Getting Old Is to Die for (4 page)

A NEW CASE

M
eeting will come to order," announces Ida, tapping her teaspoon on her cup and opening her file folder.

With that, we all get ready for the weekly business meeting of Gladdy Gold and Associates. Our business slogan: "Senior sleuths for the senior citizen." Our motto: "Never trust anyone under seventy-five." Naturally all meetings include food. We're in Evvie's apartment; her turn to cook for the group meeting. I glance at her as she brings our lunch out from the kitchen. Her dark clothing lately is so unlike my Evvie, who always wore bright colors and wild patterns that expressed her usual upbeat demeanor.

And not that she's much of a hostess today, either. She's serving us takeout from the local deli, which she ordered and had delivered. Unheard of. We look forward to these meetings as an opportunity to share meals together and take turns showing off a little. Evvie's specialty is a superb chicken fricassee made with chicken wings and tiny meat-balls. Her secret ingredient is Hungarian sweet paprika. But I digress.

Lately, Ida is the one keeping us all together.

While Sophie and Bella serve the coffee and strudel cake, Ida reviews a list of possible jobs. Actually,
a
job: Ida has culled the list down to the one she thinks will interest us. Evvie stays in the kitchen pretending to be very busy doing dishes. She promises to listen to us through the cutout pass-through. But we all know that she's avoiding dealing with reality and that all she wants to do is hide.

"We got a phone call from a Dr. and Mrs. Harvard Silverstone of Naples," Ida announces.

Bella, our secretary, takes out her notebook. "Where's that?" she asks.

"West coast Florida, directly across from us," Ida answers. "They are a couple in their nineties whose daughter lives in Fort Lauderdale. It seems that they have a very big anniversary coming up--number seventy-five--and they expect their daughter to attend."

Sophie is busily poking around the plate to find a piece of strudel that'll appeal to her. "So what's the big deal?"

"Yeah," echoes Bella, "where's the case?"

"Patience," Ida says. "Let me fill you in. Their only daughter, Linda, sends e-mail letters saying she can't come, but won't give a reason, other than to say she is too busy. When they call her they always get the answering machine. They haven't seen her in almost a year."

"That's not very nice of her," Bella comments.

"So what do they want of us?" Sophie asks.

I know I should contribute, but I can't get with it. I can see Evvie puttering about with her pots and pans and she looks so miserable. I wish I knew how to help her.

"Glad?" Ida says, trying to get my attention. "What do you think?"

"It doesn't seem too difficult. Visit the daughter and ask her straight out why she won't go. Why don't the three of you handle that?"

There's a silence as they absorb the fact that I am not including myself.

Sophie jumps in. "But you're our driver."

"I'm sure Denny will take you around." Our considerate handyman is always willing to help out the seniors who live in our Phase.

More silence. I know they are trying to figure out what to say.

Ida understands and is sympathetic, but her patience with our problems has its limits. She pushes back her chair. "Well, that takes care of that," she says curtly. "Come on, girls," she says to Sophie and Bella, "we have our assignment." Lots of ice in that tone, but frankly I don't blame her. Even I'm sick of my own self-pity.

Sophie looks longingly at the leftover strudel and grabs one for the road.

I shrug. "Sorry," I say.

"Thanks for lunch," says Bella, calling to Evvie in the kitchen on her way out, "but next time could we have the fricassee?"

Evvie mumbles something unintelligible.

The girls leave. I go into the tiny kitchen and sit down at the minuscule dinette table and chairs set. Evvie's back is to me.

"We've got to stop this, Ev."

Evvie turns. She's in tears. "I can't. I just can't. I'm so miserable." She drops down onto the other chair and leans her head on her arms. "I miss him every moment!"

With that she looks up at me pleadingly. "Maybe if I see him again one more time..."

I reach over and touch her arm. "Honey, you know you mustn't. It's over. You have to stop torturing yourself."

The doorbell rings.

"You answer," Evvie says. "Probably one of the girls left something. I don't want to talk to anybody."

To my immense surprise there is a familiar man standing on the other side of the screen door: Joe Markowitz, Evvie's ex-husband. I haven't seen him in years. I can't help but stare. Time hasn't been good to him. He seems to have shrunk from his original five foot seven. His back has rounded out like a man with osteoporosis. There's not much left of his original curly black hair, only shreds of gray tufts. His black eyes, which once seemed big and glittering, are pale and washed out. The expression on his face is mournful.

He manages a small smile. "Hello, Gladdy. Long time no see."

I can't take my eyes off him. "Evvie, come look who's here."

Evvie comes to the door. Her eyes widen in shock. "Joe? What the hell are you doing here?"

He gives her a half-toothless grin. "Guess what. I've just moved down to Florida. And guess what. I rented an apartment right here in Lanai Gardens."

