by Rita Lakin
11
Death by Chocolate
A ll lights were off, but one. Everyone was asleep before ten except Francie.
She was too excited.
Francie Charles was at her favorite pastime. Surrounded by her cookbooks, she paged through Gladdy’s birthday present, a collection of the best desserts from Bon Appétit.
Naturally she was perusing the “fabulous cakes” section first. Her eyes glanced toward her doggie bag, still sitting on the kitchen counter. She was debating. Have it now or save it for tomorrow. She was practically drooling over the book’s description of the double fudge cake with whipped cream. Or maybe she might try to make the triple mocha square first. It had been weeks since she’d baked anything. Maybe she’d surprise the girls tomorrow.
Happiness, she thought, is having a sweet tooth. She glanced up at the magnet on her fridge, last year’s birthday present from her daughter-in-law, Ilene. She always giggled when she passed it. “Men think the greatest thing in life is sex; women know it’s a Hershey bar.”
There was a soft knock on the door.
Surprised, she called out, “Who is it?” She was even more surprised when no one answered. Now she wasn’t sure there had been a knock. But she went to the door anyway. “Anybody there?” No answer. She looked through the peephole. Nobody. Slowly, she unlocked the door and as she did, the package leaning against it fell onto the threshold. Francie picked it up and looked outside onto the balcony. She looked both ways, but there was no one there.
The package was a square white box tied with a pretty red bow. Something inside smelled wonderful. She reached for the note taped to the ribbon and opened it. In an almost immature hand it read, “Sweets to the sweet. Happy birthday.” No signature. Inside the box was a vision of beauty. A thick slice of chocolate almond mousse with fresh raspberries and chocolate chantilly whipped cream! Francie was astonished. Where did it come from? Who could have found something as elegant as this in Fort Lauderdale? Her meager cake from Continental went into the fridge. She grabbed a fork and very gently dug into her gift to have her first taste. Heaven! Absolute heaven.
Now I can die happy, she thought, smiling.
Francie heard the turn of a key in her lock. Thank God, she thought, someone will save me. She lay on the floor, clutching her stomach. She had been in pain for she didn’t know how long, falling in and out of consciousness. She couldn’t move. Her body was paralyzed and she knew she was dying. “Help me,” she tried to cry out, but her tongue was also paralyzed.
At that moment Francie realized three things: 1) There was no help coming. 2) The killer had returned to finish the job. And 3) she had forgotten to double lock her door after bringing in the gift that would poison her.
Francie’s eyes were the only things that could move. They watched the betrayal, as someone she thought she knew so well moved about her apartment, cleaning up. The plate and fork were washed and put away. The remains of the cake dropped into a plastic carry-away bag. The note crushed and put in a pocket. The crumbs wiped off the counter into the sink.
Her body was dragged along the floor until she was positioned lying near the phone. Her hand was placed as if she had been reaching for it and failed. Her eyes looked into the eyes of her killer and she realized begging was useless. What she saw reflected was a coldness beyond compassion.
F rancie’s last thought was that she would never see her children and grandchildren again. And that was more unbearable than the pain.
12
Getting Old Is Murder
It’s Saturday morning. The day is beautiful. Nothing is wrong, so why am I depressed? Must have been a bad dream brought on by something I ate at the deli last night.
I’m down at the mailbox as are a lot of my neighbors. It’s a favorite meeting place, located to the left of the parking lot on the side of our building facing the elevator. Get the mail, see what’s new on the bulletin board, touch base with the people who are about to get into their cars and out to do errands. And of course, take a copy of our free newspaper from the newly arrived stacks.
Everyone reads Evvie’s review first.
KNISHES OR KNOCKS
GOING TO THE MOVIES WITH EVVIE
BY
EVELYN MARKOWITZ
Exclusive to:
THE LANAI GARDENS FREE PRESS
AFTER LIFE
OK, so it’s a Japanese movie and who knows from Japanese? I love going to movies from other countries. You always see how the other half lives. Especially the French, ooh là là. My pet peeve against foreign movies is that they always put the subtitles on white backgrounds. So it isn’t bad enough you miss most of what’s going on in the movie while you’re reading the long titles, but your head keeps jumping around trying to find them through all the white. Result: You haven’t a clue what it was all about in the first place and end up needing an Alka-Seltzer.
