Never Too Late for Love Read online

  "I have been thinking about it for the last two weeks."

  "You have?"

  "I spent the time with my daughter. I felt like a picture on the wall."

  He knew instantly what she meant, and she sensed his understanding. She, too, had dreamed and longed for this moment, when she would reveal to him that she was, indeed, willing to pay the price.

  "We are in the elephant burial ground, Velvil," she said. "We know the end is coming fast. We have to seize the present."

  In Yiddish, the words came to him as poetry and he felt the power of himself. His energy surged as he gripped her shoulders and gathered her in his arms.

  "It will not be easy," she said firmly, relieved at last, unburdened. "And, frankly, I don't know if I'll be able to go through with it."

  "We'll give each other courage," he said.

  They resumed their walk, arms locked around each other like young lovers.

  "They'll think we're crazy," Genendel said suddenly. "And they might be right."

  "Between us, Genendel," Velvil said, "we've been married nearly a century."

  "Eighty-nine years," she said. "See? I've been thinking about it. I even thought of ways that I might get David interested in your wife. It would make matters so much simpler."

  "I wouldn't wish it on him," Velvil said.

  On the way back to her car, he pondered the legal problems.

  Although he was a lawyer, he had never paid much attention to divorce law. He was annoyed with himself for allowing practicalities to intrude. What did that matter? Somehow they would survive it.

  But it was not that easy to break the news to Mimi, and he agonized over it, sleepless, tossing and turning, unable to shut off his mind. In the darkness, he felt the terror of guilt, knowing what Genendel must be going through. He felt his courage ebb and only when the light filtered through the drawn blinds did his resolve return.

  Following Mimi into the kitchen, he sat down at the little table and watched her as he gathered his thoughts. It was not that he despised her. Hardly that, although he knew he had lost all feeling for her, except compassion. He did feel compassion, he told himself. Only because he knew that she would never understand.

  "I want a divorce," he said, flat, straight-out. She turned and looked at him quizzically, coffee pot poised in mid-air, hair still disheveled from sleep. The odor of her floated across the room.

  "What!?" She squinted, as if seeking comprehension with her eyes.

  "I want a divorce," he repeated.

  "You want a what?"

  "A divorce."

  She started to smile, alert to his words, but not yet understanding.

  "I'm serious," he said, wanting her to be sure of his meaning, urging himself to be precise. "I want a divorce. I am in love with another woman."

  "Another what?"

  He surveyed her coolly, knowing she was aghast, her lips trembling. The coffee pot slipped with a clang into the sink.

  "Another woman. Genendel Goldfarb."

  "Genendel?"

  "Jennie."

  "Her?"

  He imagined that he felt the eruption begin with vibrations in his toes, like the beginning of an earthquake. He had seen her like this before, once when he threatened to leave the government, and again when he at first refused to move to Florida. But this time he was girded with the image of Genendel. Watching Mimi now did not diminish his courage as it had done in the past.

  "Are you crazy?" she began. "An old fart like you. And that dried-up prune. She hypnotized you. You should both be put away in an institution." She paused, sneering. "You had relations? That's it, right, Bill? I got it. Right, Bill? She put her hands on my husband's fly, right? So what did she get? Such a big deal. And she made you all hot and crazy, right?"

  She rushed into the living room and grabbed the telephone, her hysteria mounting. "A psychiatrist is what you need. And quick. Forty-five years of marriage and he wants a divorce. I got a senile old man for a husband."

  He shrugged and walked back into the bedroom, hearing her voice rise behind him.

  "You want me to call your children?" she cried. "I'll call them.

  "Are you ready for me to tell them about your shame?" she yelled at him. "I'm calling them."

  "There's the phone." He pointed, surprised at his calm.

  He went into the bathroom and observed his face in the mirror as she banged on the locked door.

  "You want a divorce, you bastard?" she screamed. "I'll show you divorce. I'll get a knife and stick it through my heart first. You hear me, bastard? I'll put a knife in my heart first."

