Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  He was certain that his drive to acquire wealth was a form of vindication for his father's failure.

  Yet, he had learned that such acquisition was not an end in itself. Money, for its own sake, was simply money, a commodity to keep the wolf far from the door.

  But the real value of money, he had discovered, was its ability to grease the skids to power, to the power of status, prestige and social acceptance, to the power that inspired respect and admiration. Money without power was superficial. His marriage to Anne, without his consciously realizing it at the time, had provided the catalyst to achieve such power. Anne, with her WASP background and breeding, knew instinctively how to realize that potential. Without Anne, he felt that he had lost his rudder and was floundering without direction. Without her, the power had lost its allure.

  His son, Bruce, had married Harriet Stone, who now taught psychology at Berkeley and was on her way to becoming a tenured full professor there.

  Harriet came from a family of intellectuals who, on principle, looked down their noses on people with lots of money, like Sam, although much of their conversation with him revolved around the price of real estate and the stock market. Ironically, since Bruce married Harriet, his lifestyle had become far more material. He had joined one of the most prestigious and buttoned-down law firms in San Francisco and was fast becoming one of that city's most ardent champions of liberal causes, the classic limousine liberal.

  Anne, who might also be characterized as such, approved of her son's political leanings but could not abide his wife and her superior attitude. Harriet believed that her own judgment about people was infallible, especially about Sam and Anne. To Sam, his son's wife was the quintessential hypocrite, a compassion groupie and money addict who resented and at the same time hungered for the lifestyle that Sam's head start had provided for her and Bruce.

  Sam shrugged off the resentment. His son had married this woman and he was determined not to mar his son's happiness with contention.

  "I think she's a shit," Anne had concluded.

  "She's our shit," Sam told her.

  Harriet had become pregnant about the time of the onset of Anne's illness and was now into her seventh month. She attributed the conception to the miracle of the subconscious, which was providing genetic continuity, meaning that the child would be a replacement for Anne. Sam tolerated her ridiculous remarks on the subject for Bruce's sake.

  Bruce, now the officious, self-important corporate lawyer, was not shy about his thoughts on the disposition of his parents' estate. In fact, Sam detected that this might be their only future connection. Harriet, too, seemed unduly interested in the subject.

  "We have to protect the future generations, Dad," Bruce had told him more than once, with appropriate apologies, during the funeral visitation, which had lasted four days. For his part, Sam avoided the discussion, not entirely puzzled by his son's urgency. Sam always prided himself on having a good nose for greed.

  Carol, his daughter, who was three years younger than Bruce, was less concerned with the finer points regarding the welfare of future generations. She had been divorced twice and was now living with a man whom she had characterized as a serious artist with a promising future. She had made such judgments before. Invariably they were wrong.

  "With the right backing, he can make it big," Carol insisted. He knew, of course, where the backing was supposed to come from.

  He had long ago given up on providing any sensible guidance to Carol's life. She was a wild card, had always been a wild card and, as far as her future was concerned, she would be a perpetual dependent. He was resigned to the fact that she would be a conduit for his largesse, which eventually would end up in the hands of the men she coveted.

  He had also given up confronting her with this supposition. Anne had coped with her by assuming she was evidence of her parents' romantic side, an analysis that had elements of truth.

  But Carol's concern these days was that her shrewd sibling would somehow be able to inveigle more treasure out of her father than she did. Her plaint was that she was really in need, while Bruce, with his and his wife's income and prospects, had little need for more. Sam, of course, knew that more was a black tunnel to infinity. Only a lucky few had ever found the light at the end of it.

  While Anne had rationalized their children's faults, Sam had acknowledged his disappointment. He had concluded that parents loved their children far more than children could ever love their parents. This was a form of life's vengeance. Yet he knew he would always be there as a safety net for his children, regardless of their attitude toward him. It didn't mean he had to like them or trust them.

  In fact, he was well aware of their wishes, which were for him to divest himself of most of his estate in his lifetime and pass it on to his children before it could be heavily taxed and dissipated by fortune hunters and bad judgment. He girded himself for that pressure to accelerate.

  On the third day after the funeral, Bruce began to prod him about the disposition of Anne's personal property. Carol was present when the subject was broached, which meant that they had already decided on a joint strategy. They needn't have bothered to approach it so cautiously. He had already made the decision to give them what they wanted, the division to be decided between them.

  "She's got a closet full of clothes," Sam said. "Take what you want."

  "I don't think the clothes would interest Harriet," Bruce said. "Wouldn't fit with her lifestyle."

  "I'll look through them, Dad. Chances are I wouldn't take much." Besides, she was two or three sizes larger than her mother.

  "Go through her drawers and the safe and take what you want," Sam told them. He didn't want to think about it.

  "We'll do that, Dad," Bruce said.

  Sam knew what they were really after and said so. "I guess you mean the jewelry?"

  Anne had loved jewelry, almost as much as she loved clothes, and there were many expensive pieces in the safe.

  "For starters, yes," Bruce acknowledged.

  "Only if it suits you to do it, Dad," Carol said, exchanging glances with her brother.

