Getting Old Is Criminal (20 page)

I interrupt him. “Please just hear us out—”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 9 5

Bella jumps in. “We’re not even talking law-suits.”

Ida pleads, “It will never go further than this room. We need your help.”

For a moment he shifts his eyes from us and looks over at the very agitated Sophie while he toys with a letter opener on his desk. We wait.

Finally he looks back at us and nods.

I continue, “Every time she sees him, he orders batteries of tests and comes up with a new disease and new drugs. Right now she is being treated for high blood pressure, high cholesterol, arrhythmia, restless leg syndrome, tension, glaucoma, and a rash, to name just a few.”

Bella nudges Ida. “Show him the medications.”

Dr. Reich holds up his hands, a stopping gesture. “Ida, I’m not comfortable with this.”

“We won’t be here long enough to make you too uncomfortable. Honest.” Ida reminds him that she’s never been a complainer before.

Bella puts her two cents in. “We’re uncomfortable enough for you. So you don’t have to be.”

Maybe a little too dramatically, Ida upends her purse and all the pill bottles drop out. I take the list out of my pocket and read, “Vasotec, Lasix, Coreg, Plavix, Zocur, Klonopin, Dijoxin, Sular, Cipro, Requip, and amoxicillin.”

Bella chimes in. “And her leg isn’t restless anymore, but her whole body is a nervous wreck.”

Ida adds, “And the rash went away the next day so it probably had been a heat rash or just 1 9 6 • R i t a L a k i n

nervousness, but he still insists she keep taking the antibiotic.”

By now we have the doctor’s full attention. He reads the dosage from each bottle, making notes on his pad. His brow is furrowing up a storm.

“Rather alarmingly high dosages.”

And now I get dramatic. I hold the bottle up.

“Oh, and her cannabis.”

His eyes widen. I hand him the bottle. “You know this is against the law?”

Ida nods. “Yes, we do.”

“We think she needs a new doctor,” I add.

Sophie moans. “I do not.”

Dr. Reich takes a book from his desk and looks something up. Then he leans over to Sophie, who cringes. He speaks quietly and kindly. “Mrs.

Meyerbeer, you should stop the Cipro and the Requip. They are fighting each other and may be causing some of the problems you are having. I suggest you get in touch with a psychopharmacol-ogist to help you with those dosages. You keep on like this, there can be liver damage.”

Sophie refuses to listen; she shakes her head from side to side in denial.

I add, “She had a terrible reaction to the cannabis last night.”

“I’m not surprised. Especially with everything else she’s taking.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Sophie, who glares at him.

Ida is furious. “That doctor should be dis-barred.”

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 1 9 7

Sophie jumps up. “Don’t you dare tell him his name. You’ll get him in trouble!”

Dr. Reich stands and gently takes her hands in his. “Mrs. Meyerbeer, listen. I truly believe you need a second opinion about what is wrong with you and what medications you need to take. It doesn’t have to be me. I can give you a list of doctors to choose from. But you must see someone else.”

Ida piles all the pills back in her purse, but Dr.

Reich keeps the pot. “I don’t think you need these.”

Bella giggles. Everyone glances toward her. “But she was funny when she was on them.”

Dr. Reich opens his door. Sophie rushes out like the devil is after her. Ida shakes the doctor’s hand.

“Thanks, Dr. Reich. Don’t worry. We’ve never been here.”

His answer is a shake of the head and a cynical smile. We say our good-byes and hurry to catch up with Sophie.

On the drive home, Sophie keeps smacking the back of my seat. “I won’t.”

Ida says, “You will.”

Sophie says, “I won’t.”

Bella says, “You better or we won’t talk to you anymore.”

Sophie scrunches up her eyes. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

“Because you’ll be dead. Because your liver will shrivel up and turn into chopped liver. And after 1 9 8 • R i t a L a k i n

you’re gone I’ll take all your clothes and keep them because you won’t need them where you’re going.” Bella sits back, satisfied with her reasoning.

There is silence for a moment, and then Sophie sighs. “All right. I’ll go see another doctor. But you stay away from my closet.”

That’s one fire put out. Hopefully we’ll get a break in the Peeper case soon. I have the feeling the answer is right in front of my nose? And I’m just not seeing it!

*

*

*

The next day, once again this yo-yo heads back up north for yet another hourly drive. Ida and Bella have Sophie well in hand; it’s time I head back to Rich People Land and see what my dear sister has been up to. Good thing Alvin Ferguson is the one paying those high gas prices for his Caddy, and not me.

THIRTY

PL AYTIME AT THE POOL

E
vvie smiles, seeing the mob scene at the pool.

Although the pool is Olympic-sized and exquisitely and expensively tiled, it is a rare occurrence when more than a dozen or so people use it.

Today is different, Evvie thinks gleefully. The
Most Watched Couple—Philip and Evvie—is
making an appearance, jauntily dressed in matching swimsuits and sun hats. They’ve kept to themselves the past couple of days, and among the catty
remarks they’ve heard made by some jealous
women is that they are antisocial. Philip insists
they make friends. Evvie would rather stay by
themselves, but he has a point. Better to get them
on our side, she thinks.

So today they’re at the pool. They take off their
matching tops, kick off their matching flip-flops,
2 0 0 • R i t a L a k i n

and wade in. Philip splashes and Evvie giggles—

like teenagers in love.

