Never Too Late for Love (18 page)

"I'm worried about Mrs. Klugerman."

Perhaps it was his paleness and the look of anxiety on his
face, but Max Shinsky's wife swung into action on the telephone to investigate
the disappearance of Yetta Klugerman.

"You're right, Max," she said later. "Nobody
has seen her."

Later that day, he went back to Mrs. Klugerman's
condominium and rang the buzzer for a longtime. He also banged on the door,
despite the fact that he could clearly hear the sound of the buzzer. Then he
called out her name in ever-increasing crescendos.

"Mrs. Klugerman! Mrs. Klugerman!"

A door opened beside him. It was Mrs. Klugerman's neighbor,
someone he had talked to earlier.

"I don't think she's home. I haven't heard a
sound," she said.

"You think we should call the management?" he
asked.

"Maybe she went away."

"Where?"

"To visit. How should I know?"

"All of a sudden?"

"I think maybe we should call the management,"
Max said and quickly walked to the end of the court and took the open-air
shuttle to the management office. A woman with harlequin glasses on a chain and
blue-gray hair smiled at him, showing slightly yellow teeth.

"You got a record of Mrs. Klugerman leaving?" he
asked, giving her the name and address of the Angel of Mercy.

"You're the third person today that has asked,"
she said. "No, we haven't heard anything."

"Then I think you had better open her place."

"I'll have to talk to Mr. Katz."

"Of course," he said, wanting to add "and
hurry," but he lacked the courage. He now was afraid of what he might find
behind her closed door. He watched the woman with the blue-gray hair dial the
phone and speak to someone on the other end.

"Yes, of course. I'll go myself." She nodded into
the phone, then hung up.

"I knew he'd approve," she said.

"This happens often?" he asked, as he climbed
beside her into the Sunset Village station wagon.

"When you have this many old people and lots of them
living alone, you have to expect it." She seemed indifferent, looking at
him through faded blue eyes, the harlequin glasses hanging over her thin chest.

"Found one last week," she said, gunning the
motor and accelerating out of the parking lot. "Had been dead for three
weeks. It was actually the odor that prompted our going in there." He felt
his stomach turn. "Actually, it's a tremendous complication in terms of
the estate. Sometimes we can't find the children or any heirs. It makes it
rather difficult, considering the condominium fees." He sensed her feeling
of superiority over him. Old shiksa, he thought contemptuously.

She parked the car in front of Mrs. Klugerman's condominium
and searched in her pocketbook for a ring of keys. Then, perching her glasses
on her nose, she observed the numbers on the keys, singled one out, knocked and
waited, then inserted the key in the lock. Max felt his heart beating. Could he
explain to anyone what he was feeling? The door opened and the woman flicked a
switch, lighting up the interior.

The odor was heavy, but it was the familiar one of musty
dampness. The bedroom was sparsely furnished, a narrow sagging bed with an
embroidered foreign-looking bedspread. In the living room was an upholstered
chair, with starched doilies pinned to the backrest and arms, and a little
Formica table. There were no pictures on the walls, no books, no television
set, no radio, no photographs. There was a battered unpainted chest, a few
sparse articles of clothing, but no visible make-up tubes or vials, or
medicines. In the closet, however, was a large cardboard box filled with little
cellophane bags of candy. In the kitchen, the refrigerator was empty. There was
no sign of food and the shelves of the cabinets contained only a few chipped
dishes and cups.

"Well, that's a relief," the woman said, after he
had inspected the premises. "She's probably gone on a trip. It's quite
obvious that she's not living here now."

"Yes," he said, "that's quite obvious."
But he dared not explore the thought further. He needed time, he told himself.

The woman went through the door before him and, as he moved
the door back, he unlatched the lock in the doorknob. He closed the door after
him and fiddled with it to illustrate that he was checking it.

"Make sure it's locked," the woman said as she
got into her car.

"I'll walk," he said, waving her on, watching her
drive to the main road. When she turned the corner, he opened the door of the
condominium again and slipped into the darkened living room. He did not turn on
the lights. Sitting down on the chair, he put his head back and let his eyes
become accustomed to the darkness. He sat there for a long time, calm, not
frightened.

"Mrs. Klugerman," he whispered, listening.
"Mrs. Klugerman," he repeated, feeling the first faint bursts of
elation. "I know you're here, Mrs. Klugerman." He sat there for a
long time, until he could see through the thin strips of the closed blinds that
darkness had come. Then he got up from the chair, walked to the door, and let
himself out.

