Getting Old is the Best Revenge (6 page)

Dad was very careful to put the adult books on the highest shelf, where I couldn't reach them. The first book he ever bought for me was
The Wizard
of Oz.
I always thought that was fitting. For me that was the beginning of my love of books, the most important thing in my young life.

My aunts picking on my dad, the girls picking on Jack when he came to visit. Is that what brought this dream on?

Cinderella. Me? Maybe Dad was telling me to keep sweeping the ashes until Prince Charming arrives so I can live happily ever after? Well? Yes and no on that one.

Jack and Jill fell down the hill? Jack fell and fell and fell . . . Yeah, that's glaringly clear, too. He did fall, my first darling Jack, my husband, didn't he? Fell because of a bullet.

I sigh. I don't want to let my thoughts go there. Enough. Time to get up and work at my crossword puzzle until the sun comes up.

11

A Three-Letter Word

S
omeone else was up early. May Levine,

seventy-two, content with living alone on the
ground floor of Building J, Phase Five, always
boasted that she'd made the right choice. She had
easy access in and out of her apartment. No steps
to climb. No waiting for the clunky elevator.

But this morning she would regret that choice.

She briskly massaged her face with Pond's cold
cream. Her daughter in New Jersey should only listen to her. Doris, the big-shot tennis player, had
skin like a crocodile, while her mother's face
looked twenty years younger than the rest of her
body. May's mother always told her, "May, save
your face or your touchas--one or the other always goes." Easy decision. Nobody had seen her
tush in years.

Time to get dressed. She dropped her nightie
and her old lime green chenille bathrobe onto the
bed. She'd had it for forty years and it was still in
good condition. You didn't grow up in New York
on Delancey Street without learning how to save
money. She stood for a moment looking at her
naked body in the closet-door mirror. What a
mess! Varicose veins everywhere, sagging stomach
and tush, boobies that hung straight down. From
osteoporosis, she'd lost about two inches in height
already. Life wasn't fair. She'd been a beauty when
she was young. Why did we have to get so ugly
when we got old? She sighed. She whirled about,
round and round, remembering the pretty young
May she used to be.

Suddenly she froze. She thought she'd heard a
noise. And then she saw something behind her reflected in the mirror. There was a man looking in
her window! He had a mask on. Oh, God, she was
going to be killed! Then she realized that his hand
was pumping up and down along something pale
and flabby.

May screamed. "Peeping Tom! Peeping Tom!"

It's noon and Evvie, who is always prompt, waits for me downstairs next to my car. I approach her with a nearly bursting bag of books. She, too, has a full bag. "What took you so long? I'm melting from the heat."

"Sorry," I say as I open my trunk and pile all of our accumulated reading materials inside.

A familiar gravelly voice calls out, "Yoo-hoo."

We turn to see Sol Spankowitz, from Phase Three, and his best and only friend, Irving Weiss, standing in the shade outside Irving's apartment, three doors down from where my car is parked.

Near them is Irving's wife, Millie, now in her third year of Alzheimer's, propped up in her wheelchair. Yolie--really Yolanda--the adorable young woman who is caring for Millie, croons Spanish lullabies softly in her ear, hoping to reach her somehow. Millie is going through a bad patch these days.

Sol wiggles his fingers playfully at Evvie. Evvie, who can't stand him, doesn't wiggle back.

Irving is small and thin, sweet and gentle. Sol is bulky and coarse and as sensitive as a slab of meat from his old butcher shop. The guys have been pals since they moved down here twenty years ago. Sol's wife, Clara, died three years ago.

The guys have the horse racing form open while they plot their daily bets.

We walk over to greet Millie, who no longer recognizes us. It breaks our hearts to see what has happened to our dear friend.

Sol winks. "Hello, you dreamboat," he says to Evvie, trying to sound suave. He flirts, but he does it poorly.

"Yeah, right, and why are you wearing two different color socks?" says Evvie, who can always find new ways to put him down.

Sol changes the subject quickly. "So, what're the five luscious lady P.I.'s up to these days?"

"None of your business," Evvie says unkindly.

"How is she doing?" I ask Irving. I always ask and always get the same answer.

"OK," he says. Irving is a man of very few words. And we know Millie is not OK; she never will be again. We know how much it takes out of him, always worrying about her, but he will never complain. Bless his heart.

We each give Millie a kiss, say
buenos dias
to Yolie, and go back to the car.

Evvie punches my arm, laughing. "Don't you love the way Sol dresses?"

"Uh-huh, the pink flamingo shirt really works well with the blue shorts with little crawling alligators."

"And the mismatched socks look divine with the black wing-tip shoes." Then Evvie relents. "I do feel sorry for him. He seems so lonely under all that bad taste."

Now the girls arrive with their books and dump them into my trunk, as well. We have to wait a few moments for Sophie to finish the last few pages of one of her novels. Then, done, she sighs, closes the book, and tosses it in the trunk with the others. "That was so satisfying," she says.

Bella looks at her, puzzled. "Since when do you read the last page? You always read that first. So you know how it's going to end."

Ida sneers at her. "I never heard of anyone who reads the last page of a book first. Only you."

"What's so hard to understand? What if I die before the book ends? Then I'll never know what happened."

Ida throws up her hands, showing her disgust. "I give up. You're hopeless."

The books delivered, they take off for their mah-jongg game. Evvie leaves, as well, to polish her movie review. None of them ever wants to go to the library with me. And that's just fine. I enjoy this time on my own.

