Never Too Late for Love

by Warren Adler

  She died suddenly. She had played cards and, as usual, he had slept on the chair until she had come home.

  "Ida Katz talked all night about her heartburn.I couldn't concentrate," she said as she got into bed that night. "I told her to take a Malox or stop stuffing herself so much."

  He remembered drifting away, but he heard her last words. "Malox is constipating, she told me." Then he had heard a long sigh, and the next thing he remembered, he was shaking her in the morning. But she didn't move. She was dead.

  He sat in the funeral chapel, consumed with grief, his eyes puffy from crying. The loneliness that assailed him that night was terrible, although Milton had flown down to keep him company for the night.

  "How can I live?" he asked his son. "She was my whole life."

  He looked around the condominium. "Everything here reminds me of her."

  "I don't know, Pop," Milton said, "I know it won't be easy."

  "Easy? It will be impossible," Murray said, holding his head in his hands, feeling the unbearable weight of his loss.

  "I should have gone first," he said. "At least she had friends here. She could have gotten along fine without me."

  "That's the way it goes, Pop."

  He surveyed the little funeral chapel. It was amazing how many people showed up. Mostly women. He recognized many of them from the clubhouse. Others had been merely shadowy figures, passing acquaintances. He hadn't realized she had so many friends. The women from her regular canasta group were in the second row behind him and Milton. They were particularly solicitous.

  One of them, Mrs. Morganstern, touched his shoulder and whispered softly in his ear.

  "You shouldn't worry about anything, Murray. We took care of everything. There'll be bagels and herring and cakes for after the funeral. We'll set everything up. It'll all be perfect."

  He felt her breath on his earlobe, the pressure of her hand on his shoulder. He nodded, lowering his misted eyes as the rabbi finished the eulogy. They were so wonderful, he thought. Sarah had that rare ability to make friends, the Rabbi said, responding to what he had told him. The rabbi had, after all, never met Sarah and had been hired for the occasion for fifty dollars. But what Mrs. Morganstern and her other canasta players were doing was proof enough.

  Walking behind the coffin, supported by his son, he followed it out to the hearse and got into the hired limousine, with Milton beside him. Another woman was inside waiting. He recognized her as Minnie Schwartz, Sarah's old friend from Brooklyn, who, he remembered, just moved into Sunset Village.

  "I asked Minnie to come with us," Milton said.

  "Thank you, Minnie," Murray said. He could barely control his sobbing. He felt her arm entwine itself around his.

  "I know. I know," she said, sniffling, blowing her nose into a bit of tissue, already moist with previous tears. "When I lost my Sam, it was a living hell, a living hell."

  "I should have gone first," Murray mumbled, repeating the thought all the way to the cemetery.

  It was a terrible ordeal, watching Sarah lowered into the strange Florida ground on this sunny day, the air thick with the scent of tropical plants. At the first drop of earth on the hollow coffin, a high wail filled the air as the women reacted. The crowd was almost exclusively female, and Minnie Schwartz's wail was the loudest.

  "How can I go on?" he sobbed, as the big limousine headed back to Sunset Village.

  "You'll go on, Murray." Minnie Schwartz said. She clutched his arm in such a way that he leaned against her bulky body. "I did and you will. Time will heal everything."

  "Time," he said. "She should have had the time."

  "She was a wonderful woman."

  "Wonderful," he agreed.

  "We'll all miss her, Murray."

  Back at their little apartment, the canasta players had arranged what seemed like a lavish repast. It was traditional among Jews for the chief mourner to provide for the guests, and they had done a splendid job.

  "You'll tell me later how much it all costs," he said to Mrs. Morganstern when he finally washed his hands, also a tradition, and settled into his chair. The apartment was filled with people, mostly women, all of Sarah's friends. He hadn't realized she had so many friends.

  "I wouldn't think of it Mr. Gold," Mrs. Morganstern said. She gripped his hand. "Sarah was my friend."

  "How can I ever thank you, Mrs. Morganstern?" he said.

  "Lily," she responded.

  He seemed confused.

  "Call me Lily," she said. "After all, Sarah called me Lily. She was my friend"

  "Of course."

