by Warren Adler
Lying in the bathtub with the warm water doing its work of relaxing her, her mind drifted into sexual fantasies about Sam. He was sixty-four, he told her, although there was no way of knowing the power of his libido or if he even had normal desires in that department. She had always felt that these desires were an essential factor of her plan. But until they got down to business, there was no way of knowing.
She pictured him naked, trying to imagine his penis in its aroused state. It was making her horny, and after awhile she got out of the tub, dried herself, went back to her bedroom, removed the dildo from the bottom drawer, then lay down spread-eagled on the bed and pressed the button that started the vibrating action.
It took her only a few moments to get going. She raised her hips and manipulated the dildo to bring herself to a long, shivery orgasm. It took her a while to calm down, and when she did, she got up from the bed and replaced it under the folded clothes in her bottom drawer.
Masturbation, she suspected, was a secret shared by most human beings. Long ago she had considered it a sin. Her early Catholic upbringing had made it out to be an act against God, the devil's work, a ticket to hell, as well as being unhealthy, crippling and preventing conception. What disturbed her most was the fact that she was using it as a desperate substitute for the live article, as if the use of this mechanical toy was evidence of her inadequacy, her inability to attract a viable living partner.
She also worried that she might be developing a dependency that might make it impossible for her to climax when and if she did become involved with a man. Brushing such negative thoughts aside, she allowed to herself that the use of the dildo was an emergency measure. Besides, it felt good, it relieved tension and hang the consequences.
She was just getting into her dressing gown when Jackie came into the apartment.
"That you, dear?" Grace called from the bedroom.
"Yeah."
From her tone, Grace detected her mood, which was not good. She came into the living room, where she confronted Jackie's pouting, clearly belligerent expression.
"What is it, Jackie?"
"Leave me alone."
"You got it," Grace said. She went to the kitchenette and put up water for pasta, then opened a can of sauce and put it in the saucepan to heat.
She watched as Jackie got up and paced the room. She picked up her books and flung them angrily onto the studio couch.
"Don't break anything, baby," Grace said calmly.
"If I broke anything it would be over your head," Jackie said.
"Well, well," Grace said. "I must have done something that didn't meet with her highness's plans and perceptions."
"Screw you, Mom."
"So we're being respectful now," Grace said, noting that the water had not yet reached a boil.
"If you hadn't gotten fired, you could have got me that Donna Karan outfit with your employee discount."
"It was out of my control," she said, knowing that this reference was only one in a long line of Jackie's complaints.
"It didn't stop you from getting what you wanted."
"What are you talking about?"
"I saw the clothes you bought, fancy designer stuff. Versace, Donna Karan, Ferragamo shoes. I know what these things cost, and you couldn't see your way to spending a few hundred dollars on your own daughter. Not to mention the car. You know a car is a necessity in this area. You know. How could you?"
"So that's it."
"Pretty selfish, don't you think? All that bullshit about sacrificing for dear Jackie. Goes to show."
"Goes to show what?"
"Money talks and bullshit walks."
"I hate to say it, but it was secondhand. Worn by others before."
Jackie contemplated the explanation, then paused for a moment, as if searching her mind for an alternative argument.
"How tacky," she said after a long pause.
"Tacky?" Grace shrugged. "I'm working on something and I need to look the part."
"Like what?" Jackie said with contempt.
"When it happens, you'll be the first to know."
"When what happens?"
"When what I'm working on happens."
"A big job?"
"Yes," Grace said with an air of finality.
She was determined not to tell Jackie what she had been doing with her time. What kind of a role model would she be if she revealed how she had followed the obituaries and haunted funerals, how she had set about, with dogged singleness of purpose and probably malice aforethought, to mount this mad campaign to find Mr. Big Bucks. Someday, if and when, by some miracle, she succeeded in this enterprise, when Jackie was mature enough to accept her explanation, she would reveal a much-edited version of what she had done. Not now.
"I have something in play that requires an expensive look," Grace embellished, hoping to evade the truth rather than confront it.
"What's the big secret?" Jackie asked.
"Like a real good job, one that pays very, very well. I have to look the part."
She detested the idea of lying to Jackie. It negated the concept of complete candor between them and underlined her own hypocrisy. It's for your good, darling, she explained silently. And her own, she added.
"With whom?"
"I can't say. You just have to be patient. It might not work out."
"Probably won't," Jackie said, shaking her head.
"It will be very good for you as well, Jackie," she said, putting a voice to her rationalization. "Trust me."
"'Trust me.' I hate those words. I'm beginning to learn that you can't trust nobody."
"Anybody."
"What?"
"You can't trust anybody," Grace said.
"Oh, shit. You know what I mean."
"You should polish up your language."
"Why?"
"You might be meeting a better class of people someday. You can tell a lot from the way a person speaks."
She put the pasta in the now boiling water and stirred the sauce. While not mollified, Jackie had calmed down.
They did not speak again until Grace put the pasta on the table and they began to eat.
"I'll never meet a better class of people, Mom," Jackie said. "The fact is, we're stuck at the bottom and always will be."
