Never Too Late for Love

by Warren Adler

  "You Jews are all crazy," Pat said, laughing. "My father was right."

  But getting through the day was no laughing matter to either of them. Heshy felt the tension as the day progressed. They stayed home eschewing the pool, had a light lunch, took a nap, watched television for a while.

  "What shall we tell him?" Heshy asked during dinner.

  "I don't know," Pat admitted.

  After dinner, following some mutual urge, they called their children. It wasn't their usual routine, because they exchanged letters frequently and spoke to them every other Sunday. They each chatted a while with their children, their spouses, their grandchildren, then, satisfied, hung up and looked at each other.

  "Feel better?" Pat asked. Actually, Heshy had made the first suggestion to call but Pat had agreed quickly.

  "Much."

  Danny Berman arrived at about nine. He was neatly dressed, about thirty, with a bushy mustache. He was understandably nervous and his eyes darted everywhere but on their faces.

  "I don't know what I'm doing here," he said. "It's all part of the treatment, I suppose."

  "Your mother tells me you're getting married," Heshy began, feeling ridiculous over the inanity of his remark.

  "You'd think I was about to join the KKK."

  "I know what you mean."

  "That's what I understand." He paused, sat down and crossed and uncrossed his legs. "Are you going to tell me horror stories?"

  He must have realized that there was a touch of enmity in his remark. "Look," he said. "I'm here because I love them. But they're so far out in left field that I can't begin to make them understand." He stood up, his mother's eyes flashing in his sockets as he surveyed the room, a helpless search. "I've been living with her for two years. We love each other. It's a formality. That's all it is. We want kids."

  "They know that?"

  "Of course they do. And they know Charlotte."

  "It's really none of our business, you know," Heshy said.

  "You're telling me."

  "And we really can't give you any advice."

  "I know that."

  "And we're seeing you only because we don't want to offend them."

  "I understand."

  "And we're not going to tell you what's right and what's wrong."

  "How can you?"

  "There is one thing," Pat interjected. She had been sitting quietly watching them, her face reflecting an uncommon troubled thought. They both turned toward her, feeling the pull of her emphasis.

  "I don't really like Jewish people," she said quietly. Heshy watched her, startled, and the younger man looked at him, his eyes dancing in confusion. "They're too paranoid, too intolerant, too proud," she paused thoughtfully, "too overbearing, too sensitive, too outspoken, too holier than thou..." She paused again. I don't believe this, Heshy thought. Is this my Pat talking?

  "I think they're too hung up on history, too masochistic, too emotional, too clannish."

  Danny stood up, his feet planted solidly on the floor, posing in an attitude of instant combat, pugnacious.

  "...too quick to jump to conclusions, too ingrown..." Her voice was calm. Danny looked at her, bug-eyed and confused. Heshy watched her, feeling the pull of old memories and his mother's warnings.

  "And I don't like the Irish for the same reasons. And the Germans and the Poles and the Hutus and the Tutus and the Arabs and the Japanese and the Wasps and all the rest who think a drop of strange blood is going to water down the genes."

  Danny and Heshy exchanged glances and smiled.

  "Pat," he said, "you scared the living hell out of me."

  "I meant to," she said. "And him too."

  "I get the point," Danny said. "But will my folks?"

  "Eventually," Pat said, "or else."

  He embraced her, shook hands with Heshy and left the apartment.

  Later, as they prepared for bed, Heshy wondered aloud.

  "You think he'll marry the girl?"

  She looked at him and kissed his cheek. "If he really loves her. Isn't that the test?"

  WHY CAN'T YOU BE LIKE THE SOLOMON BROTHERS?

  The Solomon brothers were the very model of familial devotion to anyone in Sunset Village who observed them. To watch them going about their daily chores, shopping at the supermarket, visiting the clubhouse, playing shuffleboard, or simply taking a walk, one could not help but admire their solicitousness to each other.

