Mourning Glory (4 page)

Grace was confused, not only by Mrs. Burns's advice, but by
her own weird interest in it. She found herself actually contemplating the idea
in the light of her own situation, her own dismal reality. How could she, a
nobody from the lower classes, an obvious loser, come in contact with such
people. Multimillionaires. Jews. They weren't exactly in her circle. It struck
her finally that Mrs. Burns was teasing her, getting her jollies by putting a
sinister spin on the act of termination.

"Am I really being fired?" Grace asked suddenly,
not without optimism.

"Afraid so."

"Then this is a very strange exit interview, Mrs.
Burns," Grace said. "I don't appreciate it at all. I feel as if I'm
some object of ridicule and I'm pretty pissed off. Is it in lieu of
severance?"

"Not in lieu of, Grace. Although the advice I offer is
more precious than coin." She took a paper from a pile on her desk and
slid it across to Grace.

"What is that?"

"It is a release form. Sign it and you will receive
two months' severance pay based on your year's best salary. In this
case..." She glanced at the paper. "Two thousand two hundred a month.
Comes to four thousand four hundred dollars. Very generous, I must say."

"Blood money," Grace said. "To protect you
from litigation."

"Your choice, dear," Mrs. Burns said. "We
have lawyers on retainer."

"Do I also lose my employee discount?" Grace
asked, thinking of her promise to Jackie.

"When you are no longer an employee, you no longer
have an employee discount."

Furious, Grace scribbled her name on the paper, and Mrs.
Burns opened a drawer and handed her a check already cut for the amount
mentioned. Grace studied the check for a moment, as if to illustrate her
distrust, then stood up.

"It's an unfair world, Grace," Mrs. Burns said.
"Nevertheless, if Mrs. Milton-Dennison should take her business elsewhere
or die, believe me I can make a firm commitment at this moment to give you back
your job."

"You are one cold-blooded bitch, Mrs. Burns,"
Grace said. They exchanged glances, and after a moment of staring each other
down, Mrs. Burns nodded.

"I pride myself on that perception," she said.

Grace turned and started toward the door, stopping suddenly
when she heard her name called. She turned again and faced the woman behind the
desk.

"In the enterprise I suggest, Grace, there is one more
caveat. It is fundamental."

Grace looked at the woman, a commanding presence behind her
desk. Mrs. Burns lifted her left hand. At first Grace wondered if she was
giving her the traditional gesture of contempt.

"Ring around your finger," Mrs. Burns said
cheerily. She directed Grace's attention to the glittering diamond marriage
band on the finger of her left hand. "This is essential. And beware the
prenup, the deal before you get it."

"You make it sound like a sales agreement."

"Now you're getting to the heart of the deal.
Especially if he's got kids. They'll guilt him into a tough prenup. Fight it.
My advice ... get him while he's hottest."

"Is this stuff relevant to me? Really, Mrs. Burns.
Never."

"Never say never."

Speechless, Grace turned to the door with a heavy heart.

"Last word of wisdom, Grace," Mrs. Burns said.
"Never move in before..."

"Before what?"

She lifted her left hand again.

"This," Mrs. Burns said. "Ring around your
finger."

"Screw you," Grace muttered.

This woman is off the wall
,
she thought, slamming the door after her.

Her daily routine disturbed by these incredible
experiences, Grace felt disoriented and rootless. She had no idea how she was
going to spend the rest of the day, no less the rest of her life. She headed
back to her apartment for no apparent reason except that that was the only
destination that offered a haven.

She lived in Palm Tropics, a small garden apartment
community a few blocks south of the Tamiami Trail built sometime during the
bucolic fifties. She shared a one-bedroom apartment with Jackie, who slept on a
studio couch in the living room.

It wasn't exactly what she preferred as the perfect living
environment for raising a teenage daughter, but she lived with the sense,
despite her daughter's daily harangues, that all this hardship was merely a
passing phase. Unfortunately, after five years of living in this place, the
hope of imminent escape had become a cruel illusion. Jackie was exactly right:
The place was a dump.

The management company prided itself on its maintenance
performance, the result being that the plumbing and kitchen fixtures were very
workable and, as a consequence, very unmodern, and the vomit-green-painted
stucco made the building rows look like World War I army barracks.

Grace referred to the project as "shabby
genteel," which took the sting out of the inescapable fact that this was a
place for the downwardly mobile, of which she was a fellow traveler. Especially
now. Still, she refused to allow herself to brood, fearful that overanalyzing
her present condition would lead to depression in all its many facets.

Call it lousy luck, she told herself, which sounded a lot
better than a squandered life. Besides, thirty-eight was still young in this
land of the blue hair, Social Security checks and Medicare. Maybe it was time
to go back to Baltimore. It was a thought that called her to attention. She
hated Baltimore and the rigid little lives her father and mother had lived.
Besides, there was nothing in Baltimore for her now or ever again. The image of
her father, Carmine the barber, still living there as a widower in the rooms
above the shop, completed the circle of dread. Baltimore was dead. She had
escaped along with many of her childhood friends. Escaped to where?

