Mourning Glory (11 page)

Grace counted three oil paintings, one in the den showing
Anne Goodwin as a young woman beside a horse, a smaller one in the dining room
showing Anne Goodwin as a younger woman, pensive and serene against a woodsy
background and one large vertical in the living room above the fireplace
depicting the departed Anne as a middle-aged woman of means, her demeanor regal
and elegant, dressed in a gorgeous blue gown, wearing a magnificent diamond necklace.
Grace was stunned by the beauty of the woman, even allowing for the painting's
embellishment.

Crowds clustered around the dining-room table, groaning
with food. A bartender dispensed drinks behind a dark-paneled bar. It seemed,
like the others she had attended, more like a cocktail party and buffet than an
after-the-cemetery repast.

By then, Grace had learned the difference between reformed,
conservative and orthodox Jewish rituals. She knew the custom of
shiva,
where the immediate relatives sat on low wooden benches and wore black crepe
pinned to their clothes while they received a steady stream of guests. Someone
had explained that the custom was ancient and symbolic, a mark of respect for
the departed and a sign of deep mourning for the irrevocable loss of a loved
one.

There were no wooden benches visible, but the principal
mourners did sit in the large living room receiving their guests. The
visitation was also part of the ritual. Grieving was intended as a gathering of
people to keep the mourners company, share their loss and comfort them.

Sam Goodwin sat on a straight-backed chair in the living
room, receiving the condolences of the company. He wore slippers, had removed
his jacket and taken off his tie. She watched him greet his guests, chat briefly,
thank them for their condolences and urge them to partake in the repast.

Grace hung back, not knowing what to say. She was too
nervous to eat. Between bouts of staring at Sam, she observed the house, its
richness of detail and the scale of its rooms. She roamed into the kitchen,
with its gleaming center island and its ultramodern appliances. She had never
been in a kitchen so beautiful.

She toured the bathrooms, each one different, wallpapered
with varied colonial scenes. Others, too, seemed to be touring the house as if
they were inspecting it prior to a purchase. She went up the back stairs to the
bedrooms, which, eerily, seemed the way she had pictured them in her fantasy,
especially the master bedroom with its canopied king-size bed and high mattress
which one apparently reached with a wooden step sitting beside the bed. The
bedroom was huge, taking up the entire rear of the house.

Across the room from the bed was a nest of photographs in
silver frames, depicting, what she assumed were past generations. There were
many pictures of Anne: Anne with two children, Anne in a tennis costume, Anne
and Sam in Venice, Anne with Pyramids in the background, Anne at the railing of
a ship ... Anne everywhere.

She was struck by the vast plethora of images of Anne
scattered throughout the house, as if it were a kind of shrine to the woman. It
filled her with envy to contemplate someone so worshipped and adored by her
husband. It also emphasized the daunting task ahead for any female who
attempted to fill the spousal void in Sam Goodwin's life. Grace knew she wasn't
equal to the challenge, but the idea did stir her competitive spirit. Why not?
Looking at the monumental task from her vantage at rock bottom, she could see
nowhere to go but up.

There was a telescope facing out to sea, and beyond the
picture windows was a terrace with a table over which stood a colorful
umbrella. There were two chairs, indicating that this was a place where they
had cocktails in the evening or morning coffee, just as she had pictured it.
The accuracy frightened her. Was this destiny playing with her subconscious?

Along one wall of the bedroom was a sliding closet with
floor-to-ceiling doors. Opening one door, she took a peek inside. It was more
than just a closet. One could walk into it. Racks of women's clothes, which she
recognized as products of famous designers, hung on two rows circling around
the carpeted space. Above them on a shelf were what looked like endless pairs
of shoes. She had never seen or even imagined a closet this big. It looked like
a dry-cleaning establishment.

Hearing footsteps approaching, she closed the door
instantly and passed into the upper hallway. Moving through other rooms that
opened off the corridor, obviously guest rooms, she noted that each room and
bath was individually designed. Wherever she looked oil paintings hung on the
walls and the furniture seemed genuine antiques.

Yes, she could be the chatelaine of this house. She had
even gone one step farther than her fantasy, choosing one of the rooms for Jackie
and hoping, foolishly, she would agree with her choice.

She started down the front stairs, which led to the main
hall, now crammed with people. Suddenly she spied the woman with the bun, the
clothes lady. Seeing her milling in the crowd, waiting for exactly the right
moment to spring, gave her the answer she had been looking for, her opening
gambit. Of course. Why hadn't she thought of it before? The lady with the bun
represented a goading challenge. She would beat her to the punch.

