Mourning Glory (30 page)

"So you are involved," Bruce mused.

"I don't need this conversation, Bruce," Sam said
in frustration. "And I'd like to hang up now."

"I know you hate hearing anything negative, Dad. But
someone has got to voice concerns."

"Concerns noted, son."

"And please read what I've written, Dad."

He hung up, livid with frustration and rage. It always came
down to this: money, money, money. He wondered if his children saw him as a
human being. Perhaps they never had. He was the father, the provider parent,
the authority figure, the teacher, the disciplinarian, and the enforcer ... but
never, from their circumscribed view, to be seen as human, with needs beyond
their welfare and protection.

Trying to sleep was impossible. His mind churned with angry
possibilities. Perhaps he should redo his will completely, give everything he
had to charity. Everything! Leave them nothing. Let them vent their anger over
his dry bones. He felt constricted, confined, straitjacketed by convention and
responsibility.

He got up, roamed the house, then went out on the balcony.
It was a moonless night. He couldn't see the ocean, although he heard its
relentless pounding on the shore. It reminded him of Bruce, equally relentless,
his harangue never-ending.

Grace a designing woman? The concept was laughable. He
prided himself on his knowledge of people. Grace was too proud a woman to
demean herself by accepting any gift from him, whatever its value.

She was obviously trying to maintain her integrity, accepting
him for himself alone, showing little interest in what he had. There wasn't a
covetous spirit in her mind or body. He was sure of it, dead certain, in fact.
Besides, she did not lack for material resources. She was interested in him
solely as a human being, a man, a companion, a friend, a lover.

Fearing rejection, he fought off any contemplation of a
future with Grace Sorentino. He had deliberately deflected such speculation and
he wasn't going to allow his hopes to rule his conduct. Not in his present state.
But he could not stop thinking about Grace, going over the events and episodes
of each day with her, the sheer joy of it. He missed being with her, missed her
embrace, the touch of her, missed her soft, soothing voice.

It was after midnight. She had been away three hours and it
felt like an eternity. How was he possibly going to get through the night
without her? For days, he had fought the truth of it, hoping that his mind, his
rational intelligence, would triumph over his emotions. He had deliberately
avoided any suggestion that she spend her nights with him. She was already
spending her days with him, but it was at night that he was most vulnerable.

He missed her, ached for her. And yet he dared not confront
her with such feelings. Would an offer of a more permanent arrangement insult
her? Chase her away? Above all, he could not risk abandonment. Anne had already
done that.

Had he felt this way about Anne? He tried to remember how
it was at the beginning. It was too murky, too confused by what went after.
With Anne, although he could not find perfect recall, his feelings seemed as if
they were more cerebral, and, therefore, more calculating. Anne represented an
entry into what he then had considered a higher world, the American
aristocracy.

Had he considered such ambitions when he had courted Anne?
Courted? It was such a proper word. But that was exactly what he did with Anne,
who was a virgin when she came to the marriage bed. Not once before their
marriage had he touched her naked flesh, meaning her breasts and her vagina.
Even then, he had sensed the missing link, the total absence of passion.

With the exception of that one time he had called Grace, he
had never done it again. For some reason it had become a silent pact between
them. He would not call her. She would not call him. It had no logic, only
precedent, as if they were allowing total absence from each other to heighten
the joy of the morning reunions. That might have been the rationale. Or perhaps
it was something else, a compartmentalizing of their lives, a device to avoid
commitment beyond their days together.

At that moment he refused to conform to this silent pact.
He needed her, needed her voice, as if it were the only remedy for his
agitation. He reached for the telephone.

"It's me," he whispered.

"Sam?"

Her voice was barely audible. She was whispering.

"Himself."

"Is anything wrong?"

"Nothing wrong. I ... I couldn't sleep. I ... I miss
you."

"I'll be there in a few hours, Sam."

"I know. I..."

"What is it, Sam?"

"I wish you were here, Grace."

"And I wish I was with you."

"Really?"

"Really."

"It's not enough. Just days together."

"I know."

Her voice was barely audible. Suddenly he heard an
intrusive sound.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes. But I can't talk now."