When the video of this movie comes out, buy one—you’ll be able to throw out your sleeping pills. Such a sleeper!
I liked the idea. When you die you come to this place and remember your favorite memory and you take it with you wherever it is you’re going. But let me tell you, if where you’re going is as dark and depressing as the place you’re in in this movie, you shouldn’t go anywhere with this crowd.
All that agonizing for two hours, and what memories do they come up with? Flying in a cloud. Reciting a really nothing poem. Sitting on a bench. It’s bad enough they have to eat all that raw fish, do they have to live such boring lives? They should make the director fall on a sword like they do in those other movies.
Now if my heroine, Barbra Streisand, was in this movie, she would have made them use the fluorescent lights like we have in the clubhouse so you wouldn’t go blind trying to see what’s on the screen. And she would have come up with a great memory, like finding this gorgeous hunk, James Brolin, for a husband after all those movies never getting the guy, and always being left alone, sad, but brave. And would that gorgeous Omar Sharif have been so bad? Too bad she couldn’t keep both of them.
QUOTH THE MAVEN:
Enough already. I give it 11⁄2 knishes. If this is all we have to look forward to after life, then as Hy Binder, in our phase, always says—I’m not going!
The End
Thank you, Evvie for another memorable movie interpretation. I shake my head. Just what I needed—an article about death in the mood I’m in.
Evvie’s timing is always perfect. The celebrated editor-reporter-reviewer arrives downstairs for a round of kudos from everybody. And as always, she graciously takes the applause as her due.
“Loved it, just loved it,” Mary Mueller gushes at her as she and her husband, John, get into their Buick on their way to the mall. John looks away, unable to face us these days because of what Kronk wrote on their door.
“Well, that’s a movie we can miss, thanks for the warning,” says Harriet Feder, as she installs her mother’s wheelchair into the back of their van. “Off to another movie today?”
Evvie nods. “Every Saturday afternoon.”
I chime in. “Harriet, why don’t you join us?”
Harriet beams. “Why, I’d like that—”
“Allow me to say no, thanks, for my Harriet.” Esther Feder’s voice rings out from the passenger seat, where she is waiting. “We’re already going to see a movie later.”
“We are?” asks Harriet, puzzled.
“Yes, Harriet, darling, I just got this idea. After my doctor’s appointment, we can pick up a tape from the video store and watch it when we get home. You know how we both love that sweet Fred Astaire. And maybe you’ll make your mamma some microwave popcorn.” Esther now directs herself at me. “That daughter of mine won’t let me miss any pleasures just because the good Lord decided to make a cripple of me. Everyone should have such a good daughter.”
“Poor Harriet,” says Evvie as they drive off.
“I’m glad she didn’t come with us,” Ida says, still smarting from the way Harriet treated he
r at the bank.
Sophie giggles, remembering Ida’s embarrassment. Ida pokes her in the ribs.
My eye is caught by the sight of Irving and his pal, Sol Spankowitz from Phase Three, sitting on a bench near his front door, foul smoke belching from their stogies. They are leaning over a newspaper, deep in concentration. The two friends are an odd couple, Irving being thin, almost frail and hunched over, quiet-spoken and polite, while Sol is chunky, pear-shaped, and bald, the only sign of hair his pencil-thin mustache. Sol is loud, brash, and as subtle as the butcher block he used when he was still working. I hurry over, Evvie on my heels, both of us thinking the same thing. Every Saturday morning we take turns sitting with Millie while Irving plays a little pinochle. And on Sunday afternoons in season, he and Sol go to Hialeah.
“I still like the six horse in the double,” Sol says.
“Valenzuela’s riding,” cautions Irving.
“So, he’s on a losing streak,” Sol comments. “Maybe his winning streak will come back tomorrow.”
“Who’s with Millie?” I ask. “You didn’t leave her alone?”
Irving’s hands go up as if warding off any other words. His thumb motions toward the door. “Sleeping.”
I smile. Irving, the ultimate cheapskate with words.
