Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01 (18 page)

30

Nobody's Talking

E
ven though the weather
continues its monotonous daily routine--heat and more heat--the song
lyric running through my head is from "Stormy Weather." "Gloom and
misery everywhere . . ." It might as well be raining. The grapevine,
true to form, is spreading the word: The sisters aren't talking. And
Gladdy's not talking to the rest of the girls, either. Buzz, buzz,
buzz, but no one knows the reason. The girls, probably out of guilt,
are keeping mum, and no one dares ask me. The condo board held a
memorial service yesterday for Greta in the clubhouse. The girls
attended when they were sure I wouldn't. I suppose everybody said kind
words for the deceased and nobody mentioned insulting poems and garbage
left smeared on doors.

It is too quiet these days, as if everyone is tiptoeing
around us. Waiting for it to blow over or get worse. People still
gossip about the murders, but there is much heated dissension as to
whether they really were murders or just figments of my imagination.
There are no more morning walks, and none of us go to the pool. From my
window, I see the girls pile into a cab on Publix day.

I spend much of my time doing heavy thinking. Or else I
am at the library commiserating with Conchetta and Barney. They share
my consternation about the cremation of Greta. I do take them up to
Greta's apartment at a time I knew the girls have gone somewhere, again
by taxi. They are bowled over by Greta's artifacts, as I knew they
would be. Dear friends--they try to get me out of my depression by
saying I mustn't give up my detecting. But what is there to detect? No
clues. No body. I really don't expect the killer to drop in on me and
confess.

If you made a bet about it you would have won. Detective
Morrie Langford calls me the next day and agrees to set up an autopsy.
I briefly explain what happened, and I can tell from his voice he is
genuinely sorry.

An afternoon shower hits hard, and the air seems almost
cool for a few minutes. I decide to walk through the grounds just
because I need to move around a little. I miss our exercise time, such
as it is.

I find a bench in a quiet area, and I wipe the rainwater
off and sit down. A few minutes later I hear two voices, coming toward
me, singing happily, although off-key, in Spanish. Millie is awkwardly
trying to stroll in her walker and Yolanda is with her, one arm keeping
the walker steady. Millie seems genuinely happy. That sight finally
makes me smile.

"Hi, Millie . . . hi, Yolanda."

Like twins they answer,
"Buenos dias,
Senora Gladdy."

"And
buenos dias
to you, too. Where's
Irving?"

Millie answers.
"Mi esposo esta jugando cartes."

"Cartas,"
Yolanda gently corrects.

"Yolie is giving me
lecciones
in
Espanol
."

"That's wonderful."

Millie giggles. "And I'm giving her lessons in snooping."
Now Yolanda puts her hand over her mouth and giggles, too.

Getting into the spirit of it, I ask, "Why are you
snooping?"

"Because the children like it. They like to see the
dirties. . . ."

"The what?" I ask, curious.

"Hy Binder watches porno movies when Lola takes her nap."
Another round of giggles.

"We
vemos
through
las ventanas."
More
giggles. "And Senora Feder, she walks when nobody looks."

"I don't understand. Harriet walks?"

"No,
la vieja,
the old one," says Yolanda.

Millie imitates it. "She gets out of that old wheelchair
and she just sashays around." Millie lets go of the walker to show how
and loses her balance. Yolanda and I both grab for her.

Millie starts singing again,
"La cucaracha . . . la
cucaracha . . ."
and Yolanda joins in. Together they continue down
the path happily singing about a cockroach.

Is it possible? Esther is faking being crippled? It would
explain how she managed to see what Greta wrote on John and Mary's door
three floors up. And why? To keep Harriet imprisoned? If she can get
around, what else has she been up to? Wait 'til I tell Evvie--I stop
myself. And remember there is no telling Evvie . . .

I go back upstairs. I try to read, but can't concentrate.
The hours drag by. The phone never rings. I guess I never realized how
much of my days were dominated by the girls and their unending
activities. I try to watch TV. Everything seems stupid to me. Now I am
pacing and wondering what I can do to get out of this rotten mood.

The phone finally rings. I jump, so unaccustomed am I to
hearing it. What a surprise. It's Langford, Sr. Why do I have the
feeling the son called his father and told him I am feeling blue?

