CHAPTER THREE

The process became a daily round. She concentrated on the obituary columns of the Palm Beach Post and, after attending a number of funerals for "beloved wives of," she began to narrow down the possibilities by assessing the relative cost of both the memorial sites and the cemeteries where the internment was to take place. Naturally, she used the most expensive places on which to concentrate her attention.

After a few weeks, she embellished her research by searching out the homes of the deceased and making her funeral attendance judgments on the size and location of the residences. She had quickly learned that it was pointless to waste her time on what was not economically viable and attended only those funerals of bona-fide wealthy ladies whose husbands had outlived them.

She hadn't told Jackie about her campaign, reasoning that if her daughter had been more aware and attuned to her mother's activities, she would have noticed her unusual interest in the obituary columns. Nevertheless, her effort and its daily routine had all the earmarks of job hunting, and she would often return home in a state of obvious disappointment. By then, she had gone through the processing routine at the unemployment office, and they had promised that her first check would be coming in a few weeks.

"No luck, Mom?" Jackie would ask.

"Nope."

The fact was that the operation had more hope and promise in theory than in practice. Opportunity was not as Mrs. Burns had characterized it. Real prospects were difficult to find. She was, in fact, a fortune hunter, and anyone with a fortune was by nature cagey and illusive. A male in this enterprise would have a much easier time of it finding his mark. There was, after all, no equality in the chronology of death. Statistics cited men overwhelmingly as dying before women.

In three weeks, she had managed to attend several funerals, none of which offered a truly viable candidate. Most were for older ladies in their seventies and eighties whose husbands were out of her range. Some were in wheelchairs; the others seemed comatose. Even so, she did consider the possibility, but the price seemed far too high.

There were, however, moments of optimism. She attended one for a woman in her fifties with a husband who was attractive and remarkably stoic and appeared at first blush to be a perfect candidate. She had checked out their home and had learned that the man was a well-known banker from Broward County.

Dressing carefully for this one, she arrived at the service full of great expectations until she noted that the man sat in a row behind his three grieving children and their spouses, which seemed unusual, until she learned, as they were filing out, that the couple was in the midst of a bitter divorce and the woman had died suddenly from an embolism that might have been brought on by the tension.

"There's a relief," she overheard one of the female attendees say as they filed out. "Now he can marry his nafka." Days later at a funeral she overheard both the word and its translation. Nafka meant whore in Yiddish.

One funeral of a woman in her early sixties did seem to suggest a hopeful possibility. Her research informed her that the couple had lived in a lovely old mansion off Banyan Road, one of the most expensive areas of Palm Beach. The woman, Rebecca Horowitz, had been very social. Her husband was reputed to have made a fortune in oil. He was handsome, apparently healthy and reasonably well preserved for a man in his late sixties.

She attended the funeral in the most prestigious synagogue in the area. Shiny Rolls Royces and stretch Mercedes limousines filled the parking lot. The women who attended were appropriately solemn but dressed to the nines and the men all looked prosperous and successful.

The prospect was exciting, although she had no illusions. This would require all her resources. The woman got raves from the rabbi and various other participants, who lauded her many good deeds. There were numerous mourners in the first row. She assumed a number were the couple's children. The widower was tall and good-looking, with a dignified, gracious way of accepting condolences.

During the service she had fantasized over the various ploys she would use to make contact with the man and the manner in which she would conduct herself. She joined the funeral procession, managing to get a lift from one of the well-groomed couples who had room in their big cream-colored Cadillac.

By then, experience had taught her that a wonderful repast was served by the grieving family after the return from the cemetery, like an Irish wake, except that the guest of honor was not laid out in the house. On occasion, depending on the state of her hunger, she would join the procession in her own car or, if it was convenient, solicit a lift from one of the party.

She gave her real name and offered a cover story that she had struck up an acquaintance with the dead woman after meeting her at Saks.

"We became friends and confidantes," Grace told the couple, who introduced themselves as the Saypols.

"That must have been before she got worse."

"Yes," Grace said. "Before."

"Too bad the way she went," the man said. "Up to me, I'd go poof myself." He motioned with his hands to emphasize the point.

"Still, it wasn't very decent of him to start dating while she was still alive," his wife said.