"We'll see about that, Jackie," Grace said. She refused to accept any hint of defeatism, thinking it might jinx her destiny.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Carmen let her into the Goodwin house the next morning. Her expression was sour and unwelcoming and she said very little.
"Mister not home," she said.
"It's all right, Carmen," Grace said pleasantly. "I'm here about the clothes. I know the way."
She did not let Carmen see her disappointment. In the bedroom, she looked out toward the beach. In the distance she saw a man walking a dog along the water's edge but could not be certain it was Sam.
Sliding open the closet door, she put on the light and went in. It felt like a giant cave. There were rows and rows of dresses, skirts, blouses, all hung neatly like soldiers. She pressed a button on the wall and the rack moved, which made it possible to stand in one place and watch the clothes roll by.
What she at first thought were shelves for shoes was actually a moving belt which operated from a separate button. She pressed it and the shoes rolled past. She had never in her life seen a collection of clothes like this. Apparently Anne, who was a bleached blonde, was partial to beige. She noted, too, that there were a lot of dresses with colors compatible to green, assuming, then, that Anne had green eyes.
The closet seemed to have a separate cooling system and smelled vaguely of cedar. It was exclusively for female clothes, so presumably Sam had his own closet.
Apparently Anne took great pains with the organizing of her wardrobe. Gowns were carefully separated by length, and she seemed to favor Galenos in that category, although there were a few Valentinos and Bill Blasses mixed in. She recognized sportswear by Donna Karan, Sonia Rykiel, Calvin Klein, dresses
by Yves St. Laurent, Lacroix, Cerrano, Karl Lagerfeld and Versace, shoes and pocketbooks by Ferragamo, Gucci, Manola Blahnik and Paloma Picasso.
There were some gaps in the racks, and she assumed that the children had already made their selections. She contemplated the time and money required for a woman to collect such a wardrobe. There was no telling how many outfits there were, but she could tell by the styles that Anne was a pack rat and had accumulated a great deal of clothing that she had not worn for years.
She declined to characterize Anne as a clotheshorse, which connoted something superficial and flawed in a woman's character and would be untrue to the portrait of the saintly woman Sam had painted in his eulogy. She was determined not to verbally denigrate the woman in any way and to guard against any chance remark that would inadvertently diminish her sacred memory in Sam's mind.
Grace decided to start by categories—skirts, blouses, slacks, jeans and obvious sports clothes first—reasoning that they would be easy to dispose of to those charities set up to aid the homeless. Despite her dissimulation, she was determined to be true to her stated purpose and not expose herself to be unmasked as the cheat she was.
It did cross her mind that she might sell the clothes to secondhand dealers, but she rejected the idea on principle. Considering the subterfuge she was employing, she had convinced herself that she was, win or lose, doing something charitable and morally correct. To sell the clothes would put the mark of sleaze on her effort, as well as open her up to charges of stealing and other consequences, which could backfire and interfere with her plan. No, she decided, she would do exactly what had been promised. She would resist the temptation to profit from this enterprise and give Anne's clothes to charity. If discovered, she reasoned, her act might be forgiven.
She pressed the button and carefully reviewed the passing parade of clothing, made her selections, then took them off the rack one by one and laid them carefully on the bed and the furniture. Her initial removal hardly made a dent in the amount of clothing left in the closet, and she realized happily that this job would be a full-time chore, probably taking weeks.
Since merely disposing of the clothes was not the real reason for the exercise, it would serve no purpose if she were to arrive and find Sam gone. She needed to know his schedule, if he had one. She looked out of the window and noted with pleasure that it was indeed Sam and his dog walking along the beach.
They were obviously heading homeward, which gave her an excuse to slow down her effort. She sat on the edge of the couch and looked out of the window, watching Sam come closer. Looking at her watch, she estimated that it would take him a good half hour at his present pace, which was more like a stroll, to get him back to the house.
"I help you bring down to your car," Carmen's voice said from somewhere behind her. Grace didn't know how long she had been watching her. She had not heard her come up, which was unusual for such a heavyset woman.
"Thank you, Carmen."
Carmen did not respond. Instead she took a large batch of the clothes and started to make her way out of the bedroom. The load looked very unsteady in Carmen's arms.
"You needn't carry so much, Carmen," she said. It seemed blatantly obvious to Grace that Carmen was trying to hurry her out of the house as soon as possible, certainly before Sam was due to arrive.
"You take some," Carmen said.
She heard Carmen's heavy tread on the stairs, then a sudden thud, which, she assumed, meant that the clothes had fallen from her grasp. Grace smiled knowingly and watched Carmen struggle to get the clothes in some kind of order for hauling. She watched for a moment, making no effort to help, then returned to the bedroom, observing Sam and his dog as they came closer. Nor did she make any effort to gather up the remaining piles of clothes.
As she watched, she saw Sam break into a run, followed by the dog, a large one with a rust coat. They headed for the ocean. Sam dived into the surf. The dog followed. She saw him disappear for a moment, then surface, swimming with strong strokes, heading for the calm beyond the breaking waves. He swam for a few minutes, the dog swimming behind him, then headed back to shore, riding in on the waves. At that distance, he seemed young and strong, emerging out of the water, the dog by his side, both jogging toward the house.
