Getting Old is a Disaster Page 14

  Sophie jumps in. “I told Bella to ask for rent.”

  Bella says, “And what does my new boarder say? Her checkbook is in her apartment, her destroyed apartment.”

  Sophie again: “So we tell her she can always go to the bank.”

  Bella: “And she says her bankbook is gone, too.”

  “I hate to break in on all your miseries,” I announce. “But we have a new job.”

  The girls stop, mid-chewing. I have their immediate attention and I fill them in on Stanley’s assignment.

  Ida asks, “How can we find out about something that happened so long ago?”

  “Especially with practically no information at all,” Sophie comments.

  Evvie says, “First stop, our girls in Gossip. If anybody can track someone down, Barbi and Casey can.”

  “Wonderful,” says Bella. “At least it will get me out of the apartment.”

  “Ditto,” says Evvie.

  Goings On

  We watch Irving and Yolie bring Millie out of his apartment. Millie smiles brightly and waves to us even though she doesn’t remember who we are. It’s heartbreaking to think back on the dear lady she once was. Always positive and interested in everything around her. A good friend when you needed one. She and Irving were crazy about each other. Now here is this shell of a person; her vacant smile has no substance behind it.

  As much as Irving wants to keep her home, Millie needs round-the-clock hospital care. As wrenching as it is, Irving must take her back.

  We all take turns hugging a giggling Millie, trying to put a good face on how we really feel.

  Just as she is about to be helped into Irving’s battered car, she swivels, startled, as if she were waking from a dream. She looks around, suddenly seeming to know where she is. “Irving?” she says, reaching out to touch him. He jumps, shocked. It is Millie again, come back.

  One of us gasps. I think it is Sophie, but I don’t turn to see. We are mesmerized.

  Millie clutches at Irving’s shirt. “Don’t let them put me in a box. Promise!”

  He leans his head into hers. “I won’t. I promise.” Through his tears, he hugs her.

  Then, as if a light went off, she is the Alzheimer patient once again. Lost and bewildered. Irving and Yolie help her into the car.

  Irving sobs. “It’s like losing her all over again. She was so happy to be home.”

  We stand there silently, as we watch the car pull away.

  We remain near Irving’s apartment tearfully, arms around one another.

  But suddenly Tessie says, “Look, there’s Bingo Bob. He’s back at last.” Bingo is the nickname of our mailman, who spends all his free time with his wife in the bingo parlors. Well, it’s something to take our minds off Millie.

  We hurry toward our mailboxes. Hooray. It’s been days and we’ve missed our mail delivery. He tries to fill the boxes while the girls are eagerly grabbing their mail out of his hands before he can even insert the envelopes.

  “Neither rain nor sleet can stop the U.S. Postal Service,” Bob emotes in his high-pitched voice.

  “Yeah,” says Ida. “But a hurricane can.”

  “We’re very glad to see you,” Sophie says. “How are you doing at bingo?”

  “The Indian casinos are shut down ’til further notice,” he reports grimly. “Even the churches are too busy these days.”

  Sophie groans. “Now, that’s bad news. I was looking forward to playing.”

  As I flip through my mail, a familiar square white envelope catches my eye.

  I beckon the girls to join me. Away from listening ears. We head for our usual picnic table. Sure enough, it’s from our old friend Grandpa Bandit. I rip open the envelope.

  Ida comments, “I wondered if we’d ever hear from him again. What’s the old geezer got to say this time?”

  I read, “ ‘Happy you all survived the storm. Back to business—if we don’t get hit with another hurricane. First I got to get my car running. Getting old is not for sissies. But the good news is: The older you get, the more money your old junk will be worth on eBay. Further instructions to come.’ ”

  The familiar green feather is enclosed.

  Sophie stamps her feet. “The postmark is Fort Lauderdale. He lives in Lanai Gardens. I just know it. Let’s get a list of all the cars that need fixing.” She stops, realizing how impractical that is, since all the cars were affected.

