by Rita Lakin
Our newlyweds—Tessie Hoffman Spankowitz, an excitable fifty-six, and Sol Spankowitz, a decrepit and depressed seventy-nine—are in the pool. Hefty Tessie is trying to teach her new husband how to swim. It’s hard to tell whether he is more terrified of drowning or of his wife.
Sol is not a happy man.
We all head for our usual chaise lounges.
Heaven forbid someone doesn’t stick to the unwritten seating chart. All hell would break loose.
“Hey, here they come,” calls Hy Binder. “Just in time for my new joke.”
One of the Canadians applauds Evvie. “Can’t wait to hear about your big adventure.”
No one is a fan of Hy’s jokes. But then again, besides his brain-dead wife, Lola, who would be?
Evvie, who is wearing sunglasses and a huge straw hat to hide her face and feelings, parries back, “Hey, goody, goody, just in time.” Needless to say, Evvie hates Hy’s jokes but right now she’ll stand for anything to keep herself out of the limelight.
Hy jumps in fast before someone stops him. He bows to the newlyweds in the pool. “This joke is dedicated to the new Mr. and Mrs. Spankowitz.” Tessie grins and wraps her huge arms around Sol’s puny, wattled, tense neck.
The Canadians make a point of going back to their newspapers and magazines. Many others groan. Evvie sits up to listen as if with rapt attention.
Hy emotes. “Sam goes to his doctor and says, ‘Doc, my wife is trying to poison me.’ His doctor says, ‘Sam, don’t be silly.’ He says, ‘No, really, she’s out to get me.’ The doctor sighs and says, ‘Bring your wife, Maisie, in to see me.’ The next day he does and the doctor and Maisie go into his office. Sam waits outside. And waits and waits. Finally two hours later the doctor rushes out, his face a mass of sweat. ‘What should I do, Doc?’ Sam asks. ‘Take the poison,’ he says, ‘take the poison!’ ”
Tessie looks confused. Sol nods, getting it.
Then the usual boos erupt, except for Sophie, who thinks it’s hilarious and applauds.
Enya Slovak, our concentration camp survivor, looks up at him and says, “Hy Binder, shame on you!” With that, she goes back to reading her book.
Evvie abruptly stands. “I forgot I have to make an important call. Bye, gang.” She walks away, leaving waves of disappointment. Our neighbors had hoped for some hot gossip.
Trying to cheer us up, Bella cooks dinner, her famous chicken soup with matzo balls, parsnips, and soup greens.
Bella’s apartment is always immaculate. I don’t know how she does it at eighty-three all by herself. The rest of us share a cleaning service that comes to help us out. Not Bella. She says she loves cleaning. And washing windows. And ironing. Yuk.
But tonight Bella’s good intentions aren’t working. I am not enjoying my dinner. Neither is Evvie, since the girls decided we needed a lecture along with our meal. The topic is their opinions about love. They each have a pet theme.
Ida, the man-hater: “Men are no good anyway. Who needs them?”
Sophie, Ms. Malaprop: “They’re like buses. Another one will come along any year.”
Bella: “I think men are nice. But I can’t remember.”
Now the advice gets specific. Aimed at me. Evvie insists I call Jack. “You have the only good one; don’t lose him.” And then she bursts into tears.
Ida passes the tureen around. “I personally wouldn’t shed a tear over a man.”
Sophie helps herself to a third portion. “Go ahead, beg if you have to. You could always cross your fingers when you do it.”
Bella daintily waves the soup away. “I like Jack. He’s a mensch. So where did he say he was going? Miami Beach?”
I need to get the topic off me. “He didn’t say. I’ve tried calling him, but he won’t answer the phone. He doesn’t want to talk to me. Look, I’m all right. It’s Evvie who needs help.”
She counters, “I don’t need help. I just need some peace and quiet.”
Ida: “Feeling sorry for yourself is stupid. Just hate him and be done with him.”