  The fact was that Anne and he had discussed it, and it was her wish that it be passed on to the children. But he had not thought the matter would come up so soon after her death.

  "Good idea," Sam told them. "She wanted you kids to have the pieces, said that they would make great heirlooms." He suspected that such a fate was highly unlikely. Both Carol and Harriet were not much interested in jewelry for its own sake.

  He led them into the master bedroom and moved aside one of the pictures to reveal the safe, which he opened. The jewelry pieces were in velvet-covered sacks and boxes. They helped him carry them downstairs into the dining room, where they were laid out on the table. A number of trips had to be made. There was also a sheaf of papers covering the appraisals.

  "Divide it between you," he told them. "Just be fair with each other."

  "Have you a calculator, Daddy?" Carol suggested.

  "Don't you trust me?" Bruce asked.

  Carol had looked at him and smiled.

  "No, Bruce, I don't."

  "Your share is only going to go down a rat hole," Bruce snapped. "You're only going to waste it on your new stud."

  "What I do with my share is none of your business."

  "I think we should dispense with the sibling rivalry here," Harriet had intoned. She had come into the room to participate in the proceedings and monitor the sharing process.

  "This is none of your business, Harriet," Carol had snapped.

  "Sorry, Carol. I'm afraid it is."

  "Mother couldn't stand you, Harriet," Carol had cried.

  "That's beside the point," Harriet had replied calmly. "I'm not suggesting a three-way split."

  "Good," Carol had replied, "because Mother wouldn't have wanted it that way."

  Bruce began to read through the appraisal sheets, searching for the jewelry it described. Separated and unwrapped, the glistening pieces took up the entire length
and breadth of the table. Every precious gem was represented in a variety of configurations.

  "Some of it is a little too gaudy for my taste," Harriet said, looking over the selection.

  "I have no intention of wearing any," Carol had pointed out.

  "Then let's do it strictly by value."

  "You think that's fair?" Carol had asked, looking at her father.

  "Keep me out of it, children," Sam had protested, remembering with what care each piece had been selected by Anne. The bickering was almost too painful for him to observe.

  "How will we know what's fair?" Carol whined.

  "Bruce is your brother, Carol," Harriet had intoned angrily. "Why would he want to cheat you?"

  "He wouldn't need a reason," Carol sneered.

  "That was uncalled for," Bruce had replied.

  Sam had been both offended and depressed by the antagonistic byplay between them.

  "Just work it out," he told them, leaving the room before they could see his tears flow.

  Bruce had come by later and assured him that, to keep the peace, he had made sure that Carol had received more than her share and that it was all right as far as he and Harriet was concerned.

  "Is it too early to talk about the artwork, Dad?" Bruce asked.

  Sam repressed his anger.

  "Not yet, Bruce."

  "Sure, Dad. I understand. I assume it depends on whether you intend to keep the house."

  "I haven't thought about that," Sam sighed.

  "Might be a good idea to sell it. For one person it seems ... well ... very large."

  "Where else would I go?"

  "I don't know. Maybe a smaller place. A condo, perhaps. Someplace you wouldn't have to think about. In that case you wouldn't really need all this artwork and furniture."

  "I'll have to sort that out," Sam had said. He really hadn't wanted to discuss his future with his son.

  "You're vulnerable, Dad. I just don't want you to do anything foolish."

  "Vulnerable to what?" Sam asked.

  "I don't know. There are a lot of predatory females around."

  "At this moment, it's the furthest thing from my mind."

  "You're a rich widower, Dad."

  "Thank you, Bruce, for the observation."

  "I'm only thinking about your interest, Dad. Your future. I want you to be happy."

  "You'd make me really happy if you'd drop this subject for awhile. I'm in no mood to discuss changes."

  "Whatever you say, Dad," Bruce said. "I just want you to understand your vulnerability."

  "I appreciate your concern, Bruce."

  "I'm your son, Dad. Also a lawyer. In fact, I think I should be executor of the estate."

  "Do you?"

  Sam had given that assignment to David Berkowitz, a lawyer friend in New York with whom he had grown up.

  "I'm many years younger than David. I'm a damned good lawyer and I'm your son. I think you owe me this, Dad."

  "I'm not planning to check out just yet, and David is in very good shape."

  "Dad, I'm only discussing this as a precaution. I hope you live a long time. You know I do. I just worry about you and want to do the best by everybody."

  "I'll think about that, Bruce."

  "And you know that I'll be fair to Carol."

  "I wouldn't think otherwise."

  "As you know, there are lots of tax consequences to an estate your size," Bruce pointed out. "You should really start thinking of lifetime disposition."

  "I have been, Bruce. I've discussed this with David."

  "And made provisions?"

  "Is this really the time to discuss it, Bruce?"

  "I'm afraid it is. Sad to say. I assume Mom was insured."

  "Yes. I have a last-survivor policy, which should take care of a chunk of the estate taxes."

  "You see, as an heir, I should know about those things."

  "I've just told you."

  "Before the fact. Not after."

  "Well, I am the last survivor."

  "Is the insurance enough to carry the tax burden?"

