Grace felt disoriented and rootless, her daily routine disturbed by what happened. She had no idea how she was going to spend the rest of the day, let alone the rest of her life. She headed back to her apartment for no reason except that it was the only place she considered a haven.
She lived in Palm Tropics, a small garden apartment community a few blocks south of the Tamiami Trail built sometime during the bucolic fifties. She shared a one-bedroom apartment with Jackie, who slept on a pullout couch in the living room.
It wasn't exactly what she considered to be the perfect living environment for raising a teenage daughter, but she lived with the hope, despite her daughter's daily harangues, that one day this would all pass. Unfortunately, after five years of living in this place, the dream of imminent escape had become a cruel illusion. Jackie was exactly right: it was a dump.
The management company prided itself on its maintenance performance, the result being that the plumbing and kitchen fixtures were reliable, and as a consequence, very old fashioned. The vomit-green stucco made the building rows look like army barracks.
Grace referred to the apartment community as "shabby genteel," which took the sting out of the inescapable fact that this was a place for the downwardly mobile. Especially now, seeing as she was jobless. Still, she refused to allow herself to brood, fearful that overanalyzing her present circumstances would lead to depression in all its many facets.
Call it lousy luck, she told herself, which sounded a lot better than a squandered life. Besides, forty-four was still young in this land of Social Security checks and Medicare. Maybe it was time to go back to Baltimore. It was a thought that called her to attention, despite the fact that she hated Baltimore and the rigid little lives her father and mother had lived. The image of her father, still living there as a widower in the rooms above the barbershop, filled Grace with dread. She had escaped along with many of her childhood friends.
She brushed off her long-term problem and concentrated on her immediate dilemma, which was to fill up that time normally devoted to her job. She ticked off possibilities. There was always a movie, but they weren't open yet. Or the beach, but that meant exposure to the enemy, the sun.
An errant fantasy of hitting South Beach in Miami and picking up a young hard body surfaced, but briefly. The risk of humiliation or worse, rejection, was too much to bear. There were bars, but the prospect of lonely drinking and the possibility of small talk and flirtatious innuendo with barflies made her nauseous. There was always the comfort of food, but the day's events had demolished her appetite.
She pulled into her parking space and sat for a moment in the car, unable to gather the energy to leave her seat. On a weekday, with most of the residents off to work, the lot seemed desolate. Most of the cars were gone. She noticed a motorcycle parked nearby that she had never seen before. At least on Sundays, she had the somehow pleasant sense that she was not alone, that others shared her fate.
Fighting off a wave of self-pity, Grace got out of the car and let herself into her apartment. She had barely shut the door behind her when she heard odd sounds coming from her bedroom. Frightened, she held herself still, her heart pounding against her rib cage.
But fear quickly turned to shock and anger as she ran up the stairs and realized what was happening. Jackie was strenuously engaged in a pretzel-like sexual escapade with a young man twice her size with a shiny shaved head. Their clothes were strewn about the room, testifying to their abandon.
They were so focused on their activity that they did not notice her presence, and since she was too stunned to announce herself she was forced to witness more of this sexual theater than she might have wished.
"Oh, no!"
It was Jackie who sounded the alarm and began a panicky extrication from the young man's firm embrace. The sight of his glistening penis emerging from her daughter finally broke the spell of Grace's paralysis, and she sprung into action.
She screeched and grabbed the young man by his arm and pulled him from the bed as Jackie escaped into the bathroom. In an effort to free himself, the young man flailed wildly and hit Grace in the stomach, knocking the wind out of her. She doubled over.
"You're killin' me, lady!" he cried. "You're her Mama, right?"
Grace nodded, unable to find her voice. She looked up at him, suffering the indignity of watching him pull on his pants.
"Hell, we was only balling."
Grace's breath finally came back, but she could only shake her head in despair. On her knees, barely able to accept the reality of what she had witnessed, she felt degraded, a profound loss of dignity.
"Where's the harm in that?" the young man continued, tightening his belt. She noticed that his large silver belt buckle sported a raised black swastika. Only when he turned slightly did she see a leather sheath that hung from the belt. She could see the handle of a knife in the sheath, also emblazoned with a swastika. He must have seen her look of fear. Apparently to enjoy it further, he pulled the knife out and inspected it.
