Mourning Glory (7 page)

But the experience had taught her that an erect penis was a
very delicate and important instrument and meant more to a man than was
commonly thought among women. She suspected that men over sixty required a
great deal more sexual inspiration than younger men, and she would, of course,
be fully committed to providing that ingredient. Why was she dwelling on this
aspect? Had what she had witnessed with Jackie aroused such thoughts?

She had heard many jokes about Jewish women and their
disinterest in sex, which might or might not be true. Certainly, she was
prepared to provide a marked contrast to that supposition.

Depending on the man, she would show an aggressive interest
and an adventurous spirit in the sex act and whatever special desires the man
might have, especially at the beginning. She would encourage him to confide his
sexual preferences to her and would be enthusiastically open to everything for
his pleasure and appreciation. If the man would offer the same service for her,
so much the better.

Nor was she a stranger to a circumcised penis, which had
not been the case with Jason. The dentist, who had not been Jewish, was
circumcised. As for her penile preference, it was a toss-up, although she did
have a brief experience with a bent erection, which had been a definite
turnoff. But that would be the luck of the draw.

A healthy interest in sex, of course, feigned or real,
would be an essential part of the package she would bring with her, aside from
companionship, devotion and faithfulness, a sense of humor and, of course,
keeping herself as attractive, well-groomed and as interesting as possible,
presenting herself in a way that would make the man proud of her. She would be
cooperative but not servile. Above all, her dignity must remain intact. In
every way, she would try to remake herself into a trophy wife. In public she
would present herself as an elegant, enviable asset. In private a great lay.

She would subscribe to the daily
New York Times
and
the news magazines, become conversant with the computer and the Internet, watch
Lehrer
and PBS, keep up with politics, read all the best-sellers, see
all the latest plays, concerts and movies and generally enhance her knowledge
of the world around her and thereby increase her ability to discuss things of
importance. She would learn how to be a great hostess, take courses in art,
learn French, take up golf or tennis, support every appropriate philanthropy
and participate in all activities in which her mate required her presence.

She was surprised at the absolute candor and raw honesty of
her thoughts. There was no point in self-delusion. If she were to take this
road, she had to be fully provisioned for the journey, without cant or wishful
distortion. Was she ready for such a commitment? And if so, did she have the courage
and equipment to pursue it?

When she returned to her sense of place, the coffin was
being wheeled down the aisle toward the exit, followed by the grieving
relatives. She realized that in reading the obituary notices she would have to
pay particular attention to the age of the spouse. Eighties and nineties would
have to be screened out, even if it required some telephone calls or advance
visits to the funeral parlors.

"What a wonderful person," the woman next to her
said as Grace filed out and followed the flow of the crowd to the back of the
chapel.

As research, Grace decided, this was a very profitable
experience. Not that she had fully decided to pursue this course of action. She
would hate to be beholden to Mrs. Burns on any matter. Besides, such a course
would take a massive effort of time, total focus and commitment. And if she put
all her energy and resources behind the process there would be no assurance of
success. In fact, this would have to be her full-time job.

The check that Mrs. Burns had given her coupled with the
unemployment proceeds would barely be enough to carry her forward for more than
a few months. She would come up short week after week, which would mean she
would be under the pressure of time, under the gun. It might mean, too, that
she would have to take a job and pursue this enterprise on the side.

The prospect was certainly daunting. Did she have what it
took? She went over in her mind the qualities that she would have to muster:
cunning, courage, restraint and discipline. Then there was the matter of
hypocrisy, craft and the various arts of dissimulation and the telling of
outright lies, which might be required to present a proper facade and inspire
an emotional connection in the man.

These later qualities were those that she had never
considered possessing or even developing. They were not part of her frame of
reference. She had never been a good liar. Ironically, she was encouraged by
this new way of thinking. For the first time in her life, she was actually
setting goals for herself, plotting the tactics and strategies to reach them,
like a general preparing to make the crucial assault and take the objective.

