Mourning Glory (22 page)

As time went on, he felt certain that she had interpreted
his lack of sexual ardor as merely the inevitable result of familiarity and,
possibly, the aging process, a highly unlikely idea, unless she believed that
the sex drive diminished in men as they reached their thirties. Actually, he
hoped she thought so. The fact was that, because she showed no interest in sex,
she became less interesting as a sexual partner. He began to prefer secret
masturbation and took some solace in an enriched fantasy life.

Frequency dwindled considerably, then became abstinence. It
was as if that part of their lives together had been placed in cold storage in
a locked compartment. What it meant, too, was that their lines of communication
to each other were subject to a great deal of detouring. They avoided any
reference to that side of their natures and, as a consequence, he knew that his
relationship with Anne would be subject to much editing and evasion. Perhaps
she thought him impotent. What did it matter?

As a businessman, Sam had learned the value of pragmatism
and compromise. Always, he knew, something had to be left on the table for the
other person. No one was supposed to have it all. Under those conditions no
deal could be consummated. Perhaps it wasn't an ideal way to conduct a
marriage, but it became workable and did not inhibit their respect for each
other, their friendship or their general pursuit of happiness. They liked each
other and, as time went on, they grew used to having each other around. It was
comfortable. They had created a life together without rancor and with mutual
respect.

Where was it written that communication between married
couples, or between anyone, needed to be total? People, he supposed, were like
icebergs, with most of what was really inside them hidden. He gave her that
part of himself that she could accept without pain. Apparently, she gave him
that part of herself as well. Other couples, he had noted, had fared much
worse.

Anne had never, not once in their long marriage, confronted
him with any suspicions about his fidelity. He had concluded that it just
wasn't in her frame of reference, as if she thought the state of their sex life
was somehow normal.

Respecting that and not wishing to agitate her or interfere
with the tranquility of their relationship, he chose, after fathering two
children a slow retreat from the act until total sexual withdrawal in their
marriage, and his own resort to masturbation, had become a permanent part of
their married life.

Her reaction to this retreat was, at first, inexplicable,
leading him finally to conclude that she had neither insight nor knowledge of
the power of the male sex drive. She made no comment about it, nor did it
interfere with their outward show of affection and the other mostly positive
aspects of their marriage. They still kissed, hugged, held hands and
participated in all the obvious touching rituals of any devoted couple. Not
long after his discovery of her condition, he began to seek sexual
gratification elsewhere, choosing what to him seemed the least dangerous path,
mostly paying for the privilege.

These activities were confined to places he visited on business
or, when he was home, assignations in other towns like Fort Lauderdale or Miami. Eventually it became a way of life for him, and he accepted her lack of suspicion
as evidence that either she was equally uninterested in sex or she had accepted
the idea that he went elsewhere for his sexual gratification. He had never been
certain, nor did he ever raise the subject.

He followed a routine of complete caution and secrecy.
Never would he put Anne in a position that would embarrass her or cause her the
slightest twinge of pain. During all their life together, he had been
extraordinarily lucky. Not a single one of the dozens of women he had bedded
outside of the marriage bond had caused trouble.

Of course, he had taken extreme precautions. He did wonder
how she might have reacted to a discovery of his affairs, even one of the many,
but he always aborted the prospect in his imagination. It was too painful to
contemplate, both as to her disappointment in him and his own sense of
humiliation.

He would never, ever, compromise himself with someone in
their circle or in the geographical proximity. He had had women everywhere that
he traveled, wherever he had businesses. With some he had become infatuated,
always a sign of danger requiring immediate extraction. Money usually
accomplished his purpose. He had also made a point of making it clear that he
was married irrevocably, that there was no chance of anything but a transitory
relationship.

The fact was that the more his libido was repressed at
home, the more it exploded outside. He pursued whatever fantasy seized his
imagination and found no end of participants for every variation that might
satisfy his starving libido.

With the onset of the AIDS epidemic, he became more
cautious, more selective and, eventually, too frightened to be promiscuous. So
far he had been lucky about contracting a venereal disease. Now it was
different. Not only did he fear for his life, but, by then, his fear of
exposure, which meant discovery by Anne, had reached a level of morbidity that
bordered on paranoia. It wasn't guilt. He had never felt guilt. Necessity, he
assured himself, had given him permission to live this secret life. He wasn't
proud of it.

