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Authors: Warren Adler
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off three, four
years."
"What's good for the goose," Sarah said, but she
was thinking of other things, the events that had, up to now, demanded a
barrier of silence between them. By then, they had known each other six months
and Nat had been their common bridge, their meeting place. Always, when the
idea popped into Sarah's mind, she resisted, waiting for the right moment.
"Were you really the other woman, Yetta?" she
said finally one day as they walked back from the pool in the declining
sunlight, through the well-tended paths. The traffic around them seemed muted,
the air soft. A warm breeze rustled the low plantings.
"Me? The other woman? I was a waitress in the coffee
shop downstairs from where he worked. We used to talk a lot. He was a man. I
was an old maid."
"He never..."
"With me? Never."
"I thought you did."
"One night, he called me at home. He said you threw
him out. So I let him come in. Look, I was an old maid. I was alone. You know,
when you're alone you do strange things. I wasn't a homewrecker. I was
alone"
"He said I threw him out?"
"That's what he said."
"Like he was forty instead of forty-five."
"I was alone," Yetta mumbled. They walked for a
while, then Yetta stopped and turned toward Sarah. "You know Nat. He was
always weak, a weak man."
"Weak. That's exactly right. Weak," Sarah agreed.
She could barely remember the circumstances of that night. What had she said to
him? How had he replied?
"Does it matter now, Sarah? Does it really
matter?"
She took Yetta's hand and they continued on their way. A
few months later, they moved in together in a larger condominium and were known
to everybody as the Shankowitz girls.
A WIDOW IS A VERY DANGEROUS COMMODITY
At Sarah Gold's funeral, Zaber's smallest funeral chapel
was filled to capacity. Many people had to stand throughout the entire
ceremony. Murray Gold, though weighted down by grief after the loss of his wife
of nearly fifty years, could not contain his surprise at the turnout. He wasn't
prepared for Sarah's overwhelming popularity and, while he was secretly proud,
he also was perplexed.
They had been living at Sunset Village for ten years. One
of the pioneers, Sarah reminded at every opportunity--especially to new
arrivals, as if there was some special status to being among the first
residents. Sarah made many friends. She was both gregarious and curious, the
two basic attributes of being a yenta. And Sarah was, above all, a yenta.
"Why do you have to be such a yenta?" Murray admonished her repeatedly. She knew what was simmering in every pot, and he endured
her endless chattering about this one and that one, although he rarely
commented. What was the use? It was enough for him to find things to do to get
through the day. He had never been good at making friends, and after the first
few months at Sunset Village, she gave up on him.
"My Murray is a quiet fellow," he heard her say
more than once. "He reads the paper. He sleeps in a chair. He helps me
with the shopping and he does the laundry."
"He doesn't like cards?" one of her friends would
ask.
"He hates cards."
"He has no hobbies?"
"He sleeps. That's his hobby."
"He likes it here?"
"If I like it here, he likes it here."
To Sarah, to her friends, to himself, Murray knew, he was
considered an "accepted fact." He was simply, irrevocably, Sarah
Gold's husband. Most of her friends barely remembered his name. He simply
followed her around, a form of appendage, while Sarah reveled in her
self-actualized role of being the eyes and ears of Sunset Village. It was not that
she ignored him. He was, even to her, an "accepted fact."
Other husbands played cards, pursued hobbies, watched
football games, took long walks, bragged about their previous accomplishments.
Not Murray. When Sarah went to her various meetings, her card games, her
"yenting" sessions, Murray slept, usually in a chair in front of the
television set.
"How come you didn't go to bed?" she would say
when she arrived home in the
years."
"What's good for the goose," Sarah said, but she
was thinking of other things, the events that had, up to now, demanded a
barrier of silence between them. By then, they had known each other six months
and Nat had been their common bridge, their meeting place. Always, when the
idea popped into Sarah's mind, she resisted, waiting for the right moment.
"Were you really the other woman, Yetta?" she
said finally one day as they walked back from the pool in the declining
sunlight, through the well-tended paths. The traffic around them seemed muted,
the air soft. A warm breeze rustled the low plantings.
"Me? The other woman? I was a waitress in the coffee
shop downstairs from where he worked. We used to talk a lot. He was a man. I
was an old maid."
"He never..."
"With me? Never."
"I thought you did."
"One night, he called me at home. He said you threw
him out. So I let him come in. Look, I was an old maid. I was alone. You know,
when you're alone you do strange things. I wasn't a homewrecker. I was
alone"
"He said I threw him out?"
"That's what he said."
"Like he was forty instead of forty-five."
"I was alone," Yetta mumbled. They walked for a
while, then Yetta stopped and turned toward Sarah. "You know Nat. He was
always weak, a weak man."
"Weak. That's exactly right. Weak," Sarah agreed.
She could barely remember the circumstances of that night. What had she said to
him? How had he replied?
"Does it matter now, Sarah? Does it really
matter?"
She took Yetta's hand and they continued on their way. A
few months later, they moved in together in a larger condominium and were known
to everybody as the Shankowitz girls.
A WIDOW IS A VERY DANGEROUS COMMODITY
At Sarah Gold's funeral, Zaber's smallest funeral chapel
was filled to capacity. Many people had to stand throughout the entire
ceremony. Murray Gold, though weighted down by grief after the loss of his wife
of nearly fifty years, could not contain his surprise at the turnout. He wasn't
prepared for Sarah's overwhelming popularity and, while he was secretly proud,
he also was perplexed.
They had been living at Sunset Village for ten years. One
of the pioneers, Sarah reminded at every opportunity--especially to new
arrivals, as if there was some special status to being among the first
residents. Sarah made many friends. She was both gregarious and curious, the
two basic attributes of being a yenta. And Sarah was, above all, a yenta.
"Why do you have to be such a yenta?" Murray admonished her repeatedly. She knew what was simmering in every pot, and he endured
her endless chattering about this one and that one, although he rarely
commented. What was the use? It was enough for him to find things to do to get
through the day. He had never been good at making friends, and after the first
few months at Sunset Village, she gave up on him.
"My Murray is a quiet fellow," he heard her say
more than once. "He reads the paper. He sleeps in a chair. He helps me
with the shopping and he does the laundry."
"He doesn't like cards?" one of her friends would
ask.
"He hates cards."
"He has no hobbies?"
"He sleeps. That's his hobby."
"He likes it here?"
"If I like it here, he likes it here."
To Sarah, to her friends, to himself, Murray knew, he was
considered an "accepted fact." He was simply, irrevocably, Sarah
Gold's husband. Most of her friends barely remembered his name. He simply
followed her around, a form of appendage, while Sarah reveled in her
self-actualized role of being the eyes and ears of Sunset Village. It was not that
she ignored him. He was, even to her, an "accepted fact."
Other husbands played cards, pursued hobbies, watched
football games, took long walks, bragged about their previous accomplishments.
Not Murray. When Sarah went to her various meetings, her card games, her
"yenting" sessions, Murray slept, usually in a chair in front of the
television set.
"How come you didn't go to bed?" she would say
when she arrived home in the
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