Getting Old Is Criminal (12 page)

I have a feeling they’ve already had one prideful meeting without Evvie and me. To come up with these fancy words to throw at me. Good for them.

They’ve got spunk.

But Bella is hurt. “Why didn’t you invite us along today? You know Soph and me are good with fashions.”

Sophie nods vigorously. “Versace. Dior. Pucci and Gucci. Hey, we saw
The Devil Wears Prada
last year with that wonderful Meryl Streep. I’m a regular fashionista.”

“We can’t afford them,” I say. “We can’t spend that kind of money. It’s not fair to Mr. Ferguson.”

Ida imitates him. “ ‘Money is no object.’ I say spend.”

“I know that,” says Sophie, “but I know how to recognize a knockoff, and I know where to find them.”

“Yeah,” Bella adds, “you need us. The two of you dress like it’s still 1945.”

“Thanks for nothing,” says Evvie hotly.

“Besides, the styles always come back. Now it’s called retro.”

Ida laughs. “You are going to make great big fools of yourself. Those rich ladies will smell Wal-Mart and run for the hills.”

Bella and Sophie pull me toward the car door.

“Not if we can help it.”

1 1 2 • R i t a L a k i n

*

*

*

This is not just a thrift shop—it is an upscale thrift shop, clothing donated by women with do-re-mi who have tired of their casually worn attire. The girls are having a ball. Sophie and Bella are pulling things off the rack faster than Evvie and I can try them on. Trying to match us to our new personas.

Even Ida has caught the excitement. I see her hiding behind a mirror, holding a last-season Donna Karan up to her body and daydreaming.

I’ve decided to go for sleek and sophisticated. A quietly rich woman who keeps to herself a lot. One who watches things from the sidelines. Evvie is going for raffish abandonment. Her chance to act on a stage at last. She chooses to play the role of a former socialite who landed a rich husband. Maybe many rich husbands. And she outlived them all.

“Get a load of this,” Evvie says gleefully, holding up a three-strand “diamond” necklace.

Sophie, the jewelry maven with the son in Brooklyn Heights who taught her everything about gems, examines it closely. “A really good imitation. You can pull it off, Ev. If you pretend to believe it’s real, they’ll believe you,” says the expert. “It will go beautifully with this Givenchy scarlet red cocktail dress and matching boa. And the Jimmy Choo knockoff shoes.”

By now the checkout counter is piled with clothes. I wait with bated breath for the total. I worried needlessly. As it turns out, two hundred G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 1 3

dollars and change for two wardrobes. I’m impressed. Sophie and Bella high-five each other.

While they shopped and tried on and giggled and chatted, they planned.

“Have we got a surprise for you this afternoon,” announces Sophie to Evvie. “The perfect opportunity to try out your new personas. Are we all gonna have fun!”

*

*

*

The staff of the senior recreation center in Margate has tried to make the ordinary gym look festive.

Balloons float above the small tables and rickety chairs set up for this four p.m. event. Two facing chairs at each table. Photos from magazines of young, happy-looking couples are taped onto the walls. There is much giggling among the waiting women, ranging in ages from sixty-ish to ninety-ish, who line up against the wall. They have clearly dressed up for the occasion.

The men of similar age hover in a cluster across the room, pretending not to scope out the action, except for the gregarious few who mingle among us to get a much closer view. Could the mingling be because these men have thick glasses and hearing aids?

The girls and I stand in line to pay our admis-sion at the door. When it’s my turn, Evvie pipes up that I’m just a
looky loo,
since I already have a boyfriend. And therefore maybe I only need to pay half price.

1 1 4 • R i t a L a k i n

Yeah, Evvie, and how come you haven’t noticed that said boyfriend is never around these days?

“Full price to all,” says the tough ticket taker with frizzy orange hair. “This is a fund-raiser, honey, not a nonprofit, so cough it up.”

My girls put on their name and number tags and stay close to one another. Ida is ready to bolt, but Sophie reins her in tight. Bella is all giggles. Evvie, wearing one of her new outfits, is attentive. There is an air of anticipation as the women size up the men and vice versa.

