by Karen Pullen
* * * *
Rose was on her way to the dining room when a motorized chair side-swiped her walker. She barely stayed upright. “Estelle! You did that on purpose.” Estelle was Azalea Abbey’s resident witch and seemed to love to make Rose’s life miserable.
“You were hogging the hallway.” Estelle turned around to glare at her with pursed lips and nailed a potted plant. Dirt and leaves flew everywhere, but she didn’t slow down.
“Damn hit-and-run driver.” Rose’s voice shook with anger.
Estelle gave her the finger and sped off.
A door opened and Rose’s best friend poked her head out. Martha had cropped gray hair, enormous tortoiseshell glasses, and half the wrinkles of most women her age. “I thought I heard you. What’s going on out here?”
“That nutcase Estelle. First she tried to run me down, then she crashed into a plant.”
“You should report her to management. A few more incidents, and they’ll pull her license. She’ll have to go into assisted living if she can’t use her cart.”
“It can’t happen soon enough.”
“You just don’t like the competition.”
“What competition? That scrawny little body and that red wig. Like anyone thinks it’s her real hair, especially when half the time it’s on crooked.”
“The men like her, though.”
“Only because she takes out her dentures when she gives them a blow job. Not my fault I have all my teeth,” Rose said, feeling her stomach growl. It was time for dinner. After her busy day, she could eat a horse.
They walked to the dining area and surveyed the room—forest green carpeting, salmon colored walls, white tablecloths. The clink of silver echoed through the cavernous space. Oh dear. Jack and Herbert sat at their usual table by the window, with Estelle between them. When Rose and Martha approached, Estelle made a point of rubbing Jack’s shoulder. “Sorry, there’s only one chair left. No room for you two. And I know how inseparable you are. If we didn’t know better, we’d think you were lesbos.”
Jack winked. “I can vouch for Rose. How about you, Herbert?”
Herbert raised his hands. “A gentleman never discusses his love life.”
“Oh, really?” Estelle laughed. “You boys gossip more than us ladies.”
“Lady?” Rose snorted. “There’s nothing lady-like about you, Estelle. Your only friends are men, not a single lady.”
Jack chuckled and patted Rose’s arm. “Now, now. No cat fights.”
At least Herbert had the decency to blush. He was the one who’d told Rose about Estelle’s dentures, although he’d insisted it was just hearsay, that he’d not taken advantage of Estelle’s special talents.
“Let’s sit over there,” Martha said, nudging Rose’s walker and pointing to a table with four women. “You know I’d rather sit with the girls,” she added, when the men were out of earshot. “I can’t stand the way Jack chews with his mouth open. And I hate having to yell so Herbert can hear.”
“Oh, they’re not so bad. They have their moments.”
“I know all about their moments.” Martha raised her eyebrows. “Not personally, of course.”
“Of course not, holy Sister Martha. How many years has it been?”
“Twenty-two. Ever since my darling husband passed.”
“My God, you’re a virgin. Doesn’t the vault seal up after all those years?”
“It would, if not for my joy toys.”
“That’s right. You have your joy toys and I have my boy toys. Sometimes I think you’re better off. A lot less drama anyway.”
“Who are you kidding? What would you do without your love triangles? You, Estelle, and every single man here.”
“A few married ones, too, you know.”
“You’re asking for trouble with the queen bees. If one of them finds out, they’ll swarm all over you.”
“I’m very discreet. Besides, what do they expect if they put on chastity belts? I swear these old geezers have more testosterone now than when they were teenagers. At least the ones on happy pills.”
They arrived at the girls’ table just in time to be overheard. “What about happy pills?” Claudia asked. “I’m out of Prozac. Two wasn’t doing the job, so I switched to three. Now I’m out and my doctor won’t up my dosage.”
“Why not?” Rose asked. “You might get too happy? Start singing in the shower?”
“Who knows? It’s all about the rules. He’s such a hard ass.” Claudia’s eyes filled with tears.
