you think I'm a stupid teenager. But I think I know more about the opposite sex than you do."
"Is this your big talent, Jackie?"
"I know this: If I put my mind to it, I can really manipulate the opposite sex. I know my assets in that regard."
"You're sixteen, Jackie. Going on fifty." Grace stood up, the last vestiges of restraint collapsing. "And this is the most ridiculous and eccentric mother-daughter conversation we've ever engaged in. You're recycling his bullshit as true wisdom. He's a dangerous wacko with all his brains in his dick."
"Mind your tongue, young lady," Jackie mimicked, laughing. She reached out, took her mother's hand and kissed it.
At that moment, she heard the raucous sound of a motorcycle as it stopped nearby.
"Stop diddling me, Jackie."
"I'm not going to stop seeing him. Get that through your head."
She ran out of the door before Grace could respond. Looking out the window, she watched Jackie put on a helmet and straddle the bike behind Darryl as they roared away. The sound was ominous, like distant thunder warning of an impending storm.
She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a long moment. Somehow she felt chastised, as if her daughter and she had reversed roles. But as she thought about it, she felt more challenged than rebuked, and the image of Sam Goodwin refocused itself in her mind. Suddenly, all options seemed closed. Except one.
When you're drowning, she thought, you grab anything that floats. Then she rushed into the bathroom, removed her quilted robe and jumped into the shower.
CHAPTER FOUR
She deliberately took a seat up front, behind the first row of mourners, where she could observe them more clearly. The scene was familiar. The coffin was open, with the upper part of the body exposed for viewing.
The synagogue was packed. She had noted the lines of Mercedeses, BMWs and Cadillacs lining up to get into the parking lot. Judging by outward appearances, everything about this funeral said money and upper class. It fit in very well with her fantasy.
The organ music boomed out its solemn dirge. She was sitting a few feet away from the grieving Sam Goodwin. Sam! She called him Sam now, having fantasized her familiarity. She noted his handsome face in profile, dignified, calm, the eyes moist. Occasionally he looked back at the assemblage and smiled thinly at various people. He wore a dark pinstriped suit and a creamy white shirt. His hair, she noted, was carefully barbered with just the right amount of steel-gray hair falling over the high collar.
On either side of him were the man and woman she had seen the night before, obviously his children. She recalled other familiar faces from the funeral parlor.
Suddenly the music trailed off and a man in a black robe and yarmulke—by then she had learned the names of the various ritual trappings of these people—entered. The man, she knew, was Rabbi Seltzer, and he made the usual remarks about the late Anne Goodwin. Anne, Grace thought. A classy name.
Apparently Anne Goodwin was very charitable, loving, compassionate and well regarded. This was not just lip service. The rabbi was specific about various organizations she had supported, both Jewish and non-Jewish. She made a note of them in her mind. His eulogy was exactly the appropriate length and to the point. Then he said a prayer in Hebrew. Some of the words she had come to recognize.
At the end of the prayer, the rabbi announced that there would be one speaker, and he introduced Sam Go
odwin, who rose solemnly. Patting the yarmulke on his head, he pulled himself up to his full height and smoothed the creases from his jacket, which fell beautifully on his slim frame. His children touched him as he moved past them, walking solemnly and ramrod straight to the lectern. He stood behind it for a long moment, scanning the room, obviously gathering the strength to control his emotions.
"Friends," he began, his voice deep, mellow, wonderfully resonant. Grace felt thrilled by its sound. Her pounding heart beat heavily in her chest.
