Never Too Late for Love

by Warren Adler

  But the only matter over which Jack and Barbara ever argued about was the in-laws. Both sides. They didn't argue about money. There were no personal jealousies between them. They agreed on all matters involving the children. There were no ego problems between them. Only the one issue.

  "I'd like my parents to come over Sunday," he might tell her.

  "Let them come. I'll be somewhere else."

  "What the hell did they ever do to you?"

  "Do we have to go through that again?"

  "Well, then your mother can go take a flying fuck for herself."

  "She doesn't care if you're here or not."

  "Good. Because I don't ever intend to be here when she's around."

  It was, of course, an idle threat. He had long ago stopped being around when his mother-in-law came to visit--which was most of the time.

  Sometimes the conditions of his life would get him down, especially the effect it had on his parents, who seemed to have drifted out of his life, reappearing only to emphasize his own lack of courage.

  "How come you don't call, Jack?" his mother would begin every telephone conversation. Then the tears would come, the accusations, all of which were correct.

  "I don't see my own grandchildren. I don't see my son. My daughter-in-law thinks I'm worse than Hitler...."

  "Enough already," he would say, his heart breaking, cursing his impotence. You can't make people love each other, he wanted to say. Even family. Especially family.

  "Who can I talk to, if not you, Jack?"

  "It's pure self-pity." It wasn't only that, he knew. He pitied her and he pitied himself.

  "You'll have yours someday!" she would say.

  "That again."

  "History repeats. Everybody gets their just rewards."

  "You're wishing it on me." He knew that was true, but she could not help herself.

  "What do you expect me to do?" he would say, when all attempts at placation failed. She had recovered by then and her logic had returned.

  "There is nothing you can do, Jack. Nothing."

  Time smoothed their acceptance. There was no cure for it. Their children grew up and had families of their own.

  It was his father-in-law's second heart attack, compounded by his growing arthritis condition that brought them to Sunset Village. A new crisis loomed when Barbara insisted that he take early retirement and they move down South with the Greensteins. He was in his late fifties then and had put in enough time for a pension, but he resisted on principle. It was the same as it had always been.

  "I owe it to them," Barbara said. "The doctor has urged them to go to Florida. Look, I'm their only daughter. They couldn't survive by themselves."

  "But I don't owe them anything." he protested. The vehemence of his protests had softened with the years. He had simply removed the Greensteins from his consciousness.

  Nevertheless, he was bored by his job, and the opportunity did exist for early retirement. The company was cutting back its personnel and allowing the older men to retire early. When the letter from the company making the offer arrived at his apartment, Barbara opened the letter and all the practical arguments collapsed.

  They bought two one-bedroom condominiums, side by side, and Barbara and her mother continued to live as they always lived, while Mr. Greenstein failed steadily.

  "Such a wonderful daughter," the yentas would whisper. "So devoted." He would hear them as he sat around the swimming pool sunning himself. At first, he spent lots of time alone, although occasionally he and Barbara would play canasta with another couple, the Epsteins, who lived in the condominium on the opposite side from their in-laws. That was on the days when Mrs. Greenstein was too tired to go to the clubhouse for the shows.

  He had, of course, declined to participate in anything that included Mrs. Greenstein and, when she came into their apartment, he would always find some excuse to leave.

  He never exchanged a single word with her, although he no longer revealed any open contempt. On her part, Mrs. Greenstein ignored him as well. He had, after all, never been a factor in her life. When she was not physically with her mother, Barbara was constantly on the phone with her. He had even shut that out of his mind and had long ceased picking up the telephone when it rang.

  Only once did he raise the question with any passion. The management people had arranged an eight-hour inexpensive bus tour to Disneyland, and he thought it might be nice if he and Barbara went.

  "It would be too much for mother," Barbara said.

  "I didn't invite her."

  "How can I leave her alone?"

  "For one lousy day?"

  "Go yourself then."

