Getting Old Is Très Dangereux: A Mystery (10 page)

When he pops up again his pal Sol, of course, takes the next turn. In very bad French, he tries to amuse. “
Voulez-vous coucher avec moi
. That’s all I ever learned in French. When I was stationed in France after the war, the guys figured a pair of silk stockings and that line would get them anything.”

Tessie gets out of the water and gives her husband a back-of-the-hand smack on his rear. “I don’t know what you said, but I bet it was dirty, so you better take it back. What a tacky thing to say. I think.”

Our computer whiz, Barbi, without missing a beat as she types, translates. “He was asking some Frenchwoman, any woman, to go to bed with him.”

“I knew it!” Tessie smacks Sol again. Sol jumps out of her way.

How do they do it? How do they find out every secret in this entire condo? I lie down on my chaise, put my sun hat over my face, and ignore them.

“Lo, bubbie,” Hy says to his wife, “your crazy wedding planner may be out of a job, so you can forget about your finder’s fee.” Hy gets out of the pool, patting what little hair is left on his mostly bald pate. He calls out to his buddy, Sol. “What odds you wanna give on whether this wedding will
ever take place?” He leers. “Unless we all get invites to Paris, France.”

Sweet, shy Irving shakes a fist at him. “Enough with that mouth of yours.”

In my imagination, I walk across to the other side of the pool and jump on Hy’s stomach till he screams in pain.

In reality, I peek out from under my sun hat and watch as Evvie lifts a trash pail and tosses its contents at Hy’s body.

There are gasps, sighs, and applause.

My sister, my hero.

Jack pulls up to the hotel entrance and looks for Michelle. He finds her pacing anxiously in the lobby. They see each other at the same time. He gets out of the car and she rushes into his arms. Even without makeup, the woman draws admiring glances from the other men around.

“Thank you, thank you, for coming. I was going to take the taxicab, but I couldn’t face this alone. I’m trying not to think of the bad things, like Colette might have amnesia or worse.”

They get into his car. Michelle sits beside him. In Gladdy’s seat. He feels guilty, but what else can he do? The woman has no one to help her. They leave the hotel and head for the hospital, which is only a short trip away.

He asks Michelle, “Didn’t the doctor give you any information at all?”

“He was busy, but he took the time to phone me and tell me that Colette was awake and I should come over. Then he had to run.” The tears start to fall. “I’m afraid of bad news.”

Jack tries to reassure her. “But that’s good news. She’s out of the coma.”

“But what if she’s lost her memory? Or she’s not like her old self? I’ve heard horror stories about brain injuries.”

“You don’t know that yet. Try to stay hopeful.”

She leans in closer to him. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

When they pull into the hospital parking lot, it’s jammed. But Jack spots a valet parking sign and pulls up next to the curb.

They hurry through the entrance. Jack asks, “Where did the doctor say to meet him?”

“At his office on the third floor, but I want to see my niece. Now. She’s out of ICU, finally.”

“Patience, Michelle. If he isn’t in his office, we’ll go straight to her room.”

They get into the elevator. Jack watches Michelle’s intensity, as if by sheer force of her will she can demand the slow elevator to climb faster.

The doctor is in his office. On the phone. Jack looks him over. He’s a man in his fifties. Very fit. From his voice and the medical advice he is giving,
Jack’s impression of him is that he cares and he knows what he’s doing.

The doctor signals them to sit.

Michelle can’t. She stands and fidgets. This is a Michelle that Jack never knew. Her toughness. Her need for instant action when she wants something. How demanding she is of herself and others. When they were together it was all sweetness and light and love. Would they have lasted as a couple?

When the doctor completes his call, Michelle introduces Jack to Dr. Jessup, then listens intently to hear what the doctor will say.

“Here’s where we are, Ms. duBois. Colette’s awake, but disoriented. She knows who she is, but she doesn’t know what happened. This is called retrograde amnesia.”