Rose sat next to her and patted her hand. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll help you out.” She dug around her purse, found the right bottle, and poured a handful into Claudia’s open palm.
“Thanks, Rose. I don’t have my wallet with me, but you know I’m good for it.”
“Swing by my apartment after dinner. Just not after seven. That’s when Sex and the City starts. I love watching those pretty young things.”
“How do you always manage to have extra pills, Rose?” Miriam asked.
The table went silent. Five pairs of eyes bored into Rose’s. Only Martha knew about the pill-pilfering. “I have a generous doctor. She thinks us seniors should have all the pill-induced happiness science can provide. I don’t take half of what she prescribes.”
“She taking new patients?” Claudia asked.
“No. She’s full up. But I’ll ask her nurse to put you on her waiting list.”
Four arms went up, with a chorus of me, too.
“Sure thing.” Rose said, with no intention of following through. “So what’s for dinner tonight?” She wanted to change the subject. She knew it was tilapia, rice, and green beans. Like everyone else, she pored over the menu each week.
“Overcooked fish, and not enough sauce to save it.”
“The rice is sticky again.”
“Cook never gets it right.”
“Beans are cold.”
“Waxy, too.”
“Came out of a can. You can taste the aluminum.”
Rose relaxed. Subject changed. No one cared about her pill stash when there was food to complain about.
Benjamin appeared at her side, placed a glass of milk with the precision of a waiter at a four-star restaurant. “Good evening, Mrs. P. May I bring you a salad?”
“A Caesar, please.”
“Coming right up, Mrs. P.”
Dinner was plated and served by waiters, but residents went to the salad bar for their greens. Rose’s walker made it tricky to manage a salad plate, plus she liked the extra attention from the wait staff.
She watched Benjamin walk to the salad bar. The buns on that young man. Tighter than her late husband’s fist when she’d ask for a bump in her grocery allowance. Allowance was Joe’s word for it. She was allowed to buy food. She was glad he’d died young, even if it meant the money ran out. Only because she was never allowed to work outside the home. He didn’t want anyone to think he couldn’t support his wife. There should have been plenty of money, but Joe liked to gamble, so it all went down the drain, except for a nest egg she’d managed to squirrel away. Just enough to buy into Azalea Abbey, but nothing to live on but a Social Security check. She couldn’t afford the monthly dues without her side business.
Benjamin returned with her Caesar. The front view in those tight black pants was even better than the rear. What she wouldn’t give for a love session with him. He could probably go all afternoon without medicinal help.
“Thanks, Benjamin. You’re a sweetheart.” She gave him her flirtiest smile.
“Anything for you, Mrs. P.”
If only that were true.
* * * *
The meeting room held six rows of tables, three across, room for two at each table. Thirty-six seats, and they were always filled. Bingo was the most popular activity at Azalea Abbey. The activity director called out a number and Rose bit her lip, concentrating on her two bingo cards. Surely she had G-17 somewhere, but figures swam in front of her eyes. Was it time for cataract surgery?
“Cheater,” Rose said. “You wouldn’t win all the time if you didn’t sneak the cards home to memorize them.”
Estelle’s eyes narrowed. “Sore loser.”
“It’s against the rules.”
Estelle glared at her. “I’m not the only one breaking rules around here.”
As if on cue, the meeting room door opened and a policeman burst through. His squinty eyes raked the room. “Rose Peabody?”
“That’s her right there.” Estelle pointed her bony finger.
The cop marched over to Rose. “You’ll have to come with me, ma’am. We have some questions for you down at the station.”
“What? What’s this about?” Rose saw her shock reflected on the faces around her.
Estelle jumped from her seat. “I ratted you out, Rose. And a couple of the wives backed me up. We told the cops all about your drug dealing. I hope you rot in jail.”
Rose stood, her legs shaking. Her Bingo cards and markers spilled onto the floor and she felt humiliated. The officer took her arm with a vise grip and led her to the door.
Martha jumped to her feet. “Don’t worry, Rose. I’ll get you some help.”
