Getting Old Is a Disaster (17 page)

  With relief I think—thank God Jack and I still had our clothes on.

T
he gated nursing home in Margate is located

    on a half acre of grounds with wooded areas. The local police grimly tell us they've covered every inch of the facility, every room inside, every outbuilding. And are still at it. They suggest we surround the area outside the gate.

  Though the nursing home itself is very quiet, a small group of staff greet our scruffy, anxious gang of fifteen. The home personnel are beside themselves. A Mrs. Stapleford, who seems to be in charge, reports to the shaking Irving, "We thought everyone was secure. It wasn't until eleven o'clock bed check that one of our staff realized that Millie had stuffed pillows under her blanket and was gone."

  Another nurse says, "Nothing like this has ever happened here before."

  A third says, "It's unbelievable. Those doors are heavy. How could she have had the strength to open them? We only just got our electricity back an hour ago." She cannot look at Irving and turns away.

  Evvie asks, "When was the last time you saw her?"

  "When we distributed meds at seven p.m. We left her lying in her room. Since the hurricane, our patients seem more comfortable staying in their rooms."

  Jack comments, "So she could have gone out anytime since seven, but before the electricity came back on."

  The nurses nod. What we are all thinking is she's been out there on her own for maybe five hours. God help her.

  Practical Mary asks, "What would she be wearing?"

  The night nurse says, "Just her nightgown, I'm afraid. Her slippers are still under the bed. Her robe is still in the closet."

  Irving sobs at that.

  Mrs. Stapleton suddenly remembers. "Oh, we left each patient with a flashlight. She must have taken it with her."

  For some reason, that fact gives me hope. I don't know why.

  "Then what are we waiting for?" asks Tessie.

* * *

Once outside the gates, the hardier ones of us spread out on foot, the rest pile in the back of Denny's truck. Denny drives very slowly, for his passengers' safety and for them to be able to search. I'm glad Evvie remembered to bring the flashlights we used so much just a few days earlier. Our "on foot" group agrees to stay close, two or more, never alone. The plan—to meet back at the gate every half hour on the hour.

  Through the dark neighborhoods, we call out Millie's name. We look in every yard, every empty doorway, ever mindful of hostile neighbors and dogs. Dogs do bark and neighbors come out, but no one has seen anything. We travel from street to street, Denny's truck and our waving flashlights the only movement in the night.

  Joe and Evvie are with us. I notice Joe reach out to take her hand. She hesitates, then lets him.

  "Haven't seen you in a couple of days," I say, making small talk, even though my eyes are darting every which way. "How's it going?"

  "Things are fine, just fine," says Joe.

  Evvie grunts. "Why can't he learn after fifty years to put the toilet seat down?"

  Joe huffs, "Where is it written it has to be that way? You women make all the rules. What difference does it make? Up. Down. Up. Down."

  "The difference is," she says tightly, "at night, half-asleep, in the dark, when it's up, I fall into the toilet, you idiot!"

  "Over here," Hy shouts excitedly. We race to the sound of his voice. But when we get there, sadly it is a homeless person sleeping in a large brown carton in an alley.

  We regularly trudge back to the gate. Hour after hour, we forge on, but with no luck. No Millie anywhere.

  We are exhausted and cold. The police suggest we go home. They will continue on. They'll call when they find her, they tell us optimistically. But Irving shrivels up into himself. He has lost hope.

* * *

We gather in front of our two buildings. Even though it is near dawn, no one seems to want to go to bed. Yolie, bless her heart, has made pots of coffee for us. Irving sits at the picnic table and we surround him with our love—each of us taking turns insisting that Millie is an amazing woman. A survivor. Courageous and beautiful. But in our hearts we are talking about the Millie we knew years ago. Before that plague came upon us older people.

  Abe, wakened by hearing us, has come down to join us. He leads us in a prayer for Millie. I watch the sky, about to turn into day. It will be a beautiful one. Mother Nature has trampled us, done her dirty work, and now she teases us with sunshine. Until she has another mood swing—as Hy calls it, Mother Nature with PMS—and gives us another blast of misery.

  We swivel at the sight of a vehicle turning into our Phase. A taxicab pulls up and the driver gets out.

  "I got a passenger in back," he says, not even showing surprise that this group of people is sitting outside at this odd hour. "Picked her up when she flagged me. Hey, I got an old mom, too. Felt sorry for her. I was going to drop her off at the police station, but she insisted she knew where she lived."

  He opens the car door and Millie graciously steps out, one hand holding up the hem of her white cotton nightgown, the other holding her flashlight, still on. Her face lights up in a smile at the sight of us.

  The cabbie asks, "Somebody gonna pay the tab?"

W
hat a night! But all's well. Irving informed

      the police and the nursing home that Millie is with him. She doesn't recognize Irving or anyone else, but her bed is familiar to her and all she wants is to sleep. Last night's Gang of Fifteen, as we are calling one another, will take turns watching Millie as the others rest. Jack and I bow out.

* * *

* * *

I think I'm dreaming. But I'm not. My eyes peel open and I see the clock. It's eight something. We are moving in slow motion. He helps me off with my clothes. I help him with his. Clothes are tossed. We kiss. I suggest a shower to get rid of last night's grunge. He doesn't care. He suggests later. Together. Arms and legs entwine. I don't know where one of us leaves off and the other begins. We are still tired, so our movements are unhurried. We are whispering nonsense as our bodies respond, ignoring our words. I say, "It's been such a long time." He says, "It's like riding a bike." I say, "I never rode a bike in the Bronx. My mother wouldn't let me." He says, "I have a bad back, it could go out any second." I tell him about the arthritis in my knees. "I might cry out in pain." We name all our old-age ailments. He tells me, "I have battle scars." I say, "I'll show you mine, if you show me yours." I giggle. He says, "We'll work around them." What we are doing to each other has us sizzling. We moan in pleasure. He says, "I think I hear the phone." I say, "No damn way." He says, "Kidding." We are no longer talking. We are in the moment, in the second, enveloped in bliss, peaking to rapture.

