Never Too Late for Love (19 page)

"Your surveillance is accurate," Sheila said.
Even her obvious sarcasm did not have a cutting edge.

"My what?" But Mrs. Shrinsky did not wait for an
answer. Nothing could deflect her from her single-minded interrogation.
"He's leaving you alone the whole weekend?"

Sheila felt a lump begin to grow in her throat. Hearing
someone else say it increased the pain of it.

"He has some very important business in Birmingham."

"More important than you?"

In her tone, Sheila caught an implication that had not
consciously crossed her mind. Not Bruce, she thought, dismissing the idea.

"You want to come to the pool with us?" Mrs.
Shrinsky asked.

Sheila looked at the woman, on the verge of hesitation, but
the prospect of spending the day in the empty apartment actually seemed even
more foreboding.

"Why not?"

They drove to the pool in the Shrinsky car and found some
empty lounge chairs on the sunny side.

"What a figure," Mrs. Shrinsky said as Sheila
removed her blouse and jeans. She was slim-hipped and her bust was firm beneath
the bikini.

Sheila smiled as she looked at the wrecked bodies around
her, knowing that she was intimidating, with her smooth skin and youthful body.

"I used to have a figure like that," Mrs.
Shrinsky said. Marvin Shrinsky looked up from his paperback. She imagined he
had snickered silently.

She felt the eyes of the older people on her as she smeared
sun oil on her body. Most of them were women, probably widows, the predominant
population.

"This is your daughter?" someone asked Mrs.
Shrinsky.

"My neighbor."

"She lives here?"

"Next door."

"By herself?"

"Her husband's on the road."

They talked together as if Sheila were merely an object.

"How come they live here?"

"The parents died. Left them the condo."

This seemed to satisfy the women for a few moments. Sheila
tried to ignore them, lying back in her lounge chair and squinting into the
sun.

"They have children?"

"Not yet."

"He leaves her for a long time?"

"Usually he comes home every other weekend. He was
supposed to this weekend, but he didn't come."

Sheila undid her straps and lay on her stomach. She tried
not to hear their chatter, but it was impossible to shut it out. Finally it
faded, disappeared, and she realized that she must have dozed. Awake again, she
felt someone watching her. Lifting her eyes and holding up her palm to block
the sun, she saw that Marvin Shrinsky was observing her carefully. Retying her
strap, she sat up.

"Where is Mrs. Shrinsky?"

"Over there with the other yentas," he pointed
with his book. Occasionally, Mrs. Shrinsky and her companions would look toward
them. She sensed they were talking about her.

"You're an object of some curiosity," Mr.
Shrinsky said.

"Who cares?" Her nap had made her irritable and
she was feeling sorry for herself.

"And all the alta cockers have been walking past with
their eyes falling out of their head."

"Well then, consider me a geriatric therapist."

He smiled, his eyes washing over her. She wondered how old
he was. It was impossible to calculate age in this place. Everyone seemed so
nondescript, uniform. Actually, they all looked alike, she decided, one big
blurred image.

"You like it here?" she asked suddenly. She had
been thinking it, but had not intended to ask.

"What's not to like?" he said, but he had turned
his eyes away. "I'm here," he sighed, then he opened his paperback
again and began to read. She lay back and concentrated on letting the sun wash
over her skin, feeling its heat penetrate her. She wanted to cry. After a while,
they left the pool and headed back to their condos.

"Marvin wants to take you to dinner with us,"
Mrs. Shrinsky said after they parked the car.

"Really, I'm tired." Sheila protested.

"Well, if you change your mind ... Primero's has a
special until six o'clock."

Inside her apartment, she took a shower, then, as she dried
herself, she suddenly felt the terror of being alone. The bleak emptiness of
the apartment made her shudder with desolation. I won't feel sorry for myself,
she vowed, slipping on slacks and a blouse. But her resolution was not enough
to muster the courage to cope with being alone. Hearing the Shrinsky's leave
their apartment, she ran after them.

"Might as well," she said, getting into the back
seat.

Primero's was crowded, as the people from Sunset Village piled in to get the discount that was offered for those seated before
six-o'clock.

