by Rita Lakin
I wonder what tomorrow will bring.
Evvie is thoroughly exhausted and asleep within minutes.
I toss about, puzzles in my head that won’t leave me alone. Who is their papa?
THIRTEEN
The Raincoat Man and his Episodes
Ida rushes through washing the dinner dishes, scrubbing the pots, tossing the leftovers in the trash, cleaning off the dining room table. All the while her plans spin wildly about in her head. Always the perfectionist, she is surprised at herself for doing a slap-dash job with clean-up. Methodical, she calls herself. It’s her middle name. But she is so focused on what lies ahead, she gives her perfectionist self permission to wait until the morning to finish up the job according to her purist obsessive nature.
She dashes from the kitchen into her bedroom; an excited woman with a mission.
Mumbling, ‘Be strong. Be tough. You’re in charge. Yeah, mama!’
She pulls open her closet door with vigor. A closet that is never visited by anyone else. It’s not the hung clothes that matter; she’d wear the same gray pantsuit daily and not care. It’s the inside back of the door.
A full-sized poster, badly aged, with colors dulled, has hung there since the day she moved into Lanai Gardens around sixteen years ago.
Her secret fetish. A life-sized photo of her hero, TV star Peter Falk as his most famous character, Lieutenant Columbo, wearing his famous wrinkled raincoat over some kind of light-colored suit and white shirt and tie. She’d seen just about every episode in the ten seasons the show was on the air. She throws his faded image a kiss, then digs into the rear bottom of her closet, and pulls out a ragged cardboard box, one she hasn’t thought about nor opened in years.
She addresses the poster. ‘I knew we’d be together again, Peter, darling.’ With that she digs in the box and drags out a beige-ish, or maybe it’s a green-ish, lump of an outfit; the long shabby famous raincoat she bought at a fans’ auction. They told her that it was the original worn by Falk on the show. They also gave her a receipt with its provenance – the proof of its integrity. She paid plenty. It was worth it. A treasure to Ida.
She puts the wrinkled garment on over her pajamas. She’s delighted that she hasn’t bothered getting dressed since the girls left. What freedom! To do what she wants when she wants to. She admits to herself that always hanging around with the girls has hampered the inner Ida. It was always a group decision about everything. When and where to eat. What movie to see. When to swim at the pool. When to go shopping. To the food market. To the bank. To the dentist. Even doctors’ appointments were made as group trips. Where was her individuality? Stifled, that’s where.
Now, she can enter her long-lost fantasy land.
In front of the mirror on the outside of the door, she pretends to light a make-believe cigar and then pivots her body about into a casual, relaxed position. Her voice changes to what she thinks is a great imitation of her hero.
‘Don’t think you’re gonna get away with it, Faye Dunaway. I’m on to you.’ Then, holding onto the doorknob, as if she’s leaving but has abruptly changed her mind, she quotes, and acts out, the lines Peter Falk made famous – his parting shot in many a final scene. ‘Just one more thing before I go.’ Columbo is onto Faye. The jig is up. That she and her evil partner, Claudia Christian, are the murderers of their two-timing boyfriend. Colombo has figured it out and he can prove it. Yes!
She goes to the phone.
Time to take on Mrs Hy Binder. Mealy-mouth Lola. Ida doesn’t care if she wakes her up. She will make an appointment with her for the first thing in the morning. Ida will decide on the time, at her own convenience. And Ida will be tough. She’s in charge and power is what she craves. First step on doing it her way.
She dials the Binder number. She doesn’t bother glancing at her clock. She doesn’t care how late it is.
Ida has a complete list of residents in a bound three-holed paper book they printed years back. She’s kept it up to date. Lots of additions when newcomers moved in. Pages of cross-outs of people who’ve left to go to other cities, or to other states. Those who return to their original towns. To choose, welcome or not, to live with the grown children. And those who made the final journey to either heaven or … down below. Ida has notations at each name, keeping track of all of them. A perfectionist in action.
She waits as the Binder number keeps ringing. She giggles. Bet I wake her up. Keep it tough; let her find out who the boss is.
Instantly, Ida hears the gushing, sleep-deprived voice of Lola, who cries out. ‘Hy, honey-bun is that you?’