  Ida says, “But who could it be? He doesn’t sound like any of the men who live here.”

  Evvie shrugs. “Even with six Phases, we haven’t met everyone. It’s easy for someone to keep a low profile.”

  Bella says, “Round ’em all up and we’ll drill ’em ’til we suss him out.”

  We look at her, amused at her vehemence. “Yeah,” says Ida, “great idea.”

  As we head out for Gossip, I glance up, to see Enya moving along on her balcony, toward the laundry room, carrying her basket. I wonder if she’s had a chance to talk to her new neighbor, Abe. Evvie looks to me and winks. I know we share a feeling. Maybe these two people can reach out to each other—they, who have known so much pain, and have history in common.

  Neighbors

  From outside, Enya hears the sound of the whirling dryer. With her basket firmly placed under her left arm, she opens the door with her right. She moves toward a vacant washer and stops abruptly.

  Abe Waller is standing near the dryer, his empty basket on a plain brown wooden chair under a small unframed mirror. This is a utilitarian room with just the basics: two washers, one dryer, and a sorting table. The room is steamy and too warm. There is no air-conditioning in here. But one small louvered window, half-open, lets in a small breeze.

  She is taken aback to see him, immediately uncomfortable. She hopes her new neighbor doesn’t feel he has to speak to her. For a moment she is motionless, but poised to flee. Enya’s eyes glance downward, to avoid looking directly at this large, overwhelming man. He is new to the building and won’t know she does not make small talk to any-one, let alone strangers. She starts to leave, saying, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know the room was occupied.”

  Abe wipes the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “No, please. I am moments away from completion. Do not let me disturb you. The machine is yours to use.”

  She returns, opens the door of the empty washer, her back to him so he will not see her personal garments.

  He, too, turns away, toward the small mirror. He takes off his Coke-bottle glasses and wipes the steam from them. Enya looks up and sees him reflected in the mirror. Then, not wanting to embarrass him, she quickly looks downward again.

  The dryer comes to a halt. The room grows silent. As Abe removes his dry laundry, he attempts small conversation. “It was very kind of the people to allow me to use their place.”

  She pours soap powder in, and chooses the wash she wants, then places the quarters into their slots and turns the machine on. As she upends her garments into the machine, she says, “Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Duma are nice people. Very quiet.”

  “I promise to be quiet also.”

  She looks up at that, discomfited. “I did not mean—” She breaks off.

  “I am not offended.” He finishes removing his dry clothes and places them on the table and starts folding with great precision. “Forgive me for my forwardness, but your accent... May I ask where you are from?”

  “So many years in this country, I don’t lose it. I am from Prague originally. And you?”

  “From Munich.” He pauses. “That was a long time ago.”

  They are silent for a few moments, absorbing this information. She places her empty basket onto the bench. She tries to hide how tense she is, even though he seems a gentleman.

  Abe finishes folding. He lifts his basket and moves toward the door.

  As he passes her, he looks down at the numbers on her left arm. She immediately gasps, trying to hide them with her hand. She is not used to people staring at them, but then her eyes are drawn to just below the wrist of hi
s long-sleeved shirt. He, too, has the damnable numbers.

  Their eyes meet for the first time. Hers, watery and weak. His covered with strong glasses. He says very softly. “We are members of a very exclusive club, jaf.”

  Her head barely nods.

  He opens the door and bows. “Good day, Frau Slovak.”

  Gossip

  Any luck?” I ask Barbi and Casey as the girls and I return. The cousins needed a couple of hours to research our new assignment. The girls were happy about that since there is a deli nearby that they like and we had a leisurely lunch.

  Now we seat ourselves on the usual white chairs around the white table in the totally white room. Since this isn’t our first visit, we no longer react to the strange working conditions of this all-white high-tech office located in a strip mall.

  Barbi starts. “Given the fact we’re dealing with dates so far back, even so, we did find quite a number of Lucy Blakes in that time span in the Tampa area...”