  He felt the old passion rise inside of him, the inner constriction, the feeling of entrapment. Most of the time he had it under control. People never change, his father-in-law told him many times. It was a bit of essential wisdom. Why had he endured it for so long? It was a question that he never answered, for he refused to dwell on it.

  He did go to Disneyland by himself, and he found that he was one of the few unattached males. It was the first time he realized how many widows were around. A Mrs. Ginzberg, who had been eyeing him as they lined up for the bus, sat next to him. She was a woman in her early sixties, well groomed, and with a typical nose for interrogation that seemed to characterize most of the people he met at Sunset Village. They wanted to know. So far he had been standoffish, perhaps shy, feeling his way around. By the time the bus was an hour out of Sunset Village, he had picked up the essential vibrations.

  "So you're married?" Mrs. Ginzberg had said. Her disappointment was, at first, obvious. A slight tremor in her cheek betrayed a sudden anxiety and he imagined she looked around to see if another seat was available. But all the seats were filled.

  Jack nodded. He was exhausted by the hour-long interrogation and was watching the flat Florida landscape move swiftly past through the large glass windows.

  "Your wife is sick?" Mrs. Ginzberg asked. He could feel the cunning in the questioning. So she is getting down to the cream cheese now, he thought.

  "In a way," he said, knowing he had put a touch of venom into the bite. Why not, he thought, looking at the woman.

  "A terrible thing to go through," Mrs. Ginzberg said, the implication clear. "My Willy was sick for two years. It was terrible. Day and night."

  "I know," he said.

  "For better or for worse," she intoned.

  "Mostly worse," he said.

  "It must be terrible for a man," she whispered, moving closer to him.

  He felt her breath on his cheek and a brief movement of her leg against his.

  "Good it's not," he said. She turned her full face toward him now and beamed.

  "Well, at least today we'll have a good time."

  They did, following the group leader around and standing in line for the rides just like the little kids. On one ride, they actually held hands. When he returned, he was tired. Inexplicably, he had agreed to meet Mrs. Ginzberg the next evening. Just a friendly little talk, she told him, especially since, as he had informed her, his wife was an invalid.

  "We'll have tea at my place," Mrs. Ginzberg said.

  "Why not?" he replied. What else did he have to do?

  Barbara was already asleep when he got home and crept in beside her, sighed, and slipped quickly into a deep sleep himself.

  "You had a good time?" Barbara asked at breakfast. She normally spent most of her time in the kitchen with a telephone glued to her ear talking to her mother. Jack had long ago stopped listening to their conversations. Occasionally, she would turn to him and ask a question, as if it signified some human contact with him. But she rarely interrupted the non-stop conversation to accept an answer.

  Because she spent most of the day in her mother's apartment, he normally did not see her again until dinner. He had taken to spending most of his time around the pool when the weather was good. He did again that day, although he thought about his impending evening with Mrs. Ginzberg. A nice little talk, a li
ttle tea, he thought, perfectly harmless.

  "You going to watch television tonight?" Barbara asked at dinner. It was a meaningless question. He knew she didn't care as she spent each evening with her mother.

  "I'm going to play Bingo." The idea had come to him as he passed the clubhouse on the way to the pool. They had a nightly bingo game in one of the smaller rooms in the club.

  "Bingo?"

  "They have this nightly game. It looks like it might be fun."

  "Good," she said. "I think Mama is getting too old to go out at night anyway."

  "So you come with me?" he asked. It would be his last effort, her last chance.

  "And leave Mama alone?"

  He nodded and quickly left. Mrs. Ginzberg was waiting for him at her condo. "You came?" she said, opening the door. She was dressed in a hostess gown. She had applied her makeup carefully and put on a generous dose of perfume. She had a comfortable apartment, filled with pictures of her family, husband, children, grandchildren. All the faces seemed to be smiling back into the room, providing a kind of sunny glow to the small apartment.