Despite this deviation, he devoted his life to building his
credibility and portraying himself to her as a person of the highest moral
standards, faithful to a fault, a dedicated and loving husband, helpmate and
father, a man of sterling principles. Indeed, he had often thought, he had
accomplished the impossible. He had compartmentalized his life, mind and body.

The onset of Anne's illness, a form of bone cancer, forced
him to temper his desires, although he once again took up his practice of
secret therapeutic masturbation. It was more occasional than it had been early
in his marriage.

Once or twice, as he sat beside Anne's bed, he had
contemplated the idea of confession, but he had decided finally that what he
had done, his secret life, had hardly touched her. Why contribute to her pain?
he decided.

It was a revelation to him that her death did not elicit
any feeling of regret for what he had done. His secret life had remained just
that, secret, and irrelevant to his marriage. He grieved sincerely for her loss
and missed her terribly. Despite the withholding and his lack of total honesty,
she had been, undeniably and irrevocably, the anchor of his life. Her death had
set him adrift.

Grace came out of the dressing room in Anne's beige dress
and stepped immediately into Anne's closet. When she came out she was wearing
high heels. She had also applied some makeup.

"You look lovely," Sam said.

"Do I?"

"May I watch you walk around a bit?" Sam asked.
"You know, like a model."

Grace laughed.

"Really, Sam. It's sort of embarrassing."

"Go on. Walk across the room."

She did as he asked, moving with a self-conscious swagger,
exaggerating her walk like a model.

"It gives me great pleasure to see you walk," Sam
said.

"I suppose I remind you of Anne."

"In a way."

"I hope it doesn't make you feel too sad," Grace
said.

"A little," he admitted. "But I do appreciate
this, Grace." He sighed. "Go on. Walk some more."

She walked across the room and back. He felt his erection
throb against his pants and crossed his legs to hide it from her. He noted that
her legs were not bare.

"I guess you found her panty hose," Sam said.

"It wouldn't have looked very well with bare
legs."

"I believe she had drawers full of underwear, lingerie
and panty hose."

"Yes, she did."

He felt an odd sense of elation rising along his spine.
Looking at his crotch, he saw the telltale signs of arousal. He moved in his
chair in such a way so that she would not see what was happening.

"Tell me, Grace, do you feel uncomfortable in that
dress?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course, honestly."

She put a hand on her hip in a kind of pose.

"Good. I feel good." She smiled, and they
exchanged glances. "Honestly."

"I'd like you to keep it, Grace. It becomes you."

"Sam, I told you before, I don't think it would be ...
well ... appropriate."

"Who will know?" He looked around the room.
"It's just between us."

"I couldn't."

He wanted to argue the point, but he feared that she might
misread his motives, although, at this stage, he wasn't quite sure what they
were. Above all, he didn't want to scare her away. In fact, what he really
wanted was for her to try on more of Anne's clothes.

"I'll tell you what, Grace," he said. It was a
sentence he used commonly in his business dealings. "Let's not rush this.
Look through the closet. There must be certain types of clothes, like jeans,
T-shirts, sneakers. Things that might look ordinary to the charity folks.
Easily disposed of things. Why not get rid of those first?" He was being
the dealmaker now, engaging his negotiating skills.

She grew thoughtful for a moment, studying him. He noted
her hesitancy and suspected that her decision might seem as if she was crossing
some kind of a line. It was not unlike the feeling he was having.

"It's certainly a practical idea," she admitted.
"But it doesn't mean I will accept any of her clothing."

"I wouldn't think of pressuring you about that ... although..."
He hesitated, still cautious about going too far, now that he had gained a
point.

"You won't think I'm being ridiculous, Grace?"

He knew what he wanted to say, but this time he grew
hesitant and, for a time, he was silent.

"You've been through a traumatic experience, losing
someone you cared about so much. How can I possibly think you could be
ridiculous?"

"The fact is, it gives me pleasure to see you, someone
alive, living and breathing, wearing her clothes."

"That doesn't sound ridiculous to me."

"Thank you, Grace. For your understanding. The truth
is, I do feel slightly foolish. Above all, I don't want you to feel you have to
do this."

She studied his face and smiled.

"Would you like me to continue?" she asked.

"Please."

She walked back and forth across the room, again with the
model's swagger, as if to underline her comment. Her walk seemed more
exaggerated than before, and he wondered if she knew what was going on inside
him.

