Mourning Glory

by Warren Adler

  There was only one reality for her—to tell him, at a minimum, about her own lies. That was her resolution. If his reaction was to reject her, then she would tell him about Anne, show him the evidence. Would one betrayal cancel out the other? She wished she could tell Sam about her options, let him choose. She was appalled at the stupidity of the idea.

  What was she, after all, just a dumb, half-educated girl from the lower middle classes of Baltimore.

  She felt herself growing drowsy, and soon her thoughts drifted to happier associations. Like being with Sam, making love, walking the beach, enjoying the wonderful, isolated world they had created for themselves. Concentrating on these moments, Grace found that she could keep all negative thoughts and possible perils at bay. In such a tranquil state of mind, she disappeared into the void of dreamless slumber.

  She awoke to a sense of foreboding and, remembering the events of the night before, she dashed into the living room. The studio couch was closed, the bedclothes folded. She looked out the apartment window. The yellow Honda was gone. Checking the time, she assumed that Jackie had taken the bus to school.

  Perhaps she had won her point with Darryl, despite all his threats and bluster. Looking on the bright side, she considered that the incident might have brought Jackie to her senses.

  She showered and dressed and went off to meet Sam. At least she had something wonderful to look forward to, she told herself, refusing to allow ominous possibilities to spoil her prospects for the day.

  In the car, driving toward Sam's place, she remembered her resolve of the night before. She must tell him the truth. There was no other way. Was it necessary to tell him about Anne? That was a separate question. No debates this morning, she decided. She knew what she had to do. Let the chips fall where they may.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sam stood on the balcony off his bedroom and watched the full moon rising above the ocean's horizon. Because of the light he could see the turf churning at the edge of the beach and, in the distance, a cruise ship moving its cargo of revelers southward toward the Caribbean.

  He wished Grace was beside him. Even the salt tang that twitched his nostrils couldn't completely eliminate the aroma of her flesh. His taste buds, too, recalled the memory of the taste of her, particularly their last good-bye kiss.

  He still remembered Anne, of course, but in a more cerebral way. His grief had receded and he no longer felt the same anguished feeling of loss. The missing Anne, he assured himself, had become or was fast becoming more of a historical fact than an emotional condition. Everything about her was fading into a kind of mythology. Even the old, gnawing guilt about his infidelity was losing its power.

  Nor did he sense in himself any inhibiting constriction of conscience about thinking of Anne in this way. Her presence in his living reality was over. She had been replaced in her role by a new player with a totally new take on how the part was to be played.

  Acknowledging the fact of this replacement had been his most difficult decision. Anne was over in his life. Grace was a new beginning. At that moment, standing on the balcony, watching the infinity of the sea, he rebuked himself for not facing the truth of the situation, for avoiding the inevitable truth. What he feared now, most of all, was losing her.

  He had wrestled with the idea that saying good-bye to Grace every night was, in fact, an unnatural state. Although two months had passed since Anne's death, he was now willing to believe that he had mourned her sufficiently, that he had by his grief acknowledged their long marriage, and despite his long catalog of infidelity he had done his duty by her.

  He was well aware that he had deliberately avoided the subject of a permanent arrangement with Grace, even marriage, especially marriage. She had not pressed him. Indeed, at times it seemed that she, too, was deliberately avoiding the subject. He wondered why. Perhaps she wasn't sure their relationship had the stamp of permanence, or she had decided that the difference in their ages was a drawback.

  At first he had thought so himself, but after spending time together, talking, making love, interacting, he was convinced that their relationship was workable, pregnant with potential. Certainly from a physical point of view they were enormously compatible. It was marvelous, a miracle. He was, above all, a realist. The aging process was relentless. Down the line, perhaps five, maybe ten years from now, if he were lucky, his powers would certainly diminish, although new drugs held the promise of extending potency. Yet, even with that, one couldn't ignore the body's inevitable natural breakdown.