  "It looks like you had a happy marriage," he said, viewing the pictures, as she proudly pointed out the various people in the photographs and informed him of their relationships.

  "It was fine," she said, but he detected a brief hesitation and pressed ahead.

  "Was it all worth it?" he asked. She looked at him, patted his hand, then her arm swept the pictures in the room.

  "Worth it? Who knows? Nevertheless, this is my life," she said. He wondered what she meant, but he looked at her with curious interest. She was a well-kept woman with a small figure. Age had thinned her legs and painted her face with deep wrinkles, especially around the eyes.

  "My wife isn't really sick," he said suddenly, feeling the pointlessness of continuing the lie. It is lonely to lie, he decided. Who knew that better than him?

  "She's a card player?"

  "No. A daughter."

  Mrs. Ginzberg looked at him, puzzled, then her face brightened.

  "One of those?"

  "One of those," he nodded.

  They sat around and talked for hours. Then she made him tea and they ate cakes that she had baked. At eleven, he left.

  "How was the Bingo?" his wife mumbled as he crept into bed.

  "I like it. I really like it."

  "Thank God. There's something you like," she said sleepily.

  With the exception of the one-week period of mourning they spent after Mr. Greenstein died, Jack spent most of his nights at Mrs. Ginzberg's. The ritual mourning was a torturous time for him, sitting around with Mrs. Greenstein and his wife, while the old lady recounted the glories of nearly sixty years of marriage with Mr. Greenstein.

  "He was wonderful. The best husband in the world." Mrs. Greenstein tearfully told all visitors, embellishing his father-in-law's traits as the week went on. Jack had pitied the poor man. He never had a chance. He had died on the day he got married and knew it. People never change, was his refrain. He had barely lived the life of a worm.

  Once, he had dreaded his father-in-law's death, knowing that the aftermath would be a nightmare for him. On the night after he died, Barbara came into the apartment, put on her nightgown and bathrobe and took her toothbrush from the rack in the bathroom.

  "I'm going to sleep in Mama's place," she announced. He had, of course, wanted to protest, but decided against it, surprised that it wasn't hurting as much as he had expected.

  "She's very lonely and upset," Barbara said, lingering in the center of the room, as if the act needed explanation, perhaps surprised that he did not protest.

  He slept alone that night for the first time in years, discovering that sharing the bed had nothing at all to do with feelings. It was merely an existence. But he bravely spent the week of mourning sitting with them in his mother-in-law's apartment, telling himself that it was out of respect for his father-in-law.

  Actually, it was sympathy. The poor fellow would be forgotten as soon as his clothes were cleared out. And Jack's own children, who had come down for the funeral, were barely remembering who he was by the time the mourning was over. He suspected that that would be the way it was going to be for him as well.

  "He was always such a quiet guy," one of Jack's sons said. "I don't think I ever said two words to him."

  "Nobody did," another son said. "I hardly knew he existed."

  They were nice kids, he decided, even if they didn't know their grandfather. What did they really know of their own father? He had literally run away from the house during their growing up. Even his wife berated him for that.

  "You were never home," she said.

  Home? Where was that, he wondered?

  When the mourning period was over, he went back to his Bingo.

  "He likes Bingo?" he heard his mother-in-law whisper to his wife.

  "Thank God."

  "It'll keep him busy."

  He was able to snicker at their remarks by then and would arrive at Mrs. Ginzberg's house precisely at the time the Bingo game started, leaving when it was supposed to be over.

  He felt comfortable with Mrs. Ginzberg. He liked her. Sometimes they played rummy. Sometimes they talked. But when she seemed to indicate a physical advance, he drew away. It had been a long time since he had any sexual relationship with Barbara. Desire had simply disappeared. Not that Barbara had missed it. Indeed, he imagined that she was thankful that she no longer had to endure him.

