by Warren Adler
Looking into the receiver, he tried to visualize Lily Morganstern's face, but it seemed to have fled his consciousness. What did she mean?
"Minnie Schwartz?" he said. It was inconceivable that she could be vested with anything less than the purest of motives. She was, after all, as she herself had said, Sarah's best friend.
"Have you ever heard me say a bad word about anybody, Murray?" Lily Morganstern protested, as if his response had actually been accusatory.
"No," he replied. Indeed, had he ever remembered any word she uttered before Sarah died?
"So what I say is for your own good, Murray. For your own good." There was a long pause, as if in the silence, dark forebodings might be gathering. "She's too pushy. A little too possessive. You'll see. You should only be careful."
Be careful of what, he wondered, letting her ramble on without a response.
"A word to the wise." She seemed to clear her throat and with it the wire unburdened its sudden animosity. "All you want is coffee and bread?"
"I think that's it," he said, scratching his head.
"I'll bring it later."
He hung up and went back into the bedroom, feeling the compulsion to mention the call, as if Ida Katz might have been listening which, he knew, instinctively to be the case.
"That was Lily Morganstern. She's going shopping for me."
Ida Katz paused midway in her folding duties, looking upward from her bent form.
"Her?" she said contemptuously, the word ejaculating with such obvious malice that Murray was startled.
"She's not your friend?"
He recalled that Ida Katz and Lily Morganstern had seemed inseparable. They were part of Sarah's canasta game, her constant companions around the pool, sister yentas. It was inconceivable that Ida Katz could harbor ill feelings for Lily Morganstern.
"That one's a barracuda."
"A barracuda?"
"A barracuda. You know a fish that grabs on and stays there."
"She's getting me some coffee and bread."
"Make sure that's all she gets."
He seemed genuinely confused, wondering, perhaps, if she were referring to some dishonesty on Lily's part. He decided not to pursue the subject. Sarah could have explained it, he was certain, but Sarah was gone. Ida Katz continued to fold the clothes.
"I'm very grateful," he said later, as she prepared to leave.
"Just call the Salvation Army. They'll come and pick up the carton."
She stood close to him and he felt her towering presence as she watched him with lowered eyes. Then she bent down and kissed his cheek.
"Remember that I'm here, Murray. If there is anything, anything." Her voice rose emphatically on the second anything. "Just call me." She started out the door, then turned for a moment. "Whatever they tell you," she said. "I was the closest to Sarah. She confided things to me." Then she was gone.
He stood watching the door for a long time, marveling at the devotion of Sarah's friends, and the goodness in his wife that could motivate such an outpouring. Maybe they had their little quirks between them, he decided, assuming that this was just one of those odd manifestations in the world of women.
In the days that followed, as he forced himself to adjust to Sarah's absence, he had ample time to observe these manifestations as the women ministered to his needs. Minnie Schwartz made it a regular practice to arrive at his doorstep every morning to make him breakfast. Ida Katz would show up in midmorning to "tidy up," and Lily Morganstern was always dropping by with items from the store. Without his realizing it, it became a regular routine. He continued to be grateful and he did admit that it chased away the blues to have a woman puttering around his now-empty apartment, but the tug of guilt was unmistakable.
"I want you to know Minnie," he said one morning, "how much I appreciate what you're doing. But I feel that I may be unnecessarily taking up your time."
"My time, Murray? I got better things to do?"
"I feel guilty," he admitted. "I mean, you've all been so nice."
"All?" He had learned to avoid any mention of the others to any of them, because their reactions were becoming increasingly inflammatory. It was a brief lapse and he regretted it too late.
"At least I'm sincere."
"Sincere?" He wondered what that meant.
She bent close to him and whispered. "At least I don't have motives."
"I don't understand," he said. She sat down beside him at the kitchen table.
"Why do you need them? I can come in and do the cleaning and the shopping. What better things can I do than that?"
"But you have your own life."