"He was lonely, for crissake. His wife was in a damned nursing home with Alzheimer's. She didn't even know who he was."

"She was still his wife," the woman said.

"He had needs," the husband grumped.

The wife looked toward Grace.

"Men and their needs," she said with disdain.

"What do you women know about those kind of needs?" the man said, with a sudden burst of anger.

"He didn't have to flaunt it," the woman said, turning to Grace. "He's already made plans to marry some bimbo. Everybody knows it. I think it's disgusting."

"Betty is not a bimbo."

"She's not even thirty."

"That's not bimbo, that's just young. Are you jealous?"

"Me? Don't be ridiculous. He's more than thirty years older than her and he won't be able to keep up." She shot her husband a knowing glance. "No way. And, in the end, she'll get all his money and the kids won't get a dime."

"He's already worked out a prenup."

"Very wise," Grace said, remembering Mrs. Burns's reference.

"Sure it's a smart move," the man explained, "It lays out the boundaries."

"For the moment," the woman pointed out. "Wait'll she gets her hooks in," she said. "Women like those know what they're about. The day will come when he'll tear up the agreement or else."

"Or else what?"

"You know what."

"What? You mean she'll cut him off?"

"You got that right."

"You just said he couldn't keep up, meaning you know what. What would it matter if she cut him off? Cut off from what?"

"Men are stupid," the woman said with another quick glance at her husband. "That's all they think about."

"What do women think about?" He turned to Grace.

"I'm not sure how you mean that," Grace replied, uncomfortable at being thrust into this situation. Thankfully, the man provided the answer to his own question.

"It's all about money, possessions, hair, clothes, face-lifts, security, shopping, gossip, the children. Nothing about the man, the essence of the man they call husband. We're just here to make the dough while they figure out ways to spend it, mostly on themselves."

"What would you do without us?" the woman said, offering a mocking laugh.

"Plenty," the man said.

After that, they both seemed to crawl into themselves and remained silent and morose until they got to the cemetery.

Under a canopy at the cemetery she sat next to a woman who could not contain her contempt for the man, who looked appropriately mournful and teary-eyed.

"Look at him, the lousy bastard, making like he's gonna miss her."

The rabbi said a prayer and the mourners watched as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Having seen so many funerals lately, Grace was beginning to view death with less fear and to consider "time" with a lot more appreciation. Funerals certainly gave living people a moment to reflect, not only on the worthiness or lack thereof of the life being dispatched but on the conduct and finite nature of their own lives. So far, hers hadn't been so hot.

What was it all about, she wondered, if this was the way it ended, a bag of bones in a box? It did teach that human beings, despite all the differences of religion, race, gender, intelligence and talent, came ultimately to the same place at the end of the line. This was small comfort for someone like her, who had, barring a catastrophe, about half her allotted time to fill. But the reflection did act as a spur for her to get on with her project before it was too late. At that point, of course, she had already written off this man as a possibility. He had his bimbo.

After the burial, the couple she had come with drove her to the mansion of the widower.

"You gonna cry at my funeral, George?" the woman asked.

"I won't be there," the man said. "Just look at the statistics."

"You'll be there."

"No, I won't."

"Maybe you'll both get lucky and die together in a plane crash," Grace suddenly blurted. They looked at her, not knowing whether it was meant as a joke or not.

"Who'll cry then?" the man said.

"Not my daughters-in-law," the woman huffed. "They'll be dancing on our graves."

At the widower's home, a huge spread was laid on, and Grace spent most of the time inspecting the rooms, the magnificent artwork and antiques and other expensive appointments. She wondered if the new woman, the bimbo, had given up her claim to them in their prenuptial agreement.

She would have to be wary of men like that, Grace decided after inspecting the widower at close range. What she would strive for was parity with the first wife, she decided, despite the growing remoteness of the possibility.

She treated this after-burial ritual as a learning experience. The food, she had noted, was invariably catered and beautifully displayed. There was often champagne. It was more than a repast. It was a feast. She wondered whether these people were celebrating death or life.

After a dozen or so funerals, she began to recognize familiar faces, both men and women, who nodded knowingly to her, and she soon realized that these were the "regulars," who apparently attended funerals solely for the after-cemetery feast. Few questioned them, but when they did they had, like her, a ready story to account for their appearance. So far, no one had questioned her except for the Horowitz funeral, and she had actually told the truth; well, a half-truth. Thankfully, she saw no regular that might offer her any real competition.

