Never Too Late for Love by Warren Adler Page B

opened before
she could slip the letter into the slot, and the check fell to the ground.
    "Yes?" a woman's voice said. She was a slight
woman, very thin, in a seersucker house dress. She wore brown horn-rimmed
glasses with very thick lenses, which made her eyes seem oddly magnified and
distorted. Sarah watched her, embarrassed, unable to find any sensible words,
transfixed, it seemed, by the magnified lenses. In the shock of confrontation,
she had momentarily forgotten the fallen check.
    "Mrs. Shankowitz?" Sarah finally managed to blurt
out. In her mind, it seemed a contemptuous ejaculation.
    "I'm Mrs. Shankowitz," the woman said. Although
her hair was dyed brunette, her face had a gray caste, testifying to the
futility of the dye job. It was Sarah's first logical observation, bringing the
woman into perspective on a human scale.
    "So am I," Sarah said, nodding. She had felt a
sense of diminished dignity at first, as if she had been caught peeking, being
a yenta. But she was recovering fast now, remembering the check, which she bent
to retrieve.
    "I got your social security check," she said,
lifting it and handing it to the woman, whose face brightened, the lips
trembling into a warm smile, although the teeth were devastated.
    "Thank God," the woman said. "I was going
crazy."
    "We had a mix-up."
    "Please. Please come in," the woman said, opening
the door and stepping beside it in a gesture of hospitality. "I was going
out of my mind." Sarah hesitated. "Please. We'll have a nice cup of
coffee."
    Where had her animosity fled? Sarah wondered, although she
could not shake her embarrassment. Was she about to be humiliated? Was this the
wrong thing to do? I shouldn't really, she prepared herself to say, but the
words stuck in her throat as her legs carried her into the apartment. Like
hers, it was the efficiency type, the smallest unit, still incomplete in
furnishing.
    "I'm here only two weeks. Forgive the mess."
Candace Bergen was on the television tube talking about telephones. The woman
flicked off the set and went into the kitchen. Sarah heard the sound of coffee
cups rattling.
    "They tell me the first check is always a problem. The
woman at the desk says the mailman first has to get to know you. That I can't
understand..."
    Sarah listened, half-understanding, surveying the little
apartment with an avid curiosity, knowing that something in the room was
engaging her, tugging at her.
    "...Frankly, she wasn't very helpful. You can't
imagine how grateful I am." There was a brief pause. "You say your
name is Shankowitz..."
    She had seen it briefly as she came into the apartment, but
apparently something inside her would not let it register. Nat's picture
staring at her from a corner wall, the hawk eyes watching her, although the
face was fuller, older. Her heart thumped, and she sat heavily on the couch.
The woman came in with the steaming coffee cups on a little tray. Sarah
continued to feel the hawk-like eyes watching her, looking inside of her.
    "Shankowitz. I didn't think it was such a common
name."
    Sarah remained silent, reached for the coffee cup, but her
hands shook and she quickly put it down again. She could tell by the woman's
sudden interest that she wanted to inquire about her health, but she was
holding back. At Sunset Village, one did not make quick inquiries about what
seemed like obvious afflictions.
    "I've been a widow for three years, so a number of my
friends live here now and I finally decided to come." Sarah felt her eyes
watching her.
    "You got a husband Mrs. Shankowitz?"
    "I had one," Sarah mumbled. "He ... He
died."
    The woman shook her head.
    "When was that?"
    "A long, long time ago," Sarah said, finding
little courage, abruptly changing the subject, postponing it in her mind.
    "How long does it take to adjust?"
    "Adjust?"
    "You know what I mean. To the point where it doesn't
hurt as much."
    Sarah's instinct was to say "never," or was it
simply the automatic expectation, the desire to hurt. Hurt who?
    "Your