"I owe it to Sarah."
At the mention of Sarah's name, he nodded. It was a form of consent, since even beyond the grave he imagined that they might be fulfilling Sarah's wishes. Besides, he thought, it's only temporary.
Thankfully, too, his nights were filled, as each woman would rotate his having dinner at their places. And what dinners! He was being stuffed with every imaginable dish--varnishkas, pot roasts, stuffed turkeys--a cornucopia of special concoctions that left him reeling and bloated each evening.
"You like my stuffing?" Ida Katz would ask, calling attention to each preparation. He would, of course, nod politely, his mouth full.
"Better than them," she would insist.
"Marvelous."
The others, too, had their own ways of calling attention to their culinary ardor.
"Did I tell you I was a fantastic cook?" Lily Morganstern would say. "I'm a real cook. Not a Johnny-come-lately."
"No question."
But he would go home to his empty bed, still missing Sarah's presence beside him, although he was thankful that she had provided friends to take the edge off some of his loneliness.
One night, after he had taken his ritual Alka-Seltzer and was preparing for bed, he heard a knock on the door, put on his robe and answered it. A large, heavily made up woman stood before him, vaguely familiar.
"Remember me? Harriet Bernstein from across the court."
"Of course," he lied, though her presence was stimulating his recall.
"Can I come in?" Before he could answer, she had insinuated herself through the door to the inside of his apartment.
"I was away visiting my daughter for a few weeks. Then when I got back, I realized I hadn't visited since the funeral so I thought I might stop by for a minute."
He observed her taking a sweeping look about the apartment, then sat down on the couch and patted the seat next to her own, an invitation which, oddly, he obeyed.
"So how are you getting along?" she asked. He could smell the special sweetness of her scent, which filled the air around him.
"Thank God," he said, "Sarah had wonderful friends."
"The widows?" She clicked her tongue in an attitude of derision. "They come out of the woodwork," she said, jabbing him in the arm. Recoiling, he looked at her curiously.
"They're wonderful people," he said. "Sarah's friends."
"You should live so long."
"I don't understand." He was genuinely surprised by her reaction. He watched her. She was a well-kept woman, who, despite her heavy make-up, had a lively air, although her pose seemed cynical, almost contemptuous.
"It's not important," she said, pausing. "I'm also a widow. Believe me, I know."
"Know what?"
"What's happening."
"What's happening?"
Harriet Bernstein smiled, showing even, perfectly matched and obviously false teeth. She put a hand on his thigh. He let it stay there, embarrassed, not knowing what to do. An old, rarely felt feeling, stirred.
"You know, a widow is a very dangerous commodity."
"Dangerous?" He was trying to listen, but his mind seemed concentrated on her hand, which had begun to move, stroking his thigh.
"Can you blame them?" she said, lowering her voice and squeezing the heavy flesh of his thigh.
He knew his mind was trying to understand, but he was coping with feel
ings and reactions foreign to his recent history. Something visibly physical was happening.
"A widow's life is very lonely."
"A widower is no picnic." Would Sarah understand, he wondered?
"You were a friend of Sarah's?" he asked, the words moving quickly on waves of accelerated breathing. He felt his pulse pound. The knowledge of what was happening beneath his pajamas seemed like a miracle. He was afraid if he talked too much, it would go away.
"Not really."
It seemed better that way, he decided, as the woman's hands found the thing that had happened.
"I can tell you're a very lonely man," Harriet said, her hand deliberately probing now. She stopped suddenly in her ministrations.
"You think maybe we should go into the bedroom?" she asked.
He grunted, afraid that a single word might make it go away. But she got up and, gripping his hand, led him to the bedroom. The room was dark and he was surprised that he felt only the vaguest tug of guilt. After all, she wasn't a friend of Sarah's. Thoughts of Sarah did, however, intrude on the miracle that Harriet was making happen.
He lay down on the bed and felt the stirring of anxiety that Harriet must have sensed as she lay down beside him.
