Just Plain Al: The Al Series, Book Five (11 page)

Then, switching to her swami voice, Al said, “Mother Zandi detects the odor of dead fish. The fish stinks from its head. Evil is everywhere. ‘To thine own self be true' and bad luck will take a different road. The one you love will love you back.”

“You're full of it, Mother Zandi,” I said.

“We'll wow those senior citizens, kid,” Al told me. “I know we will.”

chapter 22

Mr. Keogh's beat-up station wagon was almost full when he picked us up promptly at ten Saturday morning. Two seventh-grade twerps were in back and two girls about our age from Mr. Keogh's neighborhood were in front. Al and I climbed in the middle. Mr. Keogh introduced us. Nobody spoke as we rattled our way up to the Bronx. I looked over at Al. She was staring out the window and biting her nails. Let me out of here, I thought.

What if they were handicapped? Or had goiters, those things old people got that looked as if they had rubber tires around their necks. Maybe they were losing their marbles, or didn't know what year it was or what their names were. I didn't know if I could cope.

The home was U-shaped and painted a pale, sickly green, with aluminum awnings and dusty geraniums lining the path to the front door. Above the door a sign said Sunlight Manor. Across the street a used car lot advertised Super Buys! and Cream Puffs for Sale.

Maybe it wasn't a used car lot, I thought; maybe it was a bakery disguised as a used car lot.

An attendant in a white coat met us and said, “They're waiting for you,” in what seemed to me an ominous tone. Mr. Keogh led the way up a flight of stairs.

“Don't forget, kids,” he said nervously, “we're all feeling our way here. I'm new at this, too. Remember: if it's worth doing at all, it's worth doing well. Hold the thought.”

He stopped outside a door at the top of the stairs. “Well, here we are,” he said. The door opened, and a tall man with steel gray hair came out and shook Mr. Keogh's hand.

“I'm Dr. Simon,” the man said. “We're so glad you could come. We're all looking forward to this very much. Please come in.”

Mr. Keogh led the way. We almost clung to his coattails in an effort to stay close to him.

“Do any of you know how to play the piano?” Dr. Simon asked. “Music is always a good icebreaker.”

There seemed to be a lot of old people in the room. Nobody looked at us or indicated any interest in us. They all looked very clean and very old. My grandfather would look like a teenager in this crowd, I thought. I looked at Al to see what she was thinking. Her face was totally without expression.

“Donny does,” Mr. Keogh said, indicating one of the seventh-grade boys. Donny went to the grand piano in a corner of the room, sat down, and punched on the keys until they gave up a tune, which I finally figured out after a couple minutes was “God Bless America.” Donny performed with great aplomb, as if he was Leonard Bernstein. His mother would've been proud. His music teacher, if he had one, ought to be shot.

Donny kept punching away, and music filled the hall. A tall, stout lady in a black dress with pearls and a veil over her blue hair got up, went to the piano and rested one hand lightly on it, and sang. She knew a lot of the words, and those she didn't know she faked. Some of the others joined in, their reedy voices rising and falling. The woman in black got with it and wound up belting out the words like she was Kate Smith at the opening game of the World Series. When she and Donny were through, she bowed to the left, then to the right, eliciting a smattering of applause.

I felt as if I had about a dozen arms and legs and none of them was the right size. It was like being at a boy-girl party and not knowing where to sit, where to look, how to act, whom to talk to.

Then I heard a sound like escaping steam.

“Ssssstt,” it said. “Ssssstt.” I followed the sound with my eyes, which lit on a tiny plump little woman in a cardigan sweater sitting on a couch all by herself.

“Sit down,” she said. “In my day I could've sung rings around her. But my day is past, and I'm smart enough to know it. Unlike lots of people I could mention.” She wore diamond rings on both her tiny spotted hands, which moved constantly, emphasizing her words.

“Here.” She handed me a weekly magazine. “Read this. I forgot my eyeglasses. I don't need them. My eyes are perfectly good. Glasses are so disfiguring, don't you think? Start at the beginning, and I'll tell you when to stop.”

No please, no nothing.

The magazine was open to the Personals. Personals are so bizarre. I love to read them.

I began at the first Personal.