"Anne would have been delighted by the turnout." He stopped abruptly, and Grace knew he was reaching for control with all his resources. "She had this uncanny ability to relate to people. It was a phenomena I observed the moment I met her at a sorority dance at Wellesley College. She was a magnet for people. They clustered around her, sought her out. Like me. I remember how I, too, sought her out, basking in the light of her lovely face, her beautiful eyes that radiated wonder and beckoned me, a rather shy, stumbling and bumbling young man. I was captivated by her, charmed, and passionately committed to this rare human being for forty years. For me it was forty years of sheer joy and happiness. We enjoyed every moment we were together. She was my pillar of strength, my lover, my confidante, my best friend. She thought I was hopelessly disorganized and I probably was, because she took on the job of organizing me from the day we met. She was beautiful, vivacious, giving, a loyal and faithful wife, a cherished pal.... "He paused and studied the assemblage through a long pause. Grace could not hold back her tears. Sobs echoed through the auditorium, and she suspected that there wasn't a dry eye in the house.
It was not just the words he spoke. It was the way he said them, the wonderful resonance of his voice, its solemn lilt, the sincerity of his meaning. Oh God, Grace thought, would anyone ever say such words about me?
"Good-bye, sweet Anne, my love. You are too soon gone. I should have preceded you."
The sounds of grief, the sobs and coughing, accelerated as he left the lectern and returned slowly to his seat.
Grace felt the urge suddenly to rise and embrace him. He looked, to her Catholic-conditioned eye, positively saintly, a man to love. Was he, Sam Goodwin, her destiny?
After the ceremony, she asked one of the men organizing the ride to the cemetery if he might find her room in one of the cars in the procession.
The man arranged for her to ride with two couples in a Lincoln Town Car. In the front seat were the McDermotts, Sally and Mike, people in their sixties, and in the rear were the Hales, Bob and Clara, slightly younger.
"Did you know Anne long?" Clara Hale asked as the car moved along in the line of the long procession. She was a bleached blonde with thin parchment skin and the pale, mottled look of a woman who received most of her calories from alcohol. Her husband Bob had a complementary appearance, and Grace had the impression that tippling was their principal common bond and the basis of their marriage.
"About five years. I was involved with one of her charities."
"She was a helluva lady," Mike McDermott said as he drove.
"A little imperious," his wife Sally said, realizing suddenly that the remark seemed inappropriate under the circumstances. "But giving. Very giving."
"Jewish people are very charitable," Grace said. "I'm Italian. Most of our charity goes to the Church."
"They do give," Clara said. "But you've got to admit, they are different from us."
Grace wondered about that remark. They did seem different, but she attributed that more to the difference in economic status than to their being Jewish. Were they different? It was hard for her to know.
"How did you know her?" Grace asked.
"Mike was the contractor for their house," Bob said. "Have you seen it?"
"Yes," Grace said.
"She was one tough lady, that Anne. Jewed us down to rock bottom."
"Be careful about your remarks, Mike," Sally said, looking around her reflexively.
"I'm among friends, aren't I?"
Grace felt him eyeing her through the rear-view mirror.
"She ran the roost," Sally said. "Never met a man so pussy-whipped in my life."
"Except me," Mike chuckled.
"Not me," Bob interjected. "I'm the absolute master of my home and hearth."
"Bullshit," Clara said, poking Grace in the ribs.
"I would think," Grace said, "from the way he spoke about her, it was so beautiful, he must have adored her."
"Yes, he did," Sally said. "He gave her anything she wanted."
"He was scared shitless of her," Mike said.
"Scared," Sally said. "No way. Sam Goodwin is not afraid of anything. Frightened people don't get that rich."
"He respected her," Clara said. "That's a lot more than I can say for the way you two treat us. Right, Sally?"
"I'll take this bastard. Warts and all."
"They say that Jewish men are good to their wives," Grace said, hoping it sounded more like a question.
"These bozos could sure learn a lot from Sam about how to treat a wife," Sally said. "Say what you want, Anne led a charmed life. And I don't think he ever fooled around."
"How the hell would you know?" Mike snapped.
"Women know."
"Women know shit," Mike said.
"They know," Sally said, as if she was determined for her own reasons to have the last word. Grace noted the sudden tension between them.
"If he did," Clara said, "Anne would never know it. He'd never embarrass her. Not Sam. But then, you never know what goes on behind the bedroom door."
"Nothing goes on behind ours," Mike said, lifting his hand in mock self-protection.