  Sam noted the lawyerly talk and intonation. Sadly, he had no illusions about Bruce's motives, which were control over the estate and an excuse to discuss ways to hand parts of it over in Sam's lifetime.

  It was, Sam knew, awful for him to ascribe such maneuvering to his son. Despite the lawyerly and logical way in which Bruce approached the subject, it struck Sam as unsavory, not what he would have expected from a loving son. Sam had loved his own father, who had not been able to leave anything of material value behind. To this day, he continued to love and revere him. Such affection seemed so natural, so fitting, so comforting. If only he could sense the same deep feeling he held for his father in his own children. Instead, he felt a widening irrelevance, an ever-opening chasm growing between them, a relentless separation.

  In Bruce, beneath the reasonable language, the heartfelt expressions and protestations of sincerity, he sensed a disturbing hint of greed. He hoped he was wrong, but he felt such acute disappointment in both of his children that he couldn't bear to continue the conversation. He wished they would leave.

  "I'm sure there'll come an appropriate time to discuss the future, Dad," Bruce said, hoping, Sam supposed, to plant such a thought in his mind. "It's a subject that can't be avoided."

  He felt considerably relieved when they finally said their appropriate good-byes and left to return to their respective homes.

  For the last few days, he let the answering machine take his calls, responding only when it was absolutely necessary. So far he had eschewed the computer on the grounds of it being a kind of generational protest. He had his private unlisted number for the children to use when anything important came up. Important or not, they both called him daily, but the conversations with them were getting repetitive and further assailed him with feelings of guilt as he continued to distrust their sincerity.

  Mostly, Bruce gave him dire warnings about his current vulnerability, especially when it came to designing women. Carol, allied with her brother for her own obvious self-interest, echoed the warning. The fact was, as he reiterated to them ad infinitum, the very last thing on his mind at this moment was consorting with other women.

  The fact was, he could barely contemplate a future without Anne. She had been integral to his life, his friend and companion. In many ways she had run his life, organizing the business of living, administering the smooth running of their household, tending to all the little details of personal and material maintenance, their social life, a roundelay of charity events, of big and little dinners, of cocktail parties, of travel, tennis games, bridge, gift-giving, shopping, directing his health concerns, supervising his diet, choosing his clothes. She was the planner, the scheduler, the arranger of his time.

  Now he was adrift on a sea of ennui, ignoring all forms of organization. Her absence collapsed all routine. Even in the throes of her illness, despite her pain, Anne had continued to direct the minutia of their daily existence. It had by necessity run at a reduced pace, but it had been as efficient as ever.

  Out of habit, he continued to make some business calls. Most of his efforts these days were to monitor his investments, which he had entrusted to a varied group of money managers. He hadn't been involved in acquiring businesses in many years. He had made his fortune, and all his efforts now were involved in preserving it. For what? he often wondered.

  Anne's illness had complicated things considerably. All of his financial planning was based on the statistical premise that he would be the first to die. Actually, he was still considering the possibility up to the moment she had expired, hoping for the miracle that would reverse the situation. It hadn't happened.

  It was ironic now that he had spent the last few years simplifying their existence. He had given up their London flat and their New York apartment, had sold their log ski chalet in Aspen. Anne had centered their life in Palm Beach, had established her circle and had found time to participate in her various charities.
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  Aside from the efficient organization of his life, he missed her presence, her voice, her movement, the aroma of her perfume. Not having her around was eerie. He hadn't yet accepted her absence. He actually felt that she was still moving around in the house. At times he was sure he heard her voice calling his name.

  He missed her jokes, wisecracks, put-downs, laughter. He missed her quiet breathing next to him at night, another sound he continued to hear or sense or feel. When he awoke, it surprised him that she was not sleeping beside him.

  Reminders of her were everywhere, of course. It pained him to see her things around the house and he could not open the huge closet they had built to house her considerable wardrobe without his eyes filling with tears. It was unbearable.

  She had always been a beauty, with a natural elegance and taste that had been embellished by her being able to afford the best of everything that money could buy, especially things that she wore. Her wardrobe of designer clothes was monumental. She possessed extraordinary self-confidence and assurance, as well as impeccable societal instincts. She could mix with anyone, of any persuasion, social position, race or religion. Instinctively, she knew when to be imperious, when to be soft, when to flaunt, when to demand, when to surrender.

  Despite their wealth, she had died a liberal, although the way they lived seemed a mockery of that ideal. Their circle, mostly ultra-conservative, tolerated their politics on the grounds of their considerable wealth. Because of this, too, they were able to cross the fault line that still existed in Palm Beach between Jew and gentile, a much-denied hypocrisy that remained a persistent reality.

  Although they lived a life of evasion and isolation from the poverty, danger and turmoil of the inner city, Anne never lost her compassion for the unfortunate, and her charity work was evidence of this continued interest. Of course, she understood that her lifestyle, her passion for expensive, tasteful possessions was an example of her own liberal hypocrisy and, at times, she allowed such feelings to agitate her. But those episodes were rare. She thought of herself, as he did, as a good, decent, loving and caring person.