Free Compromising Positions by Susan Isaacs Page A

manipulative son of a bitch was dead?
    “‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” I heard dimly. How many women had followed him to the Tudor Rose Motor Inn, bleating with excitement? Would I have? If Marvin Bruce had told me how substantive I was, how thrillingly intelligent, would I have allowed myself to be led to an afternoon’s frolic?
    The mourner’s Kaddish, the benediction, and then a brief announcement: “The family will be sitting shiva at the home of Mrs. Norma Fleckstein. The address is number fourteen, Fieldstone Road, Shorehaven North.” The “North” added about seventy-five thousand dollars to the price of the house. Every home there had, minimally, a “water vw, central AC, and over 2 acs of beaut. wooded property.”
    The frosted-haired woman in front of me turned to her husband: “The home of Mrs. Norma Fleckstein. I can’t believe it.”
    “Can’t believe what?” he asked. He was about fifty, with adolescent-length gray hair, dressed in a tan corduroy sport jacket with suede elbow patches. They clashed. She was with it, a Bloomingdale’s lady in a gray cashmere dress and heavy bracelets. He should have complemented her with a snug body shirt and Cardin suit, but instead, as if to emphasize the gulf between them—or to hide his paunch—he had opted for the sincere, professional look. He probably misquoted Buber to his nineteen-year-old girlfriends.
    “I mean, I can’t believe that just a few days ago it was Bruce and Norma’s house and now it’s the home of Mrs. Norma Fleckstein. That’s what I can’t believe.”
    A Baum entered from the wings and asked us to rise again. We did, and the family began to trudge out.
    I turned to ask Scotty if she was ready to go. But she had already left. I could see her weaving through the crowd, heading along the side of the chapel to the rear exit. People poured into the aisles, a few looking dazed, a few waving eagerly to friends and neighbors across the chapel. A swelling wave of voices rose after the funereal silence. “How’ve you been?” “God, I hate funerals.” “How was Martinique?” I pushed my way past them and over to Fay Jacobs.
    “Judith. How are you?” she asked, beaming at me and adjusting her bra strap. She explained my presence to the woman standing next to her: “Judith is my favorite historian since Commager.” The woman looked a little confused and then decided Fay had told a joke. She laughed and then quickly excused herself.
    “Fay, it’s good to see you. It’s been months.”
    “I know. Why don’t we have lunch? Come on, Judith, don’t refuse me. I took a personal day and I have all afternoon.”
    I thought for a second. “Sure. But I have to pick Joey up at a friend’s house at two-thirty.”
    “No problem,” she said. “I feel like pampering myself today. Let’s go some place very quiet and luxurious.”
    “How about Quelle Crêpe? They have a decent salade niçoise.” She put on a too-long red plaid coat and buttoned it slowly. Her knuckles were swollen with arthritis and even that simple task was painful for her.
    We walked outside, blinking from the bright sunlight, and stood under the canopy, watching the hearse and its escort of limousines and cars. “I didn’t know you knew them,” Fay declared. “They weren’t friends of yours, were they?”
    “No. Not really.”
    “Then why did you come?”
    “I don’t know, Fay. I just shaved my legs and I wanted to wear a skirt and show them off.”
    “Judith,” she smiled, “come on. Why?”
    “I really don’t know, Fay. The mother of one of Joey’s friends said she was going and I volunteered to keep her company. Just a whim. Curiosity. I don’t know.”
    We walked to the parking lot, Fay waving to every other person. She had lived in Shorehaven for so long that she seemed to know everyone. She patronized their stores, taught their children, worked with them at countless fairs and rummage sales.
    “How did you know the Flecksteins?” I