* * * *
The interrogation room felt like a coffin. The officer questioned her gently. His bluster had been for show. Rose didn’t deny Estelle’s accusations and she could tell the cop felt bad when the D.A. charged her.
“Sorry, ma’am, but we have no choice. It’s against the law to sell drugs.” He told Rose she’d have her bail hearing that afternoon. “If you can arrange for bail, you won’t have to spend the night in jail.”
Even though the officer felt sorry for her, the judge apparently didn’t. He set bail at a hundred grand; Rose needed to find ten thousand. Despondent, she curled up on the lumpy bed in her cell. Where would Martha get that much money? Finally, a guard unlocked her cell and told her she had made bail. When she stepped through the locked doors, she was stunned. Instead of Martha, Herbert rushed over, his face etched with worry.
“I heard what happened. Got here as fast as I could,” he said, winded like he’d just run a marathon. He put his hands on Rose’s shoulders.” I’m crazy about you, honey. Can’t live without you.”
“Herbert, even if I’m free now, they’re still going to throw me in jail after my trial.”
“Not going to happen. We’ll make a break for it. Go to Vegas and get hitched.”
“We can’t get married. I’ll lose my Social Security.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m loaded.” He dropped to his knees, put his hand over his heart. “Will you marry me?”
“What if they come after me?”
“They’ll never take us alive, Bonnie.”
For a moment, Rose panicked. Had he forgotten her name? Early stage Alzheimer’s? Then it hit her. “Of course, I’ll marry you, Clyde. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
MAMA’S BOY, by Ruth Moose
Mama never liked any of the girls I brought home but she liked Dina the least so I married her. Only time in my life I stood up to Mama.
Disaster from day one.
Mama wore white to our wedding. Then, while we were on our honeymoon to Myrtle Beach, she rearranged our whole apartment, spoons to slumber cushions. “I know what Herbie likes,” she told Dina who stood there with her mouth open. The minute Mama left, Dina put everything back the way she wanted it. I never said a word. After all, she WAS my Mama and she meant well.
Dina had wanted to go to Niagara Falls for our honeymoon but Mama’s heart was acting up and I didn’t want to be too far away.
“Wasn’t acting up too much to move all our furniture around,” Dina said.
Once a week Mama let herself in and cleaned our apartment. “You can’t be too careful with Herbie’s allergies,” she said, and I told Dina how she was helping us save money, not hiring somebody.
“Snoop,” said Dina. “She’s a snoop.”
Two or three times a week Mama brought over casseroles, stayed to eat. “It’s hard to cook a real meal when you work full time. And Herbie has to watch his diet.”
When Dina complained to me, I said, “Think of all the money we’re saving on groceries.”
Holidays were trials. Whose house do we eat at, and what time? Do we open gifts Christmas Eve or Christmas Day? Both, I finally decreed. You can’t have too many gift-opening occasions. Even though Mama said Christmas really wasn’t Christmas unless there were children around.
That was another bone she picked with Dina. “Career my eye, children come first. I’m not getting any younger and who knows how much longer my heart will hold out.”
I wasn’t surprised when Dina, for our fifth wedding anniversary, presented me with plane tickets to New York, a weekend’s hotel and meals at Niagara Falls. A second honeymoon. “Finally,” Dina said.
Even Mama was pleased. “Your daddy and I went to Niagara for our honeymoon. Bring me back a picture just like this one.” She leafed through her photo album, handed me a yellowed Polaroid of herself, pretty and slender, straddling a railing overlooking the falls. “I was brave in those days.”
Mama even loaned Dina her biggest, sturdiest, bright red umbrella. (Mama collects umbrellas like some people china teacups. She’s got over a dozen stuffed in her hall stand.) She told us we had to see the butterfly pavilion at Niagara and the flower clock and Dina could use this red umbrella to keep off the mist. But be sure to bring it back.
Peace, I thought, the two women in my life finally making up.
At Niagara Falls we drank champagne in our hotel room, then ate dinner overlooking the Falls, lovingly, leisurely.