"Thank you, Mrs. Klugerman," he said as he closed
the door. He was certain that she had heard his voice.

When Mr. and Mrs. Sonnenschein died within a year of each
other, their son, Bruce, inherited their condominium in Sunset Village. He had just turned twenty-three and lived in the Bronx with Sheila, his bride of three
months. The unexpected bequest gave the ever-practical Bruce an idea. Above all
things, his parents had taught him the value of a dollar.

"We could live there," he told Sheila with
enthusiasm, suggesting it as a stroke of rare good fortune. Bruce was a natural
salesman and already beginning to make a name for himself as his company's top
producer. He sold ladies' slacks in six southern states, including Florida.

"It's all paid for," he pointed out. "Best
of all, it's right in the heart of my territory." He had been on only one
selling trip since their marriage, and Sheila was still suffering from the
trauma of that absence.

"Will I be able to see you more?" she asked
timidly, kissing his hand.

"Simple logic," he pointed out. "Arithmetic.
Less mileage for me. More time together for us. And you can always get a job in
the area. Hell, there's big demand for dental technicians."

Sheila contemplated the idea, then shook her head in the
negative.

"Everybody's so old there," she said.
"Really old."

"It won't be forever," Bruce persisted, ignoring
her protests. "But the money we save on rent and the appreciation on the
property could mean we could afford to buy a new house in about a year."
He watched her vacillate, absorbing his arguments. He knew instinctively that
he was getting close to a deal.

"And you'll have all those grammas and grampas around
to pamper you while I'm away." He paused again, watching her stroke her
hair. She, too, had lost both of her parents.

"And when I'm on the road, I'll feel secure that
someone is taking care of my baby."

"There's only one person who can take care of your
baby," she said, pecking at his earlobe. After a while, he kissed her
deeply on the lips, knowing that he had "gotten the order."

The day that Bruce and Sheila moved into their condominium,
Mr. and Mrs. Shrinsky, their neighbors on the right, came in laden with jars
and plates of food, covered with tinfoil. Later, Mrs. Milgrim, their neighbor
on the left, came with a cake she baked from a Betty Crocker recipe.

"Your mother and father were my dearest friends,"
Ida Shrinsky told them. She was a tiny woman with three chins and scraggly
over-bleached blonde hair.

Her husband, Marvin, was tall and distinguished, with steel
gray hair and clear blue eyes that peered out through rimless glasses. He had
retired from the New York City School system, where he taught English for more
than forty years.

"Why do you want to live with all of us
antiques?" he asked pleasantly.

"They have their reasons," Mrs. Shrinsky snapped,
embarrassed by Marvin's forwardness and the obvious touch of sarcasm.

"We're not chained to anything," Bruce said,
explaining the conditions of his employment.

"Maybe it's not such a bad idea," Mrs. Shrinsky
said. "You shouldn't worry, Bruce. We're right next door." She turned
to Sheila. "Ask anything. Don't be bashful."

"I really appreciate that," Sheila said with
grave sincerity, though she groaned silently within herself. They're so old,
she thought.

"And lots of young people come to visit," Mrs.
Shrinsky added. "Sons and daughters, in-laws. We'll check around."
Sheila sensed the beginning of Mrs. Shrinsky's proprietressship.

"One thing we know about young couples," Mrs.
Shrinsky said coyly--and Sheila imagined that she had winked
lasciviously--"and that's that they like their privacy." She tugged
at Marvin's sleeve and he followed her obediently out of the apartment.

"Wonderful," Sheila mocked. "I'm surprised
they didn't ask if I play canasta or Mah-Jongg. Yuk."

"They build these condos with doors," Bruce said
testily. "I thought they were rather considerate."

Mrs. Milgrim also was considerate. She, too, had been a
good friend of Bruce's parents and, on their first meeting, insisted on
recounting the events of their death, although Bruce was well aware of them.

"Can you imagine?" she said, making the
traditional sound of pity--like the noise of an overeager cricket--by rubbing
her tongue along the roof of her mouth. "They died within nine months of
each other. He died of a broken heart, Bruce. You could just see him pining
away in that chair." She pointed to what had been his father's favorite
chair.