He had no illusions about what was happening to him. It was
startling. He was turned on, his libido fully awakened.

He tried to keep his reaction hidden as she continued to
strut the length of the room. Thankfully, she hadn't seemed to notice. If she
had, she might think he was perverted in some way, or kinky, a dirty old man,
which might strike her as far worse than appearing ridiculous. He hadn't
expected this to happen and he was embarrassed.

"I appreciate this, Grace," he said, crossing his
legs to hide the evidence as she stopped her model's walk and approached him.

"I've got a confession to make, Sam. I'm enjoying
this."

Then she ducked into Anne's dressing room. He wondered what
she meant, what degree of pleasure she was indicating. Was it possible that she
was having a similar reaction?

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her face was flushed,
and when she removed Anne's dress she noted that the flush had spread all the
way to her chest. Removing Anne's panty hose, she noted the profusion of
moisture in the crotch. Letting the water run in the sink, she dropped the
panty hose in and let them soak.

She felt giggly, slightly high and sexually charged. She
was completely surprised by her own reaction, and she knew that the slightest
help from herself would bring her to a climax, but she repressed the urge. She
might get too carried away by the process, make noises that he would hear. She
had expected the world of the rich to be different, but not this different.

She certainly had not banked on events taking this turn. In
fact, she couldn't believe what had occurred. It was hardly in her lexicon of
possibilities. And it did further expand her knowledge about the sexuality of
older men. She had indeed seen the telltale signs of his arousal, despite his
attempt at hiding his condition. It certainly seemed at odds with his grieving,
and it confused her.

She slipped back into her slacks and T-shirt and wondered
if it was she who had turned him on or some imagined fantasy about Anne for
which she was a sort of substitute. Did he see her as herself, or as Anne? However
he saw her, he was obviously engaged in a sexual way by her presence in Anne's
clothes. Nevertheless, it did amaze her. But if that's what it took, she told
herself, then she would be a willing participant. If that was his turn-on, so
be it.

Grace was further confused about how to conduct herself
now. Would he attempt to seduce her? Not that she needed much prodding. Above
all, she didn't want to be perceived as an easy lay. On the other hand, she
didn't want to appear standoffish and unavailable or merely a sex object, a
role in which she had never seen herself. Actually, she had enjoyed modeling
Anne's clothes for Sam, wiggling her fanny as she walked across the room,
feeling his hot eyes watching her, getting a sexual charge out of it herself.

She had consented willingly. Had it been too willingly? She
still needed to maintain her dignity. Sam, at least outwardly, seemed a
dignified man. He had a distinguished presence and appeared kind and gentle, a
man of caring and feeling. With such an attitude, she was surprised that he had
accumulated a fortune. Captains of industry, entrepreneurs, bosses in general,
were supposed to be ruthless, unfeeling, concerned only with the bottom line.
Mrs. Burns was the embodiment of that attitude.
We are here, Grace, to move
merchandise,
she remembered her saying.

Admittedly, she had never confronted a man like Sam
Goodwin, a multimillionaire and a Jew, at such an intimate level. Nor had she
ever had much contact with men over sixty. For that matter, she had never tasted
Dom Perignon. The beige dress was a Geoffrey Beane, easily costing in the
thousands. She had never worn such an expensive dress in her life. This barrage
of "firsts" was heady stuff. She felt suddenly misplaced and
contrived. Yet it was not unpleasant. Yes, she told herself, she could get used
to this life.

She squeezed out the panty hose, hung it from a towel rack,
then came out of the dressing room. Sam was nowhere to be seen, a good thing,
since she was still flushed. She decided to concentrate on her original plan,
the disposal of Anne's clothes. She mustn't lose sight of that chore. It was
the umbilical cord of her relationship to Sam.

In keeping with his wishes to give away the so-called
ordinary clothes, jeans, T-shirts and sneakers, she stopped the mechanical rack
at that section of the closet reserved for them. She had never ceased to marvel
at the way Anne had organized her clothes. Of course, the ordinary clothes were
hardly ordinary—jeans by Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren and Tommy Hilfiger. T-shirts
were also expensive designer products. Sneakers as well.

She removed them from the rack and replaced the expensive
dresses, skirts and blouses that she had collected earlier. She was determined
to keep within the boundaries of the deal he had set. Considering how she had
lied her way into his presence, and continued to lie about her history and
background, especially that extraordinary bit about her ex-husband being a
homosexual, she did not want to compound the danger by showing him any sign of
acquisitiveness.

