Never Too Late for Love (31 page)

"She's just busy," Jack would say.

"I can't understand it. Am I such a horror? I gave her
a beautiful boy, a good provider. What did we do to her?"

"Nothing, Ma."

He would curse Mrs. Greenstein in his heart. It was, he
believed, all her fault. She was the evil force in his life. She possessed his
wife, possessed her mind. Not that it didn't have an effect on her body. She
was not as loving as she might have been.

But the only matter over which Jack and Barbara ever argued
about was the in-laws. Both sides. They didn't argue about money. There were no
personal jealousies between them. They agreed on all matters involving the
children. There were no ego problems between them. Only the one issue.

"I'd like my parents to come over Sunday," he
might tell her.

"Let them come. I'll be somewhere else."

"What the hell did they ever do to you?"

"Do we have to go through that again?"

"Well, then your mother can go take a flying fuck for
herself."

"She doesn't care if you're here or not."

"Good. Because I don't ever intend to be here when
she's around."

It was, of course, an idle threat. He had long ago stopped
being around when his mother-in-law came to visit--which was most of the time.

Sometimes the conditions of his life would get him down,
especially the effect it had on his parents, who seemed to have drifted out of
his life, reappearing only to emphasize his own lack of courage.

"How come you don't call, Jack?" his mother would
begin every telephone conversation. Then the tears would come, the accusations,
all of which were correct.

"I don't see my own grandchildren. I don't see my son.
My daughter-in-law thinks I'm worse than Hitler...."

"Enough already," he would say, his heart
breaking, cursing his impotence. You can't make people love each other, he
wanted to say. Even family. Especially family.

"Who can I talk to, if not you, Jack?"

"It's pure self-pity." It wasn't only that, he
knew. He pitied her and he pitied himself.

"You'll have yours someday!" she would say.

"That again."

"History repeats. Everybody gets their just
rewards."

"You're wishing it on me." He knew that was true,
but she could not help herself.

"What do you expect me to do?" he would say, when
all attempts at placation failed. She had recovered by then and her logic had
returned.

"There is nothing you can do, Jack. Nothing."

Time smoothed their acceptance. There was no cure for it.
Their children grew up and had families of their own.

It was his father-in-law's second heart attack, compounded
by his growing arthritis condition that brought them to Sunset Village. A new
crisis loomed when Barbara insisted that he take early retirement and they move
down South with the Greensteins. He was in his late fifties then and had put in
enough time for a pension, but he resisted on principle. It was the same as it
had always been.

"I owe it to them," Barbara said. "The doctor
has urged them to go to Florida. Look, I'm their only daughter. They couldn't
survive by themselves."

"But I don't owe them anything." he protested.
The vehemence of his protests had softened with the years. He had simply
removed the Greensteins from his consciousness.

Nevertheless, he was bored by his job, and the opportunity
did exist for early retirement. The company was cutting back its personnel and
allowing the older men to retire early. When the letter from the company making
the offer arrived at his apartment, Barbara opened the letter and all the
practical arguments collapsed.

They bought two one-bedroom condominiums, side by side, and
Barbara and her mother continued to live as they always lived, while Mr.
Greenstein failed steadily.

"Such a wonderful daughter," the yentas would
whisper. "So devoted." He would hear them as he sat around the
swimming pool sunning himself. At first, he spent lots of time alone, although
occasionally he and Barbara would play canasta with another couple, the
Epsteins, who lived in the condominium on the opposite side from their in-laws.
That was on the days when Mrs. Greenstein was too tired to go to the clubhouse
for the shows.

He had, of course, declined to participate in anything that
included Mrs. Greenstein and, when she came into their apartment, he would
always find some excuse to leave.

He never exchanged a single word with her, although he no
longer revealed any open contempt. On her part, Mrs. Greenstein ignored him as
well. He had, after all, never been a factor in her life. When she was not
physically with her mother, Barbara was constantly on the phone with her. He
had even shut that out of his mind and had long ceased picking up the telephone
when it rang.