“What a bunch of
alter kockers,
” Ida decides.

“And you old broads ain’t that great, either,”

says a burly, fat-gut guy standing behind her.

Bella laughs. “Ignore him.” She puts her arm around Ida.

Ida groans. “This is a waste of time, coming here.”

Evvie, raring to have a good time, says, “I like to think of it as practice. When we get to Wilmington House, Gladdy and I will need all the flirting experience we can get.”

I look at her doubtfully. “Flirting?”

She gives me one of her pretend innocent looks.

“Why, we might have to—to get information out of Romeo. You know, like Juliet?”

A pretty young woman wearing a pink, fluffy cocktail dress and a lot of makeup walks to the podium and taps a pencil on the wood for quiet.

All eyes are on her. The men on the women’s side scurry back across the room. Brimming over with G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 1 5

enthusiasm, she calls out, “Hello, my name is Cindi, and welcome to Senior Match Dance!” She waits for the applause. “How many of you have been here before?”

A smattering of hands go up.

“The rejects,” whispers Ida, making sure fat-gut is no longer standing nearby.

“How many here for the first time?” A much larger group now.

“Helloooo, suckers.” Ida again.

Sophie smacks Ida on the back with her purse.

“Shut up already; let’s have some positive thinking. We’re here for Evvie. She might meet the man of her dreams tonight.”

“More like her nightmare.” Ida ducks before Sophie can hit her again.

Cindi is revving up to play cheerleader. “Are you too old to date?”

A chorus of
yes
ses shout up at her. Not the right answer. That stops her for a moment. “Of course not. You’re never too old.”

“A lot you know,” shouts an eighty-five-year-old up front.

“How many of you are sick of staying home nights?”

No one responds. Is she kidding? Who goes out at night? Nobody.

Cindi will not be discouraged. “Tired of blind dates?”

A white cane is seen waving from the back.

1 1 6 • R i t a L a k i n

Followed by a reedy voice. “What’s wrong with blind dates? Try me; I’m a bundle of laughs.”

“I’ll try you, honey,” shouts a homely woman to the left, “if you promise not to ask anybody what I look like.”

More laughs at that.

Cindi is losing a bit of her rah-rah, but is game to go on. “Tired of waiting for the phone to ring?”

A voice down center shouts, “It hasn’t rung in forty years. Think I should give up?”

Lots of agreement there.

Cindi keeps bulldozing. “Aren’t you sick of wasting time going from one bad date to another, going through long boring dinners that will lead to nothing but frustration?”

I hear a voice near us call out, “Dinner? Who gets that lucky? Lucky is lunch, where you get a greasy hamburger on a stale roll, in a fast-food place with a lot of screaming kids.”

“Or an ice-cold bagel with a schmear, sitting on a free bench,” shouts another. I can’t believe it. It’s Evvie reliving her breakfast with Sol.

“Hey, whatever happened to Dutch treat?” calls a male voice across the room. “Why do we guys always have to be the ones to pay?” A chorus of male
yeah
s goes with that.

There’s a lot of back-and-forth jeering.

The pencil is tap-tap-tapping. Cindi is shouting now, hoping to prevent an uprising. “And that’s why you’ve come here! Equal opportunities for everyone! A chance for thirty men and women to G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 1 7

date in one night. The shortcut to love at first sight. You’ll look at him, and he’ll look at you, you’ll ask each other questions. You’ll know if there’s a spark.” She holds up her left hand; something glistens on her ring finger. “That’s how I met my husband and that’s why I’m a believer. It’s never too late to fall in love!”

The room erupts in applause. And catcalls.

Mostly catcalls.

Sure. Never too late to get hurt again. I think it, but I’m not about to shout it out. Frankly, I wish I were home reading a good mystery.

“Easy for her to say. She’s twenty and skinny and gorgeous.” I look back. This time it’s Bella making her little comment, feeling self-righteous.

