Never Too Late for Love (20 page)

"You want anything from the store?" Mrs. Shrinsky
asked. She had managed to sleep and felt calmer. She was willing to believe
that Bruce was telling the truth.

"No, thank you," she answered politely, fishing
in her shoulder bag for her car keys. Mrs. Shrinsky hesitated at the door.

"You went somewhere yesterday?"

"Yes."

"You didn't take the car?"

"No." She hoped that her one-word answers would
dampen Mrs. Shrinsky's interrogative impulse. Instead, they only stimulated
her.

"You went with friends?"

"Yes."

"You buy something?"

"I didn't go shopping."

"You went to the beach?"

She felt her irritation grow, but she held back her
temptation to fling an obscenity at the woman. "Go fuck yourself,"
she whispered to herself.

"No, I was picked up. I went for lunch." She
regretted the words before they were audible.

"Oh." Mrs. Shrinsky paused. "Where did you
go?"

"To someplace in Palm Beach. I forget the name."

"Expensive?"

"I didn't pay."

"Your friends must have money. Yes? They're
comfortable?"

"Yes."

"And the food?"

"Delicious," Sheila sighed, slyly foreclosing on
the next question. "I had the pate de foi gras."

"The what?"

"Chopped liver."

"Good chopped liver I haven't tasted here."

Sheila wasn't listening anymore. She started moving toward
her car, waving when she reached it.

There was a minor disaster waiting for her at work. Some
pipes had broken and flooded the dentist's office, and they had to close for
repairs, which left her with a long afternoon free. Parking in another space a
long way from her apartment, she literally sneaked inside, quickly changed into
a bikini, took a blanket outside in the rear of the apartment, where neither
Mrs. Shrinsky nor Mrs. Milgrim could see her, then lay down to sun herself.

"You'll burn up." It was Marvin Shrinsky's voice.
He was standing over her, a folding chair in one hand. In the other, he held a
tube of suntan lotion.

"You'd better use some of this. It's thirty. The sun
will fry you."

The fact was that she had forgotten to put sun lotion on
her skin. But how did he know that? she wondered. She wasn't exactly overjoyed
at seeing him, but reasoned that it was better than being confronted by his
wife. And he had always been a quiet man, conditioned by years of living with
Mrs. Shrinsky.

He handed her the tube. She squeezed some of it into her
palm and rubbed it into her skin. Then she turned onto her stomach and untied
her top.

"Will you do my back, please?" she asked.

"Of course," he said.

"Thank you."

He bent down beside her, squeezed some lotion into his palm
and smeared it over her back.

"The back of your legs, too?"

"I'd appreciate that."

She felt his hands gently running down her thighs and
calves. She felt oddly aroused, closing her eyes.

"Feels good," she said. His touch seem to relax
her.

She closed her eyes, as he continued to smooth on the
lotion. After a while, he stopped, but she sensed that he was observing her.

"It's no fun growing old," he said suddenly.

"Consider the alternative," she said, offering
the commonplace answer. He was silent for a longtime, but she continued to
sense his observation.

"I hate this place," he sighed.

"You're not alone."

"I feel like an alien," he said.

"You, too?"

He nodded and shrugged.

After a few more moments, she felt the heat penetrate her
back, then turned abruptly to expose her front. She hadn't remembered that her
top was loose and reached quickly with her arms to hide her breasts from view.
She knew he had already seen her. She retied her top and sat cross-legged in
front of him.

She met his gaze. His eyes were very clear and alert behind
the lenses. Against the contrast of his white hair, his tan looked very dark.
She figured he had more than fifty years on her.

"At least you can get out."

"I suppose I have that option," she sighed, with
some degree of hope.

"When you're young, you still have options. Time is on
your side."

"At least you have companionship," she said,
feeling suddenly sorry for the man. "Being old maybe no bed of roses. But
being alone is worse."

"I suppose," he nodded in assent, but something
seemed awry. "You could be old and alone, you know. Like Mrs.
Milgrim." In his case, she wondered what was worse.