Sophie: “I still can’t get them straight. Who do you love? Philip or Ray?”
Bella: “What about the killer? He should get the chair!”
Evvie jumps up. “Everybody leave me alone!”
She hurries to the door. “Thanks for the soup. Next time, flank steak. My place.” With that she’s gone.
Bella is perturbed. “She didn’t stay for the brownies.”
FATHER AND SON NIGHT
“I should be getting home,” Jack Langford says to his son, Morrie.
“It’s only ten o’clock. What are you worried about? You’ll turn into a pumpkin?”
“Very funny.”
The two men are clearing the table in Morrie’s small stucco house in the southern part of Fort Lauderdale. The kitchen and dining room form one unit, which makes it easy—perfect for a bachelor. “Too bad you’re such a good cook,” Jack comments, setting the plates in the sink.
“That’s an odd thing to say, ungrateful even, since you polished off every bite of my beef Stroganoff.”
“Maybe if you went hungry every night, you’d finally pick some nice girl and settle down.”
“Now you sound like Mom.”
The men smile in memory of Faye, wonderful wife and mother. “You’re pushing forty, sonny boy.”
“I might remind you, you didn’t marry until you were forty.”
Jack grins. He enjoys the teasing banter between the two of them. “That’s different. In those lean days I needed to earn more money before I could settle down. And besides, we believed in long engagements.” He reaches across the table for his wineglass and takes a sip.
“And what about Lisa?” Morrie rolls up his cuffs, turns on the hot water in the sink and squeezes soap on a sponge. “My sister didn’t marry early, either. She wanted her career first. So, there you are; late marriage runs in the family.”
Ignoring his futile argument, Jack plunges on, still smiling. “What was wrong with that beautiful redhead, Annie? I liked her.”
“She was a micromanager and needed to know where I was every minute of the day. What I was thinking every moment. Not good for a cop’s wife.”
“And Lynn? You told me she was perfect.”
“She was. For someone else. That’s what she said when she returned my ring.”
“Oops. You never told me that part.”
“Hey, maybe I’m just unlucky in love.”
“Or too picky. Keep looking. You better watch out or the guys in the station will think you’re gay.”
“Or smart. Especially the disillusioned, divorced ones.”
It’s a running joke between them, since Jack is a former cop himself, and Morrie’s best friend— and former partner—Oz Washington, is gay. But everybody in the precinct knows Oz is a rotten cook. So much for stereotypes.
“You should talk.” Morrie hands his dad a towel while he washes the plates. “What about Michelle? Why didn’t you marry her? You were soooo in love. What was it, eight years ago when you took that trip to France?”
Jack is startled. He hasn’t thought about her in a long time, having written off their month together as a brief fantasy. The beautiful, sexy Frenchwoman and the lonely American. The perfect vacation. The perfect love affair. Why had he been so afraid to bring her here? Wasn’t he tempted to stay with her, to live in Paris? No, he couldn’t be so far from his children. And he wasn’t sure Michelle would have come to America; she was famous in Paris, with her own television talk show. And she was much younger. But Jack had never even asked her—he was so sure Michelle would turn him down.
“I’m sorry I ever mentioned it.”
Morrie grins, mimicking, “‘Mentioned it?’ You mooned around for months, drove us all crazy. ‘Should I go back? Should I call?’ ”
“No use lamenting over something that’s long gone.” Jack sighs. Fantasy, all fantasy. But every person should have one once in their lives.
“And now, Mr. Authority on Commitment, you
haven’t swept Gladdy Gold off her feet yet. I eagerly look at my mail every day waiting for my invitation to the wedding.”
Jack shakes his head. “She hasn’t emotionally buried her late husband yet. She thinks she has, but she hasn’t. So she clings to her sister and her friends, afraid to move on.”
“But she was willing to go away with you. To a secret island. Another perfect vacation?”