  But he knew, also, from his years with Anne, that the physical aspect, specifically sex, was not the whole story of a relationship. For him and Anne, money had been the leavening ingredient. It had made the bread of life rise, made it tastier, more palatable, despite the absence of a sexual component.

  There was, of course, great truth in the idea that man did not live by bread alone, yet few could deny the inherent joys of creature comforts, of being totally free from the tension of material need. Money enhanced life. Lack of money diminished it.

  By the same standard, sex, aside from the issues of propagation and survival of the species, enhanced life as well. Its practice gave undeniable pleasure, both physical and psychic. At puberty he had recognized it as a powerful and profound personal need. With Grace, from his point of view, he had closed the full circle of that need. As long as it lasted their sex life enhanced and embellished the joy of their relationship.

  Certainly she had exhibited a sexual drive at least equal to his, but he wasn't certain that its equality represented the same importance to her as it did to him. Repetition might diminish its impact. She might grow tired of him. They were, after all, only in the first flush of desire. At some point, surely, the novelty would wear off and evolve into humdrum routine. He feared that over time, as he aged, she might lose interest in him. Perhaps that was why he had decided to wait before he suggested a more permanent arrangement. The fact was that, fearing her rejection, he was too afraid to ask.

  Perhaps it was Bruce's telephone call from the airport, coming at the precise moment when he was approaching a resolution about his future with Grace, that had pushed these thoughts into the forefront of his mind.

  Bruce had not previously announced that he was coming. In fact, Sam had just spoken to him two days earlier. There had not been the slightest hint that he was coming to visit.

  Their conversation, as always, revolved around the same subject, the fear of his vulnerability, his involvement with Grace and the implied disrespect of Anne, as well as the perennial subject, the preservation of Sam's estate. The dialogue with Bruce was getting increasingly contentious.

  Was this, then, his last ditch effort? Probably, Sam groaned inwardly. And the coincidence of his calling at a time when Grace wasn't in the house was equally ominous. In fact, the impromptu visit had an emergency air, which was enormously troubling.

  "Dad..." Bruce had come up behind him. Sam, lost in thought, hadn't heard the taxi over the sound of the pounding surf, and Bruce had his own key to the house, which reminded Sam suddenly of his son's sense of possession over his father's property. At that moment he vowed to change the locks. Sam turned and faced his son, who moved closer to embrace him and kiss him on the cheek.

  "I know you must be tremendously surprised, Dad," Bruce said, his features murky even in the moonlight. "I just felt that this had to be done face-to-face."

  "Well, here we are, face-to-face," Sam said, not knowing what else to say. It occurred to him that he wasn't exactly overjoyed at seeing his son.

  "Can we go inside, chat in the den?" Bruce asked.

  Sam shrugged his consent and followed his son down the stairs to his den. Here, they had always had their more serious discussions, another ominous note.

  "Are you hungry?" Sam asked.

  "Ate on the plane, Dad, but I could use a drink."

  Bruce moved to the bar and, lifting the twenty-year-old malt whiskey bottle, silently asked his father to join him. Sam nodded. He was
certain he would need a stiff drink to face what was coming.

  Bruce poured out two generous drinks and handed his father a glass, then took a seat in one of the two facing wing-backed leather chairs. Another ominous note, Sam thought, taking the opposite chair.

  "Very lawyerly," Sam snickered, looking at his son, who had not even removed his jacket. He took a deep swallow of his drink. "It must be pretty important to bring you cross-country."

  "It is," Bruce said, halfheartedly sipping his drink, then putting the glass down on the table beside him. He cleared his throat. Sam noted the complete absence of the amenities, the usual small talk expected between father and son; but then, he decided, they had disposed of such questions in their earlier conversations on the phone. Sam recognized that he was not being forthcoming either, having not asked after his son's wife. A deliberate avoidance, he acknowledged to himself, thinking suddenly that he had never really agreed with Anne's assessment. Sam had never liked her.

  "I don't know how to put this, Dad," Bruce said.

  "How about straight." Sam said. He studied his son, his features more like Anne's than his own, the high forehead, straight nose, square cleft chin, a strong face with Anne's blue-gray eyes staring out at him.