  In the kitchen, two women did the dishes, while others puttered around, removing plates and neatly arranging additional food when the table needed to be replenished.

  There was only regular seating for six in the small dining room, but additional chairs had materialized and he noticed that he was encircled by women, some of whom he did not recognize. Others arrived, whom he had never seen before.

  "I'm Mrs. Bernstein," a woman said, bending over him, clutching his hand and pressing it to her breast. Despite his grief, he felt the ample softness. "Sarah was the finest woman in Sunset Village. We'll miss her."

  He nodded, and the woman lingered whispering in his ear, the strong scent of perfume emanating from her skin. "If there is anything, anything, I can do. Please let me know. Will you?"

  "Of course."

  "I'm Harriet Berstein from across the court--222, upstairs."

  He hadn't ever seen her before, he was certain. She stayed a moment longer, shook her head in a gesture of sympathy as she blinked her eyes, heavy with mascara, and passed on to the buffet table. He hadn't realized that Sarah had made such an immense impression, had won so many hearts.

  "I'm sure Sarah mentioned me," another woman said, gripping Murray's arm. "I was once a model. It was a long time ago, but I showed her the clippings from the magazines." He couldn't remember, but he nodded in affirmation. "She mentioned me?"

  "Of course," he said solemnly.

  "I could have gone on to a bigger career, but you know I got married, had children. You understand."

  "Yes," he said.

  "When Harry died, I came here," she said, her voice carrying through the room. Some of the other women turned to watch. Sensing this, she lowered her voice.

  "Life goes on," she whispered. "You'll learn that. You need a lesson in that Mr. Gold, just call on Rose Ginzberg." She paused.

  "Better yet, I'll call you. I'm a Hungarian. You should taste my goulash."

  She had so many wonderful friends, Murray thought. If only he had been a better husband.

  "You can't imagine how much we'll miss Sarah." It was Ida Katz, stuffing herself as usual, her mouth filled with herring as she moved to a vacant chair. There seemed to be some rhythm in the movement onto the chairs. When someone stood up, someone immediately sat down, as if to find a place in the circle around Murray was the most coveted honor of the day. He remembered that Sarah had been talking about Ida the night she died.

  "She was always so much fun. Always joking. A kind word for everybody." She paused, concentrated on eating the last morsel on her plate. "And you, Murray. She always said such wonderful things about you."

  "Me?"

  "You."

  "I hadn't realized."

  "What a wonderful man you were ... how handsome you were when you were younger. Although I don't think you're so bad now." She mumbled the compliment, as if imparting an important confidence. Did Sarah really make such a reference, he wondered?

  As the day wore on and the food diminished, a few of the women lingered, tidying the apartment.

  "Nothing like a good Jewish woman," Minnie Schwartz said, as she folded a tabledoth and put it in a drawer.

  "You said it," Lily Morganstern responded.

  "They have a certain something," Ida Katz agreed. She turned toward Murray, who was growing weary, contemplating sadly a future without Sarah. He was beginning to slip back into self-pity.

  "Sarah was th
e epitome of what it meant to be a good Jewish woman," Minnie Schwartz said. "Knew her all her life. Didn't I Murray?"

  He lifted his head and looked at her. He had barely exchanged two words with her throughout his married life, either in Brooklyn or Sunset Village.

  "We were very close," Minnie Schwartz said.

  It was growing late. The women gathered what they could carry and prepared to leave.

  "There's herring, bread, some knishes and cakes left," Lily Morganstern said. She came over to Murray and talked quietly.

  "If you like, I'll come by in the morning and maybe make some breakfast," she said. Murray nodded. Why not? Anything but being left alone.

  "I'll call you tomorrow," Minnie said. She embraced Murray's head and kissed his cheek. "Time will heal everything. Believe me, Murray. Respect time."

  "I hope," he said, feeling the emptiness, the panic of his impending loneliness.

  "Maybe I'll be over tomorrow to keep you company," Ida Katz said. "We're not going to play cards for the next few days." Her eyes filled with tears. "Without Sarah, it just wouldn't be the same."

  "I can imagine," he said. Then the apartment was empty, except for Milton, who had been packing in the bedroom. He came out with his suitcase and looked at his watch.

