Getting Old is a Disaster Page 8

  We exchange good mornings. I wait to see how this will go.

  “Lots of rain last night,” Evvie comments.

  “Plenty of wind, too,” says Joe.

  I can play the same game. “Nice flowers,” I comment.

  Joe eagerly says, “Evvie’s favorites. Pink roses.”

  Ms. Contrary has to say, “That was twenty years ago. Now I favor yellow.”

  My sister, queen of the put-down.

  Joe turns to me. Here it comes, me-in-the-middle. “Gladdy, tell her to have dinner with me. She keeps turning me down.”

  “I have no need to go out. I already have a dinner planned,” Evvie says haughtily.

  “Like what?” Joe demands.

  “Like my leftover pot roast from last night.”

  Joe sees this as a possible break. “Then maybe I can share it with you?”

  She shrugs. “Sorry, only enough left for one.” Just then Enya appears in front of the building. Seeing us standing there, she moves in our direction. Joe pushes the flowers into my arms. “I give up. Stubborn broad. Here, you take them.” And he gets in his car and drives off. I give my sister my stern look of disapproval, but she doesn’t care. She still won’t give her ex an inch.

  Enya manages a feeble smile for the two of us. “Thank you for your kindness the other evening.”

  “You’re very welcome,” Evvie says.

  “Are you feeling better?” I ask. She still looks very fragile to me and she clutches a worn black sweater to her, as if she isn’t able to warm up.

  She shrugs. “It helps when the sun is out.” She leans over to smell the roses I now carry. “Such loveliness in an ugly world.” She shudders, then frowns. “I still can’t help feeling something very bad is coming.”

  “You mean another storm?” Evvie asks. “We’ve never had a hurricane hit Fort Lauderdale, so you needn’t worry.”

  She pulls her sweater tighter. “A different kind of storm. A storm like no other. Something evil is coming.” Then she forces a smile. “Don’t listen to me. I’m just a silly woman with a lot of fears.”

  I look at Evvie, then at the flowers, and then at Enya. Evvie nods. I hand the flowers to Enya. She is surprised. “Please take them,” I say.

  Evvie adds quickly, “I’m allergic.”

  Enya smiles and reaches for them gratefully. Evvie pinches me and indicates I should turn to see something.

  I do. It’s Jack coming briskly toward me. Enya, her nose smelling her flowers, walks off to go on her usual morning stroll.

  Evvie winks at me, then heads for her apartment. I go to meet Jack halfway.

  “Hi—” I start to say, but he instantly interrupts me.

  “I’m already packed.”

  I gaze at him, startled. “Are you going somewhere? You didn’t mention—”

  Again he interrupts me. “We’re going. I made us a reservation in Key West. Tonight. Throw a few things in a bag.”

  “You really took me seriously? You actually picked out a place?”

  He takes my arm, and marches me toward my building. “You won’t need much. I don’t expect we’ll be leaving the room too often.”

  With that he playfully pats me on my backside. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

  Key West

  The girls can’t believe Jack and I, based on a few minutes’ discussion, are actually going down to Key West. I can almost hear one of them say, Just like that, you go on a trip? Without us? But with Jack standing right there, they hold their tongues. Roughly 180 miles away, approximately a three-hour drive. I can’t believe it, either, yet here I am. Everyone is standing in a tight cluster when I appear downstairs with an overnight bag. Jack’s vintage Cadillac is parked right in front, with its trunk open and his duffel bag very much in sight. I watch my girls as they watch me hand Jack my case and stare at him placing it next to his.

  No guessing what the two of us intend to be doing on this trip—the answer is as plain as the blush on my cheeks. I look at their faces, trying to read what they’re feeling. No one says anything but

  Bella is grinning. Sophie pinches her in excitement. Ida is scowling. Evvie is absolutely poker-faced. When will I ever feel comfortable about this couple thing and my girls? Maybe only when we finally marry—ha!

  Needless to say, others are watching the Jack and Gladdy show, too. Ever-present Hy and Lola stand on their second-floor landing, whispering to each other. Lola giggles. This should give them an entire afternoon of speculation and innuendo. I’m surprised they aren’t waving a sign that says FALLEN WOMAN.