One of them, an oldish woman of indeterminate age with a solemn face and hair done in an old-fashioned gray bun, seemed to appear most often. Grace noted that she ate sparingly and always managed to find an opportunity to offer what appeared to be heartfelt words of condolence to the grieving spouse. Once Grace had gotten close enough to overhear the conversation.

"Parting with her personal worldly goods can be traumatic," the woman said. "I knew her well enough to know that she was a woman of deep compassion. I'm sure that after the children have made their selection, she would have been honored to have her clothes given to the homeless and various welfare services and charities."

"I'm sure," the grieving husband had retorted.

"And you can avoid the trauma of going through her things. I can tell you, it hurts. I had that experience with my own dear Sidney. It was awful. All those memories. It's too painful a process. I can spare you that. Why not let us take care of everything? We'll make sure that they go to her favorite charities. We owe her that. Can we do that for you? Take the burden and pain away?"

The grieving man looked at his hands and shook his head in despair.

"I'd appreciate that very much. Yes, it would be very painful. That is so kind of you, relieving me of that. She had such wonderful taste. Yes, please. That's a wonderful idea."

The conversation made an impression on Grace. She hadn't thought about that aspect of death, the disposal of the deceased's intimate possessions, particularly clothes. She had often wondered where on earth those compulsive shoppers at Saks had stored their mountains of clothes. In these big homes, she supposed there were acres of closets holding long lines of designer clothes.

Of course, she did allow herself a twinge of cynicism. This woman did, indeed, look like one of the funeral party. Everything about her seemed appropriate to the occasion, including the way in which she approached the grieving spouse. Did she really give the deceased's clothes to charity, or would she sell them to secondhand clothes stores, which were in abundance in southern Florida? A brilliant scam, Grace concluded. It certainly showed flair and imagination.

Once or twice she had come home tipsy from the wine or champagne, causing Jackie to remark that she hoped that Grace was not hanging out in bars and heading toward alcoholism.

"Why can't you get yourself a nice guy, Mom, then you wouldn't have to resort to drink?"

"I'm trying, darling. Really I am."

"Not very hard," her daughter would harrumph. "And you're always dressed so ... so gloomy. You really look lousy in black, Mom."

"I want to look conservative, Jackie."

"That I can understand. But you don't have to look like you're going to a funeral."

It was getting discouraging. Time was running out. Not that she felt ghoulish about going to funerals. The events seemed so commonplace, banal. There was the body in the coffin, the first row occupied with visibly distraught mourners, the others filling the sequential rows in order of their emotional stake in the proceedings.

Then there were the various eulogies, all of them sounding alike. Why did people wait until death to say such nice things about each other? She wondered if people would say nice things about her when she died. Except for the priest, she doubted it. There would probably be less than a handful of mourners present. Maybe Jackie would attend on Darryl's motorcycle. Her father, she supposed, would be long gone, and Jason, by then, would have forgotten who she was.

Of course, if her consciousness were still alive to observe it, she was sure she, or it, would feel humiliated by the low turnout. She began to contemplate cremation. Quick and clean. No fuss, no muss, no bother. She'd have her ashes flushed down the toilet of Saks Fifth Avenue's employee rest room.

It occurred to her that attending these funerals was encouraging a macabre sense of humor, or was it masking a growing feeling of personal depression and frustration? So far the only thing she seemed to have gained was a modicum of insight into the finite nature of time and the inevitability of death.

Unfortunately, it hadn't put her one step closer to finding her quarry.

Until the Goodwin funeral.

By then, not wishing to waste her time on marginal opportunities, she had taken more care with her research and had, as best she could in a short time, checked out Sam Goodwin's situation. She had learned that he was a successful businessman, meaning rich, that he was sixty-four years old and that his wife had died of cancer.

He had a large house on the north side of Palm Beach, the only place on the island where the houses were directly on the beach, an excellent measure of his net worth, which had to be considerable. The house was close to the former Kennedy compound, as well as other homes reputed to be the property of old moneyed families. She had actually toured the area the evening before the day of the funeral, stopping to get a better look at the house.