Grace was too angry for tears, and the image of the young man who stood above her brandishing this terrible weapon only increased her desperation. He was scruffy, unkempt, his recently shaved head scarred with razor nicks. His body was tightly muscled and slender, and he watched her through small, intense, angry eyes. He was hardly from the world Jackie claimed to aspire to be a part of. Smiling crookedly, he grabbed his crotch, a conspicuous bundle in his tight jeans.
"Got some left, Mama. Want some?"
"Get the hell out of here!" she screamed at him, staggering to her feet, finally finding her strength. She noted a tattoo crawling across a muscled arm—a dagger, not unlike the one that hung from his belt, complete with swastika and encircled by a coiled snake and the words "Death Before Dishonor." The illustration seemed even more intimidating than the real thing, and she felt a shiver of fear ratchet up her spine.
She watched him slide into a torn T-shirt, over which he put on a black leather jacket festooned with metal rings on which hung silver swastikas. He clomped around in thick-heeled white lizard-skin cowboy boots.
"I could send you right to heaven, Mama. Just like Jackie. Man, you got the hottest little lady in South Florida."
"Get out of here, you pig!" Grace shouted shakily, trying to stare down the arrogant expression of disdain on the young man's face.
His lips formed in a cocky smile. "'Pig,' you say?" He moved to the closed bathroom door. "Hey, Jackie, your Mama thinks I'm a pig. Hell, you got that right. I been porkin' your daughter." He let out a high-pitched laugh.
"Leave!" Grace snapped.
He shrugged, then opened his hands palm upward.
"Not like I raped her. Other way around, Mama. Little girl of yours goes for the meat." He cupped his crotch again.
"She's sixteen!" Grace blurted in shock.
"I don't ask for no birth certificates. Nothin' tighter than that, Mama."
"You're in big trouble," Grace said.
The young man moved closer to Grace. His nose was almost touching hers.
"Come on, Mama," he said. "Cool out. You wouldn't want to make no trouble, would you? Not for your baby there."
"No," Grace conceded. "I don't need any more trouble."
"Smart."
The young man winked.
"Maybe if you're good, I'll give you a ride on my hog. Got a bitch pad with a golf ball. Wrap your legs around that, Mama, and you'll know what high is."
The young man turned and walked to the window, opening the blinds.
"See that beauty?" He pointed to the black Harley-Davidson motorcycle, almost glowing in the bright sun. His eyes were glazed with pride and admiration, as if it were a religious icon.
He moved closer to Grace again and whispered, "Ain't that somethin'? Better than pussy. Rigid frame Evo with a kicker, look at them pulled back buckhorns, two hot cylinders, thirteen-forty CC. Go for a spin on that hog, you gonna be out of this world." He laughed his high-pitched laugh again, then knocked three times on the bathroom door. From inside came the sound of a shower.
"See you, baby. Me and your Mama's been makin' it up. I promised her a ride on my Evo," he shouted.
He looked toward Grace, who was only partially thrown off by his biker's talk. Jason had had a bike when they were dating, and taught her to use it.
"You didn't use a condom," Grace said, suddenly frightened by the realization.
"Looked like nice, clean meat to me," he said, lightly punching Grace on the arm.
The young man winked again, cupped his crotch, then used the middle finger as a good-bye gesture. He swaggered out the front door. Moments later, she heard him gun the motorcycle and roar away.
Grace sat down at the table and tried to calm down. The young man was positively awful. She shivered with fright. Her hands shook. Her sense of failure as a parent was overwhelming. She wished she could cry, but she couldn't.
After awhile, the bathroom door opened and Jackie, wearing a robe and a towel wrapped around her head, looking remarkably fresh and unruffled, came out. Her figure was perfect: high, beautiful breasts with round pink nipples, flat stomach, a finely rounded butt, long legs, tight thighs, shapely calves. This was a beauty. And her face—gorgeous, long curling black lashes shading light brown eyes, a curving Italian nose chiseled into high cheekbones and angelic lips over a cleft chin.
There was not a sign of contrition or remorse on her face. "You weren't supposed to be home," Jackie said.
Grace looked up. Jackie was radiant without makeup, a vision of the unspoiled virginal, hardly the image of the wanton sexpot Grace had just seen squirming on her bed.
"I can't believe this, Jackie."
"Mom. It happened, okay?"
"Good God!"
"Darryl's been taking me to school on his hog for the past month. I cut class, but it was only Phys Ed. He was going to take me back for afternoon classes. What's the big deal?"
"The boy's a horror. Did you see that knife he carries, and those swastikas? He's a skinhead!" She was choking with anger.