I am about to get into the car when Hy Binder sidles up and pokes his face next to mine.

"Hey, didja hear this one?" He never pauses to take a breath, so there's no stopping him. "How can a guy tell if his wife is dead?"

"I really don't need to know, Hy," I say.

"The sex is the same but the dishes pile up!" He guffaws.

Lola, standing off to one side, carrying her dry cleaning, calls out to him. "Tell her already."

"Yeah, didja hear? Peeping Tom in Phase Five!"

At the expression of surprise on my face, Hy grins. "Gotcha!"

My book bags are dragging my shoulders down as I lug them to the entrance of the Lauderdale Lakes library, one of my favorite places. It is a small brick building in a residential section. This branch is very bright and inviting. It is my weekly job to return all our finished books and to choose new ones.

In the good old days, three months ago, pre-P.I. biz, I was the only mystery reader. The girls adored romance novels, modern novels, and anything about Hollywood stars. But now it's only mysteries, except for Ida, of course, who always has to be different. The girls feel these are their textbooks on crime. Besides, they like being scared.

Roly-poly Conchetta Aguilar became my good friend years ago, after discovering that I had been a librarian, too. Her assistant, young Barney Schwartz, loves to hear the gossip and stories I tell about those wacky characters I live with. His favorite was always crazy Greta Kronk, who raided our Dumpsters at night and wrote odd poems and made sketches of everyone. Poor Greta, who no longer is with us.

The library is quiet right now, and we sit at one of the tables peacefully enjoying Conchetta's wonderful strong Cuban coffee as we gossip. "So, what's the latest word?" Barney asks, eager to relish a new story.

"You want a word? I'll give you a word. How about--
sex!
"

That was a surprise. For me, too. I didn't know I was going to say that.

"In your senior world? At your age?" tut-tuts the cheerful, thirtyish Conchetta. "Aha. The girls must still be spying on you."

"More than ever. Jack thinks it's amusing and I can't stop blushing."

"You're blushing right now," Barney says impishly.

And my cheeks feel warm enough for me to know I am. "Not only are the girls glued to
Sex
and the City
reruns, they try out the smutty language on one another."

"I can just imagine." Conchetta grins as she refills my cup.

"Then there's our new case. An elderly Italian couple from Plantation. She's eighty-two and he's eighty-five and she thinks we're going to catch her husband in bed with some floozy."

"Delicious," says Barney, "considering that my folks are much younger and they haven't looked at one another in years. And neither one cares."

"I can relate to Gladdy. My mom and aunts are drooling over the actor Chayanne, after they saw that sexy dance movie about Cuba," says Conchetta. "I tell them Chayanne's a Puerto Rican, but they don't believe me. He played a Cuban so he must be one. Hollywood wouldn't lie."

"And to continue my sordid list," I say, "what about Hy Binder's nonstop dirty jokes? I wish everybody would just grow up."

"Must be something in the water at Lanai Gardens," Conchetta suggests slyly.

"Or maybe our local Publix supermarket is putting aphrodisiacs into everyone's hamburger patties," suggests Barney.

"And wait 'til you read Evvie's latest movie review, which comes out tomorrow."

"Wouldn't miss it," says Barney. "She can put an unusual spin on anything. Pauline Kael would have loved her."

"She dragged us all to see a terrifying French movie about sexual obsession."

"Now I really can't wait to read it," Barney says with a leer.

"But here's the topper. Just as I was about to drive off, I learned we have a Peeping Tom on the premises. What the hell is going on?"

We are still laughing when the front door opens to admit a vanload of talkative seniors from a nearby retirement home, carrying books to return and eager to get more.

Conchetta and Barney go back to work while I pick out new titles for my gang.

I have Carl Hiaasen's
Skinny Dip
in my hand when I suddenly get an idea. I drop it in my book bag and head for the newspapers section in an adjoining room.

On a hunch I look up the obituaries of those two rich women who died. Thinking about the twenty-five-wealthiest-women list losing two members less than a week apart gets me wondering.

I have the library table covered with newspapers, and I'm searching for articles about the dead heiresses, when Conchetta walks over and clucks at me. She takes my arm, pulling me out of my chair and over to a small machine. "You're going to join the twenty-first century whether you like it or not."

"Yeah. Kicking and screaming. You're as bad as Jack."

"It's been a while since you retired from library work. Let me introduce you to microfiche."

And within moments I am happily knobturning, scanning article after article about the two women. Finally I lean back, sated.

"Now, was that so hard to take?"

"OK. OK, I loved it, but don't you dare tell Jack I said that."

"Scout's honor. What did you learn?"

"More coincidences. Both widowed from very wealthy husbands a few years ago and both remarried fairly soon after. Also, these society gals are in the papers and magazines whatever they do. Charities. Vacations. Parties. Family statistics--births, deaths, et cetera. When they sneeze it makes the news."

"But?"

"There's hardly anything written about their latest husbands. No big write-ups about the nuptials. No fancy wedding photos. Mr. Sampson was in plumbing. Mr. Martinson was in the entertainment business. Was. But are they still?
Nada.
Isn't that odd? As if there were a news blackout covering the second-time-around hubbies."

"And what do you make of all that?"

"Nothing yet."

I look at my watch. "Gotta go or, God forbid, I'll be late for the early-bird special at Nona's."

Conchetta walks with me to the checkout counter and stamps my books. "You might need a textbook," she says as she reaches under the counter. "I picked this out for you a few minutes ago."

She surreptitiously hands me a copy of the
Kama Sutra.

12