She moved quickly down the stairs and headed for the living
room, where Sam Goodwin was sitting. She stopped only briefly to take a glass
of champagne off a silver tray, which she swallowed in one gulp, then took
another. Girded for action, she inspected the arena. Men shook Sam Goodwin's
hand and women bent to kiss him on the cheek. His son and daughter sat on the
other side of the room, guests crowded about them in clusters.

From the corner of her eye she saw the woman with the gray
bun approaching. She felt the adrenaline rise in her body, sparked by her
intake of Dutch courage, urging her forward, filling her with determination and
a sense of mission. Opportunity was knocking loudly. This, she decided, was her
last shot at the good life for her and her daughter.

An older man and woman were just offering their
condolences. Behind them were another couple, and not far behind was the lady
with the bun. Then, suddenly, she was facing him, her eyes staring into his.
She noted that his were bright blue, still glistening with tears of loss and
grief. He looked up at her and smiled, took her hand and held it between both
of his. His touch was electric. Her knees shook.

"I haven't had the pleasure, Mr. Goodwin. I'm Grace
Sorentino. I was a friend of Anne's. She was wonderful. One of the truly great
ladies."

"Thank you so much," he said, his voice slightly
hoarse. "I'll miss her."

"We worked together ... on her various charities. The
homeless especially. We focused on that."

"That was her mission," Sam Goodwin said, still
holding her hand. "To help others."

"I don't know if this is the appropriate
moment..." Grace began. She felt her voice waver, cleared her throat, then
managed to speak again. He must have taken this action as the beginning of a
good cry, because he patted her hand in a comforting gesture.

"I know how you feel, Grace."
He remembered my
name,
she thought joyfully. "People loved Anne."

"She may have mentioned it, Mr. Goodwin."

"Please. Call me Sam."

"Sam."

"What had she mentioned?"

"The business of the clothes," Grace blurted.
"She said that she wanted to make a donation of her clothes to charity. It
was a kind of verbal promise. I don't know if she put it in writing,
but..."

"Of course, Grace," he said. "What use would
I have for them? The children will go through them and take what they want.
Frankly, Grace, I don't think I could bear to look at them again, ever. Yes, by
all means, keep her promise."

"I know how you feel ... Sam. But I assure you that
we'll take care of it with the least amount of pain to you..."

"I suppose time will take care of the memories."
Sam sighed, still holding Grace's hand. "We had great times
together."

"She was the best there was," Grace said.
"Wonderfully compassionate. Believe me, I'll see to it that her clothes go
to those who are the neediest, which is what she wanted."

"I know you will, Grace."

He finally released her hand.

"You're so sweet to come," he said.

She turned slightly and saw the woman with the bun,
patiently waiting her turn.

"Can I count on that as a commitment Sam? The
clothes?"

"You have my word on that, Grace," Sam said, his
eyes roving now to the couple moving toward him.

"Thank you so much, Sam. I'm sure Anne will be very
pleased. I'll ... I'll stop by in a few days."

"The sooner the better, Grace."

She moved away, then posted herself at a spot where she
could view his coming encounter with the lady with the bun. She noted that he
did not spend as much time with the couple behind her as he'd spent with her.
And he hadn't forgotten her name. He had called her Grace six or seven times,
which meant he was likely to remember her when she called. The sooner the
better, he had said. She decided she would wait two days.

She watched the lady with the bun begin her spiel and
wondered if he would be true to his commitment. Hearing her out, he smiled
benignly and shook her hand. Grace was too far away to hear what he was saying,
but she could tell from the woman's expression that she had not gotten her
usual positive answer.

Satisfied and elated, she roamed through the house again. A
new sense of proprietary interest seemed to have made subtle changes in her
attitude toward the house. It bothered her suddenly to see some of the guests
abusing the various possessions.

Someone had toppled a Waterford crystal glass, cracking it.
A group of Dresden figures on an antique table had been toppled, breaking the
arm of one. Someone had leaned against a framed Catlin print, moving it awry.
She quickly straightened it. In the dining room, cakes had fallen to the oak
floor, and people were stepping on it, making a mess. She noted a small
Oriental rug stained with red sauce.

Someone had used a beautiful china cup as an ashtray. It
occurred to her that she was taking too much of an interest in the house, as if
her wishes had transcended her fantasy. She decided finally that the damage was
not being done deliberately but because vast numbers of people were moving
through the house. She felt certain that Sam was indifferent to any violation
of his property. His loss, after all, had not been material. The crowd had
increased since she had arrived, and it seemed to be getting more and more
difficult to get to the buffet table.

