Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  "Guess you have to be circumcised to be a good daddy," Mike said.

  "I don't think you should personalize this," Sally said, barely repressing a giggle.

  "Very funny," Mike snickered. "But the fact is, Jews think their shit don't stink."

  "Come on, Mike, cool it," Sally said. "We're going to Sam's wife's funeral, for crying out loud."

  "It's all propaganda. They create it, then everybody's got to think it," Mike said. "Isn't that right?" He looked sharply in Grace's direction.

  "I don't think I'm qualified to be a judge of that," Grace said, stumbling over her words, surprised at his outburst.

  "I'm not anti-Semitic," Mike said. "It's just sometimes they act so fucking superior. Good husbands. Good daddies. Hell, why not? They got all the goddamned money in the world."

  "He gets that way when he's hungry," Sally said, embarrassed for him. Clara and Bob exchanged glances.

  "They treat me okay. That's all I care about," Bob muttered.

  "I need a drink," Clara said.

  They had to park a good distance from the Goodwin residence. It looked like the entire funeral group had arrived.

  The house was large but deceptively cozy. It was as if one entered a colonial home in Virginia. Walls were rich, dark, polished panels, floors were heavy oak. American antiques were everywhere, accentuated by oil paintings depicting early Americana, except for those painted of the deceased Anne in various stages of her life.

  Grace counted three oil paintings, one in the den showing Anne Goodwin as a young woman beside a horse, a smaller one in the dining room showing Anne Goodwin as a younger woman, pensive and serene against a woodsy background and one large vertical in the living room above the fireplace depicting the departed Anne as a middle-aged woman of means, her demeanor regal and elegant, dressed in a gorgeous blue gown, wearing a magnificent diamond necklace. Grace was stunned by the beauty of the woman, even allowing for the painting's embellishment.

  Crowds clustered around the dining-room table, groaning with food. A bartender dispensed drinks behind a dark-paneled bar. It seemed, like the others she had attended, more like a cocktail party and buffet than an after-the-cemetery repast.

  By then, Grace had learned the difference between reformed, conservative and orthodox Jewish rituals. She knew the custom of shiva, where the immediate relatives sat on low wooden benches and wore black crepe pinned to their clothes while they received a steady stream of guests. Someone had explained that the custom was ancient and symbolic, a mark of respect for the departed and a sign of deep mourning for the irrevocable loss of a loved one.

  There were no wooden benches visible, but the principal mourners did sit in the large living room receiving their guests. The visitation was also part of the ritual. Grieving was intended as a gathering of people to keep the mourners company, share their loss and comfort them.

  Sam Goodwin sat on a straight-backed chair in the living room, receiving the condolences of the company. He wore slippers, had removed his jacket and taken off his tie. She watched him greet his guests, chat briefly, thank them for their condolences and urge them to partake in the repast.

  Grace hung back, not knowing what to say. She was too nervous to eat. Between bouts of staring at Sam, she observed the house, its richness of detail and the scale of its rooms. She roamed into the kitchen, with its gleaming center island and its ultramodern appliances. She had never been in a kitchen so beautiful.

  She toured the bathrooms, each one different, wallpapered with varied colonial scenes. Others, too, seemed to be touring the house as if they were inspecting it prior to a purchase. She went up the back stairs to the bedrooms, which, eerily, seemed the way she had pictured them in her fantasy, especially the master bedroom with its canopied king-size bed and high mattress which one apparently reached with a wooden step sitting beside the bed. The bedroom was huge, taking up the entire rear of the house.

  Across the room from the bed was a nest of photographs in silver frames, depicting, what she assumed were past generations. There were many pictures of Anne: Anne with two children, Anne in a tennis costume, Anne and Sam in Venice, Anne with Pyramids in the background, Anne at the railing of a ship ... Anne everywhere.