  Now that Mr. Greenstein was gone, no meal in their apartment was ever served without Mrs. Greenstein's presence. She was at breakfast, at lunch, at dinner, and Barbara spent every waking minute with her. He said nothing, looked away when Mrs. Greenstein looked at him, ignoring her completely.

  Barbara, of course, noticed everything in connection with her mother. And because there was no longer any pretense, she apparently felt secure enough to broach the subject.

  "One kind word," she berated him. "Why can't you give her one kind word? After everything she did for us, after all her goodness?"

  He decided not to answer any questions put to him on that subject. He had been reading the paper and now lifted it higher to block any view of her.

  "You've got no heart, Jack." she cried. "No heart at all. The woman lost her husband. I'm the only thing she has in her whole life."

  "Good for you," he mumbled. But her ears were sharp. She pushed the paper aside and stared at him, fuming.

  "You're an ungrateful bastard," she said. He picked up the paper, smoothed it and began to read again.

  "Bingo. That's all you know. Bingo." Barbara cried.

  She slept in her mother's apartment a few times a week on a regular basis. He did not question it, but because there was only one double bed in Mrs. Greenstein's apartment, he could envision them, mother and daughter, locked in some maternal embrace. It seemed obscene.

  "Do you think I'm normal?" he asked Mrs. Ginzberg one night. He called her Edith, her first name, by then.

  "Normal?"

  "I hate my mother-in-law," he said. "I mean I really hate her."

  "So what's so abnormal?" She had a fine sense of humor.

  "And because of her, I think I hate my wife and, maybe, because they both smothered them early in their lives, I may also hate my children." He shrugged. "No. I don't hate my children."

  "I hated my mother-in-law," Edith announced. "But later I realized that it was because I was jealous of her, that she had more influence over Charley."

  "Did she?"

  "Yes."

  "But that's wrong."

  "What could I have done?" She looked at Jack. "What could you have?"

  "I don't know."

  "You could have left her."

  "I did. In my soul, I left her. In my heart, I left her."

  "But you're still with her, at least physically," Edith said. He knew what she meant.

  "I'm getting older," he said. "I'm in the sixties." She had moved close to him and he let her kiss his lips and stroke his
neck. He felt some vague stirrings, something he had not felt in years.

  "We could try," she said.

  "It doesn't hurt to try," he agreed. They kept the lights off in the bedroom and got into bed together. They hugged each other and she kissed him very hard and caressed him where he had not been caressed in recent memory.

  "See," Edith said when they had made love successfully. "A good woman does a good job."

  Later they lay in bed and talked and she told him that this was the first time she had been with a man in fifteen years.

  "Did I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl?" she asked herself playfully. "A little bit, maybe."

  "I know that I felt like a sixteen-year-old boy."

  Occasionally, when Barbara would sleep at her mother's, Jack would slip off and sleep with Edith Ginzberg, but the tension of possible discovery made him restless and he decided it would be better to keep things going the Bingo way.

  Once or twice a week, they would spend the entire Bingo time in bed together. Other times, they would talk, play cards, be with each other. It became a regular routine, and Barbara rarely questioned him.

  She spent evenings with her mother, who was declining swiftly and needed much personal care. He ignored it entirely, even when his wife would justify her actions vocally.

  "It's the least I can do. After what she did for us. I'm willing to sacrifice. I really am." It was a regular soliloquy, but it took on a new dimension as Mrs. Greenstein began to fail. She was reaching ninety.

  "At least you have your Bingo." There was a note of self-pity in her tone, but he ignored her. The one thing he would never let her take away from him was his Bingo.

  "Could you imagine her reaching ninety," Jack told Edith on the day after his mother-in-law's birthday. She was in a wheelchair and Barbara had ordered a birthday cake and had helped her mother blow out all the candles.

  "You'll kill my mother," Jack said. "That's what I heard two weeks after my marriage. You'll aggravate her to death. Now she's ninety and I wish I had." Edith put a finger over his lips.