  Their neighbors, Lily and Bernie Morrisson, were constantly citing them to their two sons, who hated each other.

  "Why can't my children be like the Solomon brothers?" Lily would lament when they would come to visit--individually, of course. Their wives also hated each other, although they shared a mutual dislike for their husbands' parents, the Morrissons.

  It did not stop with the brothers and their wives, but passed down, like a genetic disease, to the grandchildren.

  "We're one big happy family," Lily would sigh, weary with the undercurrent of family intrigue that such a situation demanded. When their sons would pay their visits to their parents, they would always be under pressure, since they invariably had told their wives they were off on a golfing trip.

  It was all very confusing to the Morrissons.

  "If only you were like the Solomon brothers," Lily would tell them. It became a perpetual refrain, and she did not observe how much it offended her sons, who restrained their anger at the example.

  "Them again?" their son Harry would say, shaking his head. "My brother Sam hates me. He always hated me."

  "We're the Morrisson brothers," their son Sam would say. "There's a big difference. My brother is a putz."

  "Don't talk like that, Sam," Bernie Morrisson would interject. "Harry is a good boy. You just don't understand him."

  "He's a putz."

  "Brothers should love each other," Lily Morrisson would say, tears welling in her eyes. "If only you were like the Solomon brothers."

  Sometimes they would ignore her.

  "What did we do? Is it our fault?" Bernie would say after one or the other went back to New York. It had been their great dream for their sons to love each other, to stick together through thick and thin. It was their greatest disappointment in life.

  "How come you're so good to each other?" Lily would ask the Solomon brothers when she and Bernie were invited into their neat little apartment for dinner. Most of the time, they kept to themselves, but because they were immediate next-door neighbors, Lily and Bernie had become friendly, not intimate, but friendly.

  The Solomon brothers' apartment was beautifully decorated. Their living room was a medley of blues and greens, with chairs and couch covered with matching chintz. Original oil paintings reflecting the same color schemes hung on the walls. There also were a number of photographs scattered around the room showing the brothers, in various stages of their lives, smiling shyly into the camera.

  In the background, there was invariably some landmark indicating that they had traveled in a foreign land. They apparently had traveled extensively. Both were small men, compact figures, and their clothes were immaculate, the creases in their trousers perfectly sharp, their sport shirts in colors that were always compatible to each other. And the food they served was exceptionally tasty, usually French. They were excellent hosts.

  "It's always such a pleasure to watch you together," Lily Morrisson said one evening as they sat around the dinner table after a particularly delicious meal. Both brothers had assisted in the serving as if there were some special internal rhythm that made them compatible, like the workings of a finely tuned clock. They complemented each other. They responded to Mrs. Morrisson's remark by stealing a shy glance at each other.

  "Our sons hate each other; they haven't even talked in years. It's horrible." Lily said.

  "We can't understand it," Bernie said. "It's very unpleasant, especially now."

  "Why now?" Mark Solomon said. He appeared to be the older brother, although they were so close in age it was hard to tell. He was bald but had
let his hair grow long enough to fold it over his pate. The other brother, Isadore, had a full head of steel gray hair. He was never addressed as Izzy, always Isadore.

  "Next week is our fiftieth wedding anniversary," Lily said, "so we've asked both of our sons down with their families and their children."

  "How wonderful?" Mark said, clasping his hands and darting a glance at his brother.

  "Marvelous," Isadore responded.

  "It's going to be like an armed camp," Bernie said. "We insisted on it, though. And we booked a room at Primero's for a sit-down dinner. Believe it or not, Lily got them to agree to split the cost down the middle. I tell you, I'm not looking forward to it."

  "I'm the one that insisted," Lily said. "Why not? We're a family. Why shouldn't both our children and their families come to celebrate our fiftieth anniversary. What's so terrible?"

  "Even the children hate each other," Bernie sighed.

  "But why?" Mark asked.

  "Why?" Lily repeated. "Because why is a crooked letter."