Despite the solemnity of the occasion the din of
conversation rose naturally into a high-pitched crescendo. She threaded her way
through the crowd to the patio that led to the beachside pool. At the far end
of the pool was an ornate fountain, which directed its waters into a spill that
fed into the turquoise pool.

She surveyed the house from the rear, noting the details of
the stonework and how it complemented the dark timbers of the Tudor styling.
How could anyone want anything more than this? she thought. What an unfair
stroke of fate for Anne to have left all this behind. She sighed at the
absurdity of the thought, then moved back into the house, heading for the
living room and another look at Sam Goodwin. Perhaps they might make eye
contact. He might nod, mime her name from a distance.

She saw him sitting in the same chair as before, his legs
crossed, his head tilted upward to meet the gaze of the people still coming
forward to pay their condolences. She stared at him for a long time, willing
him to turn his eyes toward her.
Notice me,
she cried silently.
Notice
me.
Then, miraculously, he did. She sensed a moment of connection, as if
they were physically touching. Fate was doing its mysterious work, she told
herself, feeling a trill of joy jump up her spine.

"Grace," a voice said from behind her. It was
Mike McDermott, holding a plate piled high with food in one hand and a beer in
the other. "Thought we had lost you."

"Here I am," she answered lightly, almost gaily.

He bent over her and whispered in her ear. "Party like
this makes you kind of wish for more dead Jews."

She felt the anger rise from the depths of her, as if the
insulting remark was directed at her personally.

"You are a bigoted prick," she snapped, conscious
of the heat of her response.

"Hey, cool out," Mike said, blushing scarlet.
"I thought you were Italian. It's a joke."

"Not to me."

She felt an overwhelming sense of kinship with the occupant
of this house and, for the most part, his visitors. She turned away and looked
toward Sam again, wishing he had overheard the conversation. It would have
illustrated the extent of her commitment to him.

He was locked in conversation with an older man. Obviously,
he had missed the confrontation. Nevertheless, she sensed that she had made the
right impression on him, and in her reaction to Mike McDermott, she had passed
some test and put herself squarely in a new and once alien place.

Sam Goodwin sat on the chair of the bedroom terrace and
stared out to sea in the waning hours of the afternoon. Mostly he thought about
his life with Anne and he cried, sobbing quietly to himself. A week had passed
since Anne had died.

For the past three days, since his children had left to
resume their own lives, he had spent most of his days sitting in this chair,
rising only to change the direction of the umbrella to escape the burning rays
of the sun. Often, he had sat here with Anne, hearing her lilting voice in
conversation as they contemplated the white beach and the spangled ocean
beyond.

He hadn't shaved. He hadn't even gotten out of his
terry-cloth robe, now gamy with the odor of his dried perspiration. Normally,
at least when Anne was alive, he was fastidious about his personal hygiene,
showering twice on most days.

Carmen, the Salvadoran maid, brought up a tray at
mealtimes, but he barely touched the food, much to her dismay.

"You no eat?" she would admonish when she came to
reclaim the tray.

"I'm fine, Carmen," he told her, waving her away.
She shrugged and nodded, and he knew she was concerned, but he just couldn't
find the motivation to do anything beyond sitting on this chair on the terrace
and looking out to the glistening, infinite sea, as if awaiting Anne's return
from some mythical voyage.

In the first few days after Anne's funeral, he had kept
himself open to people, had answered his telephone calls and accepted the
condolences of relatives, friends and business associates. He had fielded all
attempts, especially by his children, Bruce and Carol, to seriously consider
his future and the consequences of Anne's death.

They thought they were so wise and caring, these children
of his. They had been demonstratively affectionate throughout the ordeal of the
funeral. During Anne's illness they had been concerned and attentive. They had
called often, Bruce from San Francisco, Carol from Manhattan, although never to
the point where they had interrupted their own lives to be at her side.

That could, of course, be his fault. He had always been
willing to accept blame for the conduct of his children. He had engaged nurses
around the clock and had not encouraged them to come, and Anne seemed to have
been content with talking to them at length on the telephone.

Now, beyond his depression and grief, he needed Anne to
help him sort out the future relationship with his children. He supposed he
loved them, but he was no longer as certain about that as he was before they
had become adults. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that, as they pursued
their own lives, they would provide little comfort for his present or his
future. Nor did he understand how that comfort could be defined. He supposed
that was the way of the world.