By chance, as she observed the area, a man came out of the house with a golden retriever who relieved himself on the manicured front lawn. The man was tall, slender and handsome, with steel gray hair and a strong chin. She wondered if this was "the" Sam Goodwin, the grieving widower. She hoped he was, and she observed him with more than proprietary interest until he went back into the house.

The sight of the man and the property she wished he was inhabiting did set off her fantasies. The house was lovely, designed in a Tudor style. She sat in the car as the sun went down and the house lights came on. From her vantage, with the blinds only half drawn, it appeared to be tastefully furnished.

She contemplated summoning the courage to get out of the car and closer to the house, where she could peek through the windows and inspect the inside more thoroughly. It seemed too risky. Besides, other people suddenly appeared, leaving through the front door. They were well dressed and, from experience, she suspected that they were heading to the funeral parlor.

So far she had only visited funeral parlors the night before a couple of times. There, the body, carefully groomed, was displayed and visitors viewed it in hushed silence. At times, depending on the wishes of the relatives, the coffin remained closed.

Jews, she had learned, buried their dead quickly, usually the day after the death, unless their Sabbath intervened. She was getting to be an expert on such matters.

She found such a visitation far more depressing than the funeral itself and hadn't made it a regular practice. Besides, she hadn't wanted to expose herself too blatantly to the mourning family members or court embarrassment by being asked questions about her relationship to the corpse.

But this time her earlier observation of the prospect was encouraging and she felt that, despite the risk, he deserved a closer look. She was not disappointed. The open coffin, with lighted candles in elaborate candelabra on either side, displayed what could be described as the vestiges of a once pretty woman.

The dead woman had bleached blonde hair, was appropriately made-up and laid out in an elaborate coffin dressed in what appeared to be an expensive designer gown. If she had to guess, Grace would say the gown was a Galanos. A diamond brooch, which looked like the real thing, was pinned to the gown. She looked vaguely familiar; but then, on the Saks floor, many of the customers looked as if they were stamped out by the same plastic surgeon, hair colorist and beautician.

The grieving husband, Sam Goodwin, was, indeed, the man she had seen the night before. He wore a dark pinstriped suit and sat on a velvet-upholstered chair along one side of the room. Seated beside him, each holding one of his hands, were a man and a woman, obviously, from the resemblance, his grown children. Their eyes were puffy and red.

At this close range she noted that the man's steel-gray hair was full and curly. His face was square, rugged and tanned. He might normally have appeared handsome and virile, but under these conditions he looked whipped, broken and grieving. The son was a younger version of his father. Grace estimated him as late thirties, the daughter younger. She wore round steel-rimmed glasses and her black hair was brushed back severely off her face, which was smoothly white and sharply contrasted against her hair. She wore no makeup. With the right makeup, Grace observed, she could be quite startling.

The room was filled with people, some of whom lingered respectfully over the body in the coffin, then moved to pay their respects to the three grieving people, who acknowledged them by a nod, a touch or a handshake. It was obvious that they were in a kind of mourning trance, barely able to be communicative. People spoke in whispers, offering condolences in the time-honored ritual.

Grace stood in a corner trying to appear equally concerned and respectful, while peripherally focusing her attention on Sam Goodwin. She did not want to stay too long or appear conspicuous. At one point the man's eyes rose and scanned the room. His gaze fell upon her briefly and she imagined he nodded in her direction, then passed on to others.

"Will you sign the book, Mrs.... ?" a tall man said. He was standing behind her, near a lectern on which was a visitors' book.

"Sorentino," she said. "I was a friend..." Her voice trailed off. The man had started a conversation with another person.

Grace signed the book and noted the various names on the list above her. She vaguely recognized some of them as names she had seen in the social pages of the Palm Beach Post. The name Goodwin seemed familiar. She noted, too, that the names in the book were not only Jewish names, but seemed to cover a broader spectrum. Also, the people in the room seemed more anglicized than those she had seen clustered together in other Jewish funerals.

To Grace, who had learned something about the social makeup of Palm Beach from her Saks experience, this meant that the man had crossed the rigid lines of social status and was equally acceptable to gentiles in the various social enclaves of the wealthy where money, at times, could cover a multitude of prejudices, at least partially.