"So what? He knows what he's doing."
"You're jailbait, Jackie. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Perfectly. And I had better not hear it again."
"This is not the way you've been brought up, Jackie."
"Cut the crap, Mom. I don't think we want to talk about the way I was brought up. Hell, I'm the daughter of two losers."
"And you seem to be heading in that direction yourself," Grace said, fighting to stay calm.
"Monkey see, monkey do," Jackie muttered.
"He's subhuman." Grace sucked in a deep breath. She searched for a way to admonish her daughter that wouldn't make things worse than they already were. "You keep talking about your champagne tastes, and yet you're trading your body for a Nazi and his motorcycle."
"All right, Mother, you've made your point," Jackie pouted with typical adolescent indignation. "At least he has the courage to voice his convictions. He's making a statement."
"A statement? The Nazis are worse than the Devil!" Grace cried.
"Come on, Mom. Cool out. Don't be so old-fashioned," Jackie said, resorting to her usual ploy when the argument between them grew too heated. "I think he's kind of cute. And riding his hog is a lot better than the school bus. Besides, I get a lot of respect from the kids…."
"Respect!"
"Have you forgotten what it is to be young?"
Always that, Grace thought. Emphasizing the generational disparity, throwing it in her face as the root of their misunderstanding.
"I haven't forgotten what it means to be a parent, Jackie. You're sixteen. You're still a kid. And legally you're still under my jurisdiction."
"Again, legally! Jesus, Mom. What are you gonna do, hire a lawyer?"
"Well, it's obvious we need some kind of help here. Maybe a counselor. Really, Jackie, things are getting out of hand. I love you, but I hate what you're doing to yourself. I can't stand it."
"You're making a big deal out of nothing, Mom," Jackie said offhandedly, but Grace could see that she had softened. "Please, Mom. I love you. I really do. Don't force me to say things that are hurtful."
"Hurtful? What I just witnessed was hurtful."
"Mom. I haven't been a virgin since I was thirteen. I'm on the pill. I'm a horny teenager. I wouldn't choose Darryl for an actual relationship. He's got a great body and he's really good in the sack and I like him. He serves my needs."
"He scares the shit out of me, Jackie."
"Don't worry so much. I can handle him."
"You shouldn't even go near him," Grace said, feeling nauseous. She suspected Jackie's sexual proclivities but had never brought herself to picture her in the act—in her own bed nonetheless. Besides Grace's dire warnings, they had never discussed it in intimate or graphic terms. She supposed it was her form of denial. Or forced acceptance. She wasn't sure which.
"He's a low-life slob, Jackie. White trash."
"That's just Darryl's image, Mom. The 'macho man.' So he's a skinhead? Don't let his talk fool you. He's smart."
"I forbid you to see him," Grace said.
"Forbid? So now you're my jailer."
"It's a worry we don't need. Why can't you see that?"
"Worry about yourself, Mom. I'm perfectly capable of watching out for myself. Haven't you always taught me the value of self-reliance? Hell, last year you got me The Book of Virtues, remember?"
On a whim, Grace had picked it up at a secondhand bookstore. She thought the title apt but hadn't read it herself.
"I thought you might learn something."
Jackie huffed with a mocking tone, unwrapping the towel and continuing to dry her hair. She moved the towel vigorously.
"I don't want to see this ever again," Grace said, recognizing the weakness and futility of her warning, deliberately shifting the focus of the argument. She knew in her heart that Jackie would defy her. "And I don't want to come home to this. Do you hear me? Especially in my bed."
"You know what it means to open the couch, Mom. It's a hassle." She smiled ruefully. "I didn't know you would come home. I mean, I do see your point. It must have shocked the shit out of you. Believe me, I understand. But Mom, I may be sixteen, but I'm a woman, and I have needs and emotions."
"What about self-control? Morals?"
"Morals? What's wrong with getting laid? It's natural and it feels good. I mean, do you really believe I don't know about that vibrator in your drawer? Why don't you just look for the real thing? Believe me, I'll respect your privacy."
"He wasn't wearing a condom!" Grace cried, her face flushing, hating the idea of her little secret revealed. She felt she was floundering.
"Mom, he doesn't have anything. He's clean. Don't you think I checked first?"
The image summoned by her statement was the last straw. "Enough," Grace said, standing up. She felt herself on the other side of rage. Jackie was not a prude or a fool; she was, by biological definition, a woman, or so what Grace had walked in on seemed to herald. But it was obvious that Jackie's emotional maturity hadn't yet caught up with her hormonal development.