"You bring more?" Carmen shouted from the floor below.
"I'll be along when I'm ready, Carmen," she answered pleasantly but firmly. "And I'll need to go over my plans with Mr. Goodwin."
Carmen did not respond. Nor had Grace any intention of letting herself be intimidated.
A few moments later Sam, still dripping, came into the room. Having seen the evidence of her appearance as he came up the stairs, he was not surprised to find her.
"Don't let me interrupt," he said as he moved across the bedroom to the bathroom. She noted that his body was hard and slender, further belying his age.
"Looks like you've enlisted Carmen," he said as he grabbed a towel and slipped it around his shoulder. Then he closed the bathroom door, and she could hear the shower going. Sometime later he emerged. He had shaven and his silver gray hair, still moist, was carefully combed. He was barefoot and wore jeans and a blue and white T-shirt with horizontal stripes.
"Back to my routine," he said. "I swim every morning. Me and Marilyn. She's a golden retriever, loves the water."
"It's a good sign," she said.
"Makes it hurt less," he sighed.
They exchanged awkward glances.
"It's going to be quite a chore, Sam," she said. "I hadn't realized how much clothing was in there."
"Take all the time you need."
"I don't want to be a bother to you."
"Won't bother me. Besides, I have my own closet. Won't be much of a job when I check out for good. Mine is a lot more humble. I detest shopping. Wouldn't even go with Anne. My suits are made on Regent Street in London. I haven't ordered any new ones for three years. Anne, on the other hand, loved the whole process of buying clothes ... as you can see."
"They are quite beautiful, Sam."
"Yes, they are. And they looked great on her," he said, his eyes moistening as he turned his gaze toward the sea.
She found herself searching for things to say. He seemed less willing to engage in conversation than he was yesterday. After awhile he turned toward her.
"If you need any more help, just holler."
"Not from you, Sam," Grace said. "Our deal is that I take this off your mind."
"And a deal's a deal. Besides, I'm not sure I could hack it without falling to pieces."
"Carmen will help." Grace cleared her throat. She had no illusions about Carmen's attitude toward her. "She's been very cooperative."
"Good."
She started to gather up some clothes. As she did so, she felt him observing her.
"You're right. I couldn't face it. Getting rid of those things."
"I'm glad I could help."
"They were part of her."
"Yes, they were."
"Funny thing about possessions. It's the wrong word, possessions. Nobody really possesses anything. It's all temporary. We use them like rented goods, then poof." He shook his head sadly. "She loved those clothes. So what? They're of no use to her now ... wherever she is."
"It does make you think," Grace said. From his vantage of abundance, he was right, of course. From hers, the vantage of deprivation, it did not have the same meaning. Possessions made life a little easier, and that was no small thing.
She saw his eyes moisten. He turned away and looked out of the window. She felt compelled to speak.
"I saw you coming from way out there," she said. "Looks like a great place to walk."
He continued to look outside. Then he cleared his throat.
"I like walking beaches. It can be sunny, cloudy, rainy or foggy. I always jump into the sea for a quick swim," he said. "That's why we built on this spot. One of the reasons, anyway. I've walked a lot of beaches in my life."
"Anne must have enjoyed that a lot."
<
br /> "Hated it. Anne wasn't a walker and stayed out of the sun as much as possible. I told you she took her exercise in a gym we have in the basement. I would have liked her to come along."
Grace saw it as a good point for an opening.
"I love to walk beaches and swim," she said, hoping she wouldn't seem too obvious.
"Do you?"
"I do. I like the feel of the sand and the sound of the surf."
"So do I. Has a soothing effect."
Her heart was pounding. But she sensed that this was the one moment that she had to seem casual and only mildly enthusiastic.
"I try to start the walk around nine. It's kind of late, but I make some calls, read the paper, have a cup of coffee, then take off."
He looked at his watch.
"I give it a couple of hours. Marilyn loves it. Speak of the devil."
The dog, muzzle still dripping, came up to Sam, who rubbed her behind his head.
"Marilyn. Doesn't sound much like a dog's name."
"She's not a dog. She's a bitch. Officially. Actually, even that's a misnomer. She's a person. Since Anne ... well, it's sort of strange for her. Last night she slept with me."
She wondered if that was meant to be another opening, but she ignored it. A sixth sense nagged at her to avoid any hint of a double entendre or even the most innocuous reference to sex.
"Even though Anne adored her, she never let her sleep in the bed with us. Not even in the bedroom. Slept right outside the door. I had her boarded since Anne died. Took her out last night. Did I tell you that yesterday? She's been over the house a hundred times, looking for Anne." He paused for a moment and sighed deeply. "So have I, for that matter."
Marilyn came over to her and sniffed, but when Grace bent down to pet her, the dog snarled and growled, baring her teeth in a threatening manner. Grace jumped back, genuinely frightened. In her panic she dropped the clothes on the floor.
"Stop that," Sam shouted, tapping Marilyn on her muzzle. He kneeled and pointed a finger at her. "Bad girl. Bad girl." He looked up at Grace. "Never did this before. Probably confused about Anne not being here."