"Your definition of nothing leaves much to be desired," Sally said. She turned to those in the backseat. "To him nothing means never enough."
They were silent for a long time while each, Grace supposed, contemplated their own relationship. She wished she had one to contemplate.
"Anne was tough," Bob said, turning to Grace. "But she did have great taste. I did their landscaping. You had to be real alert when you dealt with her. Tell you the truth, I liked her a lot. Poor woman. I'll say this for Sam: He stood by her to the end. She suffered like hell."
"I guess I liked her, too," Mike agreed. "Once I got past my anger, she was okay. I think she knew just how far she could go. I'll say this for old Sam: He was a good soldier. He went along."
"He seems to have a lot of class," Grace interjected. "And he's quite distinguished-looking."
"And available. Are you married, Grace?" Sally asked.
"Divorced."
"Well, there's your big chance," Mike chuckled.
"They'll be crawling over him like flies on honey," Sally said. She looked at her husband and poked him in the ribs. "Stop thinking what you're thinking."
"How do you know what I'm thinking?" Mike protested good-naturedly.
"I know where your thoughts come from," Sally said.
"I hope he finds what he wants," Grace said.
"He will," Bob said. "Men like Sam always find what they want."
It was an observation that did not augur well for Grace's ambitions. The competition alone would be daunting. How could she possibly get a man like that to notice her?
The mourners gathered under a green-and-white-striped tent in front of a freshly dug hole. On the side of the hole was Anne Goodwin's coffin, on a specially built contraption used for lowering it into the grave. Grace took a seat next to the couples who had brought her.
There were about a hundred seats, which were quickly filled. An overflow crowd clustered in a semicircle around the seats. The coffin was lowered into the grave as the rabbi read from a Hebrew prayer book. Grace never took her eyes off Sam Goodwin, all her thoughts concentrated on how she could possibly open up a dialogue with him. This was now the central question in her mind.
She watched him stand up, then reach down into the mound of earth. He picked up a handful of dirt and threw it into the hole. It made a hollow sound as it landed on the
coffin, triggering in Sam a brief sobbing fit. His pain transmitted itself to Grace, and she, too, began to sob. Again, she wished she could take him in her arms and comfort him.
Recovering himself, he wiped his eyes and returned to the tent. At one point he lifted his eyes, which seemed to meet hers, lock into them for a brief moment, then pass on. She wondered if it had been her imagination or merely a response to her own intense staring. But she could not deny the thrill that had gone through her.
"One thing we'll get at Sam's house is a good feed," Mike said when they were back in the car. The procession was looser now and no longer had the luxury of being able to pass through lighted intersections in a single group.
"I'm starving," Sally said.
"I could use a drink," Bob said.
"Likewise," Clara said. "These events tend to make one thirsty." She turned to Grace. "What about you, Grace?"
"Maybe a drink would do me good," she said, surprised at her candor. To approach Sam Goodwin she would need a drink, maybe more than one. What troubled her now was that she might not be able to muster the courage to open a dialogue with the grieving man. She felt this moment of opportunity swiftly approaching and all it did was inspire fear. She could not think of a single opening line.
"You suppose he'll keep the house?" Sally asked.
"No way of knowing," Mike said. "He certainly doesn't need it. One person thrashing around in all that space."
"He won't be one person for long," Clara said.
Grace felt suddenly in touch with her own inadequacy. It was panicking her.
"It'll be tough trying to determine the real thing. He'll wonder if they're after him for his money or his character," Sally said.
"Character shmarachter," Mike said. "Bottom line: his shekels are the big lure."
"Were the two people beside him, his children?" Grace asked, suddenly feeling the need to glean more and more information about Sam and his life.
"The son is a fancy lawyer in San Francisco, a real tightass. The daughter lives in New York with some weirdo. Sam has been very good to his kids."
"Lucky bastards," Clara said.
"Chose the right pop," Mike chuckled.
"Jewish daddies are very good to their kids," Sally said.
