Never Too Late for Love (6 page)

She made herself dinner and went out for her usual
Mah-Jongg game with her friends in the clubhouse cardroom. But she could not
concentrate. Her mind dwelled on the envelope hidden under the candy dish.

"Whatsamatter Sarah?" Eve Shapiro asked. When it
came to Mah-Jongg, Eve was all business.

"I got a headache."

"You got worse than that, Sarah," Eve Shapiro
pressed as she exposed her winning combination.

"You let her win, dummy," Ida Fine said, shaking
her henna red curls.

"I'm not myself," Sarah protested.

"Yourself is such a big deal?"

During the night, she could not sleep, declining to take a
sleeping pill. Did the other Mrs. Shankowitz really deserve such punishment?
But the envelope beneath the candy dish loomed bigger and bigger in her mind as
the night wore on. She got up, made herself some tea, and sat sipping it while
she watched the candy dish and prayed for the swift end to night. In the
sunlight, she might find her courage again, she decided, knowing that remorse
was beginning to afflict her now.

In a way, she was fortunate. She had worked for more than
twenty years. There were a few dollars put aside in the bank and, of course,
there was always her son, although she dreaded to ask him for anything beyond
the fifty dollars a month he usually sent her. But she had heard enough horror
stories over delayed or missing social security checks to blunt the edge of her
malevolence as the night wore on. Think of what that woman did to you, she
repeated to herself over and over again, charging her resolve. But by morning,
she was contrite. It was a monstrous thing to do, even to your worst enemy, she
concluded. And that was precisely the case.

That morning, she dressed with care, although she had no
intentions, she assured herself, of doing anything more than putting the check
in the mailslot of the other Mrs. Shankowitz's apartment. That, and nothing
more. Then why was she dressing with such care, running the comb repetitively
through her hair, putting on faint patches of rouge, even powder. The mirror
taunted her as it did every time she saw her ravaged image in it. A
sixty-eight-year-old wreck of a woman. Where had her life gone? Secretly, she
hoped that the other Mrs. Shankowitz was ravaged beyond her years.

The address on the check made it necessary for her to take
the open air shuttle bus, and she waited patiently at the stop, checking to be
sure that the check had been secured in her purse. She got on the shuttle bus
and nodded politely to the familiar faces, wondering how they might react when
they finally knew. She could imagine how they would suddenly drop their voices,
watch her as they whispered the story among themselves. No. She could not bear
that. She got off in the approximate vicinity of the address on the check and,
with beating heart and a sense of dragging in her limbs, she walked down the
path, following the sequence of the numbers.

When she arrived at the correct address, she stood in front
of the door, rummaging in her purse, while, peripherally, she looked beyond the
transparent curtains into the apartment's interior. She saw the bluish glow of
a television set and the brief movement of a shadowy figure. Instinctively, she
knew she was being watched, which triggered a conscious desire to leave
quickly, although she felt herself rooted to the spot. The door opened before
she could slip the letter into the slot, and the check fell to the ground.

"Yes?" a woman's voice said. She was a slight
woman, very thin, in a seersucker house dress. She wore brown horn-rimmed
glasses with very thick lenses, which made her eyes seem oddly magnified and
distorted. Sarah watched her, embarrassed, unable to find any sensible words,
transfixed, it seemed, by the magnified lenses. In the shock of confrontation,
she had momentarily forgotten the fallen check.

"Mrs. Shankowitz?" Sarah finally managed to blurt
out. In her mind, it seemed a contemptuous ejaculation.

"I'm Mrs. Shankowitz," the woman said. Although
her hair was dyed brunette, her face had a gray caste, testifying to the
futility of the dye job. It was Sarah's first logical observation, bringing the
woman into perspective on a human scale.

"So am I," Sarah said, nodding. She had felt a
sense of diminished dignity at first, as if she had been caught peeking, being
a yenta. But she was recovering fast now, remembering the check, which she bent
to retrieve.

"I got your social security check," she said,
lifting it and handing it to the woman, whose face brightened, the lips
trembling into a warm smile, although the teeth were devastated.