  How absurd, he thought, feeling pity begin. Listening, he heard her walk heavily into the kitchen, opening doors, making a racket with the pots and pans. Then he heard her coming back.

  "I have a knife," she said. "I have it in my hands, pointing into my heart."

  He remained silent, listening. Her breathing was heavy, gasping. Tempted by the movement at the other side of the door, he put his hand on the knob, then withdrew it as if it were hot.

  "Do you hear me, you bastard?" she hissed.

  "I hear you," he said, turning on the tap.

  "Your children will curse you forever," she screamed.

  He could tell by the pitch of her voice that she had reached the outer edge of hysteria.

  "And you'll rot in hell."

  He knew she was dissolving into self-pity when her deep sobbing began. She is thinking only of herself, he thought, of her own humiliation, of the effect on her card-playing friends. Who cares, he thought, surprised at his own callousness, yet exhilarated by his sense of freedom.

  I am no longer frightened, he told himself. I am free. He opened the bathroom door and saw her face-down on their bed, her shoulders shaking. He kicked the knife away with his foot.

  "I am going out," he said loud enough for her to hear and embellished his words with a slam of the door.

  Genendel met him where the cyclists gathered. Her eyes were puffy, evidence of her own pain of disclosure. He reached out and held her hand.

  "Done?" he asked.

  "Done." Her eyes filled with tears. "It was like feeding him poison."

  "Now what?"

  "I had no illusions," she said, the Yiddish between them a soothing tonic. "It is part of the price. And you?"

  "I got a genuine suicide attempt," he said. "But don't worry. She's done it before."

  "Have we done the right thing?" she asked, brushing aside the tears that rolled down her cheeks.

  "My conscience is clear," he responded. "For once in my life, I have done an honest thing. Genendel, my darling Genendel. It was the only way."

  "I hope so," she said, squeezing his hand.

  "They'll hate us," Velvil said, "but that is to be expected."

  They wheeled away from the main body of the cyclists and found a bench.

  "Now what?" Genendel said.

  "You mean practical considerations?"

  "Yes."

  He patted her arm, proud of his courage. He had not pondered the consequences. He had been true to himself, following his feelings.

  "We'll rent a place and, if necessary, move in together now," he said, contemplating financial matters at last. "It will be no bed of roses," he said, "but we'll have each other."

  "You mean live together before we're married?"

  "We'd share an apartment."

  "I hadn't..." She paused. "It would be difficult for me." It was against her grain, she admitted to herself.

  "Well then," he said gently, "perhaps David will move out and I'll rent a place alone." He silently calculated the burden of supporting two households on his pension. If necessary, the children would have to kick in for Mimi. He knew they did but hid the knowledge from him. He had been offended by the thought of taking money from his children, as if it diminished him in some way. But that did not prevent his acquiescence, another act of hypocrisy that was part of his old life.

  "I'm sure David has called the children by now,"
Genendel said suddenly. David always called the children in major crises.

  That was another hurdle that she dreaded. Was it all worth it? she wondered, watching Velvil. Her life with David had, after all, been tranquil. Hardly anything had happened, except that they had produced children, fussed over them for a few years, and had grown old. The children were the only thing they had in common.

  They simply had cohabited. Was this what one must accept of life, eschew joy or adventure or love? David would survive, she concluded. He had his friends, his gin games, his television set, and he would have to find himself another companion to cook and clean for him. In Sunset Village, this nest of widows, it should be easy enough. She reached out and took Velvil's hand, feeling the bond between them, the friendship and communication.

  "It's no sin to want more," she said suddenly in Yiddish, the inflection of the language reassuring.

  "We are in for some tough times in the near future," Velvil said. He was thinking how the telephone lines must be burning between his wife and their daughters.

  "I am prepared," she said calmly, her faltering resolve shored up as she watched his face. "We will help each other."