  Casey continues, “Having a relative named Johnny, who was deceased, narrowed the options down to very few. We’ll print out what we have.”

  I enjoy watching the two women as they swivel their desk chairs around and slide across the room to their twin computers. The girls continue to be awed at these two unusual women who we know are pretending to be cousins.

  “So,” asks Ida, making conversation, “are you getting any clients since the hurricane?”

  “Just one other, so far,” Barbi answers, reaching for the paper coming out of the printer. “One gal, kind of a character, wore a weird, lumpy outfit, wanted to know about cities in Georgia. Ones that didn’t get bad weather.”

  They come back to where we’re sitting. And hand us copies.

  “Got a hit on a Lucy Blake Sweeney. In Tampa.” Casey says, “Could be a fit. She’s seventy-seven years old. Actually written up recently in the local paper—something about a strike at a local fishery on the Gulf.”

  “Well, that’s a place to start,” says Ida.

  Barbi says, “Just thought we’d check some obits for that era. Blake’s a common name and these are the two nearest 1958. A John Adams Blake died in ’59, but he was age sixty.”

  “Wrong year and age,” says Evvie.

  “And this one, John Willis Blake, age twenty-seven. Could be the right age, but he died in March. Six months earlier than what you’re looking for. Small obit notice, no information about any remaining kin.

  “That’s about it,” says Barbi.

  Sophie is excited. “Why don’t we call that Lucy woman anyway? Maybe they didn’t have a body and just had a funeral because they thought he was dead.”

  “Wait,” I say. “We can’t just call and say, ‘You don’t know who we are, but by the way, your brother didn’t die when you thought. We found your brother’s skeleton, and he died here.’ This is a long shot.”

  Ida says, “But it’s all we have right now.”

  Evvie says. “What if our skeleton isn’t her brother and we just stir up a lot of confusion?” Bella jumps in. “And what if she has a heart attack because we scared her out of her wits?”

  I hold up my hands to stop the flow of what-ifs. “I need to talk to Stanley and ask how he wants us to handle this.”

  We thank Casey and Barbi and head back home. The noise level in my car’s a crescendo.

  Bella says, “Why don’t you take Dora for a while?”

  Sophie says, “You shouldn’t have taken her in the first place. So why should I get stuck with her?”

  “But I can’t stand it anymore. I thought I was deaf, but she’s deafer. The TV is blasting me out of my apartment. Ida, maybe you’ll take her for a while?”

  Ida sneers, “Over my dead body.”

  Evvie says, smirking, “Don’t look at me. Unless you’ll trade her for Joe.”

  Bella blushes. “I’m a single woman. I couldn’t live with an unmarried man in my apartment. That would be a sin.”

  It takes a moment for her words to sink in. I’m the single sinner living with an unmarried man. Joe and Evvie don’t count because they were once married.

  “Bella!” Evvie says agitatedly.

  She looks around, confused. “What? What did I say?”

  It gets very quiet. We reach Lanai Gardens and I park in any old spot. We no longer have assigned spaces, what with the abandoned wrecks not yet cleared away.

  “Well, it’s good to be home,” Sophie says to cover the uncomfortable silence as we climb out of my car.

  I’m not about to touch Bella’s line with a ten-foot pole.

  Once back in my apartment, I call Stanley and tell him what we’d found out. He listens to the information and says that he wants to think about our next step.

  I try to nap, one of my favorite pastimes. There’s something about drawing the shades and lying down on my bed and closing my eyes midday that is so appealing. I usually drop off the instant my head hits the pillow. Not today. First, my bed has new meaning for me. I think of Jack lying next to me every night from now on. His reaching for me and pulling me close and then our sleeping together like two well-worn spoons. I never thought I was lonely until he moved in. Now I know how much I’d been missing.