"They were very close," he mumbled, looking at
Sheila, who had raised her eyes to the ceiling in a gesture of exasperation.
Will I have to hear this again? she asked herself.

"So far, your idea stinks," she said to Bruce,
after Mrs. Milgrim left.

"You'll get used to it," Bruce said unctuously.
He gathered her into his arms and inhaled the smell of her hair. "There's
a house at the end of the tunnel. Keep your eye on the objective, and it won't
be that bothersome."

"When you're around, it won't be so bad." She
shrugged, dreading the time she would have to stay alone.

"You play canasta or Mah-Jongg?" Mrs. Shrinsky
asked her after they had been there a week and Bruce was on his first road
trip.

"I hate cards. And I especially hate Mah-Jongg,"
Sheila replied, wondering if Mrs. Shrinsky felt the cutting edge of her polite
contempt.

"They're wonderful games, and you shouldn't close your
mind to them," Mrs. Shrinsky scolded with good nature.

Later, Mrs. Shrinsky came by again. "You need anything
from the store?"

"No. Besides, I have my own car. I like to do my own
shopping."

"So do I," Mrs. Shrinsky agreed.

Bruce had been on the road just one day when Mrs. Milgrim
came to visit. Sheila had easily found a dental-technician job just five
minutes from Sunset Village. Her hours were eight to four, which meant she
could be home by four-fifteen.

When she returned from her first day at work, she had been
in the condo for a scant few moments when she heard a knock on the door.
Without an invitation, Mrs. Milgrim came in and sat down beside Sheila on the
couch.

"Your job was good?"

"I think I might like it," Sheila replied, hoping
the woman would leave quickly. But that wasn't to be.

"You watch 'As The World Turns?'"

"No."

"You watch Barbara Walters on '20/20?'"

"No."

"You watch the shopping channel?"

"No." Sheila smiled to herself.

"So what do you watch? Like last night, what did you
see?"

On Bruce's last night before his road trip, they had made
love repeatedly. She wanted to shout aloud: 'We fucked last night.' The thought
seemed to have shot an idea into Mrs. Milgrim's mind.

"You gonna have babies right away?"

"Not if we can help it."

"I had babies right away, one after the other. My children
are all less than two years apart. All three."

When Sheila deliberately didn't respond, Mrs. Milgrim went
on. "He stays on the road long?"

"He comes home every other weekend."

"It gets lonely? You want I should come in when you
get home and keep you company?"

Definitely not, she whispered. "I usually have chores
to keep me busy when I get home."

"You want me to get tickets for us at the clubhouse?
They have terrific shows at night."

"I don't think so, Mrs. Milgrim." She simulated a
yawn. "I think I'm going to wash my hair and read a good book before I go
to bed." Mrs. Milgrim was slow to take the hint.

"I always watch Jay Leno in bed. When my husband Eddie
was alive, we always watched Johnny Carson in bed."

"We do other things when we get to bed, Mrs.
Milgrim," Sheila said, smiling and forcing her demeanor to mask her
sarcasm. Mrs. Milgrim blushed.

"I forget you're not married so long." Mrs.
Milgrim stood up and stretched, and a noisy fart escaped from her.
"Oops," she said apologetically. "You get old, you sometimes
haven't got such good control."

When she left, Sheila sprayed the room with air freshener.
She made herself a sandwich for dinner, then, true to her word, washed her hair
and read until it was time to get into bed.

She put cream on her face, slipped into her nightgown,
turned on Jay Leno and crawled into bed. She lay there watching him for a
moment, then sprung out of bed again, clicking off the program.
"Shit!" she cried aloud, admonishing herself for yielding to the
suggestion.

Compared to Mrs. Shrinsky, Mrs. Milgrim, who visited almost
daily, was practically a stranger. At least twice a day, once before Sheila
went to work and then again before she went to bed, Mrs. Shrinsky rapped her
knuckles against the door. Her exchanges with Sheila were repetitive in
concept, providing kindly offers, nostalgic homilies, unsolicited advice and
tragic information.

"You like Halavah?" she might say, proffering a
sticky piece of the heavy candy. Sheila would shake her head.

"In Brooklyn, we used to get good Halavah," Mrs.
Shrinsky opined. "Everything here is inferior, especially the food."

"I'm strictly from the thaw-and-heat school,"
Sheila said.

"You don't cook?"

"Not a lick."