“Successful, handsome, slim business exec wants female counterpart to share good times, music, laughter, dancing in white tie or jeans.” Then there was a box number to reply to, care of the magazine.

The little woman nodded vigorously, obviously pleased. “They all want 'em handsome and successful and slim,” she said, very knowing. “I wonder what'd happen if somebody fat and unsuccessful and ugly put in an ad. There must be a lot of fat, unsuccessful, ugly people out there who want love and good times. But then, nobody really sees themself, do they? Go on.”

I did as I was told.

“I am bright, beautiful, great figure,” the ad read. The woman cackled delightedly. “Sure, sure, I know all about your great figure!” she cried. “Keep going, keep going!” she told me.

I felt like saying, “Stop interrupting me,” but did not.

“Outgoing, sensitive, elegant,” I read. “Seek exceptional unmarried male with high standards, possible long-term relationship.”

“High standards! High standards!” the tiny woman shouted. “What do they know about high standards! Advertising in a magazine, telling all the world how beautiful they are, how great their figure is. Blowing their own horn. It's a good thing my mother isn't alive. Such goings on.” The woman put her hand on my arm, pinching it ever so slightly. Her eyes sparkled with malice. “Advertising in a magazine for a husband. Or, better yet, a lover. Scandalous!”

The older I get, the weirder people are. This one was a dilly. I read the whole page of Personals to the tiny woman. Then she fell into a doze. One minute her eyes were snapping, the next she was asleep. I left her and went to find Al.

She was surrounded by a circle of old folks.

“Mother Zandi says,” I heard her say. She was giving them the swami bit. “Lovers may demand more of your time than you can give,” she said in her deep, dark voice. “Look for a surprise in your mailbox. The jet-set routine may get boring this week. Take it easy, have some friends in for cards. Shoot it up.”

They loved it. That last about shooting it up brought down the house. One man laughed so hard he started to choke and had to be slapped on the back until he got his breath.

Al was having a blast. I could tell from her face. I don't think she ever tried her Mother Zandi routine on anyone before. Before me, that is. It and she were a hit.

Donny and the other boy played chopsticks on the piano until Mr. Keogh had to tell them to stop. I saw the two girls from Mr. Keogh's neighborhood. It looked as if they were being given knitting lessons by a couple of old ladies who had long, half-knitted mufflers growing out of their laps. The girls were paying close attention as the mufflers got longer and longer. They'd be great for a couple of giraffes, I figured.

I saw Mr. Keogh and an old man playing chess. That must be Mr. Keogh's father, I thought. There was a resemblance.

Somebody played some records. Two women danced together, the smaller one leading her partner in a series of intricate steps. I hoped maybe there'd be refreshments soon.

Suddenly Al was there, grabbing my arm until it hurt.

“Did you see him?”

“Who? No.”

“There.” She pointed.

Standing by the record player, his back to us, was a small man.

“So? What's the big deal?” I said.

“Wait.” I felt Al's breath on my cheek. She was pale, and her eyes almost popped out of her head, she was so excited.

The small man turned. It was Mr. Richards. “Oh, no,” I sighed. “No, it's not him.”

“See? I'm not imagining it.” Al stepped back to look at me. “You thought I was dreaming, didn't you? Or hallucinating.”

“What'll we do?” I kept looking at him. This man was older than Mr. Richards. His face was very lined, and he had a slight hump on his back.

“It's not really him,” I told Al. “He just looks a lot like him.”

“That's
your
story.” Al narrowed her eyes at me. “Let's talk to him. That way we'll be sure.”

“You go,” I told her. “I'll wait here.”

“Oh, no, you don't. This is something we do together,” Al said.

She was right. I knew she was right, but I was scared.

“When we hear his voice,” Al said, nudging me toward the man, “then we'll know for sure.”

“I don't remember how Mr. Richards sounded,” I said. “I remember everything about him except the sound of his voice.”

“Close your eyes,” Al commanded. “OK. Now can't you hear him hollering, ‘Glide, glide,' the way he did when we were trying to skate on his kitchen floor?”

I closed my eyes and tried. I really did.

I opened my eyes. “Come on.” Al grabbed me, forcing me to walk with her to where the little man stood.

