by Warren Adler
His reactions to her fictive creations, she was discovering, were beginning to give her an outline of how he wanted her to be, as if she were connecting numbers in a child's drawing and watching a recognizable shape emerge. It was, she realized, up to her to place the numbers in the proper position. She was beginning to realize that his questions were equally informative about him as her answers were about herself.
These conversations, recalled in bits and pieces, stuck in her memory as she contemplated what was happening between them. As much as she tried, she could not keep herself from assessing her progress. Had she engaged his interest beyond the sexual component of their relationship? Was he beginning to consider her as a marriage prospect? Or was she merely a sex object, a roaring good fuck who he would toss aside as soon as he grew tired of her? Did he suspect her real motives, her subterfuge? Was he buying her lies?
She tried, of course, to strip such an assessment of all emotion, discounting her own feelings toward him, fearing that her own needs and desires might inhibit her progress toward her ultimate goal. In the process she was discovering strange things, about herself, depths to her inner psyche she had never noticed: her explosive sexuality, her calculation, her cunning, her imagination and resourcefulness, her singleness of purpose.
It was particularly strange, since she had never considered herself anything but mediocre, somewhere in the lower middle of the status ladder, ordinary and uninteresting. Looking back to her occupation as a cosmetician, she felt a sense of humiliation and disgust. She had been little more than a face painter and ego massager, a servant to vulnerability and vanity.
Of course, she had always seen her marriage as a dreary folly, a relationship with a weak and limited man. Now Jason seemed even beyond that—hollow, stupid, empty. She resented more than ever the wasted years and enjoyed the idea that in her re-creation of herself she had even eliminated his name from that history.
In fact, everything that had occurred up to the moment she had met Sam Goodwin had been dismal, bleak and unpromising, her childhood a nightmare of religious repression, conformity and ignorance, her teen years aborted by her ridiculous relationship with Jason and the years after, a struggle for crumbs that had corrupted her daughter and diminished further her own self-esteem.
What was happening to her now was awesome, a kind of miracle, a self-created reincarnation. Yes, despite the sheer joy of it, the sense of liberation from the humdrum reality of her old self, she could not shake the dread that it portended, and the occasional projection of herself sitting among the ruins of her fantasy seemed more frightening than death itself.
The new housekeeper, a Puerto Rican woman named Felicia, seemed to float silently through the house, paying little attention to them, except at mealtime, when she became somewhat more obtrusive as she served.
They walked the beach, swam in the ocean, made love and stayed within the confines of Sam's house. There were telephone calls discreetly taken by Sam in his den. She assumed he was conducting business and returning calls from friends, and she used these interludes to cull through Anne's closet and set aside those clothes she would remove. So far, she had managed to clear out less than a quarter of the woman's wardrobe, fearing that the end of that project might signal the end of this idyll.
She had worked out a regular routine, researching the various charities that took such clothing donations and dropping them off in person. Often, the volunteers on duty would comment on their quality, but she avoided all conversation. She no longer gave out her name and telephone number, fearing that an inadvertent call might alert Jackie to what she was doing.
As he had indicated earlier, he avoided all socializing, begging off any appointments for lunch or tennis at the club and discouraging all visitors. She wondered how long he would be able to use the excuse of his grieving to keep himself, and her, isolated. But she would not give herself permission to speculate beyond the present on that score.
On most days she would come back to Sam's house after dropping off the clothes and they would enjoy a candlelit dinner. Then she would return to her own apartment, usually before Jackie got home from her night job at the movie theater. Yet, despite the routine, she considered those moments with Sam an exciting adventure and couldn't wait until she got to his home in the morning for their walk along the beach.
Back at her own apartment, Grace floated through the old reality barely able to sustain a credible attitude, hoping that Jackie wouldn't question her whereabouts too closely. It was one thing to lie to Sam, but another to lie to her daughter.
Instead of being a detriment to their relationship, she considered the acquisition of the little yellow Honda as a blessing in disguise, another nudge of destiny. It gave both Jackie and herself the freedom and latitude to pursue their own agendas. There were, of course, nagging thoughts about her daughter's relationship with Darryl and the legitimacy of the car transaction, but she dismissed them, hoping they would not get in the way of what was happening between her and Sam. For the moment, that would have to be her top priority.
Aside from school, Jackie worked the breakfast shift at McDonald's, which required her to be at her job very early in the morning. This burst of ambition—or was it a frenzy of illogical independence?—was troublesome to Grace, who was concerned that her daughter's furious pace would prevent her from keeping up with her schoolwork.
The fact of her daughter's new physical independence and her own use of time, spending practically all of it with Sam, inhibited their communication. As she grew more and more intimate with Sam, she recognized that she was growing less and less intimate with her daughter. Even their brief conversations when Jackie came home from her night job seemed coldly evasive, deliberately so on her part as well.
But the central issue between them remained the same: money and its scarcity. With the remainder of her severance money nearly gone and her unemployment check barely covering expenses, Grace was heading into a financial morass.