She brushed off her long-term problem and concentrated on
her immediate dilemma, which was to fill up that time normally devoted to her
job. She ticked off possibilities. There was always a movie, but they didn't
open until later. Or the beach, but that meant exposure to the enemy, the sun.

An errant fantasy of hitting South Beach in Miami and picking up a young hard body surfaced, but briefly. The risk of humiliation or
worse, rejection, would be too much to bear. There were bars, some probably
just opening, but the prospect of both lonely drinking and the possibility of
small talk and flirtatious innuendo made her nauseous. There was always the
comfort of food, but events had demolished her appetite, and she had no desire
to threaten one of her last remaining assets, her figure.

She pulled into her parking space and sat for a moment in
the car, unable to gather the energy to emerge. On a weekday, with most of the
residents off to work, the area seemed desolate. Most of the cars were gone.
She noted a motorcycle parked nearby that she had never seen before. At least
on Sundays, she had the sense that she was not alone, that others shared her
fate.

Fighting off a wave of self-pity, she got out of the car
and let herself into her apartment. But she had barely shut the door behind her
when she heard odd sounds emanating from her bedroom. Frightened, she held
herself still, feeling the pounding of her heart against her rib cage.

But fear quickly turned to shock and anger as she observed
what was happening. Jackie was strenuously engaged in a pretzel-like sexual
escapade with a young hard body with a shiny shaved head. Their clothes were
strewn about the room, testifying to their abandon.

They were so focused on their activity that they did not
respond to her presence, and since she was too stunned to announce herself she
was forced to witness more of this sexual theater than she might have wished.

"Oh, no!"

It was Jackie herself who sounded the alarm and began a
panicky extrication of the young man's firm embrace. The sight of a glistening
naked male penis emerging from the sex of her daughter finally broke the spell
of paralysis, and Grace sprung into action.

She grabbed the young man by his ear and pulled him
screeching from the bed as Jackie escaped into the bathroom. In an effort to
free himself, the young man punched her in the stomach, blasting the air out of
her. She doubled up in pain and fell to her knees.

"You were killin' me, lady," he cried. "Bet
you're her mama, right?"

Grace nodded, unable to find her voice. She looked up at
him, suffering the indignity of watching him pull on his pants.

"Hell, we was only balling."

Grace's breath came back finally, but she could only shake
her head in despair. On her knees, barely able to accept the reality of what
she had witnessed, she felt a profound loss of dignity, a sense of acute
degradation.

"Where's the harm in that?" the young man
continued, tightening his belt. She noted that his large silver belt buckle
sported a raised black swastika. Only when he turned slightly did she see the
leather sheath that hung on the belt. In it she could see the handle of a
knife, also emblazoned with a swastika. He must have seen her look of fear.
Apparently to enjoy it further, he pulled the monster out of its sheath,
brandishing it, making circles in the air.

She was too angry for tears, and the image of the young man
who stood above her playing with this terrible weapon only increased her
desolation. He was scruffy, unkempt, with recently shaved head scarred with
razor nicks. His body was tightly muscled and slender, and he observed her
through small, intense, angry eyes, half hidden behind high cheekbones. He was
hardly from the world Jackie claimed to aspire to enter. Smiling crookedly, he
grabbed his crotch, a conspicuous bundle in his tight jeans.

"Got some left, Mama. Want some?"

"Get the hell out of here," she cried to the
young man, staggering to her feet, finally finding her strength. As she watched
him, she noted an odd tattoo crawling across a muscled arm, a dagger, not
unlike the one that hung from his belt, complete with swastika and encircled by
a coiled snake and the words death before dishonor. The illustration seemed
even more intimidating than the real thing, and she felt a shiver of fear
ratchet up her spine.

She watched him slide into a torn T-shirt, over which he
put on a black leather jacket festooned with metal rings on which hung silver
swastikas. He clumped around in high-heeled white lizard-skin cowboy boots.

"I could send you right to heaven, Mama. Just like
Jackie. Man, you got the hottest little lady in South Florida."

"Get out of here, you pig," Grace shouted
shakily, trying to stare down the arrogant expression of disdain on the young
man's face. Dressed now, his lips formed in a cocky smile.

"Pig you say," the young man said, turning to the
closed bathroom door. "Hey, Jackie, your mama thinks I'm a pig." He
turned again to Grace. "Hell, you got that right. I been porkin' your
daughter." He let out a high-pitched laugh.

"Just leave, please," Grace snapped.

The young man shrugged, then opened his hands palm upward.

"Not like I raped her. Other way around, Mama. Little
girl of yours goes for the meat." He cupped his crotch again.

"You know how old she is?" Grace sneered.

"I don't ask for no birth certificates."

"She's sixteen," Grace blurted, shocked by his
sudden hateful references.

"Nothin' tighter than that, Mama."

"You could be in big trouble," Grace said.

The young man moved closer to Grace. His nose was almost
touching hers.

"Come on, Mama," the young man said. "Cool
out. You wouldn't want to make no trouble, would you, Mama? Not for your hot
little baby there." He tucked her under the chin.

"No," Grace conceded. "I don't need more
trouble."

"Smart Mama."