Only once did he raise the question with any passion. The
management people had arranged an eight-hour inexpensive bus tour to
Disneyland, and he thought it might be nice if he and Barbara went.

"It would be too much for mother," Barbara said.

"I didn't invite her."

"How can I leave her alone?"

"For one lousy day?"

"Go yourself then."

He felt the old passion rise inside of him, the inner
constriction, the feeling of entrapment. Most of the time he had it under
control. People never change, his father-in-law told him many times. It was a
bit of essential wisdom. Why had he endured it for so long? It was a question
that he never answered, for he refused to dwell on it.

He did go to Disneyland by himself, and he found that he
was one of the few unattached males. It was the first time he realized how many
widows were around. A Mrs. Ginzberg, who had been eyeing him as they lined up
for the bus, sat next to him. She was a woman in her early sixties, well
groomed, and with a typical nose for interrogation that seemed to characterize
most of the people he met at Sunset Village. They wanted to know. So far he had
been standoffish, perhaps shy, feeling his way around. By the time the bus was
an hour out of Sunset Village, he had picked up the essential vibrations.

"So you're married?" Mrs. Ginzberg had said. Her
disappointment was, at first, obvious. A slight tremor in her cheek betrayed a
sudden anxiety and he imagined she looked around to see if another seat was
available. But all the seats were filled.

Jack nodded. He was exhausted by the hour-long
interrogation and was watching the flat Florida landscape move swiftly past
through the large glass windows.

"Your wife is sick?" Mrs. Ginzberg asked. He
could feel the cunning in the questioning. So she is getting down to the cream
cheese now, he thought.

"In a way," he said, knowing he had put a touch
of venom into the bite. Why not, he thought, looking at the woman.

"A terrible thing to go through," Mrs. Ginzberg
said, the implication clear. "My Willy was sick for two years. It was
terrible. Day and night."

"I know," he said.

"For better or for worse," she intoned.

"Mostly worse," he said.

"It must be terrible for a man," she whispered,
moving closer to him.

He felt her breath on his cheek and a brief movement of her
leg against his.

"Good it's not," he said. She turned her full
face toward him now and beamed.

"Well, at least today we'll have a good time."

They did, following the group leader around and standing in
line for the rides just like the little kids. On one ride, they actually held
hands. When he returned, he was tired. Inexplicably, he had agreed to meet Mrs.
Ginzberg the next evening. Just a friendly little talk, she told him,
especially since, as he had informed her, his wife was an invalid.

"We'll have tea at my place," Mrs. Ginzberg said.

"Why not?" he replied. What else did he have to
do?

Barbara was already asleep when he got home and crept in
beside her, sighed, and slipped quickly into a deep sleep himself.

"You had a good time?" Barbara asked at
breakfast. She normally spent most of her time in the kitchen with a telephone
glued to her ear talking to her mother. Jack had long ago stopped listening to
their conversations. Occasionally, she would turn to him and ask a question, as
if it signified some human contact with him. But she rarely interrupted the non-stop
conversation to accept an answer.

Because she spent most of the day in her mother's
apartment, he normally did not see her again until dinner. He had taken to
spending most of his time around the pool when the weather was good. He did
again that day, although he thought about his impending evening with Mrs.
Ginzberg. A nice little talk, a little tea, he thought, perfectly harmless.

"You going to watch television tonight?" Barbara
asked at dinner. It was a meaningless question. He knew she didn't care as she
spent each evening with her mother.

"I'm going to play Bingo." The idea had come to
him as he passed the clubhouse on the way to the pool. They had a nightly bingo
game in one of the smaller rooms in the club.

"Bingo?"

"They have this nightly game. It looks like it might
be fun."

"Good," she said. "I think Mama is getting
too old to go out at night anyway."

"So you come with me?" he asked. It would be his
last effort, her last chance.