“How bad is that?” Michelle needs to know.

“That term covers a lot of territory. She may start to remember in a few hours. Maybe days, maybe longer. She might see you and it could all come back at once.”

“Please, God,” Michelle whispers.

“She’s had a CT scan, an EEG, and an MRI and we’re not seeing any major damage. So this is good news. She’s very lucky. It could have been much worse.”

He heads for the door and they follow him down a long corridor past the nurse’s station. Jessup asks if Colette is on any kind of medication or allergic to
any drugs. Michelle assures him she’s a healthy young woman and probably takes only vitamins.

Obviously Michelle has ordered a private room. Jack watches her take a deep breath before she enters. She goes directly to Colette, who seems to be asleep. The room is filled with flowers. Michelle tells him they came from her grandparents, their only family back in Paris.

Dr. Jessup checks her chart.

Michelle leans over, almost holding her breath. She whispers. “Colette … ”

Jack looks closer. Colette’s bruised face is purple and bloated.

“Colette, my dearest. It’s me.
Ma petite
, I’m here.” Michelle gently runs her fingers down the waxen face.

The young woman wakes up. For a few moments, her eyes seem to roll around in her head, as if she needs to refocus. Then she smiles. “Michelle.” Her niece reaches for her, but the effort makes her wince in pain.

“What happened to me? Why am I in a hospital? We are not home? People here speak English.”

“Do you remember we came to Florida for a book fair?”

Jack watches her struggle to remember.

“Yes. I do.”

“Do you remember going to the book room to return some books after my reading?”

Colette smiles. “You finally give me a little responsibility and … ” She stops, confused and frightened. “I don’t remember.”

Dr. Jessup is encouraging. “Just relax, Colette. It will all come back to you in time.” Michelle bends down and softly calls her name over and over, tears falling.

“We had a most lovely time,” Colette says. “I especially enjoyed the men on the wire. I dreamed I was at Le Cirque. Was I up there? I remember falling. Did I drop from the wire?”

Jack looks to Michelle. She shakes her head. “She is remembering a trip we took to see Le Cirque du Soleil. That was two years ago. She’s confusing time.”

The doctor pats Michelle on the shoulder. “Give her time to get past her trauma.”

Michelle grabs his arm. “Can I take her home? I can rent a private plane.”

Jessup shakes his head. “Not a good idea. Not so soon. There are more tests. We must deal with her fractured leg.”

“But she is so alone, except for me.”

“Perhaps her family can come here?” The doctor makes notes on her chart.

“We are a very small family now. She’s been raised by her grandparents and they are not well enough to travel.” She begs. “What can I do?”

“Just wait.” He pats her gently on the back and leaves the room.

Jack indicates to Michelle that Colette is falling asleep again.

Michelle bends to kiss her. As she does Colette whispers something in her ear.

Colette drops into sleep. Jack sees the shock on Michelle’s face.

“She remembered something?”

“I’m not sure, but I think she said a gray ghost whispered to her. What can that mean? A gray ghost? Who whispered? Is she still thinking in the past?”

Jack immediately thinks of Gladdy’s theory. “If that was a true memory, Michelle, then we’re no longer talking accident.”

Misdirection has always been his best weapon. The Snake sighs happily to himself. He really is tempted to write his autobiography. Though naturally he wouldn’t let it be found until after he is gone. He has much to teach those who hope to commit crimes successfully
.

As he strolls through an enormous boring mall with the name Sawgrass, looking for the Eye Openers eyeglasses shop, he congratulates himself on how well he uses illusion. It’s all about blending into the woodwork, like a chameleon. Look at
those dreary old men in their Florida casual male attire. Which by his standards is uglier than dirt. It’s not for him to wear red-and-white checked shorts and nonmatching purple Izod tennis shirts. And those baseball caps! This country is mad about these foolish baseball caps with advertisements on their heads, he thinks. He would make products pay him to push their wares. He’s counted at least ten caps with the logo “Retired and loving it.” If his friends back in Monte Carlo could see this, they’d fall down with laughter. The final touch is the medical equipment they drag along with them around this city. Canes, walkers, golf carts
.