Can't talk? Why?
He left the
questions unsaid.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

Hanging up, he felt troubled by her abruptness. What had
happened? Had someone picked up an extension? Suddenly he felt an uncommon
sensation, a psychic stab, a kind of agony. Defining it instantly, he knew it
was jealousy. Another man? Was it possible? He turned the possibility over in
his mind, then dismissed it, annoyed that it had even entered his
consciousness. Another man, perhaps a husband, not an ex, was in the picture.
That would mean she was lying about her situation. Never, he decided. She would
explain it all tomorrow.

But it did illustrate the extent of his feelings, this
instinct to exclusively possess her. He knew what it meant, although he was not
certain that he had ever experienced it with the same powerful sense of
totality. Not with Anne. Not with anyone.

He was ... there was no other way to describe it ... in
love.

"So that's it," Jackie said. She had come into
her mother's bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"That's what?"

"Mom has got a guy."

On one level Grace felt a weight removed, a burden lifted.
On another she felt terrified.

"I don't appreciate your listening in on my personal
conversations," Grace rebuked.

"I didn't listen in on purpose, Mom. A call comes in the
middle of the night, it's only natural. Anyway, that's beside the point. Who is
this man?"

"A very nice man."

"You could have told me. I tell you everything."

"It didn't seem appropriate. Besides, you don't tell
me everything."

"Is it serious?"

"I can't say."

"Are you balling him?"

"Jesus, Jackie."

"Bet you are. I'd like to meet him."

"In due time."

"So this is where you go when you're supposed to be
looking for a job."

"I'm still looking for a job, Jackie."

"What kind of a guy is he, Mom?"

"Very nice and kind. A good person."

"Does he know you have a daughter my age?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you might be lying about your age, or maybe
he doesn't know you're carrying the baggage of a teenage daughter. It's obvious
from the way you cut short the conversation that you were hiding the fact that
I existed."

Despite her skewed interpretation, Jackie was closer to the
truth than she knew.

"It isn't that," Grace admitted. "He knows I
have a daughter."

Jackie cocked her head in skepticism.

"Is he older or younger than you?"

"Older," Jackie admitted. "But then, anyone
over forty must seem ancient to you."

She contemplated her answer through a long pause. "Is
that where you got the clothes?"

"I told you," Grace said, annoyed now. "I
won't discuss that."

"That's it, isn't it? A dead person's clothes. His
wife's, right?"

"I told you..." Grace began, then aborted her
reply. She wished Sam hadn't called.

"Dead wife," Jackie said. "I'm not an idiot,
Mom. There's dough there. I can smell it."

"That's all you think about."

"What else is there to think about? We're bleeding
down here. If you're balling a guy with money, the least you can do is hit him
up for a few bucks. Mom, you're not in a position to just give it away."

"My God, Jackie..." Grace sputtered, her anger
accelerating.

"Why are you so touchy about it, Mom?" She
clicked her tongue. "Not love, Mom. Not that. You're too old for that.
You've got to be more practical. What we need here is security, Mom. That's
where it's at for us."

"This conversation is over," Grace sputtered.

"See how touchy it makes you. See?"

"I..." She was momentarily at a loss for words.
"I ... I just don't want anything to spoil things."

"You think I'll spoil things?" Jackie said
belligerently. "Is that it? The bigmouthed daughter. Hey, Mom, I'm not
stupid. If you're bullshitting the guy, I'll play along. I won't fuck it
up."

"Can't you just please leave it alone for now? Can't I
have some privacy about this? Believe me, Jackie, if anything happens ...
you'll be the first to know. And you don't have to be so crude about it."

"Crude? This guy must be veddy fancy. Well, thank you
very much. Just wonderful. You want me to tell you everything, but you won't
tell me anything. That's fair, isn't it? Shit!"

Jackie stormed out of the room. Grace wished she could
confide in her daughter and hated the idea that she couldn't really trust her.
She wished that Sam hadn't called; but then, how could she have forewarned him?
It was a dilemma that she knew she would have to confront sooner or later. She
hoped it was later, much later. One probing conversation between Sam and Jackie
would be enough to topple all the dominoes.

Jackie was gone when Grace got out of bed. Her job with
McDonald's started at seven in the morning. Grace hadn't slept much. Her mind
churned with ideas, mostly dire imaginings. It seemed an overwhelming irony
that the only person who could advise her on how to proceed was Sam himself,
wise, practical, thoughtful Sam.