A man she recognized as a former senator from Florida came in and immediately sought out the grieving trio, who rose in tandem. The man embraced the widower, who towered above him, and then embraced the children in turn.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," the former senator said. Sam Goodwin nodded and dabbed his eyes with a handkerchief.

She took one last look around the room, impressed by the people in attendance, the atmosphere and especially with the grieving man, who was distinguished-looking and definitely in the age range that she had set for herself. Unfortunately, she felt unworthy and remote, far below the man in social status and sophistication, definitely a class or two apart.

Contemplating her inferiority depressed her and made her feel clumsy and undeserving. She was ashamed of this cynical caper borne out of desperation and, probably, naïveté. Was she any better than Jason, chasing rainbows and impossible dreams? Where did she get the idea that she could simply snap her fingers and insinuate herself into the life of such a man, even in his present vulnerable state? She slinked out of the room feeling defeated and remote, woefully inadequate to the mad task she had assigned herself.

But as she drove farther from the funeral home, she made a valiant attempt to retrieve her courage. She did have assets, she insisted to herself. All right, she was not very educated or sophisticated, had not traveled in the same circles and was definitely not the traditionally glitzy trophy-wife type. Nevertheless, she was certainly ready and willing to fulfill all the obligations of being an exemplary, dedicated, sexy, loyal and supportive wife. She was a catch, she told herself, feeling slightly giddy.

But then she began to project herself into reality. This handsome widower would be a magnet for battalions of single, attractive ladies with extraordinary trophy-wife potential, divisions of accomplished and athletic widows who would fling themselves in his path, women from his own class who knew him and did not have to contrive subterfuges to meet him, who would park their shoes under his bed at the lift of his eyebrow. How could she possibly compete against them?

Her courage dwindled further as she got closer to her apartment. It wouldn't take him five minutes to discover what she really was, a lowly, out-of-work cosmetician, a fancy name for makeup salesperson, with no prospects or money, who had, so far, made a mess of her life.

It was all right for Mrs. Burns to suggest this course of action. She was educated, polished, articulate, self-confident, a born leader and executive with a proven track record and a great job. She could attract men like moths around a candle. Any man would be proud to have her on his arm.

She took a realistic inventory of her present position, and it offered a dreary prospect. People should stay within their own circle, she decided, as she let herself in the door of the apartment. Jackie wasn't home yet from her job in the movie theater.

She went into her bedroom, took off her clothes and lay on the bed. Often in this state of uncertainty and despair she had turned to her dildo for comfort. She got up, fished in her lower drawer and took it out. But when she lay back in the bed, activated the device and began the process she felt nothing. She shut off the motor and put it aside. Sex, in this artificial manner, struck her now as repugnant, humiliating in its implications. Her mind continued to dwell on the crazy premise that had dominated her life for the past few weeks.

She had been a fool to consider such a patently cynical and stupid idea. It was time, instead, to deal with real alternatives, like a job. Suddenly her life seemed to have stopped on a dime. Yet, in an odd way, she likened her present state to that of Sam Goodwin. His life, too, at least temporarily, had also stopped on a dime.

He was probably, at this very same moment, considering his future without his beloved wife. The manner in which he was grieving, she assumed, attested to his devotion to her. She admired that kind of devotion.

It was the curse of her early Catholicism that made it impossible for her to be morally neutral. She was, after all, engaging in a cynical, dissimulating, hypocritical act, building her future prospects on a tissue of lies. She could not escape the clearly defined sense of right and wrong promulgated by the Church. According to those strictures, she was doing wrong, something sinful. At times such ironclad, uncompromising definitions seemed more powerful than the act of survival itself. Wasn't that what she was pursuing in these funeral capers? Survival. Deliberately, she pushed aside the concept of sin as presenting far too rigid a barrier and began to rationalize her intent.

Was it really sinful to want to replace a man's loving departed wife, to bring him joy and rejuvenation? She pictured him as she had seen him earlier that evening, looking after his dog. He was graceful and elegant, handsome.

In her mind, she imagined him coming closer to where she was observing him in her car. He smiled at her and offered his hand, which she took. It was strong, yet gentle. He eased her out of the car and, hand in hand, moved with her into the house. Inside, he turned to her and they embraced. He kissed her deeply, his tongue caressed hers, as he enveloped her in his arms. She responded, felt all the wonderful sensations of his embrace.