Jack swats his son with the damp towel. “It proves my point. If she really wanted to be alone with me, she wouldn’t have told Bella where we were going. I suspect she was relieved to get the fax that forced us to come home early. On a subconscious level, that is.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”
“She’d deny it, but I think I’m right.”
By now all the dishes have been washed and dried. The two men head for the door.
“Eat and run, you’re that kind of guy,” says Morrie, punching his father gently on the shoulder.
“I guess I’m half hoping to get home and find a message from her on my machine.”
“Hey, Dad, the phone works two ways. You could call her.”
“No.” Jack shakes his head. “She needs the time alone to work it out in her own mind.”
“So your plan is to wait until she comes to you?”
“I’m working on a different plan. I’m thinking of going up to New York for a while.”
“And...?”
“Visit your sister and Dan and the kids.”
“And? Stop stalling. I know you’re up to something.”
“Visit some of my old cronies in my old precinct...”
“And? More ands?”
“And try to reopen Gladdy’s case and see if I can find the perp who murdered her husband.”
Ignoring the amazement he knows will appear on Morrie’s face, Jack opens the door and, not looking back, waves good night.
MORRIE DISSEMBLES
I’ve had it with my sister’s problem Mine is different. No, let’s be honest. Forget pride. I miss Jack terribly and I want answers. I need answers! If the father won’t talk, I’ll get it out of the son.
I keep leaving messages at the police station for Detective Morgan Langford but he never returns my calls. It must run in the family. Morrie knows perfectly well why I am calling. This time I don’t request him, but ask the operator when he is expected in to work.
What a hypocrite I am, giving Evvie advice that I don’t take for myself: Give up the impossible. I tell Evvie to walk away from Philip because it’s a hopeless case, and here I am going behind her back to try and get Jack into my life again. Truly, Evvie has no choice; she must find a way to go on without Philip. There is no chance they can ever be together again. So shouldn’t I do the same with a man who no longer wants me? No! Not until I am very sure that’s the case.
So here I am, waiting at the Lauderhill police station. It is fairly new and doesn’t have the romance, if you will, of the old station, with its rundown seedy look and customers of the same persuasion. Where are the drooling drunks, the sarcastic punks, the fistfights? The awful smells of lives gone bad? Gone with the new architecture. This front waiting area is so clean and so dull, you would think you were at an accountant’s office. I announce myself to the front window and I blatantly lie and tell them I have an appointment with Detective Morgan. Since I was told he was in, now let’s see him get out of talking to me.
After a few moments during which I imagine he is wrestling with his conscience, Morrie finally comes out of the locked door. He is in his shirtsleeves and exudes an air of being busy.
I put my hands up. “I know. You don’t have time. I only have one simple question: Where is your father?”
With that, he walks me outside, where I can face the new library, which shares the same parking area. I still prefer going to my old library, where I feel at home with old bookshelves and old friends. This new one is ultramodern, with a large room containing long banks of computers with kids playing games instead of doing their homework; not for me.
“Look, Gladdy,” Morrie says, “please don’t put me in the middle.”
“Why shouldn’t I? You are in the middle. You know where he is and I want you to tell me.”
I think I’ve surprised Morrie. He wouldn’t expect this frontal attack. He probably thinks I’d just wither away if he refused.
“I can’t.” Morrie holds firm.
“Because you don’t know or he told you not to tell me?”
“Please let me go back inside and interrogate a man who might have just chopped up his wife with their garden ax. It would be easier than this.”
“Coward.”
“Yes. I am not at liberty to tell you anything and that’s my final word.”
“You sound like that old game show and I’m not promising you a million dollars. Okay.” I change tactics. “Why doesn’t Jack want me to know?”
“My lips are sealed.”
“He’s gone off with another woman?”
Morrie sputters at that. “He wouldn’t—” Then stops.
I hide a tiny smile. That’s a small victory, anyway. “Well, that’s settled. Can you at least tell me when he’ll be back?”
“I don’t know.”
Well, that’s not a lie. I can see it in his eyes. He knows where he is, but he doesn’t know when he’ll be back.