  "Maybe it's our fault," Bernie said. "We had them one on top of each other. Lily was an only child. To her, there was nothing worse than being an only child...."

  "It was terrible," she interjected.

  "So we had them close together."

  "We thought they would be friends. We thought they would love each other. Anything was better than being an only child. From the beginning, we told them that they should love each other, stick together, help one another, be good to each other," Lily said, her eyes drifting from one Solomon brother to the other. "Like you two." The brothers blushed and lowered their eyes.

  "Maybe we should call the whole thing off," Bernie said, shaking his head. "Who needs the aggravation?" It had been a sore point of contention between him and his wife and he could see her lips purse in anger, although he knew she would hold her temper in front of the Solomon brothers.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "A fiftieth anniversary is a family event. How many people live long enough to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary?" She looked at the Solomon brothers. "How long were your parents married?"

  "Oh, they died early," Mark Solomon replied quickly. Isadore Solomon nodded.

  "See," Lily said. "I'll bet you would have loved to be at their fiftieth."

  "Oh, yes," Isadore said.

  "Who needs the aggravation?" Bernie repeated.

  "We won't be here forever," Lily said. "I'd feel terrible going to my grave knowing that they still hated each other."

  "She thinks that the party will bring them together, that they'll suddenly discover what it means to be a family," Bernie said glumly.

  "Why not?" Lily said, looking at Bernie with contempt, indicating the depth of their disagreement. "There comes a time when people must recognize that blood is thicker than water." She seemed on the verge of tears and Bernie tapped her arm, an obvious signal for them to leave. She stood up and hugged each Solomon brother in turn.

  "If only my sons were like you," she whispered.

  Making the arrangements for the fiftieth anniversary party was not without its problems, as little communication existed between the brothers, and their only point of contact was their parents.

  "What motel is Harry and Mildred staying at?" Sam asked his mother on the telephone.

  "I think the Holiday," Lily responded.

  "You're sure?"

  "Not absolutely. I think so."

  "Well, I'll make reservations at the Ramada, but if Harry and Mildred are there too, Gladys will have a fit."

  "So she'll have a fit."

  "It's easy for you to say. You don't have to live with her."

  "Thank God."

  "That was uncalled for, Ma."

  She paused a moment, gathering her thoughts, quieting her anger. It was the daughters-in-law that made matters worse between the brothers. It was those miserable bitches.

  "Fight when I'm gone," she whined. "Not when I'm alive."

  "Now you're starting that again."

  "Wait until your children act like this. You'll have your own punishment."

  "This is shit, Ma." Sam pleaded. "All I asked is what motel they'd be staying at."

  "It's going to be some wonderful fiftieth anniversary."

  "It wasn't my idea to have this party, Ma," Sam said.

  "A family should be together at their parents' fiftieth anniversary," she said, pounding her fist on the telephone table.

  "Take it easy, Ma. You'll get yourself sick."

  "Good," she sighed.

  When she hung up, she felt fatigued by the conversation.

  "Maybe we should call it off," said Bernie, who had been listening.

  She turned toward him, her eyes as cold as ice.

  "If you didn't give up so easily, maybe they wouldn't be like this now. You should have insisted that they be like brothers." Her knuckles rapped the top of the television set.

  "You're blaming me?"

  "Who else?"

  She tossed and turned all night and, in the morning, she called her son Harry collect at his insurance office. She had never done that before.

  "You all right, Ma?" Harry asked with a show of genuine concern.

  "Why shouldn't I be all right?"

  "You scared the hell out of me."

  "I had a question."

  "I'm listening, Ma. But I'm in the middle of a meeting. Eight people are watching me."

  "Will you be at the Holiday or the Ramada? I forgot."

  "That's what you called me about?"

  "Sam wanted to know."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "At the Holiday."

  "Where is he staying?"

  "At the Ramada."

  "Good."