"Thank God," the woman said. "I was going
crazy."

"We had a mix-up."

"Please. Please come in," the woman said, opening
the door and stepping beside it in a gesture of hospitality. "I was going
out of my mind." Sarah hesitated. "Please. We'll have a nice cup of
coffee."

Where had her animosity fled? Sarah wondered, although she
could not shake her embarrassment. Was she about to be humiliated? Was this the
wrong thing to do? I shouldn't really, she prepared herself to say, but the
words stuck in her throat as her legs carried her into the apartment. Like
hers, it was the efficiency type, the smallest unit, still incomplete in
furnishing.

"I'm here only two weeks. Forgive the mess."
Candace Bergen was on the television tube talking about telephones. The woman
flicked off the set and went into the kitchen. Sarah heard the sound of coffee
cups rattling.

"They tell me the first check is always a problem. The
woman at the desk says the mailman first has to get to know you. That I can't
understand..."

Sarah listened, half-understanding, surveying the little
apartment with an avid curiosity, knowing that something in the room was
engaging her, tugging at her.

"...Frankly, she wasn't very helpful. You can't
imagine how grateful I am." There was a brief pause. "You say your
name is Shankowitz..."

She had seen it briefly as she came into the apartment, but
apparently something inside her would not let it register. Nat's picture
staring at her from a corner wall, the hawk eyes watching her, although the
face was fuller, older. Her heart thumped, and she sat heavily on the couch.
The woman came in with the steaming coffee cups on a little tray. Sarah
continued to feel the hawk-like eyes watching her, looking inside of her.

"Shankowitz. I didn't think it was such a common
name."

Sarah remained silent, reached for the coffee cup, but her
hands shook and she quickly put it down again. She could tell by the woman's
sudden interest that she wanted to inquire about her health, but she was
holding back. At Sunset Village, one did not make quick inquiries about what
seemed like obvious afflictions.

"I've been a widow for three years, so a number of my
friends live here now and I finally decided to come." Sarah felt her eyes
watching her.

"You got a husband Mrs. Shankowitz?"

"I had one," Sarah mumbled. "He ... He
died."

The woman shook her head.

"When was that?"

"A long, long time ago," Sarah said, finding
little courage, abruptly changing the subject, postponing it in her mind.

"How long does it take to adjust?"

"Adjust?"

"You know what I mean. To the point where it doesn't
hurt as much."

Sarah's instinct was to say "never," or was it
simply the automatic expectation, the desire to hurt. Hurt who?

"Your name is Yetta?"

The woman smiled.

"How did you know that?"

"You got a Cousin Irma?"

"My God! Yes. Cousin Irma from Philadelphia."

"And a sister Molly."

"I can't believe it."

"And an Irving in Barcelona."

"My brother. He's traveling in Spain. Maybe we're related?"

"Maybe." Sarah shrugged. "Actually, I'm
getting your mail, your telephone calls. I expect in a little while that you'll
get mine."

"The Shankowitz girls. I could see where that could be
a problem."

Yetta seemed thoughtful. She pointed a finger at Sarah.
"You know, I'll bet maybe we are related. Maybe our husbands were cousins.
What was your husband's name?"

Sarah continued to squirm now. She rubbed her finger joints
as the pain shot through her hands.

"You'd be surprised how we're related," Sarah
said. It was not easy, she thought. Thankfully, she could see the beginnings of
confusion on Yetta's face, the first flush of realization.

"You're her?" Yetta whispered. Sarah nodded.

"I'm her."

"Oh my God." Yetta's hands went, birdlike, to her
hair, fussing with it. "I can't believe it. I had no idea." Sarah
felt the edge of indignation and stood up.

"If you think this was easy..." Sarah began, but
her voice trailed off. Yetta was visibly agitated. Her face had become grayer,
suddenly more drawn.

"You said he was dead a long time."

"I lied. But not completely. To me, he was dead."

"I can't believe it. We both land here in this
place."

Sarah shrugged.

"What was I supposed to do? Tear up the check?"