"And leave Mama alone?"

He nodded and quickly left. Mrs. Ginzberg was waiting for
him at her condo. "You came?" she said, opening the door. She was
dressed in a hostess gown. She had applied her makeup carefully and put on a
generous dose of perfume. She had a comfortable apartment, filled with pictures
of her family, husband, children, grandchildren. All the faces seemed to be
smiling back into the room, providing a kind of sunny glow to the small
apartment.

"It looks like you had a happy marriage," he
said, viewing the pictures, as she proudly pointed out the various people in
the photographs and informed him of their relationships.

"It was fine," she said, but he detected a brief
hesitation and pressed ahead.

"Was it all worth it?" he asked. She looked at
him, patted his hand, then her arm swept the pictures in the room.

"Worth it? Who knows? Nevertheless, this is my
life," she said. He wondered what she meant, but he looked at her with
curious interest. She was a well-kept woman with a small figure. Age had
thinned her legs and painted her face with deep wrinkles, especially around the
eyes.

"My wife isn't really sick," he said suddenly,
feeling the pointlessness of continuing the lie. It is lonely to lie, he
decided. Who knew that better than him?

"She's a card player?"

"No. A daughter."

Mrs. Ginzberg looked at him, puzzled, then her face
brightened.

"One of those?"

"One of those," he nodded.

They sat around and talked for hours. Then she made him tea
and they ate cakes that she had baked. At eleven, he left.

"How was the Bingo?" his wife mumbled as he crept
into bed.

"I like it. I really like it."

"Thank God. There's something you like," she said
sleepily.

With the exception of the one-week period of mourning they
spent after Mr. Greenstein died, Jack spent most of his nights at Mrs.
Ginzberg's. The ritual mourning was a torturous time for him, sitting around
with Mrs. Greenstein and his wife, while the old lady recounted the glories of
nearly sixty years of marriage with Mr. Greenstein.

"He was wonderful. The best husband in the
world." Mrs. Greenstein tearfully told all visitors, embellishing his
father-in-law's traits as the week went on. Jack had pitied the poor man. He
never had a chance. He had died on the day he got married and knew it. People
never change, was his refrain. He had barely lived the life of a worm.

Once, he had dreaded his father-in-law's death, knowing
that the aftermath would be a nightmare for him. On the night after he died,
Barbara came into the apartment, put on her nightgown and bathrobe and took her
toothbrush from the rack in the bathroom.

"I'm going to sleep in Mama's place," she
announced. He had, of course, wanted to protest, but decided against it,
surprised that it wasn't hurting as much as he had expected.

"She's very lonely and upset," Barbara said,
lingering in the center of the room, as if the act needed explanation, perhaps
surprised that he did not protest.

He slept alone that night for the first time in years,
discovering that sharing the bed had nothing at all to do with feelings. It was
merely an existence. But he bravely spent the week of mourning sitting with
them in his mother-in-law's apartment, telling himself that it was out of
respect for his father-in-law.

Actually, it was sympathy. The poor fellow would be
forgotten as soon as his clothes were cleared out. And Jack's own children, who
had come down for the funeral, were barely remembering who he was by the time
the mourning was over. He suspected that that would be the way it was going to
be for him as well.

"He was always such a quiet guy," one of Jack's
sons said. "I don't think I ever said two words to him."

"Nobody did," another son said. "I hardly
knew he existed."

They were nice kids, he decided, even if they didn't know
their grandfather. What did they really know of their own father? He had
literally run away from the house during their growing up. Even his wife
berated him for that.

"You were never home," she said.

Home? Where was that, he wondered?

When the mourning period was over, he went back to his
Bingo.

"He likes Bingo?" he heard his mother-in-law
whisper to his wife.

"Thank God."

"It'll keep him busy."

He was able to snicker at their remarks by then and would
arrive at Mrs. Ginzberg's house precisely at the time the Bingo game started,
leaving when it was supposed to be over.