"I'll teach you. When I was first married, my mother
would come over and supervise my cooking. The first week, I made pot roast,
kugel, lukshen kugel. You know lukshen kugel?"

"No."

"I'll teach you how to make lukshen kugel." The
idea made Sheila slightly nauseated. Then Mrs. Shrinsky's talk would shift to
other matters.

"Mrs. Klein from two courts away had a breast removed
today. That was her second."

Sheila felt chills run up her spine, and her breasts began
to ache. There was always similar tragic information to impart.

"You hear so much, you know. Sarah Minkoff died from
it last week. And her husband can barely walk. Heart condition. I tell you the
things you see. The worst sight is Marvin's friend, Sam Horowitz, with
Parkinson."

A tightness gripped Sheila's insides as Mrs. Shrinsky
continued her catalog of terrors. She might stop suddenly in her reportage if
some other pressing matter came up. "Listen."

Sheila listened. There was the faint sound of a siren in
the distance.

"An ambulance. Hear it!? The Sunset Village theme song."

Bruce and Sheila talked on the phone frequently during the
week. She often dropped remarks about Mrs. Milgrim and Mrs. Shrinsky, making
them sound funny, although they didn't seem funny at the time.

By the time Bruce came back for his first weekend off,
Sheila had worked herself into a strange mood. They lay naked in bed passing a
joint. The stereo played a Bonnie Raitt CD.

"I'm an authority on breast cancer. Mrs. Shrinsky
showed me how to test for lumps," she demonstrated. "And Mr.
Parkinson is not a living person. He has a disease named after him."

Bruce cupped the joint and inhaled deeply.

"And did you know that Mr. Hyman from the medium-rise
in the fancy section pisses through a bag?"

"Everybody has their troubles," Bruce said,
smiling.

"You know what the worst thing is?"

"Do I get guesses?"

"You'll never guess this one." She paused, her
large brown eyes widening and her nostrils dilating. She wondered if she was
about to laugh or cry.

"Mrs. Milgrim cuts farts--long vocal sidewinders that
pass their stink into the air like poison gas."

He doubled up in laughter, and she finally decided to
laugh. Keep looking at the humorous side, she told herself. It was the only way
to tolerate these people and keep her sanity.

"I had a helluva week. Sold like hell."

"Take me," she pleaded suddenly. "Please,
Bruce, take me with you."

"You've just started a new job," Bruce
said."And we're saving. We have a goal."

"I know. But I'd still like to go," Sheila said.

"Don't be ridiculous."

He slapped her buttocks playfully, the subject at hand
obviously concluded. Maybe she was demanding too much, exaggerating, she
thought. Occasionally, when Bruce was away, Mrs. Milgrim and Mrs. Shrinsky
would converge on her simultaneously. To avoid them, Sheila began to develop
little subterfuges, escapes, like going off to the movies after work. Sometimes
she went to the Poinsettia shopping center, but how long could she shop? And
watching the crowds of old people hanging around like teenagers was grating
after a while. Sometimes she couldn't escape and had to endure the crossfire
between Mrs. Shrinsky and Mrs. Milgrim.

"My son Harold lives in Scarsdale. He tells me his
house is worth more than a million."

"My Lily lives in Westchester. The houses run a little
more."

"More than a million?"

"Some even three million." The two yentas would
go on interminably discussing figures. Everything--cars, vacations,
clothes--had a price.

"They took a $20,000 European vacation," Mrs.
Milgrim might say.

"My Jack took that $50,000 around-the-world
cruise."

"You told me he didn't like it."

"Too many Orientals on the boat."

"Orientals are everywhere now."

"You can't believe where they are."

When Bruce called from Birmingham one day and told Sheila
he wouldn't be home for the weekend as expected, she felt her rage overflow. Up
to then, she realized, she had not conveyed to him the full extent of her
unhappiness.

"Let me come up there, Bruce. I spoke to my boss. I
can arrange it. Without pay, but I can do it and still keep my job."

"You're being silly. Why lose a week's pay? Not to
mention the airfare. It's a waste."

"Waste?" She felt ire well up inside of her.

"It's one lousy week."

When she hung up, she was aflame with indignation. She felt
trapped.

"He didn't come home this weekend?" Mrs. Shrinsky
asked as she appeared at her door Saturday morning. It was more than mere
telepathy. Bruce's car was not in its usual weekend parking spot.