A sudden thrill charged through her and she reached for the dildo again, activating it, placing the tip on her clitoris, picturing him now naked, erect, entering her. She felt open, moist, accepting, as he moved deeply inside her, speeding his strokes. After awhile she felt the first signs of an oncoming orgasm. Finally the spasm came, and it seemed more intense than usual.

She calmed slowly, surprised how strongly Sam Goodwin had entered her fantasy life. Hold that thought, Grace, she told herself as she dropped into a dreamless sleep.

She awoke in a turmoil. It was still dark. Her body was hot and moist and her heart was racing. By some miracle, she had held the thought, and she remembered the fantasy that had stimulated her. But, she discovered, there seemed a lot more to the fantasy than the sexual component, and she gave it full reign as she remained in bed waiting for daylight.

She saw herself as the chatelaine of his big Tudor house on the beach, the new Mrs. Goodwin. It was morning and she imagined herself locked in his arms as she awoke, the sun peeking through the blinds, lighting the room, dancing along the walls bedecked with works of art and ornate ormolu-trimmed mirrors and antiques. The sunlight would awaken the colors of the gorgeous Oriental rugs on the floor.

She would stretch and observe the silken lining of the canopied bed, and soon he would stir beside her and they would make love, a long, lingering episode of foreplay and glorious orgasms for both of them, then the delicious time of leisurely afterglow.

Later there would be breakfast on the terrace. She would be wearing a long, silk, embroidered morning gown enhanced by a delicate gold necklace around her neck. The maid would serve them, cold orange juice in stemmed glasses, eggs, over light the way she liked them, and crisp bacon, toasted bagels, strawberry jam and wonderful coffee, the aroma complementing the sea air.

They would read The New York Times and occasionally comment about various events in the news, lock eyes at times and purse lips in a mimed kiss. Before them would stretch the white sands of the beach and beyond, the glistening sea, twinkling in the sunlight.

Sam would enter his study and do his various business chores, perhaps overseeing his investments, calling his brokers. He was still in action, of course, a captain of industry, offering suggestions to his colleagues and underlings in the business community in which he operated.

She would be involved in her many activities, running the house, meeting with the staff to plan the evening dinner party. The governor would be coming, of course, along with his lovely wife and two or three other couples, perhaps a famous movie actress and her industrialist husband and, for extra excitement, a duke and duchess from Great Britain laden with the latest gossip of the royal family. A cozy little dinner for eight by candlelight. On the good china, of course, the set that had previously belonged to the czar of Russia.

Later there would be tennis doubles at the club ... what club ... perhaps the Everglades, which was, she knew, notoriously anti-Semitic. In this fantasy, Sam had been chosen their first Jewish member. Initially, he had refused, but the club president had persuaded him after a long private dinner that it was time that class, not religion, should dominate the selection process. She, his new wife, had been mentioned, of course. A distinct asset, the president had said, a wise and glorious match.

After tennis, an exquisite lunch, overlooking the eighteenth hole with the retired chairman of AT&T, after which they would be driven back to their home, still a little tipsy from the Dom Perignon that they had imbibed a bit too freely.

Back home they would have a brief swim in the pool, then retreat to the beach house and have a delicious sexual episode before falling off into a delightful nap, rising with just enough time to dress, supervise the table settings and discuss the final arrangements with the cook and the couple who would be serving.

Dinner would go off without a hitch and they would linger over the brandy, while the men smoked their Havanas and the talk waxed eloquent about the current state of affairs in Washington and the world. They would listen with rapt attention to her views as she outlined the prospects of monetary reform based on her assessment of the latest conference of the World Bank.

Before the guests said good-bye, Jackie, coming home from the dance at the club, looking radiant in the latest Oscar—by then she would be referring to all designers by their first names—would introduce them to her date, the son of the owner of the largest cruise company in the world, and they would remark on Jackie's beauty and poise and her date's good looks and sophistication.

Just past midnight they would bid their guests good-bye with effusive two-cheek kisses, and she and Sam would be alone for one last nightcap and, before going upstairs, they would take off their shoes and walk to the water's edge and kiss in the moonlight, finally going to bed, but not before one last slow turn at lovemaking to cap off the day as they fell asleep in each other's arms.

