Free Mourning Glory by Warren Adler

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