  Jack sees me gazing at them. He grins, and whispers, “Scarlet woman, babe. I keep proposin’ and you keep dozin’.”

  The girls wave as we head out. We pass Mary and Irving in Mary’s car. I am sure they’re heading for the hospital.

  What little sun we had before disappears. The first raindrops begin to fall.

  I’d been to Key West many years before, but this trip will definitely be different, very different. I’m going with a man who loves me and wants to be alone with me. I look over at him adoringly. He catches my glance and winks at me. I feel this tiny little shiver up and down my back. I can hardly wait until we get there.

  I look at Jack and then at the sky. Threatening is the word that comes to mind. Jack senses my concern. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I checked the weather report. All systems go.”

  We pass Miami. Jack thoughtfully packed a picnic lunch, so we munch turkey/cranberry sand-wiches, brownies, and bottled water without stop-ping.

  Leaving Homestead, we get onto US One, the Dixie Highway, which takes us all the way down to the Keys. I sigh. Only forty-three bridges and 110 miles to go. Rain threatening. Clouds black and grumbling.

  First town coming up will be Key Largo. How can I not think of Bogart and Bacall steaming up the sheets in that famous movie of the same name? I look at my macho Bogart type driving happily along with a big grin on his face. But then again, I remember that movie also featured the worst hurricane in the United States up to that time. The Keys were very badly hit. The sky above us gets darker and more foreboding. Jack whistles some tune I don’t recognize. Maybe it’s the theme from Titanic.

  “It’s starting to rain,” I say, “in case you haven’t noticed.” I singsong the child’s tune: “Rain, rain, go away. Come again some other day.”

  “What’s a little moisture,” he says cheerfully. “Won’t spoil our indoor sports.”

  “You have a one-track mind.”

  “And why shouldn’t I, since we’ve been derailed so often.”

  By the time we reach Islamorada, the rain is seriously coming down. And the wind has picked up.

  “Would this be a good time to tell you I really can’t swim?”

  “Swimming is not on the agenda.”

  “And I’m afraid of sharks.”

  “Who isn’t? But we won’t be swimming, ergo we won’t have to worry about sharks.”

  I wish I had his confidence. “Maybe we should get a room closer in. Long Key is just right up ahead.”

  “Nah. Key West is great. Why, if you get bored we can visit Ernest Hemingway’s house and see all the cats that live there or Harry Truman’s Little White House or maybe even ride a dolphin...”

  I reach over and pinch his arm.

  “Wise guy. But the weather does look ominous.”

  “Not to worry. To an ex-navy man who rode out the storms in the North Atlantic, this is nothing.”

  “Nothing can turn into something,” I say, still nervous. “You never told me you were in the navy.”

  He leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

  That’s for sure. Now I’m getting the macho view of my man against nature. I hope nature doesn’t win.

  By the time we pass Marathon, the wind is howling and the rain is pelting down. It’s hard to see out the windshield. Many cars are on the road, but they are going in the opposite direction.

  Jack is s
till whistling. I close my eyes and pretend I’m asleep. But that’s even worse. My imagination continues to paint dire scenarios.

  I feel like I’m going “up the down staircase” as we fight our way through the heavy wind up the steps to the Brown Pelican Inn. People hurry past us, obviously on their way out, lugging their suitcases. Nervousness is written on their faces.

  I would like to admire the charm of this pale yellow faux-Victorian B&B, but I can’t tell much for the downpour.

  “Lots of people leaving in a hurry,” I say, trying to look at Jack, though I can’t see his face clearly.

  “Good,” says Mr. Cheerful. “We’ll upgrade to a better class of room.”

  At the desk, the checkout line is longer than the registration line, which consists of us! I stand next to him and leave it to the admiral to get us settled.

  The manager introduces herself as Ms. Teresa LeYung, petite with long, lovely dark hair and almond eyes. She looks to be in her thirties. I timorously ask what the latest weather report is.