She waited in the shade of the building while the men with
the armbands assembled the automobile procession behind the hearse, and soon
the cars rolled out of the lot off to the cemetery. A few minutes later the
group from the other funeral passed out of the building and were efficiently
dispatched by the monitors in the direction of the burial ground.

She stood there in the empty lot for a long time, debating
her future course of action. She felt the devil's advocate inside of her
surrender. It was time to gird for action, take control of her own destiny,
muster her weapons and prepare for battle. Suddenly, she felt energized and
ready.

The process became a daily round. She concentrated on the
obituary columns of the
Palm Beach Post
and, after attending a number of
funerals for "beloved wives of," she began to narrow down the
possibilities by assessing the relative cost of both the memorial sites and the
cemeteries where the internment was to take place. Naturally, she used the most
expensive places on which to concentrate her attention.

After a few weeks, she embellished her research by
searching out the homes of the deceased and making her funeral attendance
judgments on the size and location of the residences. She had quickly learned
that it was pointless to waste her time on what was not economically viable and
attended only those funerals of bona-fide wealthy ladies whose husbands had
outlived them.

She hadn't told Jackie about her campaign, reasoning that
if her daughter had been more aware and attuned to her mother's activities, she
would have noticed her unusual interest in the obituary columns. Nevertheless,
her effort and its daily routine had all the earmarks of job hunting, and she
would often return home in a state of obvious disappointment. By then, she had
gone through the processing routine at the unemployment office, and they had
promised that her first check would be coming in a few weeks.

"No luck, Mom?" Jackie would ask.

"Nope."

The fact was that the operation had more hope and promise
in theory than in practice. Opportunity was not as Mrs. Burns had characterized
it. Real prospects were difficult to find. She was, in fact, a fortune hunter,
and anyone with a fortune was by nature cagey and illusive. A male in this
enterprise would have a much easier time of it finding his mark. There was,
after all, no equality in the chronology of death. Statistics cited men
overwhelmingly as dying before women.

In three weeks, she had managed to attend several funerals,
none of which offered a truly viable candidate. Most were for older ladies in
their seventies and eighties whose husbands were out of her range. Some were in
wheelchairs; the others seemed comatose. Even so, she did consider the
possibility, but the price seemed far too high.

There were, however, moments of optimism. She attended one
for a woman in her fifties with a husband who was attractive and remarkably
stoic and appeared at first blush to be a perfect candidate. She had checked
out their home and had learned that the man was a well-known banker from Broward County.

Dressing carefully for this one, she arrived at the service
full of great expectations until she noted that the man sat in a row behind his
three grieving children and their spouses, which seemed unusual, until she
learned, as they were filing out, that the couple was in the midst of a bitter
divorce and the woman had died suddenly from an embolism that might have been
brought on by the tension.

"There's a relief," she overheard one of the
female attendees say as they filed out. "Now he can marry his
nafka."
Days later at a funeral she overheard both the word and its translation.
Nafka
meant whore in Yiddish.

One funeral of a woman in her early sixties did seem to
suggest a hopeful possibility. Her research informed her that the couple had
lived in a lovely old mansion off Banyan Road, one of the most expensive areas
of Palm Beach. The woman, Rebecca Horowitz, had been very social. Her husband
was reputed to have made a fortune in oil. He was handsome, apparently healthy
and reasonably well preserved for a man in his late sixties.

She attended the funeral in the most prestigious synagogue
in the area. Shiny Rolls Royces and stretch Mercedes limousines filled the
parking lot. The women who attended were appropriately solemn but dressed to
the nines and the men all looked prosperous and successful.

The prospect was exciting, although she had no illusions.
This would require all her resources. The woman got raves from the rabbi and
various other participants, who lauded her many good deeds. There were numerous
mourners in the first row. She assumed a number were the couple's children. The
widower was tall and good-looking, with a dignified, gracious way of accepting
condolences.

During the service she had fantasized over the various
ploys she would use to make contact with the man and the manner in which she
would conduct herself. She joined the funeral procession, managing to get a
lift from one of the well-groomed couples who had room in their big
cream-colored Cadillac.