For The Snake everything is gray: hair, shoes, clothes—even his grayish skin. Even this infernal pair of glasses will have gray frames. He chuckles. He is a shadow. A cloud. An apparition. Invisible
.

He reaches the eyeglasses store. He’ll pick out the dullest frames in stock. Naturally they will be gray
.

AT THE BEACH

J
ack and I trudge along the ocean’s edge, holding hands. Jack is moving at a brisk pace, half dragging me along, carrying a blanket and picnic basket with his other hand, swinging it in cadence to his walk and talk.

The girls didn’t even ask to join us. Not that they would come to any beach at any time. Heaven forbid a grain of sand should ever touch their nice clean floors when they get home. Evvie and Joe might have joined us, but Joe wasn’t feeling up to going out. Just as well. I am in no mood for any company.

Jack is chipper and smiling. He takes in expansive breaths of air. As for me? I am a sullen drudge in black slacks and blouse, with sneakers clogging
up with muddy sand. I am not in stride with his mood. Not at all. Kicking up sand like some stubborn kid who didn’t want to go to the beach and had no choice.

“‘I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled … and walk upon the beach. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.’”

My romantic boyfriend, seemingly impervious to my passive-aggressive behavior, is quoting poetry. Perhaps he even dressed for reciting T. S. Eliot. He wears his pants rolled up, a white T-shirt. He is barefoot. Exuding the sense of a man happy with his world, despite the fact that Eliot’s poetry is depressing, remembers this former librarian.

I wonder why he’s in such a jolly frame of mind. As if I didn’t know. A few days with a romantic long-lost love fawning over him and he’s laughing at “I grow old.”

“What a glorious day.” He finally comes to a stop. Why he’s picked this spot I haven’t a clue. It looks like every other part of the beach, which is crowded as always “in season.” Northeast-coasters and Canadian snowbirds, who come flying down in droves to escape the wretched winter weather, cram the beach with their colorful umbrellas. Their blankets are covered with their melting, lotioned bodies and massive amounts of play gear. Activity galore, as if fun happens only in
perpetual motion. Volleyball games every which way I look. Vendors wearing insulated backpacks on their shoulders to carry their ice creams to and fro, calling out their wares. Screeching kids racing in and out of the water. Parents yelling orders that are ignored.

Noise erupts out of all the various boom boxes that carry dozens of musical choices, gorging air space in one big dissonant war. I already have a headache. I am not a happy camper.

Jack spreads our blanket neatly on the sand and sets down the basket. He drops down and beckons me to join him.

I do so and kick my sneakers off to dump out the muck. “Sirens, I say, not mermaids.”

Jack looks surprised. “Where are sirens in Eliot’s poetry?”

“Actually I’m thinking of Homer’s
Odyssey
where the sirens lured the love-struck sailors to sail their boats onto the reefs and die there.”

He removes a thermos and pours me a cup of coffee and then one for himself. “Whoa, what’s that all about? First day we get a chance to play and you’re on a downer.”

“Maybe it’s because you haven’t been around much lately.” As each whining word leaves my mouth, I want to take it back.

“Do I guess right when I say you are referring to
Michelle? A siren, not a mermaid?” He actually smiles. He finds it amusing.

“Could be.”

“It doesn’t matter to me what she is. Michelle was eight years ago. In the past. Over. Done with. It was all about timing. I was lonely after Faye died. I went to Europe and lived a brief fantasy.”

“Your fantasy seems to want to take another shot at you.”

Jack laughs out loud and hugs me.

“Let’s be honest here,” he says. “Michelle wasn’t really all that interested in me. She was playacting. Probably bored. Let’s have fun with the old guy tourist. I realized that when I got home.”