  "This is your most vulnerable time, Dad," Bruce began. He was obviously nervous, trying to follow a scenario that he must have worked out for himself in advance. "Considering the circumstances, it's perfectly natural. I'm not faulting you at all. You must understand that. This is coming out of genuine love and concern for your future."

  "And yours," Sam interrupted.

  "Dad, please, don't be unkind. I don't want this to be hurtful. I just want you to face the reality of the situation."

  "What situation, for Christ's sake, Bruce? Enough prologue. Let's get down to the cream cheese. What the hell are you talking about?"

  Bruce lifted his glass for another dainty sip of scotch. His hand shook as he lifted, drank and put down the glass. He cleared his throat again.

  "Grace Sorentino," he said hoarsely.

  Sam had, of course, expected it. Despite their attempts at secrecy, he had always known that his son's resourcefulness would eventually ferret out her identity.

  "Okay," Sam said. "So you know her name. Good for you. Yes, Grace Sorentino. She's a dear friend. And, I might add, she has been extremely helpful and understanding..."

  "I'm sure of that, Dad."

  Sam detected a note of sarcasm.

  "What's going on here, Bruce?"

  "Do you know much about her?" Bruce asked.

  Somewhere in the distance, deep inside himself, Sam could sense an odd disturbance begin, like distant thunder. He was instantly wary.

  "I know all I want to know," Sam said, feeling his throat constrict.

  "And you're not even remotely ... well ... concerned?"

  "What are you talking about Bruce? She's a lovely person."

  "And apparently you're quite involved with her."

  "Am I on the witness stand, Bruce?"

  "Don't get defensive, Dad. Please. I told you, I'm trying to be protective, not harmful."

  "Well then, get to the point."

  "Are you comfortable with what you know about her?"

  "Where are you heading, Bruce?"

  Suddenly all sorts of warning flags went up in Sam's mind.

  "We had to know, Dad," Bruce said. "It's you we're thinking about. Oh, I know you don't believe that. And I'm not here to tell you what to do. All I want is for you to know..."

  "Know what, dammit, know what?"

  "About this person."

  "Person? You know her name and she's still referred to as a person, more like an object than a real person. Oh, I can see where you're leading me, Bruce. You realize that this is none of your damned business?"

  Bruce uncrossed his legs and took out an envelope from his inside coat pocket. Sam, his agitation growing, watched as he slipped out a paper from the envelope and opened it.

  "It is our business, Dad. Just don't get emotional. Look at it from our point of view. We had to hire someone, a very reputable, discreet person. You wouldn't tell us anything. How could we protect you?"

  "Protect me from what?"

  Sam reached for his drink and swallowed it in one gulp. He noted that his fingers shook.

  "Grace Sorentino," Bruce said, reading from the paper he held in his hand. "Age thirty-eight."

  "Well, there's a revelation. You think I don't know that?"

  Bruce did not look up from the paper.

  "She has a daughter age sixteen, nearly seventeen. Jackie."

  "Your boy really earned his fee," Sam sneered. "Do I have to listen to this crap?"

  "She lives at Palm Court in West Palm Beach."

  "So?"

  "Dad," Bruce said, shaking his head, "she was recently fired from Saks Fifth Avenue, where she worked at the cosmetics counter for three years." Bruce sighed. "Apparently fired for insulting one of their best customers." Bruce looked up. "She sold cosmetics."

  Surely a sin of omission, Sam reasoned, refusing to allow himself to be shocked or show surprise. Was there anything sinister in her refusal to tell him about that? She might have wanted to keep busy, keep her hand in. Perhaps it was a kind of hobby. He cleared his throat, which had suddenly become constricted. He knew, of course, that Bruce had thrown down the gauntlet and tried to steel himself against the bad news yet to come.

  "A few weeks ago she blew another job at a beauty salon, Mary Jones. Same story. Insulted a customer," Bruce continued. "She is currently on unemployment insurance."

  "So?"