By then, experience had taught her that a wonderful repast
was served by the grieving family after the return from the cemetery, like an
Irish wake, except that the guest of honor was not laid out in the house. On
occasion, depending on the state of her hunger, she would join the procession
in her own car or, if it was convenient, solicit a lift from one of the party.

She gave her real name and offered a cover story that she
had struck up an acquaintance with the dead woman after meeting her at Saks.

"We became friends and confidantes," Grace told
the couple, who introduced themselves as the Saypols.

"That must have been before she got worse."

"Yes," Grace said. "Before."

"Too bad the way she went," the man said.
"Up to me, I'd go poof myself." He motioned with his hands to
emphasize the point.

"Still, it wasn't very decent of him to start dating
while she was still alive," his wife said.

"He was lonely, for crissake. His wife was in a damned
nursing home with Alzheimer's. She didn't even know who he was."

"She was still his wife," the woman said.

"He had needs," the husband grumped.

The wife looked toward Grace.

"Men and their needs," she said with disdain.

"What do you women know about those kind of
needs?" the man said, with a sudden burst of anger.

"He didn't have to flaunt it," the woman said,
turning to Grace. "He's already made plans to marry some bimbo. Everybody
knows it. I think it's disgusting."

"Betty is not a bimbo."

"She's not even thirty."

"That's not bimbo, that's just young. Are you
jealous?"

"Me? Don't be ridiculous. He's more than thirty years
older than her and he won't be able to keep up." She shot her husband a
knowing glance. "No way. And, in the end, she'll get all his money and the
kids won't get a dime."

"He's already worked out a prenup."

"Very wise," Grace said, remembering Mrs. Burns's
reference.

"Sure it's a smart move," the man explained,
"It lays out the boundaries."

"For the moment," the woman pointed out.
"Wait'll she gets her hooks in," she said. "Women like those
know what they're about. The day will come when he'll tear up the agreement or
else."

"Or else what?"

"You know what."

"What? You mean she'll cut him off?"

"You got that right."

"You just said he couldn't keep up, meaning you know
what. What would it matter if she cut him off? Cut off from what?"

"Men are stupid," the woman said with another
quick glance at her husband. "That's all they think about."

"What do women think about?" He turned to Grace.

"I'm not sure how you mean that," Grace replied,
uncomfortable at being thrust into this situation. Thankfully, the man provided
the answer to his own question.

"It's all about money, possessions, hair, clothes,
face-lifts, security, shopping, gossip, the children. Nothing about the man,
the essence of the man they call husband. We're just here to make the dough
while they figure out ways to spend it, mostly on themselves."

"What would you do without us?" the woman said,
offering a mocking laugh.

"Plenty," the man said.

After that, they both seemed to crawl into themselves and
remained silent and morose until they got to the cemetery.

Under a canopy at the cemetery she sat next to a woman who
could not contain her contempt for the man, who looked appropriately mournful
and teary-eyed.

"Look at him, the lousy bastard, making like he's
gonna miss her."

The rabbi said a prayer and the mourners watched as the
coffin was lowered into the ground. Having seen so many funerals lately, Grace
was beginning to view death with less fear and to consider "time"
with a lot more appreciation. Funerals certainly gave living people a moment to
reflect, not only on the worthiness or lack thereof of the life being dispatched
but on the conduct and finite nature of their own lives. So far, hers hadn't
been so hot.

What was it all about, she wondered, if this was the way it
ended, a bag of bones in a box? It did teach that human beings, despite all the
differences of religion, race, gender, intelligence and talent, came ultimately
to the same place at the end of the line. This was small comfort for someone
like her, who had, barring a catastrophe, about half her allotted time to fill.
But the reflection did act as a spur for her to get on with her project before
it was too late. At that point, of course, she had already written off this man
as a possibility. He had his bimbo.

After the burial, the couple she had come with drove her to
the mansion of the widower.

"You gonna cry at my funeral, George?" the woman
asked.

"I won't be there," the man said. "Just look
at the statistics."