“When you speak to him would you please give him a message?” I can feel my eyes tearing and my throat starting to choke up. “Please tell him I really need to talk to him.”
Horribly uncomfortable, Morrie shrugs. Just before I turn away and head for my car, I toss this unkindness at him: “No wonder you’re not married. You may not be scared of ax murderers, but you sure are scared of us women.”
I don’t really mean it, but I find satisfaction in rattling his cage. Somehow I feel better after this non-meeting. My Jack isn’t off with another woman after all. He still loves me. I hope.
I can feel Morrie’s eyes on my back as I reach my car.
As Ida once told me, sometimes a woman just has to be a bitch.
A NEW CASE
“Meeting will come to order,” announces Ida, tapping her teaspoon on her cup and opening her file folder.
With that, we all get ready for the weekly business meeting of Gladdy Gold and Associates. Our business slogan: “Senior sleuths for the senior citizen.” Our motto: “Never trust anyone under seventy-five.” Naturally all meetings include food. We’re in Evvie’s apartment; her turn to cook for the group meeting. I glance at her as she brings our lunch out from the kitchen. Her dark clothing lately is so unlike my Evvie, who always wore bright colors and wild patterns that expressed her usual upbeat demeanor.
And not that she’s much of a hostess today, either. She’s serving us takeout from the local deli, which she ordered and had delivered. Unheard of. We look forward to these meetings as an opportunity to share meals together and take turns showing off a little. Evvie’s specialty is a superb chicken fricassee made with chicken wings and tiny meatballs. Her secret ingredient is Hungarian sweet paprika. But I digress.
Lately, Ida is the one keeping us all together.
While Sophie and Bella serve the coffee and strudel cake, Ida reviews a list of possible jobs. Actually, a job: Ida has culled the list down to the one she thinks will interest us. Evvie stays in the kitchen pretending to be very busy doing dishes. She promises to listen to us through the cutout pass-through. But we all know that she’s avoiding dealing with reality and that all she wants to do is hide.
“We got a phone call from a Dr. and Mrs. Harvard Silverstone of Naples,” Ida announces.
Bella, our secretary, takes out her notebook. “Where’s that?” she asks.
“West coast Florida, directly across from us,” Ida answers. “They are a couple in their nineties whose daughter lives in Fort Lauderdale. It seems that they have a very big anniversary coming up—number seventy-five—and they expect their daughter to attend.”
Sophie is busily poking arou
nd the plate to find a piece of strudel that’ll appeal to her. “So what’s the big deal?”
“Yeah,” echoes Bella, “where’s the case?”
“Patience,” Ida says. “Let me fill you in. Their only daughter, Linda, sends e-mail letters saying she can’t come, but won’t give a reason, other than to say she is too busy. When they call her they always get the answering machine. They haven’t seen her in almost a year.”
“That’s not very nice of her,” Bella comments. “So what do they want of us?” Sophie asks.
I know I should contribute, but I can’t get with it. I can see Evvie puttering about with her pots and pans and she looks so miserable. I wish I knew how to help her.
“Glad?” Ida says, trying to get my attention. “What do you think?”
“It doesn’t seem too difficult. Visit the daughter and ask her straight out why she won’t go. Why don’t the three of you handle that?”
There’s a silence as they absorb the fact that I am not including myself.
Sophie jumps in. “But you’re our driver.”
“I’m sure Denny will take you around.” Our considerate handyman is always willing to help out the seniors who live in our Phase.
More silence. I know they are trying to figure out what to say.
Ida understands and is sympathetic, but her patience with our problems has its limits. She pushes back her chair. “Well, that takes care of that,” she says curtly. “Come on, girls,” she says to Sophie and Bella, “we have our assignment.” Lots of ice in that tone, but frankly I don’t blame her. Even I’m sick of my own self-pity.
Sophie looks longingly at the leftover strudel and grabs one for the road.
I shrug. “Sorry,” I say.