Oops. Bad idea. Take a different tack. Kindly. Understanding. Sound sorry. Like Columbo would do it. ‘I hope I didn’t wake you. It’s only me, Lola, dear. You’ve been on my mind, so I thought I’d call …’
Lola interrupts. ‘You know something! What do you know? Tell me!’
Simpering now. ‘I only called to make an appointment with you for the morning. As you can tell, I’m already on the job.’
Lola is sobbing. ‘Thank you. Thank you. Come any time after eight. I’ll be up. Thank you so much for caring.’
She looks at the clock. Three a.m. So much for being tough.
Slowly Ida removes her Columbo coat. She throws it on the floor next to her bed. She’s positive Peter Falk would do the same.
FOURTEEN
Ida on the Job. Lola Defensive
Day Two
Eight a.m. Dressed for ‘the kill.’ First, one last scan in her bedroom mirror door. She puts on her Columbo coat and with it, Columbo’s self-assured but seemingly clueless attitude. Peter Falk whispers in her ear. Let them think you’re a simpleton. They always fall for it.
Ida is let into the Binder apartment. Located across the way from where she lives. The minute the door opens, she’s met with, ‘Why are you wearing a raincoat when it isn’t raining; it’s ninety degrees out there?’ Lola snarls with biting sarcasm.
Nice beginning, Ida thinks. She’s only been there once and that was enough. Chochkies throughout the apartment. Every shelf has ‘treasures’. Lola’s salt and pepper shakers collection, for example. Not just one set, but she’s got salt and pepper sets of every size, shape, color, and country of origin … blah blah blah. None worth over ten cents in a garage sale (from where she probably grabbed them).
That would be nauseating enough, but there’s also the keys collected from each cheap motel she ever slogged into. Then the cream pitcher assortment. And baby dolls with moveable eyes … And the smell of potpourri, which chokes the air. How does Hy stand living here? How does he live with that whiny meeskait? Ugly, ugly, ugly. Ida stifles an inner giggle. But then again, who’d want to live with Hy? Neither of them movie star quality.
She buries the thought that she is being unkind. Never mind, let’s get down to business so she can get the hell out of there. She can’t stand Lola and Lola hates her just as much. So they’re even. She wishes Gladdy were the one dealing with this mushy stuff. Lola is a powder puff; Ida holds on to her pretend simple self. She hates it; that’s not who she is. But she’s stuck right now.
They face one another like medieval gladiators. Can there be any two more unlike women on this hemisphere? Lola’s wearing a frilly girly-girly sunshine yellow bathrobe. Her stance: hands on hips, queen of her garage sale domain. Ida, as her own hero, down and dirty, pretending sweetness, always sure, always right. Her Columbo.
Ida, still oozing strength coming from her closet session with Columbo gear, jumps in with a tough mindset, ‘Never mind about me, dearie, let’s hear from you. Spill it. What’s a matter of life or death?’
‘I specifically asked for Gladdy. That’s who I asked for. That’s who I want!’
‘Well, you can’t have her. Gladdy specifically told me to tell you she’s on a business trip and not available and I am the PI holding down the fort. Take me or leave me.’ Ida has mixed feelings. She’d be glad not to deal with Lola. But then, she loses her chance to shine.
She can imagine Lola’
s battle within herself. She would be glad to dump Ida, but it seems like she has a problem that is stronger than her loathing.
Lola can hardly get her words out. ‘Hy’s disappeared! My husband is gone and I’m terrified something horrible has happened to him!’
Lola races out of the room, leaving Ida looking after her. Amazed.
What the hell?
Lola doesn’t come back. Should she go look for her? Hold her hand and make her feel better? Nah, let her cry it out. She’ll wait for a better time.
Columbo tries for a dramatic exit. She swirls her coat around her … and, oh, oh, she’s just knocked down a pair of kitty-cat salt and pepper shakers.
‘Oopsy,’ says Ida. ‘I’m outa here’.
FIFTEEN
Another Trip to the Gray Lady
It was a wonderful breakfast of delicious blueberry muffins and excellent coffee at our B&B. What was not surprising about the breakfast was there was no sign of Teresa. It was obvious she was still avoiding us after last night.