With Anne alive, he had not dwelt on the subject, as if it
were hers alone to contemplate. With Anne gone, he found himself ruminating
upon it more than he wished.

Bruce had gone to Harvard Law School, where he had
graduated near the top of his class. He had done, mostly at Anne's urging, an
obligatory stint as a storefront do-good attorney for the poor and powerless
and had been a public defender.

In those years, he was resentful and guilty about the
income from his trust fund and extremely critical of the way his father earned
his money. Sam's specialty was buying ailing businesses, cutting costs,
building them up and selling them off at a profit.

He and Bruce had had their share of arguments about the way
Sam conducted his business. Bruce was extremely critical of what he believed
was the ruthless way Sam behaved when he took over a business, accusing him of
ignoring the human equation, throwing people out of work, looking only at the
bottom line.

"It's the American way," Sam had argued. "By
preserving a business I serve the greater good. In the end more jobs are
created and people and communities prosper."

Sam had accepted the schism as the traditional rich
father/idealistic son confrontation. If he had had a rich father, he would have
acted in exactly that manner.

Bruce in those days had been adamant in his position. Of
course, he had no real experience of where Sam Goodwin had come from, a child
of the Depression, the son of a father sporadically unemployed, his spirit and
self-esteem broken by defeat and failure. Sam had been working since he was
twelve years old. He had graduated from Brooklyn College; setting off on a path
that he knew was a reaction to his father's experience.

He was certain that his drive to acquire wealth was a form
of vindication for his father's failure.

Yet, he had learned that such acquisition was not an end in
itself. Money, for its own sake, was simply money, a commodity to keep the wolf
far from the door.

But the real value of money, he had discovered, was its
ability to grease the skids to power, to the power of status, prestige and
social acceptance, to the power that inspired respect and admiration. Money
without power was superficial. His marriage to Anne, without his consciously
realizing it at the time, had provided the catalyst to achieve such power. Anne,
with her WASP background and breeding, knew instinctively how to realize that
potential. Without Anne, he felt that he had lost his rudder and was
floundering without direction. Without her, the power had lost its allure.

His son, Bruce, had married Harriet Stone, who now taught
psychology at Berkeley and was on her way to becoming a tenured full professor
there.

Harriet came from a family of intellectuals who, on
principle, looked down their noses on people with lots of money, like Sam,
although much of their conversation with him revolved around the price of real
estate and the stock market. Ironically, since Bruce married Harriet, his
lifestyle had become far more material. He had joined one of the most
prestigious and buttoned-down law firms in San Francisco and was fast becoming
one of that city's most ardent champions of liberal causes, the classic
limousine liberal.

Anne, who might also be characterized as such, approved of
her son's political leanings but could not abide his wife and her superior attitude.
Harriet believed that her own judgment about people was infallible, especially
about Sam and Anne. To Sam, his son's wife was the quintessential hypocrite, a
compassion groupie and money addict who resented and at the same time hungered
for the lifestyle that Sam's head start had provided for her and Bruce.

Sam shrugged off the resentment. His son had married this
woman and he was determined not to mar his son's happiness with contention.

"I think she's a shit," Anne had concluded.

"She's our shit," Sam told her.

Harriet had become pregnant about the time of the onset of
Anne's illness and was now into her seventh month. She attributed the
conception to the miracle of the subconscious, which was providing genetic
continuity, meaning that the child would be a replacement for Anne. Sam
tolerated her ridiculous remarks on the subject for Bruce's sake.

Bruce, now the officious, self-important corporate lawyer,
was not shy about his thoughts on the disposition of his parents' estate. In
fact, Sam detected that this might be their only future connection. Harriet,
too, seemed unduly interested in the subject.

"We have to protect the future generations, Dad,"
Bruce had told him more than once, with appropriate apologies, during the
funeral visitation, which had lasted four days. For his part, Sam avoided the
discussion, not entirely puzzled by his son's urgency. Sam always prided
himself on having a good nose for greed.

Carol, his daughter, who was three years younger than
Bruce, was less concerned with the finer points regarding the welfare of future
generations. She had been divorced twice and was now living with a man whom she
had characterized as a serious artist with a promising future. She had made
such judgments before. Invariably they were wrong.

"With the right backing, he can make it big,"
Carol insisted. He knew, of course, where the backing was supposed to come
from.

He had long ago given up on providing any sensible guidance
to Carol's life. She was a wild card, had always been a wild card and, as far
as her future was concerned, she would be a perpetual dependent. He was
resigned to the fact that she would be a conduit for his largesse, which
eventually would end up in the hands of the men she coveted.