  "I can't believe my own sons can act like this. I can't believe it. My daughters-in-law, I can believe. Two miserable bitches..."

  "Not now, Ma, please. Not now."

  "You both won't be happy until you eat my heart out. Two sons? Two schmucks."

  "Maybe we shouldn't have this at all," Harry snapped. "I'm sure Sam feels the same way. Who needs it?"

  "We're a family..." his mother began.

  "Don't start, Ma. Please. Not now."

  "Who do you think gets the heartache? Not you. Not Mildred. Not Sam. Not Gladys. Me. And your father."

  "I'm hanging up."

  "It's nothing but aggravation," she sighed, tears beginning. She blew her nose into a tissue.

  "Why can't you understand? Sam and I can't help it if we're related. We just can't stand each other."

  "I don't want to hear," Lily said, hanging up the phone.

  "Is it necessary to aggravate yourself?" Bernie asked.

  "I'm only a mother," Lily sighed.

  At her weekly canasta game in the card room of the Clubhouse, Lily endured the constant chatter about children and grandchildren. It was common knowledge that her sons couldn't stand each other. Lily's lament was well-known to her friends. Sometimes, she imagined, they took a special delight in tormenting her.

  "My Robert bought a house in Jamaica with my Sybil," Yetta Goldstein said, arranging her cards in her hand, not looking up. "One will use it for a month, and the other will use it for a month."

  "It's a big house?" another of the players asked mechanically.

  "Four bedrooms. And they have altogether five servants when they stay there. I have my choice of whether to go when Robert's family is there or when Sybil's family is there."

  Lily held her tongue. She is doing it purposely, she thought. Whenever she stayed with one of her sons, the tension made it impossible and she had to find some pretext to leave earlier than planned. But even those visits had ceased years ago.

  "We'll be gone soon enough," she invariably told her sons privately on those occasions, usually at the very last moment, when they carried her suitcases to the taxi.

  But despite all that had happened and was happening, she was determined to go through with the fiftieth anniversary party. It was a matter of pride, she suspected, and
she had already broadcast the impending event to her fellow canasta players and to the yentas who sat around the pool probing into the lives of their neighbors.

  "You're still having the golden?" Minnie Schein asked. Minnie's was always the voice of impending doom. She was always the first one to announce a death or a disaster. She had been asking about the fiftieth since Lily first made the announcement.

  "Absolutely," Lily said. "A fiftieth is a fiftieth. How many times does it happen?"

  "You think there'll be fireworks?"

  "Why should there be fireworks?" she mumbled, regretting her previous confidences.

  But despite her bravado, she was frightened. A soup-to-nuts meal had been arranged, complete with anniversary cake and fancy service. At first, she thought she might invite the canasta players. Two of them were widows and the other was married, but she was frightened that if there was a blowup, they would tell the whole world.

  "I've decided I'm going to invite the Solomon brothers," she announced to Bernie one night as they lay in bed watching television.

  "To where?"

  "Where else? The party."

  "You think that's smart?" Bernie asked. It had reached a stage where he rarely referred to the party because it always triggered aggravation, usually ending with an attack on him. Somehow, when Lily was angry, all their troubles were Bernie's fault.

  "I want them to see how brothers can be. Maybe they'll feel ashamed. Maybe a good example will make them realize the importance of being good and loving brothers."

  "Maybe?" Bernie wanted to protest, but he held off. The example of the Solomon brothers had been flaunted for years and it had done little good. He also knew that the party had become a fixation in Lily's mind, as a kind of last chance, perhaps, to set the stage for a family reconciliation.

  But when she invited the Solomon brothers the next morning, their hesitation was apparent. They looked at one another and she could see that they were uncomfortable.

  "But you said it's strictly family," Isadore Solomon pointed out. "We'll feel out of place."

  "Out of place?" she protested. "You're my neighbors, my dear neighbors. I want you to share our joy."

  "But it's so..." Mark Solomon groped for a word.

  "So personal," Isadore interjected.