  "I can just make the last plane," he said.

  "So soon?"

  "Really, Pop. I can't take off more time. Two people are out sick. You can't run a pharmacy today like you used to. Who can you trust?" Murray nodded. Then he stood up and embraced his son.

  "You sure you can manage alone, Pop?" Milton asked, his voice breaking.

  "I'll manage." They disengaged and he looked for a moment at his son, but he was thinking of Sarah. "She had so many wonderful friends, your Mama. I never realized."

  "She was a good mother, Pop." Milton said, picking up his suitcase.

  "And a wonderful wife."

  His son kissed him again and went out into the court. In a moment, he had gunned the motor of his rented car and was off.

  Alone in the apartment, Murray felt his disorientation. He could not believe that Sarah was gone. What happens now? he wondered.

  He walked around the apartment, touched edges of chairs, let his fingers linger over objects, trying to remember how they had been acquired.

  He opened the closets, looked at Sarah's clothes, still hanging neatly, mute mourners. Touching the clothes, he started to cry, sinking to the floor, seeing her shoes. It was too unbearable. He sat there on the floor for a long time, then undressed and went to bed.

  It seemed he had just been thinking that he could not sleep when suddenly he was emerging out of a deep slumber, reaching beside him for Sarah's body. There were noises from the kitchen, the sound of water pouring into a pot, dishes clinking, the refrigerator door opening and closing. Oh, she was in the kitchen, he thought, although it was he who was usually up first making the coffee.

  Then he remembered. Getting out of bed, his joints seemed stiffer than usual and, in the mirror, he noted the redness of his eyes. Putting on his robe and slippers, he shuffled into the kitchen.

  "You like eggs?"

  It was Minnie Schwartz, carefully groomed, dabs of rouge on both cheeks and a discreet line of color on ill-defined lips. Her grey hair was neatly combed with a thin white ribbon tucked under it and tied in a little bow on top of her head. Her flowered housedress was neatly starched and crinkled as she moved.

  "I heard noises. I thought it was Sarah," Murray said. He felt odd, uncomfortable, seeing this strange woman potting around in Sarah's kitchen.

  She held up an egg. "Scrambled or bull's eye."

  "Whatever."

  He could not get over his surprise. She placed a steaming coffee cup on the little table. Not knowing what to do next, he sat down. She was, after all, making him breakfast.

  "Milton gave me a key," she said, breaking the eggs into the frying pan. "I told him he shouldn't worry so much about his father. Minnie Schwartz doesn't let down her friends."

  "You're very kind." Murray said. It was the only response he could think of. He gulped the coffee, scalding his mouth. Before the eggs had a chance to fry, the telephone rang.

  "Sit, I'll get it."

  She picked up the telephone.

  "Who? Mrs. Morganstern?" She grimaced and held a hand over the mouth piece. "Mrs. Morganstern." But before he could reply, she was talking into the mouthpiece again. "He'll call later. After I make him breakfast." Her words seemed unusually curt and impolite.

  "It was Mrs. Morganstern."

  "What did she want?"

  "How should I know?" Minnie Schwartz mumbled, watching the eggs bubble. "A yenta," she said with obvious contempt. Silently, he drank his coffee. "A pushy yenta," she said.

  "My Sarah was not a yenta" he said aloud, knowing in his heart that he was already beginning to idealize her. It was his own private characterization.

  "Sarah a yenta?" Minnie rebuked. "Who would ever think such a thing? Mrs. Morganstern is a yenta." She put the egg before him on the table and sat down beside him. He watched it continue to bubble on the plate.

  "Listen to me Murray. Was I Sarah's best friend? Be careful of these yentas."

  "Why careful?"

  She hesitated a moment, putting a hand on the sleeve of his robe.

  "Just take Minnie's advice. Be careful."

  The admonition confused him, and rather than contemplate its meaning, he ate the egg. Minnie watched him as he ate, and he was getting uncomfortable.

  "Good?"

  He nodded.

  "You should taste my varnishkas. Someday I'll make you varnishkas like you never tasted before. My Sam loved my varnishkas."

  Actually, Murray liked varnishkas, but the idea of them seemed incongruous with the breakfast.