He had also given up confronting her with this supposition.
Anne had coped with her by assuming she was evidence of her parents' romantic
side, an analysis that had elements of truth.

But Carol's concern these days was that her shrewd sibling
would somehow be able to inveigle more treasure out of her father than she did.
Her plaint was that she was really in need, while Bruce, with his and his
wife's income and prospects, had little need for more. Sam, of course, knew
that
more
was a black tunnel to infinity. Only a lucky few had ever
found the light at the end of it.

While Anne had rationalized their children's faults, Sam
had acknowledged his disappointment. He had concluded that parents loved their
children far more than children could ever love their parents. This was a form
of life's vengeance. Yet he knew he would always be there as a safety net for
his children, regardless of their attitude toward him. It didn't mean he had to
like them or trust them.

In fact, he was well aware of their wishes, which were for
him to divest himself of most of his estate in his lifetime and pass it on to
his children before it could be heavily taxed and dissipated by fortune hunters
and bad judgment. He girded himself for that pressure to accelerate.

On the third day after the funeral, Bruce began to prod him
about the disposition of Anne's personal property. Carol was present when the
subject was broached, which meant that they had already decided on a joint
strategy. They needn't have bothered to approach it so cautiously. He had
already made the decision to give them what they wanted, the division to be
decided between them.

"She's got a closet full of clothes," Sam said.
"Take what you want."

"I don't think the clothes would interest
Harriet," Bruce said. "Wouldn't fit with her lifestyle."

"I'll look through them, Dad. Chances are I wouldn't
take much." Besides, she was two or three sizes larger than her mother.

"Go through her drawers and the safe and take what you
want," Sam told them. He didn't want to think about it.

"We'll do that, Dad," Bruce said.

Sam knew what they were really after and said so. "I
guess you mean the jewelry?"

Anne had loved jewelry, almost as much as she loved
clothes, and there were many expensive pieces in the safe.

"For starters, yes," Bruce acknowledged.

"Only if it suits you to do it, Dad," Carol said,
exchanging glances with her brother.

The fact was that Anne and he had discussed it, and it was
her wish that it be passed on to the children. But he had not thought the
matter would come up so soon after her death.

"Good idea," Sam told them. "She wanted you
kids to have the pieces, said that they would make great heirlooms." He
suspected that such a fate was highly unlikely. Both Carol and Harriet were not
much interested in jewelry for its own sake.

He led them into the master bedroom and moved aside one of
the pictures to reveal the safe, which he opened. The jewelry pieces were in
velvet-covered sacks and boxes. They helped him carry them downstairs into the
dining room, where they were laid out on the table. A number of trips had to be
made. There was also a sheaf of papers covering the appraisals.

"Divide it between you," he told them. "Just
be fair with each other."

"Have you a calculator, Daddy?" Carol suggested.

"Don't you trust me?" Bruce asked.

Carol had looked at him and smiled.

"No, Bruce, I don't."

"Your share is only going to go down a rat hole,"
Bruce snapped. "You're only going to waste it on your new stud."

"What I do with my share is none of your
business."

"I think we should dispense with the sibling rivalry
here," Harriet had intoned. She had come into the room to participate in
the proceedings and monitor the sharing process.

"This is none of your business, Harriet," Carol
had snapped.

"Sorry, Carol. I'm afraid it is."

"Mother couldn't stand you, Harriet," Carol had
cried.

"That's beside the point," Harriet had replied
calmly. "I'm not suggesting a three-way split."

"Good," Carol had replied, "because Mother
wouldn't have wanted it that way."

Bruce began to read through the appraisal sheets, searching
for the jewelry it described. Separated and unwrapped, the glistening pieces
took up the entire length and breadth of the table. Every precious gem was
represented in a variety of configurations.

"Some of it is a little too gaudy for my taste,"
Harriet said, looking over the selection.

"I have no intention of wearing any," Carol had
pointed out.

"Then let's do it strictly by value."

"You think that's fair?" Carol had asked, looking
at her father.

"Keep me out of it, children," Sam had protested,
remembering with what care each piece had been selected by Anne. The bickering
was almost too painful for him to observe.

"How will we know what's fair?" Carol whined.

"Bruce is your brother, Carol," Harriet had
intoned angrily. "Why would he want to cheat you?"

"He wouldn't need a reason," Carol sneered.

"That was uncalled for," Bruce had replied.

Sam had been both offended and depressed by the
antagonistic byplay between them.

"Just work it out," he told them, leaving the
room before they could see his tears flow.