"I hope you don't mind my calling?"

"Of course not, Jack." I blush and I'm glad he can't see
it. It must be genetic. Both father and son seem to be able to make me
turn red. "Sorry. I've been terribly distracted."

"Things not going well?"

As if Morrie hadn't told him. "At the moment, my
investigation has come to a full stop."

"Then the timing may work to my advantage. May I take you
to dinner this evening?"

Suddenly that seems like a wonderful idea. "Yes, thank
you."

"May I pick you up at six?"

"No!" I surprise myself at how fast I say that.

"What time would you prefer?"

"It's not the time, it's the place. I don't think it's
such a good idea for you to come here."

"You
want to pick
me
up?" I can hear
laughter in his voice.

I am getting frustrated. "No, that's not what I mean,
either."

"What have you got in mind?"

"Maybe we can meet somewhere else?"

"How's this: We can meet halfway between Phases Three and
Four. Or how about that palm tree next to the mailbox. You can hide
behind it and jump into my car as I speed by."

"Stop laughing at me," I say, laughing myself. "You know
what busybodies we have in this place. People talk about me enough
behind my back. Why should I add fuel to the fire? I'll meet you off
campus, so to speak."

"Is ten miles far enough away? Or perhaps we can meet in
Miami? Key Largo? Cuba?"

He got me at last. We are both laughing hard now. I play
along. "Well, we can't go to Chinese. Or Italian. Definitely not a
deli. We're bound to run into somebody we know. I've got it. Nobody
here eats Greek. Do you like Greek food?"

"Mention moussaka and I'll follow you anywhere."

"You're on. Athenian Kitchen. Sunrise Boulevard, six
P.M.
"

"I'll wear dark glasses and a fez."

"And I a babushka and a veil."

"Code names, Boris and Natasha. Which one do you want to
be--the moose or the squirrel?"

"Wrong country. Try Irena and Nico."

"Whatever."

When I hang up I am grinning like a fifteen-year-old. A
little ouzo, a little feta, a lot of laughter--just what the doctor
ordered. Or was it the detective?

But first, I have a million decisions to make. What am I
going to wear?

31

The Dating Game

L
ook at me! I'm wearing a bra
for the first time since I can't remember when. And a smidgen of
makeup. Did a little something to my hair. I keep changing my outfit,
unable to make up my mind. What image am I trying to project? Am I
dressing up or dressing down? I'm making myself crazy. Finally I end up
with the first thing I had on. Which I now hate. But I'm exhausted, so
this is it. Glancing at the mirror, I'm startled. I don't look like me,
the me that's gotten used to living single in these so-called golden
years. The me that does nothing more than run a comb through my hair
when we go out, just us girls. None of us bother anymore, in terms of
attempting beauty. It's comfort that counts. Except for Sophie, of
course, but she doesn't know any better.

It's only a dinner, I keep reassuring myself. It's a
date, admit it! And if you're spending so much time getting gorgeous,
that means you want to impress him. You want him to think you still
look good. That you are interested. It means you're actually
contemplating--oh, gasp--the possibility of a relationship!

Shut up, I tell myself, and move it already or you'll be
late. How much longer are you going to attempt to turn not much into
something more? Go, already.

When I enter the restaurant I see Jack talking to the
owner. He waves me over.

"You look lovely," he says, then, "There's a
complication. A nice one." He smiles.

"What's the name again?" Mr. Thomopolis asks. I know
that's his name because his picture is over the cash register, smiling
with a group of Little Leaguers.

"Jack Langford."

"No problem. The very minute you get your call." With
that he shows us to a table and hands us gigantic menus.

"What's that all about?"

"Right after I spoke to you, my daughter called to tell
me she was on the way to the hospital to give birth. Morrie's sister
Lisa."

"That is exciting. But don't you want to be there with
her?"

"Not too manageable. She lives in New York. It's their
third child. I just want to get the news hot off the griddle, so to
speak."

Now that that's taken care of, we are facing each other
for the first time since Fuddruckers. And yes, he still looks great to
me. And he's smiling, so I guess I pass muster.

We make a big to-do about picking from such a huge menu,
but finally the drinks are taken care of, white wine for me, beer for
him. Moussaka for him, dolmas and a Greek salad for me. That took up a
little time, but here we are again looking at each other.