  By the end of the day, he had sublet a condominium and moved some of his clothes out of the place he shared with his wife. She had sobbed bitterly as he packed a small valise, wailing like a mourner at a graveside. I am not dead yet, he thought, to give himself courage, but he could not fully control his pity. In ten, maybe fifteen years, it will hardly matter to anyone, he assured himself. Such a thought bolstered his courage.

  They agreed to meet at the poolside that evening. Genendel was late. When she finally came, he noted again the puffiness of her eyes and a deepening in the lines of her face, which even in the dim light seemed to have assumed a gray cast. They began to walk along the path that led around the pool.

  "Your wife called me," Genendel said, her voice breaking.

  "The bitch--"

  "Please, Velvil. I understand."

  "Was she hysterical?"

  "Worse. She accused me of being a whore, of stealing her husband."

  "The bitch. I hope you hung up on her."

  "No. I listened. I listened to every word."

  "It wasn't necessary."

  "It was to me."

  He was agitated. He balled his hands and hit them against his thighs in frustration. They walked for a while in silence.

  "Your children will be here tomorrow," she announced.

  "My children?"

  "Both daughters and their husbands."

  "She told you this?"

  "And mine are coming too."

  "How awful." He was feeling his indignation now, searching her face in the darkness for a hint of her reaction.

  "I agreed."

  "Agreed?"

  "When she calmed down, David got on the phone and they decided that perhaps we should all meet."

  "Together?" It would be, he told himself calmly, a new experience. Perhaps this was what was required. One big final meeting. He shook his head. "It is sheer madness," he said. "They'll overwhelm us. We wouldn't have a chance against them."

  "What could I say?"

  "You could have said no." He willed his anger under control.

  "They have no right. We are entitled to our own life, to our own decision."

  "I said that, but then your son-in-law called."

  "Larry?"

  "The lawyer."

  "That one. You should have hung up the phone. He's the worst of the lot. He has ten women on the string, a miserable character." He felt fear at this effort to pry them apart. "We must resist them."

  "We are going to meet tomorrow morning." Genendel's voice broke as she said it. "How could I refuse? They're our children. Our families."

  "I have finished my duty toward them," he said, sensing the frustration of the impending confrontation. "I have made enough sacrifices."

  "I felt we owed it to them," she said, holding back her tears.

  "I knew it wouldn't be all wine and roses, but I hadn't expected this."

  "Are you sorry?"

  "Not sorry," she said, the tears coming now. "Confused."

  "Unsure?"

  "Please, Velvil," she said, then sniffled. "I've been a quiet, peaceful married lady for forty-four years."

  "A vegetable."

  "Yes, a vegetable. But this kind of aggravation is more than I think I can take."

  "When is the meeting?" he asked stiffly.

  "Tomorrow morning. In a room in the clubhouse."

  "My God, it is like an innocent family affair, a family circle."

  He bit his lips. "I'm not coming," he said weakly, knowing his protest was in vain.

  "I promised for you."

  His anger would not dissipate, and walking her back to her car in the dark parking lot, he wondered if he had lost her. She should be coming home with me, he told himself, gathering her in his arms, kissing her cheeks, tasting the saltiness of her tears.

  "Are you slipping away from me?" he whispered. But she did not answer. She got into the car and drove off, leaving him lonely and despairing in the darkness, feeling the weight of his years.

  During the night, he tossed in the strange bed, going over imaginary conversations with his children and their husbands, with David, with Genendel's children. In all of these fantasies, his words sounded hollow, unpersuasive.

  How can an old man talk of love? Even in his own mind, he sounded like an adolescent. It was only toward morning that he discovered that the conversations in his imagination were not conversations at all. Information was transmitted to him, but not from him as he had been talking Yiddish. That idea restored his courage and calmed him enough for him to fall into semi-slumber.

  He timed himself to be the last to arrive. They all looked toward him, tight, anxious faces masked with bitterness rising like steam. They had set the room up like a business conference, twelve seats around a long table. Thankfully, they left one seat empty at the far end of the table. Larry, his son-in-law, sat at the other end, looking very much like a board chairman.