  She was struck by the vast plethora of images of Anne scattered throughout the house, as if it were a kind of shrine to the woman. It filled her with envy to contemplate someone so worshipped and adored by her husband. It also emphasized the daunting task ahead for any female who attempted to fill the spousal void in Sam Goodwin's life. Grace knew she wasn't equal to the challenge, but the idea did stir her competitive spirit. Why not? Looking at the monumental task from her vantage at rock bottom, she could see nowhere to go but up.

  There was a telescope facing out to sea, and beyond the picture windows was a terrace with a table over which stood a colorful umbrella. There were two chairs, indicating that this was a place where they had cocktails in the evening or morning coffee, just as she had pictured it. The accuracy frightened her. Was this destiny playing with her subconscious?

  Along one wall of the bedroom was a sliding closet with floor-to-ceiling doors. Opening one door, she took a peek inside. It was more than just a closet. One could walk into it. Racks of women's clothes, which she recognized as products of famous designers, hung on two rows circling around the carpeted space. Above them on a shelf were what looked like endless pairs of shoes. She had never seen or even imagined a closet this big. It looked like a dry-cleaning establishment.

  Hearing footsteps approaching, she closed the door instantly and passed into the upper hallway. Moving through other rooms that opened off the corridor, obviously guest rooms, she noted that each room and bath was individually designed. Wherever she looked oil paintings hung on the walls and the furniture seemed genuine antiques.

  Yes, she could be the chatelaine of this house. She had even gone one step farther than her fantasy, choosing one of the rooms for Jackie and hoping, foolishly, she would agree with her choice.

  She started down the front stairs, which led to the main hall, now crammed with people. Suddenly she spied the woman with the bun, the clothes lady. Seeing her milling in the crowd, waiting for exactly the right moment to spring, gave her the answer she had been looking for, her opening gambit. Of course. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The lady with the bun represented a goading challenge. She would beat her to the punch.

  She moved quickly down the stairs and headed for the living room, where Sam Goodwin was sitting. She stopped only briefly to take a glass of champagne off a silver tray, which she swallowed in one gulp, then took another. Girded for action, she inspected the arena. Men shook Sam Goodwin's hand and women bent to kiss him on the cheek. His son and daughter sat on the other side of the room, guests crowded about them in clusters.

  From the corner of her eye she saw the woman with the gray bun approaching. She felt the adrenaline rise in her body, sparked by her intake of Dutch courage, urging her forward, filling her with determination and a sense of mission. Opportunity was knocking loudly. This, she decided, was her last shot at the good life for her and her daughter.

  An older man and woman were just offering their condolences. Behind them were another couple, and not far behind was the lady with the bun. Then, suddenly, she was facing him, her eyes staring into his. She noted that his were bright blue, still glistening with tears of loss and grief. He looked up at her and smiled, took her hand and held it between both of his. His touch was electric. Her knees shook.

  "I haven't had the pleasure, Mr. Goodwin. I'm Grace Sorentino. I was a friend of Anne's. She was wonderful. One of the truly great ladies."

  "Thank you so much," he said, his voice slightly hoarse. "I'll miss her."

  "We worked together ... on her various charities. The homeless especially. We focused on that."

  "That was her mission," Sam Goodwin said, still holding her hand. "To help others."

  "I don't know if this is the appropriate moment..." Grace began. She felt her voi
ce waver, cleared her throat, then managed to speak again. He must have taken this action as the beginning of a good cry, because he patted her hand in a comforting gesture.

  "I know how you feel, Grace." He remembered my name, she thought joyfully. "People loved Anne."

  "She may have mentioned it, Mr. Goodwin."

  "Please. Call me Sam."

  "Sam."

  "What had she mentioned?"

  "The business of the clothes," Grace blurted. "She said that she wanted to make a donation of her clothes to charity. It was a kind of verbal promise. I don't know if she put it in writing, but..."

  "Of course, Grace," he said. "What use would I have for them? The children will go through them and take what they want. Frankly, Grace, I don't think I could bear to look at them again, ever. Yes, by all means, keep her promise."

  "I know how you feel ... Sam. But I assure you that we'll take care of it with the least amount of pain to you..."