The young man winked.

"Maybe if you're a good little Mama, I give you a ride
on my hog. Got a bitch pad with a golf ball. Wrap your legs around that, Mama,
and you'll know what high is."

The young man turned and walked to the window, opening the
blinds.

"See that beauty, Mama?" He pointed to a black
Harley-Davidson motorcycle, glistening brightly in the sun. His eyes, she
noted, were glazed with pride and admiration, as if it were a religious icon.
He moved closer to Grace again and whispered, "Ain't that somethin', Mama?
Better than pussy. Rigid frame Evo with a kicker, look at them pulled back
buckhorns, two hot cylinders, thirteen-forty CC. Go for a put on that hog,
Mama, you gonna be in heaven." He laughed his high-pitched laugh again,
then knocked three times on the bathroom door. From inside came the sound of a
shower.

"See you, baby. Me and your mama's been makin' it up.
I promised her a ride on my Evo," he shouted.

He looked toward Grace, who was only partially confused by
his biker's talk, which had evolved for his generation. Jason had had a bike
when they were going together. He winked again, cupped his crotch, then made a
good-bye gesture with two fingers.

"You didn't use a condom," Grace said, suddenly
frightened by what she had observed.

"Looked like nice, clean meat to me," the young
man said, punching Grace lightly on the arm. Shaking his head, he swaggered out
of the front door. Moments later, she heard him gun the motorcycle and roar
away.

Grace sat down at the table and tried to calm down. The
young man was positively awful. She shivered with fright. Her hands shook. The
sense of her parenting failure was overwhelming. She wished she could cry, but
she couldn't. After awhile, the bathroom door opened and Jackie, wearing a
robe, a towel wrapped around her head and looking remarkably fresh and
unruffled, came out. There was not a sign of contrition on her face.

"You weren't supposed to be home," Jackie said.

Grace looked up. Jackie without makeup was radiant, a
vision of the unspoiled, virginal, hardly the image of the wanton sexpot she
had just seen squirming on her bed.

"I can't believe this, Jackie," Grace said,
shaking her head.

"Mom. It happened, okay? Maybe if I had a car..."

"Good God!"

"Darryl's been taking me to school on his hog for the
past month. So I cut Phys Ed this morning. He was going to take me back for
afternoon classes. What's the big deal?"

"The boy's a horror. Did you see that knife he
carries, and those swastikas? He's what they call a skinhead." She was
choking with anger. It was bad enough to have witnessed her daughter's sexual
escapade with this man, not to have it compounded by what she perceived as the
dark ugliness of his character.

"So what? He knows what he's doing."

"You're jailbait, Jackie. Do you understand what I'm
saying?"

"Perfectly. And I had better not hear it again."

Grace could see that she had gone too far. But the implied
threat was ominous.

"This is not the way you've been brought up,
Jackie."

"Stop that crap, Mom. I don't think we want to talk
about the way I was brought up. Hell, I'm the daughter of two losers."

"And you seem to be heading in that direction
yourself," Grace said, fighting to remain calm.

"Monkey sees, monkey does," Jackie muttered.

"He seems ... subhuman." Grace sucked in a deep
breath. Her frustration was acute as she searched her mind for ways to admonish
her daughter that wouldn't make things worse than they already were. "You
keep talking about your champagne tastes. It's sickening, trading your body for
a lousy ride to school. And with that ... that Nazi."

"All right, Mother, you've made your point,"
Jackie sneered, pouting with typical adolescent indignation. "At least he
has the courage of his convictions. He's making a statement."

"A statement? It's a curse. The Nazis were worse than
devils," Grace cried.

"Come on, Mom. Cool out," Jackie said, resorting
to her usual ploy when the argument between them grew too heated. "Don't
be so old-fashioned. I think he's cute is all. It's all for effect. And riding
his hog is a lot better than the school bus. Besides, I get a lot of respect
from the kids...."

"Respect!"

"Have you forgotten what it is to be young?"

Always that, Grace thought. Emphasizing the generational
disparity, throwing it up to her as the root of their misunderstanding.

"I haven't forgotten what it means to be a parent,
Jackie. You're sixteen. That's still a kid in my book. And legally you're still
under my jurisdiction."

"Again, legally! Jesus, Mom. What are you gonna do,
hire a lawyer?"

"Well, it's obvious we need some kind of help here.
Maybe a counselor. Really, Jackie, things are getting out of hand. You're my
only child. I love you and I hate what you're doing to yourself."

"You sure are making a big deal out of nothing,
Mom."

Jackie shrugged, but Grace could see that her burst of
rebelliousness had softened.

"Please, Mom. I love you. I really do. Don't force me
to say things that are hurtful."

"Hurtful? What I just witnessed was hurtful."

"Mom. I haven't been a virgin since I was thirteen.
You knew that. I'm on the Pill. You knew that, too. I felt horny. Darryl is not
anyone I'd choose for a serious relationship. He's got a good body and is good
in the sack and I like him a lot. I know he seems weird, but he serves my
needs."

"He scares the shit out of me, Jackie. That shaved
head, that ugly knife and those Nazi things...."