When the Women Come out to Dance (2002) (3 page)

They lived in a retirement village of cottage
s set among palm trees and bougainvillea , maids driving golf carts. The woman, Natalie , wore silk scarves to cover what was left of he r hair, a lavender scarf the afternoon Vincent appeared at her door. He told her through the screen he thought it was time they met. She said fro m the chair she sat in most of the day, "It's open,"
c losed the book she was reading, a finger insid e holding the page, and watched him come in in hi s khaki shorts and T-shirt.

"You didn't have to get dressed up on m
y account."

She liked his smile and the way he said, "I wa
s right. I've found someone I can talk to."

"About what?"

"Anything you want, except golf."

"You're in luck. I don't play golf."

"I know you don't. I checked."

She liked his weathered look, his cap of whit
e hair, uncombed. "You're here by yourself?"

"On my own, the first time in fifty-seven years."

She laid the book on the table next to her. "So now you'r
e what, dating?"

He liked the way she said it, with a straight face.

"If you're interested, Jerry Vale's coming next week."

"I can hardly wait."

He said, "I like the way you wear your scarves. You've go
t style, kiddo."

"For an old broad? You should see me in a blond wig."

"A woman can get away with a good one. But you see a ru
g on a guy, every hair in place? You can always tell."

"That's why you don't comb your hair?"

Again with the straight face. He shook his head.

"I made a decision," Vincent said. "No chemo, no surgery.

Why bother? I'm eighty years old. You hang around to
o long, you end up with Alzheimer's, like Howard. You kno w Howard? He puts on a suit and tie every day and calls on th e ladies. Has no idea where he is."

"Howard's been here. But now I think he and Paulin
e are going steady. Pauline's the one with all the Barbi e dolls." Natalie paused and said, "I'll be eighty-two nex t month."

"You sure don't look it."

"Not a day over, what, seventy-five?"

"I'll tell you something," Vincent said. "You're the bestlooking woman here, and that's counting the maids and the ones that pass for nurses. Some are okay, but they all have bi g butts. You notice that? Hospitals, the same thing. I've made a study: The majority of women who work in health care ar e seriously overweight."

"You've spent a lot of time in hospitals?" "Now and then. No, this is the closest I've come, this assisted living. Or as it says in the literature, 'The gracious and dignified living you deserve.' As long as you can afford it , live in your own prefab cottage. I did all right with prefab , built terraces, row housing. Some, it turned out, in th e wrong place. Andrew came along and blew 'em off the lot."

He said, "I know you were married. What'd your husband do?"

"Commercial real estate."

"I might've known him."

"In New York City."

There was a lull. Vincent glanced around the room, at furnishings from another life, expensive-looking pieces.

"You're happy here?"

"Am I happy?"

"I mean, do you like living here?"

"It's all right."

He waited before saying, "Are you in pain?"

"I have my pills."

Vincent nodded. "Back 'em up with a cocktail in th
e evening, against orders."

She said, "Do you always wait till evening?"

"Hardly ever."

Natalie stirred, pulling herself up. "You can have whateve
r you like as long as it's Polish vodka."

"You want me to get it?"

She said, "Sit still," up and moving now: slim brown leg
s in a white shirtdress that barely reached her knees. He coul d see her fifty years ago, taller, not as frail, dark hair in place o f the lavender scarf, a confident, good-looking woman. Sh e returned with drinks in crystal glasses, handed him one an d settled back into her chair with a groan. Now she was lookin g at him again.

"Don't you have drinking buddies?"

"The guys here," Vincent said, "the ones who know wher
e they are, either play golf and talk about it on and on, or the y sit and watch CNN all day. I get the feeling they miss Ronal d Reagan."

She sipped her drink. "Is it a matter of time with you?"

"I'm given maybe six months. What about you?"

"Anywhere from a few months to 'who knows?' "

"Are you afraid?"

"Not so much anymore."

He said, "You learn to live with it."

And she smiled. "In a manner of speaking."

"'Maintaining a quality of life,'" Vincent said, quotin
g the literature again, "'to which you're accustomed.' Only thi s isn't what I'm accustomed to. Hanging out, not doing anything."

"Waiting," Natalie said. "No, I'm not either." They sippe
d their drinks in silence, not a sound coming from anywher e in the house or outside, in that green glare of vegetation i n sunlight.

"You want to get out of here?" Vincent said.

It surprised her. "What do you mean?"

"Take off? Go somewhere?"

Natalie said, "I suppose we could," nodding her head.

"Or," she said after a moment, "you could get your pills and move in here with me. What do you think?"

Now Vincent was nodding in the same thoughtful way.

"Would we sleep together?''

Natalie took a moment before saying, "Well, not the firs
t night.''

*

*

CHICKASAW CHARLIE HOKE.

This time Vernice started in on Charlie whil
e he was making their toddies, what he di d every evening Vernice worked days. Charlie said , "Take a load off your tootsies, honey, and let m e wait on you."

She eased into her La-Z-Boy to sit there as sh
e always did, leaving a space between her roun d thighs. Vernice was in her forties, younger tha n Charlie by ten years, a big redhead with th e whitest skin Charlie had ever seen on a bare-nake d woman. She started in by saying Carlyle, he r brother-in-law, hired a family to work his soybeans and now had a job at the Isle of Capri dealing blackjack. It was always someone she knew, the manager of some podunk motel now a pit bos s at Bally's. She'd mention the casinos were alway s looking for help or desperate for it.