  “Last report I heard, the storm was heading toward Puerto Rico, possibly south toward Cuba. But it will be bouncy here. Storm should subside by midnight. Not to worry.” She’s upbeat, but I detect concern in those pretty eyes. Jack is right; she offers us the bridal suite. No extra charge. Apparently the Midwestern newlyweds had changed their minds and canceled their reservation. Am I imagining it that the manager’s hand is shaking as she hands Jack the key?

  “You will keep us informed?” I ask.

  “Absolutely,” Ms. LeYung promises.

  As we head for the elevator, I glance around the lobby quickly. It is a lovely place, done in good taste with French antiques. A few tourists are milling around having drinks, looking relaxed. So why am I still worried?

  I admire our “bridal suite”—all white satin and peach lace with Laura Ashley delicate lavender floral drapes and bedspreads. It overlooks Mallory Deck, a huge outdoor party space where people gather by the hundreds each night to view the glorious sunsets over the ocean and be entertained by carnival performers. The ocean is an angry battleship gray. There are no cruise ships parked there this time. There will be no sunsets tonight. No people dancing the night away.

  Jack hefts the voluminous basket of fruit, cheese, and wine. The ribbon reads, “Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Jim Lawler.”

  He reaches for a slice of pineapple. “I’m sure the Lawlers won’t mind.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, “maybe they’ll come for it tomorrow. We’ve gotten this by default.”

  The playful ex-navy man puns, “Yeah, ‘de fault’ being that those Midwestern wimps are no-shows, so the goodies go to us.”

  I sigh. “Keep making jokes. Then how come so many rats left the sinking craft? I sure hope you were never a captain in the navy—you know, the guy who always goes down with his ship.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve been in worse storms than this. Remind me to tell you about the time I was with a convoy in the North Atlantic in December near Greenland. Now, that was a whopper.”

  He bites down happily on the pineapple, licking the juice on his lips. It’s a very sexy sight and I al-most succumb to his mood. Almost.

  He remains in amazingly good humor. It must be the storm turning him on, it couldn’t be scaredy-cat me. I take my little overnighter to the bed and start to unpack. He’s at my side in a flash. “Never mind. Unpack later.”

  He sits me on the bed, then slowly lowers me to a lying-down position. I can smell the slight lavender perfume on the delicately patterned Laura Ashley spread. Above my head I stare directly into the top-floor skylight. I wonder why a Victorian has a skylight. I wonder if the glass will hold. And whether there’ll be a tsunami. Can the ocean climb three stories high? I ponder dozens of disastrous events as Jack leans over me and with his wonderful body blocks out the sight of the window.

  For a few moments, I am able to get with the program.

  Until I hear a cracking sound. Followed by an immediate crash of thunder. Jack either doesn’t hear it or ignores it. He kisses me slowly, deliciously, his body tight against mine. I am torn between passion and terror.

  Not a time for me to make jokes, but... “Did the earth move for you?” I ask.

  He laughs. “Not quite yet for that, honey. Soon. I promise.”

  “Well, it is for me, sweetie. In fact, the whole room is shaking now. And not only that, but there must be a leak in the skylight.”

  “What skylight?” He turns his head just in time for a drop of water to land on his cheek.

  “The one right above us, which just might totally collapse on us any moment.”

  Within seconds, Jack is off me and the bed. He pulls me up with both arms. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

  We rush to the windows and, clinging to each other, watch the storm rage. No more little squall—this is bad news. We can no longer see the Mallory Deck. What few sailboats were tied to the docks, bouncing about like toy toothpicks, have disappeared and there is nothing but bleak grayness everywhere.

  The sounds of the storm are so loud, we barely hear the shouting and the frantic knocking on the door. Jack opens the door to the wide-eyed Ms. LeYung. She looks to be red-faced from having run up the three flights. She can’t hide her state of panic.

  “News from the National Weather Service. The winds have shifted and the hurricane is coming directly at us. Delta force winds, type four, at more than 150 miles an hour are predicted. They’re giving us twelve hours’ notice, but they think it will hit sooner. We’ve all got to evacuate!”