  It was the only word he could get out without revealing his real feelings.

  "This place where she lives, Palm Court..." Bruce continued, his tone even and lawyerly, holding any obvious negative expressions in check. "Not very up-to-date. I don't want to be a snob about it, Dad, but it's not exactly first class. I have photographs. It's pretty grungy. Would you like to see them?"

  "No, I don't think that will be necessary. Fact is, I've never been there," Sam said, his heart sinking, forcing a posture of nonchalance, knowing it was transparently phony. He got up, crossed to the bar, poured himself another drink and carried it back to his chair. He didn't offer one to his son.

  "Born in Baltimore," Bruce continued, concentrating on the paper in front of him. "Grace Frances Sorentino is her full name. Attended Baltimore Junior College, dropped out after a year. Both parents born in Sicily. Mother dead. Father a barber. Lives above the store in the apartment where she grew up." He read it perfunctorily, not looking up. "I'm sure you know all this."

  "Of course," Sam whispered. His heart was breaking. He wanted to cry.

  "Married Jason Lombardi. Apparently he dropped out of high school. She was nineteen. Mr. Lombardi seems to have been a hustler of sorts. He left quite a paper trail of bad debts, various judgments against him. A pretty bad apple." Bruce shook his head. "They were divorced six years ago. He's behind in his support payments. Rather messy."

  "So she's had a lot of bad luck," Sam said bravely, wondering if he was effectively masking his denial. He wanted to question the report, wanted to tell his son that it was nothing but a pack of lies. There was some mix-up here. It wasn't his Grace Sorentino. Not his Grace.

  "I'd like to assume you know all this, Dad," Bruce said.

  Sam couldn't find the will to reply. Instead, he reached for his drink, spilling part of it because of his shaking hands. He put the drink down without bringing it to his lips.

  "Her daughter," Bruce went on, "Jackie, goes to West Palm Beach High School. Not a very impressive student. Apparently she has a boyfriend, a skinhead with a record. Minor stuff. Petty thievery, things like that. She seems to be quite active sexually." Bruce looked up suddenly. "I'd take that as hearsay. He's very thorough, but I think in this case he might have gone too far. What I think he's trying to say is that the kid is a bit on the wild side."

  "I thought..." Sam began, then realized that he was mounting a
futile defense. He stopped himself. Above all, he didn't want his son to see his naïveté, his vulnerability.

  "And here's something that really confuses me, Dad," Bruce said, frowning and studying his father's face. "She apparently gave some of Mother's clothes to various charities ... but then..."

  Sam turned away, fearful of what was coming next. He felt his stomach sour and nausea begin.

  "...she brought the bulk of them within the past week to a couple of secondhand consignment shops. Apparently got some advances against future sales."

  His disappointment was palpable now. He felt awful as he assessed the extent of his gullibility. How could she? His memory groped through the endless catalog of her lies, each one offering a painful stab into his soul. He had no reason to believe that Bruce was manufacturing the information.

  He recalled her alluding to her successful father, the lawyer husband, Johns Hopkins, her work for the senator in Washington, the brilliant daughter who needed no help getting into Princeton, who wanted to be a doctor, the luxury condo in West Palm, her financial independence, the endless cacophony of lies, lies, lies. He felt brutalized, used, unclean.

  Was this the same woman he had contemplated marrying? Was this the woman who compared with Anne, the sainted Anne? She was a total fraud, a whore, a monstrous, lying bitch. He remembered how she had come to him after the funeral, proposing to spare him the pain of disposing of Anne's clothes. How naive he had been not to have seen through her ploy. He felt his disgust amplifying as he remembered her sexual acrobatics, the declaration of her love and, above all else, the filthy lies. God, what a fool he had been, what a monumental fool.

  He got up from his chair and, without looking at Bruce, walked to the bathroom. He felt nauseous and dizzy. Stooping over the toilet, he lost the drink he had just imbibed. He looked at himself in the mirror. His complexion was blotchy, his eyes bloodshot with anger, sweat rolling down his cheeks.