White Gloves

She wore white gloves. Bracelets dangled from her wrists. Diamonds, rubies and emeralds. But, it was the gloves that he noticed. Runched, to the elbows, long and shiny. At a second glance, her smile captured more than a heart-full, from her twinkling silver-blue eyes, to her glistening, slightly parted, crimson lips. More than one stared at the vision, but few attempted contact. The brave ones walked away shaking their heads; their posture spoke of rejection and defeat. The ones that didn't try feigned indifference, but in fact, felt just as disheartened as the others for being cowards. James Robert Farnsworth was not a coward; he was patient. He sipped his brandy and made his plan of attack. Never once did he lose sight of her. His eyes peered over the rim of the crystal goblet, and gazed at the beautiful woman from a safe distance. Dressed in a perfectly tailored, black tux, and tasseled black-patent loafers, he stood off to the side watching, as she stood almost motionless in the great ballroom. He would wait, observe, and then advance. His quiet charm would woo her from the corner; his arms would sweep her out onto the dance floor. Cheek to cheek they would promenade, corner to corner, on the shiny, waxed parquet floor. She would be his for the evening. More if she provided intelligent conversation.

The music was light and lively, the liquor plentiful. At a thousand dollars a plate, only the rich or the annabe's attended. James was old money and it showed. Women scurried to his side, for not only was he considered a

"catch," but by most standards a looker. Any other evening he would have his choice, but tonight he was bored by the typical. He was enchanted by the woman in the white gloves. The waiter stood still as James switched the empty glass for one filled with the amber liquid. An hour had passed and the woman had remained alone.

For a moment, he their eyes met and he thought he saw a glimmer of acknowledgment. It was time to take chances. He stepped slowly, conscious of each movement. Each second savored, as anticipation surged through his veins. Just a foot or two away now. His heart was racing. She was even lovelier up close. James set his glass on the table, one second. One fleeting second. The woman had disappeared. She was dancing, on the ballroom floor, gliding with the grace of an angel. As she moved, her tiny feet appeared from below the twirling skirt of her long, golden gown. Their hands were clasped together, her fingers entwined.

His flesh intermingling with her white satin gloves. James fought the urge to break the dance. His hand reached for the brandy, almost knocking it down. His eyes never left the vision. The night was still young. She would be his. The couple finished dancing, but the man remained at her side. It was useless for James to fight the urge not to stare. She was captivating and the more she laughed, the more he wanted her.

"She is lovely, isn't she?"

"Martin. Good to see you again. Yes, she is. Do you know her?"

"Someone you haven't been with, James? Your slipping, ole chap." Martin swatted James on the back with enough force to make the brandy roll and spill.

"Not yet, anyway," he responded wiping the wet spot with his Irish linen handkerchief. "So who is she?"

"Elsinore."

"Elsinore who? No last name?"

"None. Just Elsinore. Her check went through. No surname. Strange, but then all of us have our quirks. No one knows about her, but it doesn't matter. Nouveau riche or old, money is the only passport into our society. Ten thousand dollars buys anonymity. I'd have let her in for five."

"What? Five thousand, or five cents? You'd have paid her, whom are you kidding Martin? I saw you drooling over her."

"She turned more than me down, James. The whole lot of us, Arthur, Clayborn, even Harrison. Who would think of all the eligible, wealthy bachelors, she'd chose old man Lathrop? Why he's old enough to be her father, her grandfather."

"And rich enough to buy us all."

"Do you think money attracts her? She seems to have plenty of her own. Ten thousand dollars for a thousand dollar plate?"

"A small investment if she's looking for more. But you're right, Martin. I don't think it's money. And it's obvious age doesn't matter. She looks twenty, twenty-five, but there is an air about her that speaks of maturity. An eloquence that only a woman in her prime carries. No, she is well beyond adolescence, though she possesses youth."

A third man stepped to the table, smoking a cigar and waving it in the air.

"Lathrop seems to be the lucky one tonight. Divine creature, that Miss Elsinore. An angel."

"Albert. Glad you could make it tonight. Where's the Mrs.?"

"At home with one of her convenient migraines. And what are you two gentlemen discussing, as if I didn't know? Could it possibly be the widow, Elsinore?"

James smiled. "A widow? Is this a fact, or one of your hunches, Albert?"

"I have it by great authority she is the widow of the Duke of Lansbury. Probably here to fill her coffers, restore the ole dukedom. Lathrop seems enchanted with her. Kind of a disappointment, though. Thought she'd be with you, James. I've yet to see you pass a beauty like that one up."

James smirked and continued to make small talk, but his eyes were busy following the vision as she left the room. Alone.