Nor would she be tempted to do what Jackie had done,
despite the fact that she was increasingly doubtful that the act would ever be
discovered. She was not Millicent Farmer, she insisted to herself, although the
commonality of their objectives was too similar for comfort.

She studied the bedroom, as if seeing it for the first
time, the Goodwins' king-sized canopied bed, the thick carpeting, the antique
mirrors and lovely oil paintings, the furniture, elegantly French provincial,
the wonderful appointments and expensive knickknacks. This, too, seemed to
reflect with amazing accuracy her earlier fantasies, although she had
definitely not pictured the photographs of Anne in various poses and ages
scattered around the room. Yet she felt no inhibition about speculating what
changes she would make if she, by some miracle, would become the next Mrs.
Goodwin.

While she admired Anne's taste, she knew she would have to
put her own stamp on things. Her experience in design was rudimentary. Having
never been exposed to such choices, she was not even sure what she liked in
terms of period or furnishings. Baltimore's Italian ghetto was eons away from
this. Naturally, she would have to hire the best decorators and designers.
Thinking about that brought her to a new level of anxiety. She had no idea what
she meant by her own stamp.

From her vantage everything in the area, including all of
Anne's clothes in the closet, as well as the undergarments, panty hose and
nightgowns that filled the cabinets in the dressing room, were excessive,
beyond the needs of any individual. She supposed that this was what wealth
meant: the ability to acquire more of everything, regardless of the waste.

Apparently Sam couldn't care less about what Anne had spent
on all this. It boggled her mind to think of the money he must have. Was such
generosity a manifestation of his love for her, his abject and unjudgmental
devotion? God, how wonderful it must have been for Anne to revel in such
worship.

She picked up an armful of jeans and started down the
stairs. Carmen came out of the kitchen to peer up at her and scowl, but she
said nothing and offered little help.
You'd be history if I ever ran this
house,
Grace said to herself, annoyed at the woman's obvious rudeness.

It took two trips to put the jeans and other sports
clothing in her car. In retrospect, she was satisfied that the day had gone
very well. Perhaps she had needed the respite, needed the time away to assess
the situation. Besides, destiny had intervened. His phoning her proved that.

When she came back into the house Carmen stood at the door,
looking belligerent, as if she were guarding the entrance.

"Would you get Mr. Goodwin, Carmen? I'd like to say
good-bye."

"I not know where he is," Carmen answered
grudgingly.

"Has he left?"

"I tole you. I not know."

She started to move through the ground-floor level of the
house.

"You can't do this," Carmen said, following her.
She heard Sam's voice in the distance and started to follow it.

"I tole you," Carmen cried, stepping in front of
her.

"Carmen, get the hell out of my way. I'm here at the
invitation of Mr. Goodwin and you have no right to be rude to me."

"You got big eyes, woman. I see." She pointed a
finger at her eyes to emphasize the point.

"Is that you, Grace?"

Sam came out of his den. He was wearing half-glasses, which
he slipped off when he saw her.

"I'm going, Sam," Grace said. "As you
suggested, jeans and sports stuff first. I'll drop them off today."

"Good," he said, hesitating. He looked toward the
hallway, where Carmen was still standing, watching them. Meeting his glance,
Grace noted, Carmen turned away indignantly and moved back to the kitchen.
Freed from her surveillance, he seemed to loosen up. Smiling, he looked into
her eyes, and she forced herself to meet his gaze.

"I hope you'll be here tomorrow," he said.

"There's still lots to do."

He nodded. She sensed a silent understanding between them.
Would there be more of Anne's clothes to model for him tomorrow?

"We could take a walk first, go for a swim. Up for
it?"

"I'll try, Sam. It was fun."

For the first time she was conscious of studying the
details of his face. He had Wedgwood blue eyes, full lips, his square chin was
slightly cleft. As a cosmetician, she knew faces. His face was well boned,
tightly fleshed for his age, although it was impossible to hide the aging skin
on his neck, around his Adam's apple.

At this distance she could see his teeth, which were even,
too even, and glistening white. Implants, she decided, which brought her gaze
back to his eyes, looking for the telltale signs of the surgeon's knife. In her
line of work she had seen enough plastic surgery to tell at a glance. He had
admitted that he'd had an eye job, but there were no signs of a face-lift. His
steel-gray hair was razor cut and colored naturally. He was obviously vain
about his appearance and had taken steps to hold back the disintegrating aging
process as best he could. As a younger man, he might have been characterized as
handsome, and age had made him distinguished in a very sexy way.