"Relax boobala," she said, the endearing term odd to his ears, since it had been so long since any endearment had been directed his way. He felt her soft touch and again the renewed sense of his sexuality.
"You see," she said. He nodded gratefully, stirred by his pride in himself as he heard zippers grating, the crinkling of her clothes, then the touch of her soft flesh.
"Such a wonderful man. Such a marvelous man," she said as she maneuvered herself under him, in a comfortable coital posture. She began a low moaning sound, as she caressed him and moved her body in a rhythmical gyration. He was not thinking of Sarah now, only of the matter at hand, his own sense of wonder at this miracle that Harriet had wrought.
"You feel good?" she asked suddenly, the moans stopping briefly. He did not reply in words, stroking her breast instead. Then he felt the climax of this miracle and lay still, listening to the heavy beat of his heart. It was only then that he remembered Sarah, but he was growing too drowsy to think about it.
A shrill sound awakened him out of a tight, dreamless sleep. He opened his eyes, disoriented, waiting for the sound to identify itself. It was a woman's voice, raucous, like the sound in a bird zoo, despotic and grating.
"Disgusting. This is disgusting." He caught words first, confused until he saw Harriet Berstein cowering under the covers beside him. Minnie Schwartz, her face red with anger, her eyes popping precariously out of her head, stood over them.
"This is the way you repay my goodness, my feeling for Sarah. In bed with a korva." It was, he knew, the ultimate expression for perfidious women, the Russian/Yiddish word for whore.
"You only wish it was you," Harriet spat back.
"I wish?" She turned to Murray. "I need him like a hole in the head." Then she stormed out of the bedroom and he heard the door slam, trembling the loose contents of the apartment.
"She's your keeper?" Harriet asked. She had gotten out of bed and slipped on her dress from the previous night. "They get their claws on a widower and they think he's their property."
He was confused, ashamed, but remembering the night before, he felt strangely indifferent to Minnie's words.
"She comes in every morning to make me breakfast," he said, getting out of bed and putting on his robe.
"Big deal."
"She was close to Sarah," he said self-righteously, as if the information could explain what had happened.
"You think she did it for Sarah?"
"For who, then?"
She had been looking into the mirror, patting her bleached hair in place, when she turned suddenly to him. She shook her head and lifted one hand, palm inward, moving it like a fan.
"Are you such a putz, Murray?" she asked. The word, ejaculated suddenly, shocked him.
"You're a man, a widower, a single. That's your qualification. You're a catch."
"Me, a catch?" He couldn't believe what she was saying, but before he had time to reply, the telephone rang. He picked it up in the kitchen.
"I don't believe it." It was Lily Morganstern's voice. He suspected what she meant and grimaced into the phone. Harriet Bernstein watching, caught the meaning instantly.
"The yenta communication system," she muttered.
"Minnie told me," Lily continued, her voice breaking. "She was crying, hysterical. I said it must be impossible. Murray Gold. Our Murray Gold, with Sarah's body not yet cold in her grave."
He held a hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "What can I say?" Then he removed his hand.
"What can I say?" he said into the mouthpiece, shrugging his shoulders.
"What kind of a man are you? After we took such good care of you." She paused. "For Sarah's sake."
"What can I say?" he repeated. He waited for her next response, not wanting to be impolite. He watched Harriet walk into the bathroom, heard water running.
"You think maybe we should talk?" Lily Morganstern said finally. Her anger seemed spent. "I don't know about Minnie, but I'm willing to forgive and forget." She paused. "I know a little something about men, especially on special occasions. A man's a man." She lowered her voice. "She's still there?"
"She's in the bathroom."
"You made no commitment?"
"Commitment?" He wondered what she meant.
But she must have sensed his response by his uncertainty.
"Good. Very wise. Don't rush into things. Think it over a while. You shouldn't rush, especially now."
"Rush?"
"Anyway, I'll be over later and we'll talk."