Charlie would say to her, "Honey, I'm not jus
t help." This time he said, "Honey, can you see m e dealing cards?"

"Carlyle says between tips and wages he can make up to a thousand a week."

"Those people do that kind of work are ro-bots," Charli
e said, pouring bourbon over crushed ice, adding sugar now, a n orange slice and a maraschino cherry. "Be a waste of what I'
m good at."

"What, talking to people?"

"Talking, referring to my career, sure."

"You could tend bar."

Charlie smiled over at her, Vernice in her pink waitres
s outfit she wore at the Isle of Capri coffee shop. He said to her , "Can you see me in a little red jacket and bow tie? A grow n man my size grinning for tips?" Charlie was six-four an d would put his weight at around, oh, two-forty if asked. H
e had a gut that wasn't too noticeable on his frame. He had a nose he said was his Chickasaw Indian heritage and eyes like a hawk; he'd set the palm of his hand above his eyes and squin t to demonstrate. Seeing himself in one of those little red jackets caused Charlie to shake his head.

He said, "I don't work for tips--" without thinking, an
d wanted to grab the words out of the air. Shit. Like a ball yo u throw to curve low and away and the son of a bitch hang s letter-high on the batter. He stepped over to Vernice with he r drink. "I know what you're thinking, that I don't work, period, but you're too nice a person to hurt my feelings."

"What you do," Vernice said, "is talk."

"Yes, I do."

"Tell baseball stories over'n over."

"Honey, baseball's my life."

"Oh? And what's it pay now, fifteen years later?"

This didn't sound like his honey speaking. It was now sixteen years since he'd played ball, but he didn't correct her.

Now she said, "Tell me what I'm getting out of thi
s arrangement?"

He wasn't certain what she meant, but said the first thin
g in his mind. "You get me, you get my companionship--"

"I get to hear you talk," Vernice said, "is what I get. I ge
t to fix you supper, I get to loan you money . . .'

She paused to think of something else and Charlie said
, "Till I'm back on my feet. I didn't quit that bingo hall 'cause I d on't like to work. I told you, how'm I gonna talk to a bunc h of old women don't even know who I am? I need the righ t spot's all. Come on, you know me by now. How long we bee n together?"

He thought she might say too long, though it'd only bee
n a couple months. No, this time she went right to the poin t saying, "I made up my mind. I'd like you out of the house , Charlie, by the end of the week. I can't afford your companionship any longer'n that."

He thought of a remark he could make if this was one o
f their usual arguments--Vernice fussing at him for not takin g the trash to the dump and his saying, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn'
t notice you broke your leg." He could say something about he r calling this RV in a trailer park on the outskirts of Tunica , Mississippi, the South's Casino Capital, a "house." He coul d say, "Oh, that's what you call this tin box waiting on the nex t tornado?" But this wasn't an argument where you could sa y what you wanted and then take the trash to the dump.

She was giving him a deadline at the worst time, broke an
d needing a place to live; so he had to be nice. This wasn't har d because he did like Vernice, her usually quiet way, her purewhite body, her housekeeping. He told her one time cleanliness was a rule with the Chickasaws: a woman who didn't keep her house clean was marked, had her arms and legs scratched with dried snake teeth. It was true. He'd give he r Indian lore and she'd roll her eyes. Or she'd say he was n o more Indian than she was and Charlie would say, "Then ho w come they called me Chief all the years I played ball?"

Vernice brought him back to right now saying, "By week'
s end, Charlie. I'm sorry."

He turned to the counter and took time to screw the ca
p onto the Early Times bottle. He turned back to her saying , "What if I'm offered a position by then?"

"I love your choice of words, a position."

"As a celebrity host. What some of us do when we retire."

"Shake hands with the slot players?"

"Take care of the high rollers, honey, see they're comped t
o whatever they want."

"Like girls? You gonna be a pimp, Charlie?"

He let it go by. "Or I could set up the entertainment, special kinds of events."

"Well, let's see," Vernice said, "Andy Williams is at Harrah's, George Jones at Bally's. One of the Righteous Brothers is opening at Isle of Capri, taking over from that Elvis impersonator." She said, "If all ten casinos can get any big-name entertainers they want . . . ? You see my point?"

She must've seen it as a stopper, a question she could as
k without even a smarty tone to her voice. Charlie said, "I go t an idea I haven't told you about." Her or anyone at all whil e he watched the new hotel going up, from bare iron to stone , with a big goddamn tepee made of concrete rising a goo d three stories above the entrance. He said, "You know there's a new one opening next week. They got the sign up now , Tishomingo Lodge and Casino, Tunica, Mississippi."

It gave Vernice pause. "You been over there?"

"I'm seeing the fella runs it, Billy Darwin from Atlanti
c City, young guy. He was running Spade's and the people her e waved enough money at him he moved to Tunica. I've see n him around--little guy, has hair like Robert Redford."

Vernice said, "Tishomingo, that's Indian."

"Chickasaw. Tishomingo was the big chief the time the
y got shipped off to Oklahoma. Follow me now," Charlie said.

"Where was I raised? In Corinth. And where's Corinth? Clea
r across the state but only fifteen miles from the Tishoming o County line, where the Chickasaws came from originally.

Some never went to Oklahoma and're still around here. See
, but Indians don't have nothing to do with the hotel. I thin k the owners just like the name."

He watched Vernice thinking about it sipping her toddy
, then begin to nod. "You're gonna tell this hotshot from Atlantic City you're a Chickasaw Indian--"

"I am, honey, part. I've told you that."