"Excuse me, gentleman," James said. "I've some, ah, business to attend to." James pace quickened as he left the ballroom. The golden gown disappeared into the bathroom. He stood off to the side waiting for her to open the door.

"The fish that got away, eh, James?"

Lathrop. James was startled. He hadn't seen him leave, but it made sense. Leaving a lady such as Elsinore alone would be an idiotic thing to do.

"Randall. It seems you are Johnny on the spot. My mistake for not being a second sooner. One I hope I can rectify."

Lathrop laughed. "Hate to tell you this, son, but Miss Elsinore is my date. I suppose, since this is my home, and you didn't see us drive up together, you made an assumption. Otherwise, you would have known I was her escort. Trust me on this, James, this is one fish not worth catching."

"How can you say that? She is positively the most desirable, beautiful woman anyone has ever seen. You must be either blind, or dead?"

Again Lathrop chuckled. "Or both," he said, his raspy voice barely talking above a whisper. "Leave it alone, James. Get on with your life. Tonight, the gods have smiled on me and given me back my youth."

"There's no diamond on her finger. As far as I'm concerned, she's fair game. How long do you think you can satisfy a sensual woman, such as she is? Not for long, old buddy. And if it's money she wants, I have enough to keep her in finery the rest of her life. With me she has a future and riches."

"And that is what you think she's here for? Then by all means, talk to her. Go ahead. Convince her to dance with you. Do your damnedest. Please . . . I mean it. I give you my permission. No, I insist. And I hope she chooses you. I will pray for your success."

Lathrop turned, as fast as a man of eighty is able, and hobbled to the ballroom. His cane, tap, tapping on the varnished, hardware floor. James had only a second to gain his composure before the door opened. Elsinore emerged, as lovely as Aphrodite herself, and still gloved. White gloves.

"Elsinore," James said moving in quickly. He had thought of a dozen things to say. The words were perched on his lips, but her wistful smile caught him off guard. What tumbled out of his mouth was utter nonsense.

"How rude of me to accost you like this. Please forgive me."

Elsinore extended her hand. James watched the white gloves lower, soft, shimmery, slowly resting in the palm of his right hand. He was bewitched, high, but somehow managed to lower his head, pressing his lips gently on

the long, delicate fingers.

"Dance with me, Elsinore. Just once. Randall doesn't mind. Told me so himself."

Her eyes said no, even before she spoke. "Randy is a sweetie. He's spent his whole life giving. Even now, tonight, his night, he's willing to share my company. But, no. This evening is for him. The fund-raiser, the music, the ambiance. All for him. A promise is a promise and I intend to keep it."

"Then another night, perhaps?" James asked.

"That can be arranged."

"When? Tomorrow? Next weekend?" James wasn't about to give up. She was just Lathrop's date, not his lover, nor his intended.

"I will call you. I promise."

"And a promise is a promise, you said."

"I'll keep my word, James. A person's word is his worth."

Elsinore touched the top of James forehead, her finger sliding down the side of his face and settled on his lower lip. With a wink, she was gone. James took his time re-entering the ballroom. It took but a moment to find his enchantress. She was dancing with Randall. Energetically, prancing the full length of the floor. A tango. Step, step, turn. Randall's head was pressed closely to hers. Their arms pointing in one direction, then swiftly changing. It was if he was a young man again. Many of the guests had formed a circle, watching the couple perform expertly. And when the music ended, the sound of their applause was thunderous. James found himself clapping in spite of his bittersweet loss. They danced two more, a waltz and a cha-cha. Others joined them the second time, and James had trouble seeing through the crowd. His eyes wandered around the room and then, he saw Lathrop's cane. It was leaning against one of the tables. He knew then she was magical. Elsinore led Randall back to their table after finishing the third dance. He seemed a bit out of breath, but no more than one half his age would be. She pulled out a chair and then moved her own close to his. James couldn't make out a word they were saying, but he knew the jest of it. They were like two lovers, whispering, smiling, laughing. His gnarly fingers rested on her hand. It was a farce, yet he saw Randall's face beaming and knew the old coot loved the mysterious woman. What was harder to accept was the look of love Elsinore returned. James thought about leaving, but he wanted to watch them. There was more to this evening than financing the Lathrop foundation. He would stay and hope for the best. Maybe he could drive Elsinore home. It was worth waiting the last hour or so. After a pleasant rest, the couple stood. Randall grabbed Elsinore's hand but she withdrew it. She tilted her head and whispered in his ear. Randall nodded. And then, with a silent drum roll echoing in his head, James watched as the lady slipped off her gloves, one finger at a time. It was an unveiling. The procedure took minutes. Elsinore's movements were well rehearsed, almost staged. James looked around to see if anyone else was watching, but found most of the partygoers too drunk or disinterested. Elsinore laid her gloves on the table. She took Randall's hand in hers and James stared at the normal looking fingers. So, he thought, they weren't covering a disfigurement. At least none that I can see from this distance. The ballroom floor was almost empty now. Only one or two couples remained. Elsinore held Randall tightly, her right hand entwined with his, her left placed gently on his back. And they danced. Small, shuffling steps in time with the blues. Midway, she rested her head on his shoulder. Randall, in turn, laid his upon hers and the two seemed oblivious to the world. When the music ended, she stepped back. Randall nodded again. Elsinore turned, released her hold, and walked away. James stood from his chair and watched as Lathrop gasped once and collapsed. The old man hit the floor with a thud and immediately everyone rushed to his side. Everyone but James, who knew instinctively that he was dead. Instead, he walked over to their table and found Elsinore putting her white gloves back on.