  Genendel was sitting between what must have been her son and daughter. They resembled her. Dutifully, he kissed the proffered cheeks of his daughters, who each mumbled something politely. Mimi turned her eyes away.

  The scene was ludicrous, he told himself in Yiddish, a strange assemblage. He knew that the two families had briefed themselves in advance, had hit upon a strategy and, as he had suspected, had appointed Larry as their spokesman. Looking at the group, he was surprised at his own calm.

  His eyes sought Genendel's, who lifted hers. She had been crying again, he saw, hoping he could will her to take heart. She looked defeated and he sensed her indecisiveness. We must free ourselves from them, he vowed. It is our only hope.

  "We felt this was the only way, Pop," Larry began.

  What a pompous ass, Velvil thought, observing him with his coat opened and the Phi Beta Kappa key dangling from his vest.

  He wondered why they hadn't brought the grandchildren. It was, after all, everybody's business.

  "I don't want you both," Larry began unctuously, "to think of this as any kind of special pressure. We are simply all in some way involved in these decisions. What we are discussing here are two families, children, grandchildren, and, essentially, peace of mind. We all have a genuine interest in your mutual welfare." He paused, as if he were in court, feeling the strength of his own authority.

  Mimi sat stiffly, indignant and sour-faced, but assured and under control. Velvil watched as David nodded.

  "We all honestly feel that if we appealed to your reason and intelligence, to your practicality and good sense, that you would conclude that this idea is detrimental to yourselves and all of us," Larry said.

  "As far as I'm concerned, they could both rot in hell," Mimi suddenly blurted.

  Larry turned to her in disgust. "You promised, Ma. You promised." He banged the table. "We will have none of this, do you hear?"

 
"They can still rot in hell." Mimi huffed and folded her arms over her fat breasts.

  "If we allow ourselves to get emotional," Larry said, glaring at Mimi, "then we might as well adjourn this meeting. We are here as mature adults discussing what could become a complicated problem, one that will give us all, everyone in this room, the kind of grief that none of us have a stomach for. We've all taken time out of our lives to see if we can solve this problem."

  He looked at Velvil. "Now, Pop, my understanding is that you wish to divorce Mom and marry this woman."

  "I'd appreciate it if you didn't refer to my mother in those terms," Genendel's son said.

  "I hadn't intended anything disparaging," Larry said quickly.

  "I wish you wouldn't interrupt," Genendel's daughter said to her brother.

  "You realize, of course, Mrs. Goldfarb," Larry said, looking at Genendel, "that you are encouraging an action that will result not only in humiliation for your husband and my mother-in-law but ostracism for yourself and my father-in-law."

  "Now you're trying to fix blame," Genendel's son said. He had his mother's gentle face. Velvil wondered if he was sympathetic, a thought quickly dispelled. "I don't agree with what they're doing, but I don't think you can fix blame."

  "She's a woman," one of Velvil's daughters interjected. "She knows that it's the woman who controls the situation. She encouraged him."

  "I resent that," Genendel's son said. "Your father is not exactly innocent in this matter."

  "They should both rot in hell," Mimi said, her voice booming in the room. "I still say he needs a psychiatrist."

  "That's for sure," one of Velvil's daughters said huffily.

  "It's that Yiddish Club," Mimi shouted. "They should close that Yiddish Club."

  "This is getting out of hand," Larry shouted and banged on the table. He waited until they settled down again.

  "You're all acting like a bunch of children."

  "I think Mother's right," Larry's wife said. "Dad needs some help."

  But Velvil listened calmly, surveying, in turn, each of the people around the table allegedly debating their fate. He looked at Genendel again, observing her calm, which gave him courage.

  David Goldfarb wore a long face, the embodiment of gloom.

  "You must realize, Pop," Larry said, "that you're being cruel to all of us. You're breaking up two families. Both of you are."