She hung up. Another ring followed immediately. He answered it instantly.
"I want you to know," Ida Katz said, "that it doesn't make any difference."
"It doesn't?"
"From Minnie's point of view, I can understand it. But from mine..." It was, to him, an incomplete thought. But he let it pass.
"What can I say?"
"I only have a word of advice. The woman has a reputation. It's not the first time. Just don't make any rash mistakes. I personally am willing to forgive, and I want you to know that I'm still expecting you for dinner tonight."
He had forgotten. Luckily, they were always reminding him. Harriet Bernstein came out of the bathroom.
"Same time?" he asked the voice on the phone.
"Of course. I made a special stuffing. You want maybe I should get some wine?"
"I'm not a drinker."
"Just don't aggravate yourself. I'm sure you're not going to let it happen again."
He did not respond. Harriet watched him. Then he hung up.
"Another one?"
"They've been so nice to me."
"Why not?"
"I'm no big deal."
"To you, you're not a big deal. To Sarah, maybe you weren't such a big deal. To the yenta widows of Sunset Village, you're a big deal." He watched her. She held herself straight, gathering her own sense of dignity.
"A single man is hard to find," she said sadly, shaking her head. "In a few more months, you'll be so spoiled, you'll become a selfish quvetch."
"Me?" It was an idea so contrary to his own self-image that he smiled. It was the first time since Sarah had died that he had smiled publicly, although he knew he had smiled to himself last night.
"Then you'll get so fatumilt, you'll probably settle down with one of us. It's not so easy to break old habits.... "She pointed a finger at her chest. "Believe me, I know."
She started for the door, hesitating.
"And you'll be a celebrity. You'll be the big story of the week."
"Me?"
"Who else?"
He wanted to call her back, to have her explain further what she meant. He went to the window and watched her cross the street, staying there long after she disappeared. I'm alone, Sarah, he implored, knowing his lips had moved. What should I do
? he asked aloud. He paused, listening.
"Do I always have to tell you what to do?" He imagined he heard her voice, listening closely for any additional advice. Then the phone rang. It was Minnie Schwartz...
"I'm willing to forgive and forget," she said. "For the time being..."
"Good" he said. "I was getting hungry." He heard her mumble something, then the phone clicked dead, and he sat on his chair waiting for her to arrive.
POOR HERMAN
She had first noticed him from across the huge card room of the main clubhouse, a side view, faintly familiar, but it did not cross her mind again until she sat at the little dressing table in the bedroom of her condominium rubbing off her make-up. She had always mused, daydreamed, fantasized in front of the mirror while putting on her make-up or taking it off.
Sometimes she would suddenly make a wrong dab, which would recall her to herself. That was what she did that evening, as she rubbed the cleanser a little too vigorously and got some into her eye. It was then that she realized the connection between the profile in the card room and her memory of Heshy Feinstein. The shock of recognition made her hands shake briefly and she found she could not continue efficiently with the removal of her make-up.
She looked at her face, ravaged by age--by living, she told herself. But she could not identify it at all with the vivid image of Heshy Feinstein in her mind. For this memory of Heshy was not at all lost in the mist of more than fifty years. It had been retrieved so often, an oasis of joy in the arid desert of what her life had become, that it still had retained its shimmering intensity. Heshy Feinstein! He had been the one unalterable condition of her inner life, her secret life--although once she had confided to her daughter, Helen, that there had been a man, a boy really, who had made her body ache with longing for him.
She could remember exactly because, at the time, they were sitting shiva for Herman, only seven years before. Herman with whom she had spent forty-five faithful years of marriage, of coldness, too, although her children would never ever know that. Only Herman knew, because he suffered from her indifference since the first night of their marriage, from the moment of her hysterical exaggeration of her simulated virginity. What an act it had been. "It took me three days to get married," Herman had always told their friends with a laugh, although she had known in her heart that they were never really married, not in that way at least.