  I automatically salute. “Aye, aye,” says the ex-navy man’s “mate,” who is envious of Mr. and Mrs. Jim Lawler, in whatever warm, dry place they might be.

  We grab our bags and race down the stairs after the manager. Other guests are running downstairs as well. Ms. LeYung is muttering, “Oh, God, I was here when Wilma struck. It was horrible.”

  In the lobby we meet up with the rest of the frightened guests. Ms. LeYung gives last-minute instructions to her staff, who are hurriedly pulling down the hurricane shutters all over the B&B.

  “I’ll be right back,” she tells the working crew. She starts for the door. Jack stops her. “Wait. Don’t you want us to help?”

  She shakes her head. “Thanks, but don’t worry. We’ll all get out of here in time.”

  We join the guests anxiously waiting at the front door. “Follow my cat;” she tells us. “I’ll lead you to the shortcut out of the city.”

  Bleak. All I’m aware of are bleak- and angry- looking clouds covering the sky. Jack struggles to see out the windshield. The car is rocking as he fights to keep it in control. Frankly, I’m glad I have no view. I don’t want to watch the destruction that might be happening to all these beautiful little towns along the Keys.

  Other cars also rushing from the Keys pass us, dangerously close.

  “I’m an idiot,” Jack says. “Putting you through this.”

  “You said it, I didn’t.” I lean over to kiss his cheek. “But you’re my idiot and I still love you. Besides, how could you know the winds would shift?” I pretend to put a good face on it. “Isn’t this exciting?”

  Jack is glum. “Not the kind of excitement I had in mind.”

  “All is not lost. I’ve learned a lot of new things about you, Mr. Navy Man. Stubborn. Opinionated. Risk-taker...”

  Jack cringes. “Don’t say another word. And what I’ve learned about you is that you’re loyal, though foolishly so, and brave.”

  I don’t want to ruin his opinion of me so I don’t contradict him.

  I peer out, barely able to see from one side of the very narrow causeway to the other; thinking grim thoughts. To the left of us, all of the Gulf of Mexico. To the right, the entire Atlantic Ocean. Water lapping hard on both sides reaching out to connect in the middle. Coming closer and closer to our car. Eager to have at us and suck us in. Forever.

  “Brave” me, hiding my eyes with sunglasses, shuts them and keeps them that way for most of the ride
home.

  Getting Ready

  It takes us nearly five hours to make it back to Fort Lauderdale. The farther north we go, the less ominous the weather, but no doubt there’s a real hurricane chasing our tail. Everywhere we look the escalating wind is heaving debris, forming bizarre kites in the sky.

  Drivers on the road rigidly lean forward into their steering wheels, clutching them with all their strength. They’re a study in fear. Everyone is speeding home or in any direction that might get them out of town as fast as possible. Their vehicles are rolling from side to side. Already, small-weight cars have overturned, some blown onto the shoulder. Jack’s car radio repeats the same announcements over and over. The Atlantic Hurricane Center reports that as of four-thirty P.M., the storm has intensified, and that now the east coast of Florida is in severe danger. Ocean waves at Miami Beach were kicked up by the Category Four storm. Winds are gusting at 160 miles an hour. By now the expensive beach hotels had been evacuated. The waves had already destroyed five houses and damaged ten others. So far, the hotels are still standing. The news comes at us at a staccato beat, breaking up occasionally, but the message is loud and clear: Fort Lauderdale will be next, hit hard with a hurricane for the first time ever.

  When we finally pull into Lanai Gardens, exhausted, we see more of the same. People driving out and away; others boarding up windows or scurrying to and fro with last-minute preparations. For the first time I’m sure everyone wishes we’d put up hurricane shutters. But in all these years we never needed them.

  Jack parks the car in front of my building. It’s a parking spot belonging to someone else, but this is no time to worry about the rules. As we get out I hear someone cry, “They’re back, thank God!”

  I look up to see Ida, hands clutching a jacket to her chest and neck, her hair bun unruly. Perched on our landing, she frantically waves at us. We hurry upstairs, not bothering to use the elevator, heads bowed, the wind pushing at our backs.