Jin is behind the front desk. Polite as he is, he still has not looked at us.
Well, maybe today will give us some enlightenment, before we decide to stay or go home. There will be things to discuss after this meeting.
Here we are, returning to this odd, gray mansion with its odd, gray couple, and right away we are offered coffee. Sadie gaily waves a jar of ‘instant’ at us. Coffee will be as awful as was the tea. Shuddering, we politely inform our clients we already had breakfast, thanks anyway.
Louie and Sadie face us in the hallway, bright-eyed and eager. They are dressed in exactly the same clothes as they wore when we met yesterday. Or does their closet only hold similar outfits?
To avoid any more side discussions of hurricanes, being businesslike, I get right to the point. ‘Shall we visit your papa? Is he aware we are coming?’
They are startled. I sense they intend to waffle some more. Like they did yesterday. Why?
After many shared looks between them with silent whisperings, they have made their decision and beckon us toward that barely lit, gloomy staircase.
Sadie proves me right. ‘I have some special antiques you might like to see first.’ They are still stalling.
Louie chimes in, of course. ‘Vintage china. Ancient brass candleholders. Patchwork quilts?’
Evvie stops that tactic. ‘Maybe, later.’
Sophie and Bella are back to their search for spiders and cat smells. I ignore them.
The couple exchange more nervous looks, then shrug as they give up on the delays. They lead the way. The stairway has steep steps. Is it possible their papa lives in this house – up there?
Sadie chuckles. ‘Three flights.’
Louie chuckles, too. Suddenly he’s the comedian. ‘Quite a hike. Hope you wore your climbing shoes.’
Again, they schlepp slowly, as if each step were a mile. I’m amazed that they can do this at all. Step one. Push forward with cane. Hang onto banister. Step two, climb another step. Push with cane, etc.
The girls look pained. They find the staircase difficult. At home, we live in easy access, easy steps, and we always take the elevator, anyway.
I hear Sophie puffing and mumbling behind me, in a monotone. ‘I’m getting older by the second. I’ll be a hundred by the time we get up there.’
‘Yeah, me, too,’ Bella chimes in.
Evvie. ‘Shhh, keep going.’
Louie calls out to the girls lagging behind him, ‘I need to inform you; there are strict rules. Papa is quite moody. We must be wary. And very respectful.’
Sadie. ‘After all, he is quite famous.’
Louie. ‘Speak only when spoken to.’
Sadie. ‘He has earned the right to have a big ego.’
By the second flight, the girls are panting hard, and clutching the banisters, positive they will topple if they let go.
The Wassingers are still moving steadily at their snail pace.
At the third flight landing, we stop, gasping for air. At last we’re finally at the top.
Sadie says sweetly, ‘We’re not there yet. Papa enjoys sitting on his favorite chair in the sunshine.’
Louie. ‘So up we go. To the roof top, part of which is a widow’s walk.’
With dismay we manage to clamber up behind them once again, in a corner of the landing, climbing now on an old creaky wrought iron circular staircase.
Sadie calls behind to Louie. ‘Did you remember your homework?’
Louie chuckles, ‘I dassent forget.’
What are they talking about? Homework?
Finally we are on the roof. The large roof’s floor is covered by what looks like a huge oriental rug. A small portion off to one edge was probably used as a widow’s walk. We look around. There’s an area of about six feet by six feet approximately which is surrounded by a white picket fence. We see a beautiful white wicker chair, with colorful pillows. Next to the chair, a small, round, white, metal and glass table. A frosted goblet on it that looks like a chilled southern rum drink with ice cubes and floating limes. Next to the drink, an empty wooden box labeled in Spanish, which I discern says ‘Cigars from Cuba’. What? Did I just imagine the drink levitated for a moment!
No one is seated in the chair. We search for their papa. I look around. No one is on the roof but us.
Has he stood us up?
What’s this? Louie and Sadie stand in front of the enclosed fenced area and stare at the wicker chair. Louie bows. ‘Good morning, sir. I hope your daiquiri is to your liking.’ They listen.
Sadie bows. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She points. ‘That’s them. The ones we hired.’