  "I suppose time will take care of the memories." Sam sighed, still holding Grace's hand. "We had great times together."

  "She was the best there was," Grace said. "Wonderfully compassionate. Believe me, I'll see to it that her clothes go to those who are the neediest, which is what she wanted."

  "I know you will, Grace."

  He finally released her hand.

  "You're so sweet to come," he said.

  She turned slightly and saw the woman with the bun, patiently waiting her turn.

  "Can I count on that as a commitment Sam? The clothes?"

  "You have my word on that, Grace," Sam said, his eyes roving now to the couple moving toward him.

  "Thank you so much, Sam. I'm sure Anne will be very pleased. I'll ... I'll stop by in a few days."

  "The sooner the better, Grace."

  She moved away, then posted herself at a spot where she could view his coming encounter with the lady with the bun. She noted that he did not spend as much time with the couple behind her as he'd spent with her. And he hadn't forgotten her name. He had called her Grace six or seven times, which meant he was likely to remember her when she called. The sooner the better, he had said. She decided she would wait two days.

  She watched the lady with the bun begin her spiel and wondered if he would be true to his commitment. Hearing her out, he smiled benignly and shook her hand. Grace was too far away to hear what he was saying, but she could tell from the woman's expression that she had not gotten her usual positive answer.

  Satisfied and elated, she roamed through the house again. A new sense of proprietary interest seemed to have made subtle changes in her attitude toward the house. It bothered her suddenly to see some of the guests abusing the various possessions.

  Someone had toppled a Waterford crystal glass, cracking it. A group of Dresden figures on an antique table had been toppled, breaking the arm of one. Someone had leaned against a framed Catlin print, moving it awry. She quickly straightened it. In the dining room, cakes had fallen to the oak floor, and people were stepping on it, making a mess. She noted a small Oriental rug stained with red sauce.

  Someone had used a beautiful china cup as an ashtray. It occurred to her that she was taking too much of an interest in the house, as if her wishes had transcended her fantasy. She decided finally that the damage was not being done deliberately but because vast numbers of people were moving through the house. She felt certain that Sam was indifferent to any violation of his property. His loss, after all, had not been material. The crowd had increased since she had arrived, and it seemed to be getting more and more difficult to get to the buffet table.

  Despite the solemnity of the occasion the din of conversation rose naturally into a high-pitched crescendo. She threaded her way through the crowd to the patio that led to the beachside pool. At the far end of the pool was an ornate fountain, which directed its waters into a spill that fed into the turquoise pool.

  She surveyed the house from the rear, noting the details of the stonework and how it complemented the dark timbers of the Tudor styling. How could anyone want anything more than this? she thought. What an unfair stroke of fate for Anne to have left all this behind. She sighed at the absurdity of the thought, then moved back into the house, heading for the living room and another look at Sam Goodwin. Perhaps they might make eye contact. He might nod, mime her name from a distance.

  She saw him sitting in the same chair as before, his legs crossed, his head tilted upward to meet the gaze of the people still coming forward to pay their condolences. She stared at him for a long time, willing him to turn his eyes toward her. Notice me, she cried silently. Notice me. Then, miraculously, he did. She sensed a moment of connection, as if they were physically touching. Fate was doing its mysterious work, she told herself, feeling a trill of joy jump up her spine.

  "Grace," a voice said from behind her. It was Mike McDermott, holding a plate piled high with food in one hand and a beer in the other. "Thought we had lost you."

  "Here I am," she answered lightly, almost gaily.

  He bent over her and whispered in her ear. "Party like this makes you kind of wish for more dead Jews."

  She felt the anger rise from the depths of her, as if the insulting remark was directed at her personally.

  "You are a bigoted prick," she snapped, conscious of the heat of her response.

  "Hey, cool out," Mike said, blushing scarlet. "I thought you were Italian. It's a joke."

  "Not to me."