“I know who you are,” the little man said to me. “And you must be Alexandra.”

I swallowed hard. Al wouldn't let go of my arm.

“Everybody calls me Al,” she said in a weak voice.

“How did you know our names?” I got out.

“Oh, I have ways.” His eyes, as blue as Mr. Richards's, twinkled. “I get around.” That definitely was not Mr. Richards's voice.

“My name's William, but everybody calls me Billy,” he said.

“No offense,” Al said, “but are you a retired bartender?”

“No such luck,” Billy said. “Insurance salesman. Long term. Why, I could write a policy so fast your eyes'd smart.”

I had to see his arm. Mr. Richards had Home Sweet Home tattooed on his right arm. I had to see.

“Could I please see your right arm?” I said timidly. Sometimes the direct approach is best. I heard Al gasp.

“Well, now.” He pulled up the sleeve of his sweater, unbuttoned his cuff, and thrust a bare arm at us. No tattoo.

“You want to see the other arm?” Al nodded, and he did the same with the other sleeve. Still no tattoo.

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Don't mention it.”

“We had a very good friend who died,” I explained. “You look just like him. We thought it was him for a minute.”

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“It's time for us to go,” Mr. Keogh said, car keys dangling from his hand.

Dr. Simon saw us to the door.

“Thank you for coming,” he said. “I know they enjoyed having you. Perhaps you'll come again?”

“John,” Mr. Keogh's father tugged at his jacket, “tell your mother I won't be home for dinner tonight, please. I have business commitments I must attend to.”

Mr. Keogh put his arm around his father. “Yes, Dad, I'll tell her,” he said.

The plump little woman I'd read the Personals to said, “He's a penny pincher,” and she jabbed her finger at a man standing beside her. “He squeezes a nickel so hard it shouts.”

“And you, my dear,” said the man, without rancor, “are a gold digger.”

We went back to the station wagon, and Mr. Keogh drove off. He let me and Al off first.

“I think it went very well,” he told us. “Thanks for a good job well done. I knew I could count on you.”

“You want to come in for lunch?” I asked Al as we went up in the elevator.

She shook her head. “No, thanks. I've got piles of stuff to do. I was glad we went, though. Weren't you? I mean, I actually
did
something for somebody. Without thinking of myself. We were being selfless.” Al congratulated herself. And me.

“Not entirely,” I said. “We didn't want to go, but we did. OK. Big step forward. But after we got there, it wasn't all that bad. It was sort of fun. I watched you being Mother Zandi. You loved it. I got a kick out of reading the Personals to that old lady.

“What if somebody said, ‘Today you have to work in a shelter for the homeless? You've got to sleep there, listen to the sounds, eat the food. Use the toilets. Smell the smells.'”

“Talk about being a killjoy,” Al said, scowling at me. “You're an ace.”

“Maybe. But that would be another ball of wax, wouldn't it?”

“Who's going to ask somebody our age to do something like that?” And what would we accomplish by doing it?”

“I don't know. I'm just saying what if? That's all.”

Al thought about what I'd said. I could almost hear her thinking.

“I don't think I know
how
to be totally selfless,” she said at last, sadly. “It's hard to put yourself in someone else's place.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Al fumbled for her key. “
Adiós,”
she said.

“See you,” I answered. Once inside, I stood in my room and looked at it. It was all mine. I didn't have to share it with anyone.

I don't know how to be selfless, either, I realized. I can learn, I told myself. I will try to learn. That's the best I can do, is try.

chapter 23

Sunday Polly called and asked me over for lunch.

“Bring Al,” Polly said.

“It's Sunday. Her togetherness day with her mother,” I told Polly. I decided to wait until I got there to tell her about yesterday. I decided, too, to make a good story better. I'd work on it going over on the bus.

Holding a hand mirror, I checked out my profile in the bathroom. Maybe I could use a nose job, too, like Thelma. My nose was nothing to write home about, but it doesn't offend me. It was the rest of me that cried out for plastic surgery. I read about a woman who had a plastic surgeon take a tuck in her fanny. She couldn't sit down for three months. She even had to eat standing up. What some people will do to have a beautiful behind is beyond me.