Then, suddenly, the first beams of the rising sun revealed the truth of her present reality, her dreary bedroom, the sounds of the early morning army of drab working people setting off to their dead-end jobs, all of them two paychecks from oblivion and the unemployment lines. The long fall from fantasy to reality had taken merely seconds, and she was back to the decisions, anxieties and poverty of the present.

She heard Jackie in the shower, put on her quilted, much-abused robe and went into the kitchenette to make coffee, pour the juice and make toast. It was certainly a long cry from the breakfast she had created in her imagined world.

"Sleep well, Jackie?" she asked when Jackie came out of the bathroom, her skin pink with youthful health, her teeth glistening in a broad smile. She bent down and kissed her mother's cheek.

"You were asleep when I came in, Mom. I didn't have heart to wake you."

Grace reached up and caressed her daughter's cheek, wary of showing too much demonstrative affection, fearful that it might be interpreted as phony or manipulative. She loved this child with every fiber of her being, but guiding her through this crucial period of her life was both baffling and extremely worrisome.

"That's my girl," Grace said.

Jackie threw off her robe, revealing her nakedness. Her figure was perfect: high, beautiful breasts with round pink nipples, flat stomach, a patch of rich black curly pubic hair, the finely rounded rump, the long legs, tight thighs, shapely calves. This was a beauty. And the face—gorgeous, long curling black lashes shading light brown eyes, a curving Italian nose chiseled into high cheekbones and angel lips over a cleft chin. She knew that Jackie could feel her inspection.

"You think I'm pretty, Mom?"

"A knockout."

"Lot of good it does me," Jackie pouted.

"Just have patience, Jackie. Things are beginning to turn around. I can feel it. You'll see."

"Sure, Mom." Jackie sighed, stepping into her panties and bra, then fastening a beige skirt around her slim waist and slipping into a cream-colored blouse. Yes, Grace thought, she was bright and beautiful, with enormous potential to make the jump into the best circles. She was aware of her sexiness, too aware. She needed to learn how to use her allure for her own advantage, not to dispense her favors indiscriminately.

"Really, Jackie. Something's in the wind."

"Like what?"

"I can't say."

"Are you keeping something from me, Mom?" Jackie asked.

"Not really," Grace replied, thinking of Sam Goodwin. "But I do believe I have possibilities." It was, of course, pure fantasy at that point, but she felt she needed to offer something to keep hope alive.

"Possibilities?" Jackie sighed. "Sure, Mom, possibilities."

"And if I latch on to something good, first thing we do is get you that car."

"I've heard that before, Mom."

"I mean it. Maybe even..." She recalled her fantasy. "Lots of things."

She sat down at the table and sipped her coffee and delicately buttered her toast.

"It's nice thinking about."

"Yes, it is," Grace agreed. "Very nice."

"Things just can't stay like this."

"No, they can't."

"It's the pits."

"We have to make good things happen," Grace said suddenly. "Take the bull by the horns."

She knew she was giving herself a pep talk, trying to work herself up to continuing her quest, despite the odds against it ever being fulfilled.

"You're right, Mom. We can't just let things happen to us."

"We've got to make them happen. We've just hit a bad patch is all."

"To put it mildly," Jackie said.

"I'll find a better way for us Jackie. I promise."

"Sure, Mom," Jackie agreed, studying her mother's face with a wry smile.

"What are you looking at, darling?" Grace asked.

"I do think about you a lot, Mom."

"You do?"

"Darryl is probably right."

"Not him again," Grace snapped, her mood changing. "I thought we had an understanding."

"No. You did. I didn't."

"He's trouble, Jackie. Dangerous and mean-minded."

"Shows how much you know."

"We both know where his brains are," Grace said, remembering his swollen genitals. Jackie sneered.

"He has convictions. And he's smart. He knows what's really going on. He's against the government and he thinks there's a conspiracy to make us all slaves to the Jews."

Grace felt her stomach tighten.

"Oh, my God. Not one of those."

"One of what?"

"A troublemaking bigot, a Nazi creep from one of those militias."

"He's not a creep either."

"He's a menace, Jackie. He's just using you for his own gratification. Can't you find someone decent?"

"Can't you?"