She had calculated that Jackie, considering both jobs at minimum wage, and what Grace could spare from her unemployment check, would never come close to the hundred-and-twenty-five-dollar payments for the car. Nevertheless, she was determined not to intervene. Jackie had to discover the true value of money and financial responsibility for herself. As for Darryl, Grace hoped that Jackie would discover the folly of that relationship.
"Is everything going okay, Jackie?" Grace asked one night about six weeks after she and Sam had become intimate. Jackie, looking haggard and pale, had just returned from her night job.
"I'm doing fine," Jackie said with a strong hint of bravado.
"You look tired, Jackie," Grace said, suddenly realizing that she had neglected to appraise her daughter with her usual scrutiny since becoming involved with Sam.
"You don't," Jackie snapped. It was an observation that surprised her. She had assumed that her subterfuge was credible, and Jackie had given no hint of questioning it. Until now.
Grace knew she looked good. She was rested and tanned from her daily walks in the sun and her swimming exercise. Her relationship with Sam was revitalizing, and the daily lovemaking seemed to create a profound inner glow of contentment that apparently was more obvious than she might have assumed. She felt a sudden tension as she prepared to deflect Jackie's observation.
"When you're scrounging for a job you have to keep yourself looking as if you don't need it."
"I can't understand why it's so difficult. It's not like you're trying to be president of a company."
"I just don't want to take anything."
"Beggars can't be choosers, Mom."
"Let's not get into one of those, Jackie. I'm doing the best I can."
"Are you playing that song again?"
"You're tired, Jackie. Maybe we should discuss this some other time."
"Hell, you're hardly around," Jackie snapped.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, dear Mother..." Grace could see her daughter's hesitation. "A
couple of times in the last few weeks I've stopped by after school to catch a nap before getting to my night job. You weren't home."
The revelation startled her.
"Could be those were the times I went to the movies."
"Mom, I've been calling from the job. You're not home at night."
"I might have been in the shower."
"Mom, I'm not stupid. Where do you go?"
She felt a sudden knot in her stomach. Was this the time to make a clean breast of it? She pondered the question briefly, then rejected the idea, hating herself for mistrusting her own daughter.
"Are you still involved with the clothing? You know, the charity thing?"
That again? Grace wondered. Was that still on her mind?
"It's over," she replied, gagging on the lie.
"You mean the source has run out?"
"It's over. That's what I mean."
She held her temper, watching her daughter's face, sensing her suspicion.
"You look as if you don't believe me," Grace said, regretting the comment instantly.
"Did I say I didn't?"
"Please, Jackie, no games. We've been through that. Let's drop the subject."
"Why are you so touchy about it, Mom?"
"I'm not touchy. It's just that ... whenever we get on the subject, it causes problems."
Jackie turned away and began to get undressed for bed. Grace wished she didn't have to be so closemouthed and oblique. But she couldn't risk the truth. Not yet. Someday, she assured herself. It's for us, Jackie. You and me. Be patient, she told herself. I'll make it up to you.
"I know it's not easy, Mom," Jackie said. "Believe me, I don't want problems between us."
"I know, Jackie," she replied, calling upon her inventiveness. "It's not as easy as you think. Good jobs don't grow on trees. Besides, I'm a little burnt out on being a cosmetician. And the reason I'm away so much is that I don't like spending time alone in this place."
"Mom, the unemployment checks won't last forever."
"You think I don't know that?"
"It's scary."
"I know, Jackie."
"But where do you go, Mom?"
"That again?"
"You'd expect the same honesty from me," Jackie said.
"I know I've been evasive, but it's only to spare you. Sometimes I go to the movies. Sometimes to a shopping mall; not to buy, just for kicks. Sometimes, I just drive around."
"Gee, Mom, I hadn't realized things were that bad." Jackie managed a smile. "I was hoping that you found some guy."
Grace shrugged, unwilling to articulate the lie. She thought suddenly of the life she had superimposed on her daughter, the smart young woman who had chosen to pursue a medical career, who would have little trouble getting into Princeton, her brilliant, attractive, wonderful daughter. Her heart sank as she considered the prospect of Jackie being confronted by Sam.
"What's going to happen to us, Mom?" Jackie shook her head. "I feel like I'm on a treadmill, going nowhere. I hate my jobs, and Mom..." Grace worried through a long pause. "I'm doing lousy in school. I'm thinking maybe I should drop out for awhile."
Grace felt a thump in her head.
"No way, Jackie. I won't have that. No way."
"Don't go ballistic, Mom. Just for the time being."
"There is no time being, Jackie. If you hate the jobs you have, think of what's ahead of you. More of the same. Without skills, you're a dead duck."
"I'll be a dead duck no matter what, Mom."
Grace studied her daughter. In her present state, tired, pale and obviously depressed, she looked pitiful.
"You're just exhausted, Jackie. You took on too much of a burden."
Grace moved across the room and embraced her daughter, who did not resist.
"I'm so tired, Mom."
"I know, darling."
"It all seems so ... so discouraging. I haven't got time to breathe."
"It will all work out, Jackie," Grace said, upset at seeing her daughter so tired. "I know it will. I'm angling for something now that could be wonderful for both of us. Just have patience."