Yetta was having a difficult time recovering. She nodded
and continued to fuss with her hair. It was obvious that she wanted Sarah to
leave.

"It's all right," Sarah said quietly, letting
herself out of the door and walking quickly toward the bus stop. She regretted
the confrontation. I could have given the check back to the mailman. I could
have merely called her on the telephone. You're a dumb yenta, she told herself.
Besides, what was so special about her, she thought. A raving beauty, she
wasn't. And those glasses, a regular cockeyed Jennie. And a skinny merink on
top of it. By the time she reached her own place, Sarah had convinced herself
that she had been the better of the two bargains. But who needed her in Sunset Village?

Late that afternoon, the telephone rang.

"This is Sarah?" the voice asked. It was Yetta.

"Yes."

"I want to apologize. It was rude. You did a wonderful
thing. But it was such a shock. I was stupid."

"I figured you needed the check," Sarah said,
feeling an odd sense of superiority. Yetta paused.

"Look, he was a nice man. But he wasn't such a good
provider. There was no insurance. No nothing. Perfect he wasn't."

"You're telling me." There were questions to be
raised, Sarah thought. Old curiosities resurrected. Apparently such thoughts
were in Yetta's mind.

"We'll see each other again?"

"It's a small world here," Sarah said.

"And how is your son?"

"He's fine. He called me New Year's."

"He's a nice boy. I haven't seen him since Nat
died."

"A very nice boy. He calls me often." She paused.
"He's very busy."

"Give him regards."

"Of course."

That night, the old life with Nat came to her again with
full recall. But her image of him was suddenly different. She could not summon
the same degree of enmity; the old hate had cooled. What was the real story? In
the morning, she called Yetta.

"I'm going shopping this morning. Would you like to
come?"

"I could use some things," Yetta said. They met
on the bus and got off at the stop near the Safeway, walking together through
the aisles sharing a shopping cart.

"Nat liked All-Bran," Yetta said, reaching for a
box of Rice Crispies.

"I remember. He was always constipated."

"That was always his main problem."

"That and snoring."

"He always snored?"

"From the beginning."

Later, putting the purchases in Yetta's refrigerator while
Yetta made coffee, Sarah said, "You had the problem with the salt?"

"My God, the salt."

"There was always too much salt. I used to say, 'I
never cook with salt. Not even a pinch.' But there was always too much salt. In
the pot roast. In the hamburger. In the vegetables."

"He drove me crazy."

"I couldn't understand how, if he hated salt, he liked
potato chips."

"And they always gave him heartburn."

"Always." They laughed, drank coffee, made
tuna-fish sandwiches.

Sarah filled her in on various aspects of Sunset Village life. When she got home, she got a call from Eve Shapiro.

"The game. You forgot the game."

"I'm so sorry."

"We were worried. We called. There was no answer.
Where were you?"

"I had a problem." Sarah said, thinking quickly.
There was no need to tell her the story. The Yentas would ferret it out soon
enough. "Someone who just moved in from New York. They had a
problem."

"Oh?" It was a signal for more information.

"They needed help with the shopping. You know.
Details."

"Enough to forget the game? Who was it?"

"Someone from New York."

"A relative?"

"Yes."

"A cousin?"

"No. Not a cousin."

"A what?" Eve Shapiro demanded.

"A sister-in-law."

"I didn't know you had one."

"Yes. We weren't very close."

"You're husband had a brother?"

"Yes. But he lived in Queens. They weren't very
close."

Barely satisfied, Eve's indignance would not abate.

"You should at least have called."

The next day, Yetta came over to Sarah's place to lunch.

"You got a nice place here, Sarah."

"Its not the Ritz. But its OK."

"You've got such nice things." She touched a
grouping of little Wedgewood dishes.

"I went on a B'nai B'rith tour to London once."

"I never went anywhere. Nat didn't like to travel. Not
that we could afford it."

"Don't forget, I worked for twenty years."

"He didn't like to go anywhere," Yetta sighed.
"He came home. Went to sleep on the chair in front of the TV. Sometimes he
would snore so loud I couldn't hear it."

"Then he would go to sleep and snore some more."