Word goes around fast and soon there are other
swimmers hopping into the pool. And more sight-seers turn up to catch the action.

Evvie glances up and sees Hope Watson at her
office window, watching the tableau unfolding before her, her eyes like slits as she gnashes her teeth.

Eat your heart out, Hope, she wants to say.

Leaders that they are, Philip and Evvie get the
swimmers involved in the kids’ game of Marco
Polo, in which whoever is “it” closes his or her
eyes and tries to catch players by the sound of their
voices. There is much splashing and laughing,
making everyone feel young again. And there’s
plenty of kibitzing from the observers who have
gathered around the pool.

A thought pops into Evvie’s head. She remembers Myra and Mrs. Gordon commenting that
Philip made friends with all the women at Grecian
Villas and Esther Ferguson wasn’t jealous. But
Evvie shrugs it off; that has nothing to do with her.

The women may be envious, but they recognize
that being in Philip and Evvie’s shadow adds excitement to their lives.

Fun, yes. And scandal, too. For when Philip is

“it” and he hears Evvie call out, he manages to
grab her and pull her under the water for a tad too
long. When they come up for air they’re grinning
sheepishly.

G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 0 1

Evvie looks up again just in time to see Hope
Watson pulling her blinds closed. The expression
on her face is one of obvious disgust. Evvie laughs
out loud. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of, Evvie
admits to herself. I’m finally the star!

THIRTY-ONE

MORE GRIEF

After the Wilmington House attendant takes the Caddy, I am heading inside when I en-counter Anna Kaplan, Lorraine Sanders, and Seymour Banks, my dining room companions, coming out. A vintage Lincoln is waiting with the door open. I guess it belongs to one of them.

“Where are you going? To a funeral?” I ask, noting their black outfits.

They look at me, chagrined.

Seymour answers. “We’re going to the cemetery to visit our spouses.”

Oops. That was a faux pas. “Sorry. The clothes threw me off.”

Lorraine gives me a disdainful look. “To show our respect.”

I am curious. “How often do you visit?” I say it G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 0 3

reverently, hoping that will get me past my nosi-ness.

“Once a month,” she tells me.

“What do you do when you come back?”

Anna is annoyed. “Why are you asking these questions?”

I backtrack. “I’m a widow, too. What you do interests me.”

Anna is somewhat mollified. “We don’t do anything. We have our meals and then the rest of our time we stay in our rooms. The day is spent in mourning.” Her eyes tear up.

With that, Seymour helps the sad-faced women into the Lincoln.

As they drive off, I hear Lorraine say, “What nerve!”

I deserve that. But it gives me an idea.

*

*

*

I can’t find Evvie anywhere, so I decide to chat with Hope Watson about my ideas for my tablemates. I find her in her office reading reports.

At the sight of me, she is even cooler than usual, if that’s possible. Her arms immediately cross.

I won’t dawdle. I get right to the point before she throws me out. “Listen, Hope, I am sitting with three people at my table who are still in mourning for their spouses after a very long time.

They seem very sad and very lonely. I would like to help them somehow. I know you include medical services. Do you use any out-of-house psychologi-2 0 4 • R i t a L a k i n

cal clinic that does grief therapy? It’s so wasteful that they don’t allow any joy in their lives.”

I wait a moment as Hope looks at me incredulously. “
This
is what you came to talk to me about? About people you hardly know, who mean nothing to you? Not about your so-called case? I cannot believe you stand there and want to play social worker. You want to talk about grief? I’ll give you grief.”

Uh-oh, here it comes. I brace myself.

“Let’s talk about your sister. And her outrageous behavior.” Her hands move as if they have a life of their own. She rearranges folders on her desk. Moves pens around. Lines up papers. “What about your promises?” She mimics Evvie. “ ‘We’ll be like little mice,’ said your promiscuous sister.

‘You’ll hardly even know we’re here’!”

She laughs harshly. “Hah! She’s turned our lovely home into a circus. Everyone’s in turmoil.”

It’s better than sitting around half-dead. I think it but don’t say it.

“Blatantly carrying on with that man.”

“
Blatantly
is a harsh word, Hope. Surely you exaggerate?”

“You call hugging and kissing in front of everyone not blatant? Or playing hide-and-seek, running around the lobby like naughty children? Or sitting at the piano, with him singing love songs to her, and touching each other.”

He can play the piano and touch? Very am-G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 2 0 5

bidextrous. Frankly, I’m as mortified as she is, but I have to defend my sister.

“Hope, don’t forget we’re undercover here.

She’s playing a part.”

Hope stands and fidgets with her collar as if it were choking her. “Undercover! Yes, indeed, under the
covers with him.
Disgraceful. Ladies don’t behave that way.”

She walks me to the door and opens it. “Your sister is a slut! What have you got to say now, Mrs.

Gold?”

Oy. There’s only one way out for me. “So, what about it, Hope? Any psychologists you can recommend for bereavement counseling?”

Her mouth drops open. She’s speechless. She hurries to her desk and pulls a card from her Rolodex. And shoves it at me. Then shuts the door in my face. There is one thing I’ve learned about people like Hope Watson: startle her, shock her, and she withers away into submission.

When this is over, my sister is going to owe me big.