"You'll be there."

"No, I won't."

"Maybe you'll both get lucky and die together in a
plane crash," Grace suddenly blurted. They looked at her, not knowing
whether it was meant as a joke or not.

"Who'll cry then?" the man said.

"Not my daughters-in-law," the woman huffed.
"They'll be dancing on our graves."

At the widower's home, a huge spread was laid on, and Grace
spent most of the time inspecting the rooms, the magnificent artwork and
antiques and other expensive appointments. She wondered if the new woman, the
bimbo, had given up her claim to them in their prenuptial agreement.

She would have to be wary of men like that, Grace decided
after inspecting the widower at close range. What she would strive for was
parity with the first wife, she decided, despite the growing remoteness of the
possibility.

She treated this after-burial ritual as a learning
experience. The food, she had noted, was invariably catered and beautifully
displayed. There was often champagne. It was more than a repast. It was a
feast. She wondered whether these people were celebrating death or life.

After a dozen or so funerals, she began to recognize
familiar faces, both men and women, who nodded knowingly to her, and she soon
realized that these were the "regulars," who apparently attended
funerals solely for the after-cemetery feast. Few questioned them, but when
they did they had, like her, a ready story to account for their appearance. So
far, no one had questioned her except for the Horowitz funeral, and she had
actually told the truth; well, a half-truth. Thankfully, she saw no regular
that might offer her any real competition.

One of them, an oldish woman of indeterminate age with a
solemn face and hair done in an old-fashioned gray bun, seemed to appear most
often. Grace noted that she ate sparingly and always managed to find an
opportunity to offer what appeared to be heartfelt words of condolence to the
grieving spouse. Once Grace had gotten close enough to overhear the
conversation.

"Parting with her personal worldly goods can be
traumatic," the woman said. "I knew her well enough to know that she
was a woman of deep compassion. I'm sure that after the children have made their
selection, she would have been honored to have her clothes given to the
homeless and various welfare services and charities."

"I'm sure," the grieving husband had retorted.

"And you can avoid the trauma of going through her
things. I can tell you, it hurts. I had that experience with my own dear Sidney. It was awful. All those memories. It's too painful a process. I can spare you
that. Why not let us take care of everything? We'll make sure that they go to
her favorite charities. We owe her that. Can we do that for you? Take the
burden and pain away?"

The grieving man looked at his hands and shook his head in
despair.

"I'd appreciate that very much. Yes, it would be very
painful. That is so kind of you, relieving me of that. She had such wonderful
taste. Yes, please. That's a wonderful idea."

The conversation made an impression on Grace. She hadn't
thought about that aspect of death, the disposal of the deceased's intimate
possessions, particularly clothes. She had often wondered where on earth those
compulsive shoppers at Saks had stored their mountains of clothes. In these big
homes, she supposed there were acres of closets holding long lines of designer
clothes.

Of course, she did allow herself a twinge of cynicism. This
woman did, indeed, look like one of the funeral party. Everything about her
seemed appropriate to the occasion, including the way in which she approached
the grieving spouse. Did she really give the deceased's clothes to charity, or
would she sell them to secondhand clothes stores, which were in abundance in
southern Florida? A brilliant scam, Grace concluded. It certainly showed flair
and imagination.

Once or twice she had come home tipsy from the wine or
champagne, causing Jackie to remark that she hoped that Grace was not hanging
out in bars and heading toward alcoholism.

"Why can't you get yourself a nice guy, Mom, then you
wouldn't have to resort to drink?"

"I'm trying, darling. Really I am."

"Not very hard," her daughter would harrumph.
"And you're always dressed so ... so gloomy. You really look lousy in
black, Mom."

"I want to look conservative, Jackie."

"That I can understand. But you don't have to look
like you're going to a funeral."

It was getting discouraging. Time was running out. Not that
she felt ghoulish about going to funerals. The events seemed so commonplace,
banal. There was the body in the coffin, the first row occupied with visibly
distraught mourners, the others filling the sequential rows in order of their
emotional stake in the proceedings.