"I suppose she's driving you crazy, too."

"Too?"

"I'm sure my wife is no picnic."

"They mean well."

"I think you're too tolerant," he said. "But
you are quite an event for them."

"Me?"

"For me, too," he said smiling. "When you
get old, the principal entertainment is being a busybody."

"You mean a yenta."

"They're all secretly yentas. Their minds are like
tabloids. Gossip, food are the most important things in life for them."

She laughed. It seemed a long time since she had laughed.
She felt her top slip, but she did not adjust it and she knew he could probably
see her nipples, which had inexplicably erected. Her eyes met his briefly. They
seemed young, alert. He did not turn them away. 'I'm trapped in this old body,'
they seemed to say.

His thrill for the day, she thought to herself, turning
away and lying down on her stomach again. He was silent and she dozed. When she
opened her eyes again, the sun had moved in an arc westward and he was gone.

Bruce arrived on Friday night, tired and irritable. Sheila
had prepared him a dinner of steak and salad and had splurged on a bottle of good
red wine.

"I had one helluva week," he said, chewing his
steak. The wine made his cheeks flush. "Business is slowing. We could be
heading into a recession."

"Just get me out of here," she said. "This
was one lousy idea. They tell me I'm the principal event. I can't move without
somebody watching me."

"Please, Sheila, not now. Don't hassle me now. I've
had one helluva week."

"What about my week?" Was his week really as
painful as mine? she wondered. He drank a glass of wine in a single gulp and
poured another glassful.

"I'm in prison here," she said. He let his knife
and fork drop from his hands. The handle of the knife made a clunking sound as
it hit the plate. He finished another glass of wine. "At least you're free
to do what you want."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She felt the bloat of venom, ready to burst out of her.

"Do you sleep with other women on the road?"

She couldn't believe she said it as if it was at the
forefront of her thoughts. The Birmingham incident had made her edgy and
suspicious.

He stood up, walked the length of the living room, then
back again. She was frightened. Had she gone too far? This place is making me
crazy, she thought. Finally, he returned to the table. She refused to lift her
head and look at his face.

"All I know is that I work hard, damned hard," he
said. "I work to give us a better future. I work to make money, lots of
money. I'm a salesman, and I live a traveling salesman's life. You knew that
when you married me. Believe me, my life on the road is not fun and games. I
make no apologies for it. I like it, and it does give me a sense of freedom. My
work creates for me a life away from you, separated. In your world, think of me
as out of country. But to me, you're home." He looked around the room.
"This place is home. My real home is not on the road. What I do there, you
must consider as a life apart."

There was something implied in what he said that rankled
her. Is he saying that when he is on the road, he lives another life, a life of
freedom? Is he saying that when he is on the road, he is beyond morality, not
to be questioned, not to be judged?

"This place has got to me," she said,
transferring her anger. "I do not feel at home here."

"Well then, look around for someplace else."

"You mean that?"

"Of course, I mean that," he said, stroking her
hair. "We'll check with the office and see what these condos are going
for, then we'll dump it."

The idea of escape placated her, at least through the
weekend. They spent Sunday at the beach, then went out for dinner in Fort Lauderdale, got slightly drunk and had a good time together. It was like their
courtship days. But then he was poking around in the dark on Monday morning,
getting dressed, packing his bags. She lay there, listening, trying to hold
back from thinking about the impending week. He hadn't mentioned selling the
place again, she realized. When he bent over her to kiss her forehead in his
ritual of farewell, she grabbed his wrist.

"I'm going to the office and put it on the market this
week," she said. She could feel his arm stiffen.

"Don't make any hasty decisions," he said.
"Just go in there and find out what we can get for it now."

"But suppose we can't get a good price?"

"Then it may pay to wait."

"But I can't wait."

He kissed her forehead again, sat down beside her on the
bed, and held her in his arms.

"Cool it, Sheila. Cool it." He pressed her
against him, held her for a moment, then released her and stood up.

"I'll call you," he said. She heard the door
close and the car's motor turn over in the distance. He was off to his other
life. She was sure he slept with other women on the road.