  "I also make good stuffed cabbage. Everybody loves my stuffed cabbage. Even better than my pot roast." She nodded, moved her hand from his sleeve and patted the back of his hand. "You'll see. You'll judge for yourself which is better, my pot roast or my stuffed cabbage."

  "Not as good as your varnishkas?"

  "Comme ci comme ça."

  He ate his egg and finished the coffee, then stood up. He wasn't quite sure what to do with the rest of his day. There were things to do, he knew. He thought of Sarah's closet. All her clothes still hanging there.

  Again the grief came and his heart felt leaden. He went into the bedroom and shut his door, then sat on the edge of the bed, not knowing what to do next. He heard the water running in the kitchen, then someone was walking in the bedroom and he felt a hand on his back.

  "Can I do anything more?" Minnie asked. She was whispering and he felt her breath near his cheek as she stood above him, an ample expanse of her bosom at eye-level. She grasped both his hands in her own and pressed them to her. He felt an odd embarrassment.

  "I'll look in later. You just rest. Don't worry about a thing. Minnie's here." He felt his hands moving on her breasts as she continued to hold them. An uncommon stirring began deep inside of him.

  After she left, he felt totally immobile, unable to make a single decision, emersed in a kind of mental paralysis. What should I do now, Sarah? he asked himself.

  By the time Ida Katz knocked at his door, he had managed to dress, although he had not begun to tackle what he had established in his mind as the main job he had before him, the removal of Sarah's things. It was not that he wanted to abolish her memory, but he could not abide the idea of their being there when Sarah was elsewhere, as if she might need them.

  "I thought maybe you might want something," Ida Katz said.

  She was a tall woman and he had to look up to observe her features. Before he could reply, she was in the apartment.

  "I think maybe I should tidy up a bit." She was holding a shopping bag that she put on the floor beside the couch as she bent to puff the pillows. "Sarah was always as neat as a pin." She removed a rag from the shopping bag and began to run it along the wooden parts of the furniture.

  "I w
as just looking at her clothes," he said. He felt his throat catch. She straightened, watched his eyes mist, then understood immediately.

  "That's the worst part, Murray," she said, shaking her head.

  "With Harry, it took me weeks before I could even look in the closet. That's the worst part." She hesitated. "You show me, and I'll do it."

  "What do you do?"

  "I can only say what I did with Harry's. I gave them away to charity. The Salvation Army. Better that poor people have the use of it."

  He thought for a moment. Yes, that was a fine idea. He followed her into his bedroom, where she opened Sarah's closet.

  "You got a carton?"

  He rummaged in the storage closet in the kitchen and found a folded carton, which he opened and put on the bedroom floor. Ida Katz removed each article of clothing, gently, as if to treat them roughly might be a sacrilege against Sarah's memory. She took them off the hangers and folded them into the carton.

  He stood aside and watched her work, unable to bring himself to touch Sarah's clothing. "She was a lovely person," Ida Katz said as she worked. "She had wonderful taste."

  The telephone rang and Murray went into the kitchen to answer it. Lifting the receiver, he stood in such a way as to continue to observe Ida Katz at work through the reflection in the mirror. It was Mrs. Morganstern. "Minnie Schwartz has left?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Morganstern."

  "Lily."

  "Lily," he repeated.

  "I thought maybe you needed something. I'm going shopping."

  "I'm not sure."

  "Milk, coffee, bread? Some meat?"

  He did not want to seem ungrateful. Through the reflection, he noted that Ida Katz had taken an article of Sarah's and had wrapped it around her figure, viewing herself in the bedroom mirror. She stood contemplating it a moment, then refolded it and put it into the carton.

  "All right. Maybe some coffee ... and bread."

  "That's all?"

  "Well, Sarah used to make these decisions."

  "I know." She hesitated.

  "When you're used to a good Jewish woman..." She let the thought linger with the incomplete sentence.

  "You're very kind," he said. What more could he say?

  "Don't mention it," But she did not hang up, instead pausing as if she was forming an additional thought. "You know, Murray," she began. In her tone he could detect a coming confidence. "You shouldn't get too friendly with Minnie Schwartz."