Would it ever? Grace wondered, dreading her daughter's future.
Jackie hadn't mourned the end of her virginal state. She'd reveled in it. She had been positively celebratory, just as she had been when she had her first period. Grace, being an enlightened mother, not like her own, had whisked her to a gynecologist. The doctor prescribed birth control pills, along with dire warnings about the dangers of promiscuity, all of which Jackie had apparently ignored.
"You just can't bed down with anyone who asks," Grace said, searching for some common ground.
"I don't, Mom. What do you think I am?"
"Jesus, Jackie. Will pregnancy be next?"
"Don't be ridiculous. I'm very religious about taking my pills."
Grace shook her head. She supposed it was partially her fault, acknowledging that concerned parenting had taken a backseat to sheer economic survival. Surely Jackie could not doubt that Grace loved her. That was a given. As a single mother, she had tried her best to shelter her daughter from the dangers of living on the edge of economic disaster. Hadn't she been dutiful, concerned and protective during the early years, before she began to lose control over her daughter's life?
It was all crisis management now, dealing with issues of parenting only when they arrived on her doorstep. It was almost impossible to make the right decision every time it was required. The best she could do was to live in hope that mother and daughter could surmount the problems of the teen years and look forward to a better future for both of them.
All right, she conceded, I did have sex with Jason before we were married. But it felt normal, and they were exclusive and private. Her mother, the devout Catholic, would never have believed such a thing could happen with her daughter. She would be the last person on earth Grace would confide in. The woman would have spent overtime in the confessional and doubled her prayers for her daughter's soul. Her father would have been oblivious, and if not that, then disbelieving and indifferent. The act of sex, after years of deprivation, would not be in his frame of reference.
The image of that little man with the thick Italian accent appeared in her mind. A decent, compassionate man, he had endured her mother until her death. More fanatical than a nun, Mama Sorentino's life revolved around the Church and the confessional. She had believed that somehow Grace, her only child, had been responsible for her subsequent infertility. Such an attitude did not make for a particularly joyous maternal relationship.
Yet she did love her father, the long-suffering, inarticulate Carmine, who had been liberated at last when his wife had passed on. Could anyone have known that Grace would shed tears of joy at her graveside, not in sadness but in celebrating her father's freedom? He still cut hair, played checkers with his cronies, smoked ropy Italian cigars, and lived above his little shop in Baltimore.
She called him once a week. The conversation was always stilted, the communication sparse. But somehow she sensed that he took comfort in just hearing her voice. The words hardly mattered.
"Maybe we should confide more in each other," Grace said to Jackie, choosing the path of placation rather than confrontation.
"Mom, we do confide."
"Not enough."
"Mom, I can't tell you everything. Not everything."
Grace sucked in a deep breath. What more could she be hiding?
"You don't tell me everything, Mom," Jackie said, planting a kiss on her mother's cheek. Grace suddenly felt grateful that her daughter had not accused her of being jealous of her pleasure. Such an accusation would be unnerving, although Grace was ashamed to think that it was possibly true. Grace was certain it had to be in Jackie's thoughts. Perhaps, after all, she had raised a daughter with some character.
"I better get dressed, Mom. I can miss Phys Ed, but not math. Lose one day and it's harder the next."
"I'll drive you," Grace said, welcoming the chance to repair her relationship with her daughter.
"Great, Mom. Just great."
Again Jackie kissed her on the cheek, then bounced into the bathroom.
In a few minutes, Jackie was dressed, looking every bit the prim high school junior. It was hard to reconcile the image of this wide-eyed teenager with the woman she'd seen so absorbed in the throes of passion.
They got into Grace's car.
"It's not an Evo, but it will have to do," Grace said, suddenly remembering Jason's motorcycle, which he had taught Grace to ride. It wasn't a Harley-Davidson, which is what Jason had wanted, but Jason's motorcycle was his pride and joy nonetheless.
Maybe there was some truth to Jackie's remark. Maybe she had forgotten what it was to be young. But that didn't negate her feelings about Darryl.
"Darryl doesn't ask everyone for a ride, Mom. He says it's a privilege."
"I wish you wouldn't," Grace said, starting the car and backing it out of the parking space.
"Wish I wouldn't what?"
"Go near him."
Jackie shook her head, falling into silence.