  How brave women are who live alone, whether by choice or not. We all put a good face on it, but it’s never easy. Not easy raising children alone. Not easy having to bear all the responsibility in life with no one to share it. And hardest of all is to face that empty bed at night. We make peace with our lot, whatever it is. It’s that or go mad. But lucky are those who find true love and companionship. As I did with my first husband. And now, with this wonderful man. I am twice blessed.

  Why all this philosophizing that won’t allow me to sleep? It was Bella’s remark. I know she didn’t mean it to hurt me. And it didn’t. But it made me remember that one should never take good fortune for granted. Life has a habit of whisking it away on a whim. How well I know that.

  My mind reels round and round. After an hour, I give up trying to nap, get up, and go into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

  I concentrate on preparing dinner as I sip my tea. Well, this is another piece of the puzzle of living alone or not. Ordinarily I just throw something together for myself, and quite often munch from a carton, just standing in front of the open fridge.

  Now I’m back to planning meals, shopping for food, and cooking. Even though it’s fun to see my man enjoying home-cooked meals again—who knows how many cartons he’s eaten out of—I put this on the con side of the column. The pros are enormous, but still...

  A timorous knock on the door, or did I imagine it? No, I have a visitor. There’s Bella standing outside, carrying a covered dish with something that smells wonderful.

  When I let her in, she waits in my hallway, tears forming. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said in the car.”

  She walks into the kitchen and reveals her gift. “I baked you a peach pie, your favorite. I’m a very bad person.”

  With that I put my arms around her and tell her she is anything but. “I’m actually glad you said it. It made me think.”

  “No, don’t try to make me feel better. I love you and I love Jackie and I even loved his dead wife, Faye. I wouldn’t hurt any of you for anything.” Now the tears are rolling down her face.

  I grab a dish towel, the closest thing, and hand it to her. She dabs at her eyes.

  “Come on, sit down, and join me in a cup of tea.”

  “No, I can’t. I won’t. Jackie will be here soon and you have to get his dinner ready. Please say you forgive me.”

  “I forgive you, honest.”

  She hands me my towel and heads for the door. “You can give me back my pie tin anytime. I’m in no hurry.”

  With that she’s gone. Okay, sin forgiven. But there it is, the unstated contract, meals to be made.

  Is he going to expect me to do that every single day? Wait just one minute...

  Jack walks in. I’m in a frenzy of cooking. He comes up behind me and kisses the ba
ck of my neck. “What smells so fabulous?”

  “Pot roast, baked winter vegetables, potatoes au gratin, and a huge tossed salad with balsamic vinaigrette, and peach pie a la mode for dessert.”

  “Yum. I’m already drooling,” he says as he now kisses the top of my head. “No more eating out of open cans standing in front of the refrigerator. Ever again.”

  I wheel around, spatula in hand. “I have two questions for you. Will you marry me? And do I have to do all the cooking?”

  An Evening at Home

  What a splendid evening. Jack is so thrilled about my finally using the M word, he is eager to prove he doesn’t only love me for my cooking skills. He demonstrates how much he loves all my skills. Okay, I get the point.

  Some couples create prenup agreements about money, real estate, and jewelry. Ours is about chores. Which ones we hate to do and which ones we actually enjoy. We have fun making lists. And we fool around before, during, and after. He’s perfectly willing to do half the cooking (he says he makes a mean lasagna) or we can go to restaurants anytime I want. Ditto on housework. (He loves ironing. Huh? Who loves ironing?) As well as taking clothes to the cleaners (fine with him) and food shopping (together—we’ll make it enjoyable).

  Checkbook reconciling. Banking (he likes it, he can have it), and so on and so forth.

  What we are in total agreement on is that we are both willing to share the sex. Ha-ha-ha. Little joke there.

  “Glad,” he says to me as we microwave pop-corn for an evening of watching old movies on TV. “No spreading the word yet. Not until I put an engagement ring on your finger.”

  “I don’t need a ring to know I’m yours.”