  She felt an overwhelming sense of kinship with the occupant of this house and, for the most part, his visitors. She turned away and looked toward Sam again, wishing he had overheard the conversation. It would have illustrated the extent of her commitment to him.

  He was locked in conversation with an older man. Obviously, he had missed the confrontation. Nevertheless, she sensed that she had made the right impression on him, and in her reaction to Mike McDermott, she had passed some test and put herself squarely in a new and once alien place.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sam Goodwin sat on the chair of the bedroom terrace and stared out to sea in the waning hours of the afternoon. Mostly he thought about his life with Anne and he cried, sobbing quietly to himself. A week had passed since Anne had died.

  For the past three days, since his children had left to resume their own lives, he had spent most of his days sitting in this chair, rising only to change the direction of the umbrella to escape the burning rays of the sun. Often, he had sat here with Anne, hearing her lilting voice in conversation as they contemplated the white beach and the spangled ocean beyond.

  He hadn't shaved. He hadn't even gotten out of his terry-cloth robe, now gamy with the odor of his dried perspiration. Normally, at least when Anne was alive, he was fastidious about his personal hygiene, showering twice on most days.

  Carmen, the Salvadoran maid, brought up a tray at mealtimes, but he barely touched the food, much to her dismay.

  "You no eat?" she would admonish when she came to reclaim the tray.

  "I'm fine, Carmen," he told her, waving her away. She shrugged and nodded, and he knew she was concerned, but he just couldn't find the motivation to do anything beyond sitting on this chair on the terrace and looking out to the glistening, infinite sea, as if awaiting Anne's return from some mythical voyage.

  In the first few days after Anne's funeral, he had kept himself open to people, had answered his telephone calls and accepted the condolences of relatives, friends and business associates. He had fielded all attempts, especially by his children, Bruce and Carol, to seriously consider his future and the consequences of Anne's death.

  They thought they were so wise and caring, these children of his. They had been demonstratively affectionate throughout the ordeal of the funeral. During Anne's illness they had been concerned and attentive. They had called often, Bruce from San Francisco, Carol from Manhattan, although never to the point where they had interrupted their own lives to be at her side.

  That could, of course, be his fault. He had always been willing
to accept blame for the conduct of his children. He had engaged nurses around the clock and had not encouraged them to come, and Anne seemed to have been content with talking to them at length on the telephone.

  Now, beyond his depression and grief, he needed Anne to help him sort out the future relationship with his children. He supposed he loved them, but he was no longer as certain about that as he was before they had become adults. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that, as they pursued their own lives, they would provide little comfort for his present or his future. Nor did he understand how that comfort could be defined. He supposed that was the way of the world.

  With Anne alive, he had not dwelt on the subject, as if it were hers alone to contemplate. With Anne gone, he found himself ruminating upon it more than he wished.

  Bruce had gone to Harvard Law School, where he had graduated near the top of his class. He had done, mostly at Anne's urging, an obligatory stint as a storefront do-good attorney for the poor and powerless and had been a public defender.

  In those years, he was resentful and guilty about the income from his trust fund and extremely critical of the way his father earned his money. Sam's specialty was buying ailing businesses, cutting costs, building them up and selling them off at a profit.

  He and Bruce had had their share of arguments about the way Sam conducted his business. Bruce was extremely critical of what he believed was the ruthless way Sam behaved when he took over a business, accusing him of ignoring the human equation, throwing people out of work, looking only at the bottom line.

  "It's the American way," Sam had argued. "By preserving a business I serve the greater good. In the end more jobs are created and people and communities prosper."

  Sam had accepted the schism as the traditional rich father/idealistic son confrontation. If he had had a rich father, he would have acted in exactly that manner.

  Bruce in those days had been adamant in his position. Of course, he had no real experience of where Sam Goodwin had come from, a child of the Depression, the son of a father sporadically unemployed, his spirit and self-esteem broken by defeat and failure. Sam had been working since he was twelve years old. He had graduated from Brooklyn College; setting off on a path that he knew was a reaction to his father's experience.