She knew his age. He did not look it, although she had no
real frame of reference or comparison. Sixty-four, he had told her. She
remembered the Beatles song about being sixty-four. In terms of chronology and
by comparison with her own age, he was certainly old, although there was a
proud aura about him of virility and strength.

Realizing that she was studying him too intently, she
averted her eyes. Did he sense the intensity of her scrutiny? She wondered what
was going through his mind. What did he see in her face? Did he see the
insecure Italian girl from Baltimore who, with her life at least half over, had
made a mess of it? Could he see through her deception?

Did he see what she saw in her mirror, the first tiny signs
of sag, the little wrinkling around her eyes and neck, the minute sprigs of
gray sprouting beneath the black?

Could she stand up to his scrutiny? Could he detect her
meager education, her limited experience, her lack of class and knowledge of
the so-called finer things? Carmen had immediately seen through the false
facade. Would he eventually? Of course he would.

Suddenly he touched her bare arm and smiled at her. His
skin on her flesh sent a shockwave through her. Recovering quickly, she
realized it was a gesture of camaraderie. He was merely accompanying her to the
door.

"I'm expecting you," he mock scolded. "Don't
let me down."

"I'll be here. I promise."

He moved toward her and kissed her on the cheek, a polite
little gesture. She felt the skin burn where his lips had touched. It was only
a courteous good-bye kiss, she assured herself, part of the ritual of his
class. She hoped he hadn't seen her turn her face, then check its motion. He
wasn't aiming for her lips. And here she was obligingly puckering to receive
his.

As she moved toward her car, she felt her knees wobble.
What was going on here? she wondered.

Driving toward the Palm Beach bridges, she realized
suddenly that she was carting home a backseat full of clothes, providing more
temptation for Jackie's budding entrepreneurial talents. Thinking of her act in
those terms seemed to take the sting out of it.

Perhaps she was being too hard on her daughter, Grace
thought. Jackie's survival skills were apparently better honed than hers. Where
had they come from? Where had Jackie learned to tempt fate and take wild risks?
And spite her by continuing to see that monster Darryl. The unpleasant image of
Jackie having unsafe sex crossed her mind. These traits must have come from
Jason, she concluded, the idiot risk-taker, he of the impossible dream. The
acorn did not fall far from the tree.

Looking back, she realized that she had foolishly bought
Jason's dreams, had followed him as a dutiful and faithful wife to the scene of
every failure. She had long ceased to analyze her actions. At first she had
blamed it on the blindness of love. To her youthful, inexperienced,
love-shrouded eye, beauty had counted for wisdom. When that veil was pierced,
not long after their marriage, beauty died and wisdom fled, leaving the ashes
of dead dreams.

When you are young, she had come to realize, it was fun to
dream, glorious to imagine the future and believe in the treasure that lay in
wait just down the road, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. For her the
rainbow had dissolved and the pot became the old saw about not having one to
pee in.

She speculated what life might have been if they had found
that illusive treasure. Would it have mattered? Would Jason have been, like Sam
Goodwin, the devoted, generous, loving and monogamous husband? Either way, rich
or poor, her marriage was doomed to failure. Beyond Jason's beauty was a
hallucinating fantasizer. When he felt optimistic about a deal he fed his
optimism by acquiring things he couldn't pay for, as if the wish would soon
become the reality. It never did and, always, the acquisitions either had to be
returned or they had to push on, pursued by process servers and lawyers.

Eventually it had become a way of life—the failed dream,
the wild flight and the inevitable pursuit, winding up, finally, in the dustbin
of West Palm Beach, well short of Nirvana.

She gave him more than a decade of her life, and the
accident of Jackie hastened the demise. It had, indeed, been an accident. She
had forgotten to put in her diaphragm. Actually, it had lain neglected and
unused in its case for months. The act of conception itself was more in the
nature of an obligation than consensual lovemaking. Her motive had been pity.
Another of his many deals had ended in failure, and she sensed that he might
need this to validate his manhood, or whatever it was inside him that needed
validation. As for Grace, Jackie's birth had motivated her, given her a
profound reason to separate herself further from her failed husband.