"Tell them, Marvin," Mrs. Shrinsky urged.
"We were here on time. We shouldn't be penalized if that dumb hostess
doesn't seat us on time."

"Don't worry."

"What do you mean, don't worry? You're talking five
dollars more a dinner."

Marvin looked at Sheila helplessly, and she sensed his
entrapment. I understand, she wanted to say, as she touched his arm in
sympathy. She sensed the tension among the waiting crowd as the time reached
six, though an announcement over the loudspeaker seemed to mollify the crowd.

"We will honor our commitment for the 'Early Bird
Dinner' for everyone now in the restaurant," the voice said, with a touch
of contempt.

When they finally were seated and their orders taken, Mrs.
Shrinsky looked around the restaurant.

"There's Mrs. Morganstern. She just lost her husband
last week," she whispered. "I'm surprised to see her out already
enjoying herself."

"What would you expect her to do?" Marvin asked,
looking at Sheila. She imagined that he was begging for her support, but she
pretended not to notice.

"It doesn't look right, that's all I'm saying."
Mrs. Shrinsky said. A waitress passed with a heavily laden tray.

"Sure they give you a discount. But look at the
portions. You get what you pay for."

Their food came and, after more complaints about the size
of the portions, Mrs. Shrinsky nudged Sheila's elbow.

"Watch how many leave with doggie bags. They also
steal the bread, the pigs," she hissed.

Sheila picked at her food without appetite. The noise level
of the restaurant heightened. Marvin remained silent, occasionally watching her
through his clear blue eyes in their frameless lenses.

"Look, Marvin," Mrs. Shrinsky said suddenly,
nodding in the direction of a departing couple. "Harvey Bernstein is
getting better since his stroke, although he still drags one leg."

The harassed waitress came back to their table to take
their dessert order. She reeled off the list of pies and ice creams by rote.

"Not for me," Sheila said. She had been watching
a man at the next table masticating his food with badly fitting false teeth,
and it had brought her to the edge of nausea. She had had to swallow repeatedly
to keep down what she had eaten.

"She'll have chocolate ice cream," Mrs. Shrinsky
said. "And we'll have one apple pie and one lemon meringue."

"No, really," Sheila protested.

"It's included," the waitress said.

"Don't worry," Mrs. Shrinsky said. "Nothing
goes to waste,"

Mrs. Shrinsky ate the chocolate ice cream, in addition to
her pie.

Back in her apartment, Sheila turned on the stereo, but the
music grated on her ears. Then she went to the telephone and dialed Birmingham information for the Holiday Inn. It turned out that there were three Holiday
Inns and she dialed all of them, knowing that Bruce would note her extravagance
when the bill came in. He always stayed at Holiday Inns, where he received a
special discount.

"Twenty percent off. How can you beat it?" he
told her proudly.

On her last call, when the clerk informed her that there
was no Bruce Sonnenschein registered there, she lost her temper.

"You're full of shit," she screamed. "He has
to be there."

"Did you try the other Holiday Inns?" the clerk
said with annoyance.

"Of course, I did, you schmuck." She hung up the
receiver angrily and paced the apartment, trying to calm herself. Was it rage
or self pity? she asked herself. She passed a mirror and looked at herself.

"You're twenty-one years old!" she screamed,
watching the tears spill over her lids and roll down her cheeks.

When she got out of bed the next morning, she was
exhausted. Her mind refused to simmer down and, though she might have dozed,
she knew she had not truly slept.

"You look tired," Mrs. Milgrim said, suddenly
appearing in the doorway.

Sheila groaned, but she could not find the courage to be
impolite. Besides, Mrs. Milgrim had a plate in her hands filled with bagels,
lox and cream cheese.

"I thought maybe you'd like some bagels."

"I hate bagels," Sheila said.

"These are not the frozen ones," Mrs. Milgrim
said, unperturbed. "Real water bagels. Mrs. Bromberg from across the
street sent her husband ten miles to the bagel place." She placed the
plate on the kitchen table and began poking around in the cabinets for the
instant coffee.

"You went out last night with the Shrinskys?"

"We were the early birds."

"What did you eat?"

"I had the chopped steak."