  "The earth finally moved," I say afterward.

  He says, "It's about bloody time."

I
t's our first morning of living together. Getting

  up was hard to do. Coffee was an incentive but lovemaking was the more intense craving. Will I ever again think of the shower as just a place to wash? Our bodies might be aging, but our spirits are young. And willing. And capable. Forget the gymnastics of our youth; this is a whole new experience of experimenting with what we still can do.

  Breakfast is at ten-thirty. And I silently thank my girls for giving up their early-morning phone call ritual. I'm still in my robe. Jack is dressed in one of the two outfits he owns—the one he didn't wear yesterday. We are on our third cup of coffee when the doorbell finally rings. I wonder which one of the girls it will be. Or perhaps all of them.

  To my surprise, Stanley Heyer stands on the

threshold, holding a small brown paper bag. "May I come in?" he asks.

  Of course I let him in. I'm embarrassed, to say the least. Our first visitor, and it turns out to be the most religious man in all of Lanai Gardens. Can he see the blush on my face? But the little man seems not to notice.

  "I brought bagels." He hands the bag to me.

  I thank him and we tell him to sit down and join us. As I'm about to pour him a cup of coffee, he shakes his head no. I try to offer him a bagel. He says he already ate. He is being polite. My kitchen isn't kosher.

  He begins, "You are probably wondering why I'm here."

  Jack says, "Whatever the reason, you're most welcome."

  "Allow me—the good news. It will take a while to clear the rubble, and to secure the building so it will be safe to enter, but then you and your neighbors will be able to get into your apartments again to gather up whatever has not been destroyed. I've already informed the others in Z building."

  Jack is properly grateful. "That's a relief. Hopefully we'll retrieve important papers and not have to make endless reports to endless government agencies."

  I agree. "Especially since the lines will be horrific."

  Jack shakes Stanley's hand. "Thanks, you're a godsend."

  Stanley accepts this shyly. "I wouldn't say that." He sits up straighter in his chair. "However, I've just come from the police station with disturbing news. They finished the autopsy. The poor man's head was bashed in. They found bone fractures in the skull. And on some parts of the skeleton. No accident. It was murder."

  "How awful," I say.

  Jack asks, "Will they investigate? The department is overloaded and I doubt they have the manpower or the time."

  Stanley nods. "You hit the nail right on the head." He clasps his hands together on my table. "Who knows when or if they'll ever find out anything. That's why I'm here. Gladdy Gold, I want to hire you to investigate."

  I'm surprised. "I don't know what to say."

  "Listen, let me tell you what I know." He grimaces. "It's true what they say about old age. I don't recall what I did yesterday, but I can remember fifty years back like it
was
yesterday."

  I nod in agreement, but don't respond, not wanting to break his train of thought.

  "The crime happened about this same time of year. The weather was stormy. We were late laying in the foundation. So many delays in the construction. So much mud. Men leaving for warmer climates and other jobs because they couldn't wait any longer for the weather to change. A lot of aggravation, but I won't bore you with my
tsouris.

  "As I said, my foreman, Ed, had hired a new man during the week I was in Chicago. Family situation. A relative in trouble. Ah, I digress. I al ready mentioned the worker's name was Johnny Blake. Ed told me he was a large man, a good worker, but he didn't talk much. He told Ed he came from Tampa. Somewhere near the Gulf. The day I arrived home, the storm was at its worst. But the next day, we had a break in the weather and we decided we had to get the foundation done. Fast. Ed was surprised Mr. Blake didn't show up for work. He believed Mr. Blake wasn't the type who would walk just after getting a job he needed. Besides, his locker still had his things in it.

  "But we had plenty of other problems on our plates and I assumed the man would come back for his stuff one day, so I stored it. And I forgot about him. Until now."

  "Do you remember what was in his locker?" Jack asks.

  "Yes. But I didn't find out until after the job was done—when we closed down our on-site work office, I remembered it. I opened the locker, but there was very little in there. A change of clothes. Another pair of work shoes. A denim jacket with a wallet with a few dollars, and a key in the pocket. And a Christmas card signed 'your sister Lucy.' I thought it was odd that he left those items, but I was too busy to give it any more thought."

  Jack and I look at each other. "So," I say, "it can be assumed the key was his house key and Mr. Blake wouldn't have left without his wallet before going home that night."

  "Anything might have happened," Jack comments. "Maybe it was an attempted robbery. Or someone thought he could steal equipment and this man, Blake, tried to stop him."

  "Do you still have the things from his locker?" I ask.

  Stanley smiles. "Does not a pack rat save everything? I am such a pack rat. Actually it's in a storage locker that Esther has been asking me to empty for years." He shrugs, guiltily, as if to say "You know how it is."

  Jack says, "Get whatever you have to the station. They have a good forensic lab. His stuff might be of some help."

  "I will," Stanley agrees. "Then maybe it will prove to my wife that I'm not just a
shmegegge.
"

  I laugh. "No way are you a fool, Mr. Stanley Heyer!"

  The phone rings. I excuse myself and answer. It's for Jack. I hand him the phone. He listens briefly and tells me he's wanted down at the station. They have work for him.

  Jack kisses me good-bye. In front of Stanley. But Stanley is lost in his thoughts.

  "See you tonight, gorgeous," Jack says, on his way out.

  Stanley gets up. "I should not take up any more of your time. But my conscience is bothering me that I didn't look into this. He must have had family—this sister Lucy—who never knew what happened to him. At least let me make it up to them. Find out who they are and let me inform them."