Burying her head in the pillow, she began to cry, her
shoulders shaking, the sense of imprisonment too painful to bear.

When he was gone, she got out of bed and made herself a cup
of coffee. The sun was just coming up. Suddenly, she burst into tears.

The sound of a familiar knock on the door startled her. So
early, she thought, then got up and opened the door.

"You're crying?" It was Mrs. Shrinsky. Was she
telepathic? For some reason, she actually welcomed Mrs. Shrinsky's presence.

"What's the matter, darling?"

She could not stop crying. Deep sobs wracked her body, and
Mrs. Shrinsky reached out and embraced her. Sheila did not resist. Mrs.
Shrinsky pressed her close, running a soothing hand up and down her back.

"It's all right, darling," Mrs. Shrinsky said.
"What's so terrible?"

She calmed down, comforted, at least into restraining her
hysteria, although involuntary sobs continued to convulse her.

"I can't believe this is happening," she said
finally, gently disengaging and reaching into the pocket of her robe for more
tissues. She sat on a chair and blew her nose.

"You had a fight?"

"Something like that," she said, trying to gather
her thoughts together.

"A lover's quarrel." Mrs. Shrinsky folded her
hands together and nodded her head. "Believe me, you'll have plenty of
those. Plenty."

"I think he's seeing other women," Sheila
blurted. Oddly, it seemed the only logical explanation for Mrs. Shrinsky's
ears. Plural, no less. What else could she say? That she hated it here, hated
her, even while accepting her gesture of comfort.

"Ahhaaaaa," Mrs. Shrinsky said, nodding, a
knowing look spreading over her jowly face. Her eyes sparkled with what might
have been acute joy, an idea that communicated itself to Sheila, even through
her despair. It was the absolute pinnacle of yenta heaven, the role of
advice-giver to a betrayed wife. Mrs. Shrinsky's Nirvana had arrived.

"With men, nothing changes," Mrs. Shrinsky said.
"What is required is a little patience."

"Patience?"

"A man is a man," Mrs. Shrinsky said, pausing.
Sheila imagined she could hear the purring of her inner works, winding up,
setting its chiming mechanisms.

"It's not the end of the world. Maybe he has a nosh
somewhere, a nosh here, a nosh there. But they always come back. They always
come back. This I can tell you from personal experience."

"Your Marvin?"

She looked suddenly stunned. Then she laughed and shook her
head.

"Not my Marvin," she said. "Not for years.
But you'd be surprised how many friends of mine I've sat up the night with
while they cried their eyes out, and I always told them the same thing.
Patience."

"Patience?" Sheila repeated the words to herself,
searching for some relevancy to her situation. Why patience?

"It'll burn itself out. It always does." She had
the look of someone so authoritative, so wise, so knowing, and what she was
saying seemed so meaningless, ludicrous.

Patience, Sheila thought, anger replacing her self pity.
She felt a flash of venality. Patience meant time passing.

"But suppose it was your Marvin?" Sheila asked,
her voice strong now.

"I told you. I'm long past worry about Marvin."
Mrs. Shrinsky appeared confused by the question. "Even when he could, it
probably would never even have crossed his mind." She smiled benignly.

Sheila felt a giggle begin. Then the tension seemed to
drain and she stood up, feeling better.

"You all right now?" Mrs. Shrinsky asked, as
Sheila busied herself by clearing the coffee cup from the table and rinsing it
in the sink. She was thinking how quickly the information would spread and how
soon people would be watching her with pity.

When Mrs. Shrinsky left, she dressed and, before she went
to work, she stopped at the main office of Sunset Village and listed the
condominium for sale.

"The market is not so good now," the agent told
her.

"Just sell it," she said firmly. She felt her
strength return. "I don't care what you get for it."

She realized her action might be futile because Bruce would
have to sign the documents too, but even that inhibition could not dampen her
will.

The office was open only a half day and when she returned
to the condo, Mrs. Milgrim came by, salivating at the gossipy prospect.