"We're like two ships passing each other in the night," Grace said when they were heading toward Jackie's school.
"All in all, I think we do okay for a mother and daughter," Jackie said. "I know girls who tell their parents nothing. And there's always lots to tell."
"I worry about you, Jackie."
"And I worry about you, Mom. Really I do. I would love it if you found a guy." Jackie turned to Grace and smiled, showing her white teeth. "Maybe if we could devise a kind of signal that the apartment was in use, we could avoid the… you know… anyway, you wouldn't have seen anything."
The school loomed into view, and Jackie checked her makeup in the visor mirror.
"Why were you home so early?" Jackie asked.
"I was fired," Grace said. She watched her daughter frown.
"Are you serious?" Jackie asked, studying her face.
"I was rude to one of their best customers."
"So what will we do now?"
"I'm entitled to unemployment. That will give me some breathing room."
"I guess that means the Michael Kors is out," Jackie said, pouting.
"Afraid so," Grace said.
"Not to mention the possibility of a car."
"It was never a possibility, Jackie."
Grace had stopped the car in front of the school entrance. Jackie started to get out, then scrutinized her mother's face.
"Sometimes I worry about you, Mom," Jackie said. Grace watched her walk away until her eyes filled with tears and Jackie became a blur in the distance.
Grace drove west on the Tamiami Trail, in the opposite direction of her apartment. That was the last place she wanted to be. Her feeling of failure was acute. The events of the morning had been a massive blow to her self-esteem.
Her eyes surveyed the ugly clutter of stores, fast-food franchises, furniture and car dealers, electronics shops and shopping centers that serviced the middle class.
"Lower," she muttered, knowing exactly where she stood on the income continuum despite the 4,400-dollar check in her wallet. She felt the full and stifling weight of her current predicament.
Her thoughts, though depressing, triggered her instinct for survival. She would have to remember to register at the state unemployment office and go through the usual process to obtain her check. She had done it before in past years, and it never failed to fill her with a massive sense of humiliation. Just standing in line with the rest of the losers was a horrifying prospect.
The midday traffic crawled as she squinted into the bright sunlight. She noticed a building that she'd never paid attention to before: Brodsky's Memorial Chapel. On either side of the name was a Star of David.
Mrs. Burns' advice suddenly replayed in her mind, bringing a smile to her lips. Under ordinary circumstances Grace would have taken the advice as a joke. But Mrs. Burns did not have a shred of humor in her bones. What she had told Grace was neither satire nor jest. She meant it with all the force of her convictions.
Grace wondered if she could ever be so cold-blooded, so calculating and amoral, to take that course of action. And if she did, would she have the resourcefulness and ability to be successful? Despite this all, it was tantalizing. Would she have to suspend her dignity, her own sense of self?
Almost as if she were in a trance, she pulled into the parking lot of the Brodsky Memorial Chapel. It was completely full and she was forced to exit the lot, thinking that fate had made her decision for her. But when she reached the exit, a man wearing a Star of David armband waved someone else's car to the left and then gestured insistently towards a space that she could park in.
Choices are being made for me, she decided. Destiny was intervening, guiding her actions. She parked and hesitantly got out of the car, not knowing what to do next.
"This way," another man with an armband said. Grace found herself going with the flow. The people around her were quiet and appropriately somber. A man at the door asked whether she was here for the Farber or the Schwartz funeral. She chose Farber and followed a couple ahead of her. She went up a flight of heavily carpeted stairs to a darkened chapel crowded with silent, respectful mourners.
Still following the couple, she moved to a seat on a long polished bench and sat down. Gloomy organ music played in the background.
"Molly was a wonderful person," the woman next to Grace whispered to her.
"The best," Grace said, feeling an increasing desire to escape. Unfortunately, she was seated in the center of the row and there was no way to leave now without attracting attention. Instead, she resigned herself to the situation, as if she were watching a documentary entitled Jewish Funeral.
She observed the people around her. They looked different than those she had seen at her mother's funeral in Baltimore. They wore more colorful clothing and there was an absence of black outfits. The mourners were better groomed than their Baltimore counterparts, which reflected both geographical and financial disparity.
There were, of course, vague similarities of ritual, although the Catholics offered more ornate spectacle than this grim, unadorned auditorium. Catholics gave great funerals, Grace thought. But then, wasn't their ceremony more of a bon voyage through a corridor lined with white-winged angels with long trumpets, leading to pearled gates manned by St. Peter himself? Grace wondered what the Jews believed happened after death.