For a moment, she is speechless. Then, "Oh, swell," she says in disgust, "just what I needed."

5

BREAKFAST WITH THE BICKERSONS

W
e're sitting at my dining room table--Evvie, Joe, and I--sipping coffee.

There used to be a radio show my mother and I listened to when I was growing up. Way before there was television. It was hilarious. It was about a couple named Bickerson, John and Blanche, who did nothing but bicker. (Get it? Bickering Bickersons? Shows were kind of simplistic those days.) Don Ameche and Frances Langford, two wonderful actors, played the parts. But they had nothing on the couple airing their show in my apartment this morning. The bickering Markowitzes.

Yesterday Joe stayed only a few moments to give Evvie news she didn't want. The way she put it, after he left, was that she'd rather have the heartbreak of psoriasis. But I immediately had it in my head that maybe Joe might take her mind off Philip, so I invited them both for breakfast. I guess it's working, though perhaps not in the way I imagined.

Evvie says, "So in all of Fort Lauderdale, you had to pick this place to plant your
tuckus
?"

Joe says, "I thought it would be nice to be near family." With this he looks pleadingly at me.

I shrug. "Sure, that's a good reason. More coffee?"

Evvie: "No." She glares at me. Translation: Why did she ever let me talk her into this stupid breakfast?

Joe: "Sure, thanks, you always did make a good cup of java, Glad."

I, however, remember a different Joe, criticizing everything anyone in our family did. My coffee he called "like mud." Seems like Joe is rewriting history. In the past he never wanted to have anything to do with us.

Evvie, helping herself to more pancakes: "So our daughter finally got sick of having to take care of you? She threw you out?"

Joe: "Martha did no such thing. She liked having me live with them."

Evvie: "I'll bet. But then again, I remember she always used to take in ugly stray dogs. Out of pity."

Joe, getting hot under the collar: "I was a big help to them. Her Elliot couldn't change a lightbulb without me."

Evvie: "Yeah, yeah. I remember how good you were around our apartment. I had to get on my hands and knees and beg before you'd ever change a lightbulb for me."

"More syrup?" I ask, putting my body between theirs before they come to blows. Both of them push the bottle away, narrowly missing spilling that sticky stuff on me. I'd better not get too close.

Evvie daintily wipes her mouth. "I always meant to ask how come your darling family didn't take you in when you went broke? Again."

Joe, hotter: "My sisters wanted to. Only they had their own kids living with them!"

Evvie, under her breath: "Losers, one and all."

Joe stands. He never could take anything bad said against his clan. "I heard that. Take it back!"

Evvie, standing also: "Why should I? Truth is truth. And besides I'm not married to you anymore, so I don't have to pretend to like people who hate me!"

Joe, moving swiftly to the door, his napkin still under his chin: "And vice-a-versa, babe. Vice-a-versa!"

One slam of the front door screen, then another.

Evvie's voice outside my kitchen window. "Go downstairs the other way. I can't stand the sight of you!"

"Vice-a-versa again, bitch!"

Silence. That went well, I think, smiling. Then my smile fades as I remember Joe when we first met. Standing tall, wearing his army uniform proudly. It was late 1944; the war was soon to come to its dramatic end, but we didn't know that yet. Excitement was in the air. Danger. Couples falling in love and marrying just before the men were shipped out overseas. The women not knowing whether their husbands would ever return. Evvie and Joe were caught up in the drama. With his curly black hair and flashing dark eyes, Joe was a looker! And Evvie, the exciting, beautiful redhead, so in love. The two of them holding hands and looking at one another, their shining glances saying This is it. This is real love and it will last forever.

Joe came back alive and then reality set in.

I can still hear them shouting at one another from the stairwells.

Oh, well, at least it took her mind off Philip.

6

NEW YEAR'S EVE 1961

THE SCREAM

A
woman screamed. For a moment, everything and everyone seemed to freeze. The street was still. The air seemed not to move. Then, almost in slow motion, Gladdy saw Jack turn toward the alley from where that chilling sound came. And, without thought, he started running toward it. Gladdy felt herself reacting too slowly. By the time she found her voice and called after him, "Jack, no!" he was already out of sight.

A heart-stopping moment later she heard her husband shout, "Patty, run!"

And then the shot.

To her ears it was as if a small firecracker went off, but she knew in her heart this was something worse. She'd never before heard gunfire, but she understood that's what it was. In the same almost paralyzed moment she and Emily looked fearfully at one another. Then again out the window at the alley. Surely Jack would reappear and grin up at them and tell them it was some false alarm.

Why fool herself? This was something bad. Gladdy ran for the door, not even taking her coat. With a last anguished look at her daughter, she raced out.

"Stay here, Emily!" she cried as the door slammed behind her.

7