"Mom, please, don't raise false hopes. I couldn't bear it."
"Maybe ... well, maybe if you quit the night job..."
She felt her daughter stiffen against her.
"But I won't be able to make the payments. That's the one thing Darryl insists on."
"Let's not start on Darryl," Grace said. She dreaded talk about Darryl most of all.
"I know you hate him, but the fact is, Mom, he's the only bright spot in my life."
"Then everything else must be awfully bleak."
"It is, Mom. Sorry about that."
"He's making a slave out of you," Grace said, holding back her anger. "Can't you see that?"
"What I see is that if I don't pay the hundred and twenty-five, Darryl will take the car back. And I'll lose the down payment. That's the deal."
"Then let him take it," Grace snapped.
"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" Jackie muttered.
"Yes, I would."
It brought back the terror of the car transaction and the distasteful memory of the monstrous Darryl. Had she talked to him yet about the matter of the documentation? Considering Jackie's present condition, Grace decided it was better for now to keep quiet on that subject.
"Okay," she said. "I'll drop it. I just hope the day of reckoning won't be too painful."
"For you or for me?" Jackie sneered.
"For both of us." Grace sighed, thinking of Sam, wishing for resolution. And deliverance.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sam decided that it was pointless to analyze, scrutinize or speculate about his relationship with Grace. It was easier to simply accept, enjoy and go with the flow. He felt neither guilt, pressure nor remorse. For her part, Grace seemed to be of the same mind. There was no game plan, no subtle hints of the future, nothing but the present.
Not that the past, especially his life with Anne, could be erased like chalk on a blackboard. It had been cleansing to lift the burden of memory, to clear away the cobwebs of guilt and betrayal that had inhibited his life with Anne. With Grace he could revel in the freedom of honest communication, undo the restraints of withholding elements of his true nature, give free reign to his sexuality, enjoy the openness and inner tranquility that complete candor provided.
As much as he was observing her, learning about her, prodding her for more and more of her history, he supposed that she was observing him with equal eagerness. Both of them seemed to prefer this state, where not only did the present count, but the past, the intimacy and honesty of it, was a prelude, a foreshadowing of the present and, perhaps, the future. It was deliciously comfortable, free from repression or cant.
No overtures had been made by either of them for a more permanent arrangement. By silent agreement, he supposed, such a prospect had been taken off the table. She had, in her special way, set the conditions of their relationship, which seemed to mean keeping the status quo. She seemed to have no desire to pursue anything material. She expressed no interest in possessing any of Anne's clothes. There was no hint of wanting gifts of any sort, especially gifts of money. He would have gladly obliged, although, in truth, it would have put him on his guard. Above all, he hated being on guard. He had been on guard a lifetime with Anne.
Many women of Grace's generation, more than one removed from his own, with an inherent sense of independence, might be humiliated to accept any arrangement that smacked of dependency on a man's favor. She didn't have to say it. He could sense it. Besides, as she indicated, she was apparently financially comfortable in her own right.
Although he would very much have wished to shower her with gifts, he assumed that her refusal, spoken and unspoken, was her way of saying that she preferred her complete freedom from any obligation and commitment. Or, he feared, this was her way of saying that this arrangement was transitory, that she considered the age gap between them unbridgeable.
Or, more op
timistically, perhaps she wanted no hint of materialism to corrupt their relationship. Not that she had said or even hinted that she held these views. Yet he was sure of it. This, he supposed, was the real meaning of intimacy, knowing for sure what was meant between them.
He yearned for her to spend more time with him, especially nights. Night accentuated the terrors and turbulence of loneliness and brought the darker side of imagination into play. It was a time when one came to grips with the transient nature of mortality, the reality of diminishing time, the looming threat of the relentless hand of death.
Grace had shown him the power of life. Her flesh had infused him with the energy of youth. When she was gone his powers seemed to wane, the lights dimmed. At night he yearned to touch her and hear her living sounds beside him. There was too much space here alone. He needed her to fill it with him.
Yes, he wanted her with him, days, nights, as long as he could project his future. But to suggest that would imply a giant step forward in their relationship. Most of all, he feared that she would reject any idea of permanency.
He had agreed to the isolation for both their sakes. This was too delicate a time for them to endure the pressures of observation, of lending themselves to other people's opinions. He had no wish either to expose Grace to inevitable harsh judgments or have Anne's memory suffer by indirect defaming.
Old friends would call from time to time to suggest various proven recipes to deal with his grief. Many invited him out, although no one had yet suggested that he seek solace in female companionship, although he knew that it was on their minds. He did not go to the club. From force of habit, despite his diminished interest, he continued to consult with his various financial advisers.
Mostly, he looked forward to his moments with Grace, which were the only times he felt fully alive. He acknowledged that it was mysterious that such an overwhelming wave of passion had engulfed him at the moment of his greatest grief. Was he being somehow unfaithful to Anne's memory, as he had been unfaithful to her in life? It troubled him. He could see how others might interpret his actions as callousness, indifference and disrespect for his late wife.