At the front of the auditorium was a closed coffin, and on a small stage behind it was a lectern. The men wore little black hats stamped with the name of the funeral parlor. In the first row, there was a group of sniffling red-eyed mourners. She assumed they were the immediate family.
Who is my target? Was that the correct word? Or was it victim?
"I know. I know," the woman next to her whispered. "Molly Farber was the salt of the earth. Charitable? Nobody was more charitable. She will be sorely missed by all of us."
If Grace bought into Mrs. Burns' suggestion—and so far Grace was far away from a true believer—the funeral offered a kind of preview, an opportunity that was a lot more effective than a blind date. If the size of the funeral was any measure, she could assess the husband's standing in the community, and to an extent, his financial status.
When the music ceased, a man rose to the lectern. He was youngish and he spoke in what seemed like a carefully practiced, mournful cadence, offering the assemblage a picture of Mrs. Farber, a woman who had devoted her life to husband and children and who had managed to live to the ripe old age of ninety.
He'll be too old. Wrong age range, Grace realized suddenly. Sixty to seventy was where she needed to be. Perhaps she should have chosen the Schwartz funeral.
I am not here to do evil, Grace assured herself as the idea grew in her mind. She wouldn't be causing the death of a spouse—she would simply be taking advantage of an opportunity to bring joy and rejuvenation, perhaps even love, to a grieving man, filling the void caused by his profound loss.
Where is the harm in that? She could be the silver lining of a dark cloud. If they fell in love, then the end result would make up for any hidden agenda.
Yes, Grace decided, despite the scheme I would be kind and generous.
As far as Jackie was concerned, marrying rich would expand her opportunities, Ivy League colleges, greater chances for success overall. She would meet better people the higher up they went on the economic ladder. She would be able to network, meet America's elite, connect with the people who made the big decisions and meet well-bred young men and women. God knows she needed that. She'd be driving a great car—a Porsche maybe—and buy her clothes at Saks or Bergdorf's. She would be satisfied and happy.
It comforted Grace to daydream about a brighter future for her daughter, but she also envisioned her own. There was the house—or houses—they would live in, all ones she'd choose from reading Architectural Digest. After all, she wouldn't be expected to live in the same house she lived in now, or the one the widower had shared with his late wife. No way. She would have to put her own stamp on things, start anew. God, it was wonderful to think about.
Better to try roses than settle for weeds, she thought.
It suddenly occurred to her that she was really ignorant about the aging process of men, especially their sexual capacity. Her experience with Jason and the dentist had validated Mrs. Burns' assertion that man's best friend was indeed his penis, and getting it up was a matter of utmost importance to them. They were proud of their erections, especially their endurance and capacity for orgasms.
Viva Viagra, she thought.
Thinking about this brought on a warmth that crawled up her back. She had never gone to bed with anyone over sixty, but the dentist did have episodes when his erection had abruptly collapsed. The thing had just deflated, as if someone had put a pin in a balloon, and no amount of coaxing had brought it back to life. Luckily, after resting, he was able to rise to the occasion, not that it performed any great feats of pleasure for Grace. She suspected that this was more common in men over sixty, and that they initially required a great deal more sexual inspiration than younger men.
A healthy interest in sex, feigned or real, would be an essential part of the package she would offer. She was determined to be cooperative but not servile. She wanted her dignity to remain intact. It would take massive effort and time, total focus and commitment. In fact, this would have to be her full-time job. The money that Mrs. Burns had given her, coupled with the unemployment checks that would start arriving the next week, would barely be enough to sustain her for more than a few months. She would have to take a second job in the meantime. If Grace were to take this road, she would have to be fully provisioned for the journey.
For the first time in her life, she was actually setting goals for herself, plotting the tactics and strategies to reach them, like a general preparing to make a crucial assault to capture an objective.
The coffin was being wheeled down the aisle toward the exit, followed by grieving relatives. "What a wonderful person," the woman next to her said as Grace filed out and followed the flow of the crowd heading out of the chapel.
She waited in the shade of the building while the men with the armbands assembled the car procession behind the hearse. Soon the cars rolled out of the lot off to the cemetery. A few minutes later the group from the other funeral passed out of the building and were efficiently dispatched towards the burial ground.
Grace stood there in the empty lot for a long time. It was time to muster her weapons and prepare for battle. It was time to take control of her own destiny.