As the sun was setting, we walked along the path beside the Falls, Dina with her umbrella under the mist, me with my camera.
“Take my picture,” Dina said.
“Hey,” I said, as she climbed up and straddled the fence, “is that safe?”
“I’m fine.” She smiled and lifted the red umbrella over her head.
I aimed the camera, a great shot of my beautiful bride. Dina’s pretty face framed by golden wisps of hair, red background, fast, falling water, sunset colors.
Lights came on for the Falls, a sudden gust of wind blew past and over Dina went.
I rushed to the fence but she went down in a swirl of color, then disappeared.
They found the umbrella but not Dina. Not ever.
Mama tried to console me. “Herbie, she was never right for you. Nobody loves you like your Mama. Nobody.”
I remember that every time I see Mama’s hall stand full of umbrellas, her sturdy red one like the tallest arrow in a quiver.
POUND OF FLESH, by Sarah Shaber
“Miss Louise,” Dellaphine whispered, wiping her strong brown hands on a dishtowel, “a policeman’s here to see you.”
“What? Why?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine.
“When I got to the Western Market this morning to do the grocery shopping, there was a big crowd in front of the store. Like in one of those crime newsreels, there were flashbulbs popping, cops everywhere, and one of them black police wagons backed up to the rear door.”
I felt a sick sensation in my stomach. I pulled off my gloves and hat and tossed them with my pocketbook on the tapestry chair in the entry hall.
“The policeman’s waiting in the lounge,” Dellaphine said. “With Miss Phoebe and Miss Ada.”
My stomach churned in earnest. I thought I knew what this was about. Though you’d think the D.C. police would have better things to do than run down a couple of pounds of sugar bought without a ration coupon. Best face up to it.
* * * *
Phoebe, my landlady, never forgot her manners, no matter who her visitor was. Wearing a threadbare Fortuny caftan, she presided over her Limoges coffee set, pouring for the police officer perched on her davenport. Ada, her platinum hair in crimps and curlers tucked under a scarf, curled up in an armchair.
The policeman rose when he saw me.<
br />
“Officer Bennett,” Phoebe said, “this is Mrs. Louise Pearlie, one of my boarders.”
“Ma’am,” Bennett said, touching his forehead.
“Good to meet you,” I said, smoothing my skirt under me as I took a seat next to Phoebe.
Bennett sat back down, rather stiffly. He was an older man, with plenty of gray streaking his hair, but his age wasn’t unusual these days. The young men were all in the military.
Ada and Phoebe both looked so worried that I felt quite nervous. It was just a pound of sugar. So difficult to drink coffee without it, especially if the coffee was mostly chicory. I had never been able to get used to chicory, no matter how much milk I added.
“Mrs. Pearlie,” he said, pulling a notebook and pencil from his pocket. “I need to ask you some questions.”
“Officer, I think I know what this is about. I admit I bought a pound of sugar without a ration coupon at the Western Market last night. I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have, and of course I will pay the fine.”
“What time did you buy the sugar, ma’am?” Bennett asked.
“About nine-fifteen, after the store closed.”
“Was there anyone else in the store? Did you see anyone enter after you left? Anybody suspicious loitering outside in the street?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
“Dear,” Phoebe began.
“Please, Mrs. Holcombe,” Bennett said gently, “let me finish. Mrs. Pearlie, do you know of anyone besides yourself who purchased black market goods from the owner of Western Market, Mr. Elmer Metz?”
I tried not to glance at Ada.
“I’ve already told him, Louise,” Ada said. “I’ve bought three pounds over the last year. That’s all.”
“No one other than Ada,” I said to the policeman.
The words “black market” had such nasty ring. Surely Metz would be in trouble, not Ada and me. Selling black market goods was a much more serious offense than buying an occasional bag of sugar.
“I’d like you to think again, Mrs. Pearlie,” Bennett said. “This is important. Did you see anything suspicious, anything, when you were at the Market? Or after you left?”