Cindi is closing fast. “Okay, let’s party! Women, each of you take a seat at one of the tables. Men, line up in a straight line. When the music starts, you start dancing your way around the room, but stay in line. When the music stops, sit down next to your nearest lady. Try to be relaxed, ask questions, look one another in the eyes, and say something that describes who you are. When the music starts again, the gentleman will say thank you as he gets up,” she says pointedly, “as will the woman, and he moves on, dancing to the right.

The next round, the women dance, the men sit, and the women get to choose their men.”

Huge applause at that.

“At the end of the dance portion, we’ll match up the requested numbers and the social hour will 1 1 8 • R i t a L a k i n

begin. If you don’t get a partner, well, there’s always next week.”

“If I live that long,” shouts a ninety-year-old in the far corner, leaning on the wall for support.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the ball is in your court.

Have fun!” Cindy nods to her assistant at the sound system.

There is much tentative moving about. The girls grab seats next to one another. I don’t want to par-ticipate, so I just stand around. I can’t think of anyone except Jack. The girls grin nervously, except for Ida, who has already lost all interest.

“Break a leg,” says Bella, unclear on the concept.

With much pushing and shoving, the men manage to get in a line. The music starts. It’s “Hava Nagila”—of course everyone knows that one. The women energetically sing along and tap their feet as the men, obviously self-conscious, stomp their clumsy way around the room in a parody of dancing. The blind man has his dog with him. The dog has better rhythm than most of the men. There are two men with walkers, one with crutches, and one old geezer attached to an oxygen cart, walking with the aid of his nurse. God bless them all, for never giving up trying. But, I better keep out of their way.

The music stops, mid-note. The men freeze.

They look around frantically, sizing up the goods.

A redhead with big hair and a lot of makeup G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 1 9

catches several eyes. Three men run for the seat next to her. One gets it, sneers. One sulks away to a different seat. The other one trips and falls. Two medical assistants in white coats hurry to his aid.

The talking starts, the room is filled with rapid conversation.

I wander from table to table and pick up snip-pets of conversation.

I pass table number one: A short, tubby guy with a bad toupee, panting from that slight exercise, leans toward his woman, informing her intimately, “Right away, I have to confess, I got psoriasis.”

“How nice for you.” The woman in the purple pantsuit and Mickey Mouse T-shirt quickly moves as far back in her chair as she can.

Another table. A very thin, intense man wearing a badly fitting forest green leisure suit, and a green tie with goldfish on it, leans over to a short woman with too much perfume and three pairs of glasses hanging around her neck. He whispers, “I’ve just joined Jews for Jesus. Would you like to hear about it?”

“God, no.”

And another: Oh, oh, here’s Ida.

Her guy is hot to trot. He’s got his opening gam-bit prepared. Big smile with a mouth that is missing most of its teeth. “I’m a Gemini. What’s your sign?”

“My sign tells me you should get up right now.”

1 2 0 • R i t a L a k i n

He stutters. “But there’s no music.”

“Let me hum a few bars for you.” She sings.

Badly, on purpose. “ ‘I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair . . .’ ”

Her date sits there, paralyzed with fear. He closes his mouth.

She shuts her eyes as if napping.

And here’s Bella: “I wasn’t always like this. I was born a princess.” She sees me and waves. I walk away, leaving her in fairy-tale land.

Evvie at her table: “I should have been a movie star. I should have been Doris Day.”

A rather unattractive man replies in kind: “And I should have been Rock Hudson.”

“In your dreams.”

They both look toward the sound system, waiting for escape.

There’s Sophie, already holding the hand of the nondescript man at her table. He looks dubious.

She says, reading his palm, “You are going to meet a wonderful woman today. She is wearing a midnight blue, crushed-velvet dress, V neckline, with a matching fake flower in her hair.”

Need I tell you what Sophie is wearing?

The music starts again. I sit down on a bench and stare up at the basketball hoops and watch the balloons float around. What else have I got to do?

I can think about Sophie’s medical troubles. Not solved. Irving and poor Millie. Where will that end? Not happily. The Peeper, still getting away with it. Not solved. And this difficult case of G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 2 1

Romeo and Juliet. Either there’s no case at all, or—I suddenly shudder. Why do I have this strange feeling that we might be treading on very dangerous ground?

Oy.