"People like that are scary, Jackie. Just look at that ugly knife he carries. Gave me the shivers, and he's probably got guns all over the place."

"That's his business."

Grace felt a shiver of fear roll through her.

"He does have guns, doesn't he?"

"Considering what's going on in the world, it's not such a bad idea."

"Jackie ... I ... I don't think he's a good influence on you. Can't you see how awful ... how can I put this? You really have got to stop seeing him. For your own sake. No good can come of it."

She feared making her suggestion seem like an absolute command, which, so far, hadn't done much good and would only push her closer to Darryl.

"You never like my boyfriends anyway."

"He's trouble, Jackie. I'm your mother and I'm just thinking of your welfare. You're still young, sweetheart. I'm just trying to keep you from making a terrible mistake. Men like that are ... well, just no good. Why look for trouble? Haven't we got enough on our plate without that?"

"You're still angry because you caught us in bed together and he hit you."

"Two very good reasons ... among others," Grace muttered, her patience ebbing. The joy of her morning fantasy had disappeared. "Besides, you're under age. How old is he, anyway?"

"That's dangerous talk, Mom. Very threatening." Jackie paused and clicked her teeth. "It's no joke."

"I just asked how old he was."

"I wouldn't advise your finding out, Mom."

"Now who's threatening?"

"It's you who's looking for trouble, Mom. If you're thinking of turning him in, don't."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea."

"You'd be making a big mistake."

"What are you now, a gun moll?"

"Very funny." She began to pace the room like a caged tiger. "I'll see who I want to see. I want to see Darryl. And I'd advise you not to make threats. You don't know him. He's exciting and smart and sexy. And he likes me."

"Big deal. He likes you. Ho ho," Grace mocked, her anger bursting through her self-imposed barrier. "Why shouldn't he like you? Sweet jailbait flesh."

"That was out of line, Mom." She paced for a few moments more, then turned to Grace. Her look seemed softer.

"Not to me."

"What is it with you? Every time I mention Darryl you go up the wall."

"Not at the mention. It's because of the reality. I can't believe you can't see what he is."

"I know what he is, Mom. You don't." Jackie clicked her tongue. "Here we go again. Let's both cool it. Okay?" She came close to Grace and kissed her forehead, but it struck her as mechanical, more like a dismissal.

"Tell you the truth, he likes you, Mom. Maybe I'm jealous."

"Of me?"

"He said he thought you were sexier than I was."

"Is that supposed to be a compliment to me or an insult to you? He did make an obscene offer, if I recall. It was disgusting."

"He also said that you really didn't look like a mom. That you seemed to be hiding your light under a bushel."

"I can't believe you're repeating this ... making this asshole's words seem profound."

Jackie smiled and shook her head, as if Grace was the errant child.

"You just don't know about men, Mom. That's why you haven't got any. You need to tune in more to your real self. Give your desires more room to breathe."

"Where is this shit coming from?"

"I know you think I'm a stupid teenager. But I think I know more about the opposite sex than you do."

"Is this your big talent, Jackie?"

"I know this: If I put my mind to it, I can really manipulate the opposite sex. I know my assets in that regard."

"You're sixteen, Jackie. Going on fifty." Grace stood up, the last vestiges of restraint collapsing. "And this is the most ridiculous and eccentric mother-daughter conversation we've ever engaged in. You're recycling his bullshit as true wisdom. He's a dangerous wacko with all his brains in his dick."

"Mind your tongue, young lady," Jackie mimicked, laughing. She reached out, took her mother's hand and kissed it.

At that moment, she heard the raucous sound of a motorcycle as it stopped nearby.

"Stop diddling me, Jackie."

"I'm not going to stop seeing him. Get that through your head."

She ran out of the door before Grace could respond. Looking out the window, she watched Jackie put on a helmet and straddle the bike behind Darryl as they roared away. The sound was ominous, like distant thunder warning of an impending storm.

She closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a long moment. Somehow she felt chastised, as if her daughter and she had reversed roles. But as she thought about it, she felt more challenged than rebuked, and the image of Sam Goodwin refocused itself in her mind. Suddenly, all options seemed closed. Except one.

When you're drowning, she thought, you grab anything that floats. Then she rushed into the bathroom, removed her quilted robe and jumped into the shower.