By then, she realized, she had dug herself a hole so deep
there was no possible way to extricate herself without harm. Worse, she had no
illusions about her own emotional involvement with Sam, although she refused to
characterize it.

At this point, what she feared most was that she would
succumb to an arrangement that would derive more from the heart than the head.

Yes, she missed him when she was away from him. Yes, she
longed for him in both physical and psychic ways. Yes, she could think of no
more wonderful way to spend her days than with him. Millicent Farmer would
ridicule her for being such a weak ninny. She remembered her words: "This
has nothing to do with feelings. This is business."

Yet so far nothing had happened on this business side. He
had not brought up the matter of the future, their future. Nor did she have any
idea whether he was mulling the idea, considering a future with her.

She had deliberately not broached the subject, fearful that
he would reject the basic premise of her involvement. Marriage. Ring around the
finger. It was a mantra endlessly churning in her mind. The reality, of course,
was that the matter could not be postponed for long. Her unemployment check
wasn't enough. She was behind in everything, her rent, her car payments, the
utility bills, everything. And there was Jackie.

Yet, despite Jackie's reaction to this call, Grace could
not deny the pleasure of his declaration. It confirmed what she wanted to
believe, that she had made a profound impact on his life, although she dared
not give it the name it demanded, fearing that it would describe his impact on
her as well.

Any acknowledgment of her own feelings for him would be
contrary to Millicent Farmer's caveat not to get emotionally involved. Emotion
compromised judgment. Unfortunately, it was a lesson better understood in a
vacuum. She had violated the caveat. The alarm bells were deafening.

Just as she stepped out of the shower the phone rang. She
rushed to answer it, feeling certain that it was Sam.

"Is this Mrs. G. Sorentino?"

It was a woman's voice, vaguely familiar.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry to call so early, but I wanted to be sure
to catch you before you start your day. My name is Margaret Carlson from the
Salvation Army."

Grace groped for some shred of memory.

"You dropped off some wonderful clothing for the needy
about a month or so ago. I was the person you dealt with. Do you
remember?"

"Oh, yes," Grace replied. "I do
remember."

"One of the recipients of our program came by
yesterday with some material that was found in one of the pockets of the jeans.
Believe it or not, we keep excellent records of our gifts. And our recipients
are very grateful."

"What sort of material?"

"Letters. Personal letters. I thought you might want
them back."

"Really," Grace began, "it's all right. Just
throw them away."

"I thought perhaps they might have sentimental
value."

"It's all right..." Grace began, but the woman
persisted.

"I ... I ... well, I must confess, I started to read
them ... I don't usually do such things, but you understand I had to
identify..." Obviously embarrassed, the woman cleared her throat. "I
just thought you might want them as a keepsake. I thought they might have
sentimental value."

"Whom are they addressed to?" Grace asked, her
curiosity aroused.

"A box number in Palm Beach. No name."

"And the salutation?"

"Really, Mrs. Sorentino, this is none of my business.
I just thought I'd call as a courtesy..." Grace caught a trace of
indignation. "...but if there's no interest..."

"No," Grace said quickly, oddly intrigued,
invoking the idea of destiny again. "I'll pick them up."

"You know where we are ... where you dropped the
clothes off. We're open until seven."

Grace looked at her watch. There was more than enough time
to pick them up and be at Sam's on schedule.

"I'll be there shortly ... Mrs.... was it Carlton?"

"Carlson," the woman said. There was a moment of
hesitation.

"And Mrs. Sorentino..."

"Yes?"

"Darling. The salutation was just that ...
darling."

"Darling?"

"Oh, I didn't read beyond that. None of my business.
But when someone writes darling ... kinda personal like that ... you know how
it is."

"Certainly ... yes ... very kind of you. I'll be
there."

Grace puzzled over the call and especially her decision to
pick up the letters. Darling! She didn't know what to make of it, except
perhaps that they were letters to Anne from Sam. Then why would she want to see
them? On the other hand why was her curiosity so compelling?

But then, everything to do with Anne's clothing had been
compelling. They were the axis on which everything between Grace and Sam had
revolved. Anne's clothes were the catalyst for the introduction, the heart of
the ploy, the central erotic prop of the seduction, the fuel for their sexual
conflagration. It was eerie, as if the dead wife, Anne the frigid, was ordering
these events from her icy headquarters beyond the grave.