"You killed him," was all he could say.

"He was eighty years old, James. He died of old age."

"No, Elsinore. You killed him. Who are you?"

"Who am I? What you should ask, is who am I tonight? This evening, I am Elsinore, Randall's wife. He really loved her, you know. Never remarried. Spent almost fifty years faithful to a memory. Few love that long or as strong."

"You're a witch, then? An enchantress?"

Elsinore laughed. "Is that who you truly think I am? Fear not, for I am an angel. Ariel."

And then James understood. "The angel of death," he said out loud.

"Some think that. I prefer to be thought of as an angel of life. Not an existence as you may know it, but one even more gratifying than the one you possess now. And you wanted so terribly to spend time with me."

James stepped back. "That was before I knew who or what you are. May I rescind my invitation."

"You are a dandy, James. The date will take place, but not quite yet. Someday. But know it won't necessarily be the way you have witnessed things tonight. Some..."

"It was an aneurysm," Dr. Hawlings announced, nodding to the crowd of people who hovered around the lifeless body like birds of prey.

"What a way to go," James mumbled under his breath.

"Not a bad way at all. He died fast, no pain. He wanted it that way. His last moments were chosen. The party, the dancing, the fundraiser. Even in a granted wish, he still thought of others. Weep not for him. He was a good man. Save your tears; you may need them."

"What do you mean? Is there something I should know?"

"Randall spent his life helping others. The Munsey Foundation was his, named after his wife's family name. No credit would he take. Not for that or the scholarships and grants he made to colleges. Those are just a few of his benevolent deeds."

"I never knew about this foundation. Always thought of his donations as being a tax write-off."

"There's the difference. You're such a cynic. He gave without wanting a shred of recognition. The highest form of charity is to help others with anonymity. This night was his reward. What better gift than for one to choose one's demise?"

"But Randall never stepped into a church. Never saw him at services, either. He's not religious in the least bit."

"Do you think God only hangs out in temples and buildings? Do you think God cares if you are Moslem, Catholic or Jew? He asks for man to take care of one another. That is proof that He is loved and obeyed, and not the prayers in steepled rooms with guilded pulpits.

"Take charge of your life, James and stop counting on the forgiveness of priests to absolve your sins. Stop admiring your reflection in the mirror as you pass by. And stop using everyone for your own selfish needs."

"And if not?" James asked.

"Some people die in their sleep, or on an operating table. No fan fair. I just come for them. And some…well there are others who are in the same line of work I am. They aren't quite as pleasant to look at, or as compassionate. They work in the shadows, dragging their souls away from the light and away from peace."

"And which death awaits me?" James asked.

Elsinore turned when she saw Randall's body being lifted on the gurney. The party had ended and few remained to see Randall's body taken to the ambulance. Only the servants stood ready to bid their employer goodbye.

"I must leave. It's time for both of us to go. But, before I do, take these."

Elsinore whisked off her gloves and handed them to James.

"Is my time… now?" he asked.

Elsinore shook her head. "This is not your night. Take the gloves and keep them out in the open where you can look at them, hold them, cherish them. Not many people are lucky enough to get a second chance. These gloves are to remind you that death takes many forms. Some are pleasant, some ordinary, and some terrifying. For some, death is black sackcloth and a sickle. But it need not be, because, like Randall and others like him, death wears white gloves."

Judith Tracy's short stories have appeared in both print (Hot Blood X and the upcoming horror anthology, The Dead Inn) and E-zine publications. The short story, "White Gloves", appeared in Ascent.) February 28, 2001, my sci-fi book, "Destiny's Door", will officially be released by Padwolf Inc., followed by two Young Adult, fantasy novels (three and four in a series) in the Spring.

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