He seems very content with the silence. And I remember
that feeling. Belonging to someone. Feeling you fit and all's right
with your world. My Jack used to call it the "aha" factor. Meet the
right person and you breathe a sigh of relief and your mind says,
Aha,
at last. The search is over. You're home.

"Well," he says, "I don't have anything to report. My
life has been status quo. But you--clearly much has been going on. Want
to talk about it, or do you want this evening to be your respite from
the real world?"

"The latter. Desperately. My world has become too much
for me."

"OK, then," he says, smiling. "Read any good books
lately?"

And we talk about the kind of books we like (me, good
fiction and, of course, mysteries; he, nonfiction, especially history);
movies (me, sophisticated comedies and good drama; he, spy thrillers);
music (me, opera and Beethoven and swing; he, Mahler, Britten); theater
(both agreeing that the last great musicals were in the era of
West
Side Story
and
Fiddler on the Roof
and in drama, Arthur
Miller and Tennessee Williams); and both of us, crossword puzzles and
travel, which we don't do much anymore, and our children (extreme
prejudice on both sides).

We laugh and talk and laugh and talk. It's wonderful.

Mr. Thomopolis comes over, smiling. "The phone, Mr.
Langford."

Jack excuses himself and follows Mr. T.

I sit there bathing in the glow of happiness. God, how
much I've missed this. Someone to share ideas with. Being a couple.

And suddenly I get anxious. What am I thinking! Too late
for this. Haven't I spent my widow years assuming I would never love
again? Redefining myself as single. Learning to adjust to that life.

I sip my wine as negative thoughts start tumbling about.
At my age, it's too late to start over. Give up the known for the
unknown? And think of what's involved. Readjusting to a new, unfamiliar
man living with you. What's he going to expect? Here's a woman who has
all the trappings of old age, from varicose veins to the dire results
of gravity on down. This body is gonna turn a man on? Part of the
agreement being never to turn on a light at night again? It's one thing
for couples to live together fifty years, when the changes are gradual
as opposed to shocking.

What about no longer just planning for myself but having
to always consider another? The subtle battles. Who will have control.
Having to compromise. No more being comfortable alone with one's own
self.

And will the apartment need to be kept neater? Will I
have to be the housewife again, with the man's wants more important
than mine? Will I not be able to read in bed 'til dawn or eat standing
in front of the open fridge at midnight? Remember what you've
forgotten, Glad, old girl. Living with a man is work. You've got to
please him, dress for him, cook for him. Bother. And sex. How much
effort will it take to do what used to come easily and naturally? Will
it work at all at this age?

You've got your own baggage, now you'd have to take on
his as well. A whole new load of relatives to deal with and have to
make room for. How much energy is left for this? And let's not forget
the downhill countdown, the body's deterioration and potential
illnesses. The possibility of having to care for an invalid. And what
if that invalid is you? Would you be able to dump that on a stranger?
And dealing with death again. One or the other left bereft again. So
much risk. So much easier to do nothing. Live the easier life. Without
love.

Best to leave well enough alone.

"It's a girl!" Jack appears at the table, beaming. "Six
pounds, eight ounces."

I try to recover quickly from my shambling thoughts.
"Congratulations, Grandpa." A weak retort.

He looks at me, eyes seeming to pierce into mine. He sits
down, reaches over and takes my hands in his.

"I leave you alone for five minutes and you start to
think! Stop it immediately! You imagine I don't know what's going on in
that beautiful head of yours? That I haven't had every one of those
same thoughts?"

I try sarcasm to cover my feelings. "What are you, a mind
reader?"

"No, I'm just a person of the same age having all the
same doubts and fears and giving myself all the same rationales to run
as fast and as far as I can."

My voice sounds shaky to me. "So why don't you?"

"Because hopefully we're wise enough by now not to make
the same mistakes we made when we were young. We no longer need to
fight those foolish battles anymore. There are different ways to live
with someone at this age. A way to make life easier and simpler for
both. A way to cherish whatever is left for as long as it lasts, and to
have someone at your side to share it."

"But what if . . . what if . . ." I can't say it.

"What if it's only a few years or a year or a month or
even a day? Isn't one perfect day worth it?"

I am speechless. Then I start to cry.