The girls and I are stumped. What is going on? The Wassingers are speaking to the empty air. The girls look to me, their uneasy leader, so I plunge in.
‘Where is your papa?’ I ask. ‘I thought we had an appointment.’
The Wassingers are doing what might be called bowing and scraping. An early expression of respect by obsequiously, and with great deference, bending as to a musical conductor or royalty. What the heck?
I try again. ‘May I ask what you are doing?’
Sadie says, bursting with pride, ‘Why, we’re conversing with our house guest, Ernest Hemingway, the world-famous writer. Known to all as “Papa”.’
Louie jumps in quickly, ‘And brave soldier, explorer and boxer; so many things he is famous for. That’s his nickname.’
Sadie giggles. ‘He just told me for the hundredth time, he hates that nickname.’ She waves coyly and prettily. ‘Oh, you always say that. You like being called Papa!’
What on earth is going on! I say, very, very carefully and sweetly as if speaking to aliens from a far-off galaxy, ‘And how come we can neither see nor hear this famous dead writer-hero?’
By now Sophie and Bella are hugging each other, in fear. Evvie is speechless.
Louie and Sadie smile. In tandem, they explain to the chair, ‘Yes, sir, it’s our Gladdy Gold and Associates Private Eyes. The ones we phoned in Fort Lauderdale. Yes, we’ve tried all the locals. These special ladies accepted our invitation and would take the case. We’re so lucky. They just arrived.’
I am getting an ominous feeling that we have made a horrible mistake. We’ve stepped into loony-tune land. Was this what Teresa was trying to warn us about? And was too embarrassed?
The couple, ears pointed forward, listen avidly. They laugh and laugh some more.
Sophie asks, ‘What’s so funny?’
The Wassingers are uncomfortable; being the voice of the famous dead man doesn’t come easy for them. Sadie asks, ‘Papa wants to hear how come there are no men in your company.’
I am expected to answer; this is the best I can come up with, ‘Just because,’ I say, stumbling.
My girls have eyes wide open; they look like they want to flee. Hold on. No, not all. Bella is motionless, staring at the same point in the air that has the Wassingers in thrall.
Slowly Louie says nervously, ‘Papa is famous for quick-making assumptions. He
says to tell you he can’t believe you are detectives.’ Louie gulps. ‘He used the word, “pitiful”.’
I can tell there is more, coming from Nowhere Ville, but Louie restrains himself, unable to speak. Weird! Are they hallucinating? I wonder about drugs. And how do we get out of here gracefully?
Evvie, ever the realist, is snarky. ‘I get it. You’re pretending an invisible man is making fun of us. Really? Well, such nonsense. Invisible Man from movie-land? I remember the film with Claude Rains. Or are you having a laugh on us? Joke’s over.’
Louie and Sadie jump as if they were blown at by one of their famous hurricanes. Louie hisses, ‘Shh, Papa is angered by your lack of respect. He is a world-class figure who has written many famous novels and has appeared before kings and queens. He demands you treat him like the royalty he is.’
Evvie says carefully, ‘Let me get this straight. Are you trying to say you are talking to a … ghost, Ernest Hemingway’s ghost and he is answering you?’
Again the couple is startled. And too nervous. This is not going well.
Louie, ‘He doesn’t like it when he’s being talked about when he’s right here.’
‘Okay, girls. Look at the time,’ I say, glancing at my watch. ‘We should leave.’
Sophie and Evvie want out of this mishagosh. Sophie is racing, so to speak, in her cane-dragging way toward the circular staircase. Evvie is right behind her. I am suddenly rooted to my spot. Wait a minute. What is going on here?
Suddenly Bella chortles.
Sophie stops in her tracks, annoyed, ‘What’s so funny?’
Bella puts her hand over her mouth to cover her smile. ‘He just said a naughty word. I don’t want to repeat it.’ She waves gaily at the empty chair. ‘Hi, there.’
Three mouths open wide. Finally, I manage to find my voice. ‘Bella. You can see someone? You hear someone?’
Bella is pleased. She isn’t often the center of attention. Perky, happy. ‘Of course I can. He’s handsome.’ She’s in stitches as she grins at the chair. ‘He just said I’m cute.’ She curtsies. ‘Why, thank you, sir.’