"And a baked potato?"

"Yes, with the baked potato."

"And the sour cream and chives? I love the sour cream
and chives."

Mrs. Milgrim sighed. "I don't go too often. It's very
expensive." She smeared some cream cheese on half of a bagel. Sheila
watched the woman's wrinkled hands shake slightly as she performed the act. The
thin gold wedding band looked forlorn on her shriveled finger. She smeared some
lox on a fork, pressed it over the cream cheese and handed it to Sheila. A bit
of cream cheese lingered on a fingernail. Sheila felt her stomach retch.

"What did you have for dessert?"

Sheila put the bagel on the table and went to the bathroom,
where she poured cold water on her face. She stayed in the bathroom a long
time, hoping that when she got out, Mrs. Milgrim would be gone. But she was
still there when she returned and the coffee had been poured.

"They have a terrific cheese cake," Mrs. Milgrim
went on, revealing that she had been contemplating the Primero desserts.
"My Eddie loved cheesecake. It was his hobby, he used to say. Cheesecake
and Malox."

"You don't look so good," Mrs. Milgrim said
suddenly, concentrating on Sheila's face.

"Maybe I'm coming down with something."

"It may be the water. Not like New York."

"The water?"

"There's a lot of things here that are very
suspicious. Things spoil quickly. The milk is different, too. You got
diarrhea?"

She couldn't stand it any longer. Rising, she forced a
smile, feeling that it was making her face crack. I've got to get the hell out
of here, she decided.

"I've got an appointment, Mrs. Milgrim."

"An appointment?" It was obvious that the
explanation would have to be fleshed out with details.

"I'm meeting some friends in Fort Lauderdale."

"You're going to the beach?"

"Yes, to the beach."

"The beaches in Fort Lauderdale are not bad, although
the water is polluted." Water again.

"Stay as long as you like, Mrs. Milgrim. Just let
yourself out and lock the door."

She went into the bedroom, grabbed her pocketbook and,
leaving a confused Mrs. Milgrim in the kitchen, raced to her car. She drove
around for hours, coming home long after dark. Thankfully, the apartment was
empty.

Bruce called her Monday night. She had phoned in sick and
stayed in the apartment the entire day, bolting the door and drawing the
blinds. There were repeated knocks on the door throughout the day. She had
already begun to identify which knock belonged to whom."

Mrs. Shrinsky had knocked at least five times. Once she had
actually turned the knob.

"Sheila, darling," she had called. She realized
too late that they must have been confused by Sheila's car parked in its space.

"I called you in Birmingham," she told Bruce. Her
tone was aggressive, although she had tried to compose herself beforehand.
"I tried every Holiday Inn."

"What did you do that for?" He was annoyed.

"You mean a wife is not supposed to call her
husband?"

"I didn't say that."

"Well then, where the hell were you?"

There was a moment of hesitation, a long pause on the line.
In it, she discovered the full impact of its meaning. He could be lying.

"I stayed with a customer," he said. "What's
wrong with that? I saved thirty-five bucks."

"Big deal."

"What the hell is wrong, Sheila?" She sensed his
panic.

"Come on home and get me the hell out of this
place."

"Are you crazy? I've got a million appointments. I'm
about to close some big orders."

Her teeth began to chatter and she felt her throat
constrict.

"I can't stand it here Bruce. I'm twenty-one years
old. All they talk about here is sickness, dying and food."

"Food?" He seemed confused, giggling as if she
had meant it to be some kind of a joke.

"And television." Her voice rose. "I can't
stand it anymore." She must have conveyed the full impact of her anxiety.

"Baby, I love you," he said unctuously. It did
not placate her. "We'll talk about it next weekend."

"You're coming home?"

"Of course." He paused. There was another long
silence on the line. "You OK now?"

"Knowing you're coming home, I guess."

"Good. Look, keep cool. I'll see you on the
weekend."

She wanted to ask him his itinerary, in case she wanted to
speak with him. But he hung up before she had a chance to ask him. Despite her
unabated anger, she imagined she felt better and the next day drew the blinds
and unbolted the door. But before she could leave, Mrs. Shrinsky blocked her
way.