Many years ago, I once asked Irving why he didn’t take a vacation in Europe. He could always go back to Poland and visit the place he was born. This was at a time all of us were still doing a lot of traveling. His answer to me was, “I been.” And that was that. End of discussion. Short and sweet. Millie told us she thought the real reason Irving never went back is that he ran from the draft and was afraid the Poles were still looking for him.
“How are you, Evvie?” Sol asks, staring at her bosom. Sol has the habit of never looking any woman in the eye. Somehow he never gets past their breasts.
“I’m up here, Sol,” Evvie says, pointing to her face.
Sol, startled, drags his eyes away and looks up into Evvie’s eyes. She barely hides her irritation. “We are what our minds are, Mr. Sol Spankowitz. Our bodies are merely the vessels that carry our heads.”
Sol doesn’t understand a word she says, but he manages a brief, “Uh-huh.”
Irving taps his watch, then nods at Evvie and me. “By eleven?”
“Have a nice card game,” Evvie says.
They walk away, heading toward the clubhouse, with Sol still scanning the sports page. “What should we do in the trifecta, Irv?”
“Wheel the three horse,” answers the expert.
I poke Evvie in the shoulder. “You’ve got a potential suitor there, sister. He’s hot to trot.”
“Let him trot down at the track. I’m not interested.”
“Well. He is available. Not too many of those left.”
“Big deal. He was a lech even when Clara was alive.”
I always tease Evvie about Sol, but somehow my heart isn’t quite in it today. “Well, he’s good for a nice dinner now and then.”
“I can buy my own dinners, thank you. Besides, I still have dear old Joe hanging around, now that the broad from Miami dumped him. Besides, I like my freedom.” She stops, seeing the amused expression on my face.
“Gotcha.”
“And what about you? You are so busy fixing me up, how about your love life?”
“Let’s change the subject.”
Evvie smirks. She is about to open Irving’s door when we hear another door open right above our heads and angry voices arguing.
From where we are hidden by a straggly ficus tree, we see Hy Binder hurrying down the second floor walkway, and Lola grabbing his arm trying to stop him. Evvie and I exchange glances. The Bobbsey twins fighting? This we gotta hear.
“But I got the lawyer hanging on the line.” Lola sounds frantic.
“He can hang forever.” Hy is really angry.
“You gotta talk to him sometime.”
“When hell freezes over. Twice.”
“But our kids will kill one another over the money.”
“Let them.”
“Please, Hy, the man wants to tell you about a living trust.”
“The only trust I care about is the one I wear for my prostate.”
“That’s a truss. Not a trust. Stubborn man! Everybody has to make out a will.”
Hy turns just as he starts down the stairs.
“I told you a hundred times. I don’t need a will. I’m not going!”
With that he rushes past us, giving us dirty looks, gets into his car, and careens off. Lola, crying now, runs back into the apartment and slams the door after her.
Evvie erupts with laughter. She looks at me. “What?” she says. “Why aren’t you laughing?”
I shrug. “I know it’s funny, but it’s also depressing, Hy being afraid to plan for death.”
“Boy, are you grouchy today,” Evvie says as she opens Irving’s door. We walk in quietly, hearing nothing.
Millie is indeed sleeping, curled up on the couch in the sunroom. We also call it the Florida room, this screened-in porch. I remember when Millie decorated it with wild, brightly colored pillows and rattan furniture, how delighted she was with how it looked. She told me it made her think she was in a Bette Davis movie. “She looks so peaceful,” I whisper.
“Like she’s off in some other world,” Evvie says.
We sit quietly for a few moments. What a day. My mood just keeps getting darker and I can’t shake it. Millie’s eyes open. She seems restless. Evvie reaches for the pitcher on the side table and pours her a glass of water. Millie grabs the glass and drinks the water down greedily. Then she flings the glass to the floor. Not a problem: We started using plastic dishes a long time ago. Evvie tries to take her hand. Millie shoves her away. Now, she tries to put a shawl around her shoulder, but Millie hurls that away, too.
“Ev, stop!” I say. It breaks my heart to see how hard my sister tries.
“I feel so helpless.”
“I know dear, we all do.”
I’m suddenly aware of shouting outside. “Glad! Evvie, are you in there!?” Then pounding on the door.
We both jump up. “That sounds like Sophie,” Evvie says. “What’s going on?”
I unlock the door. Sophie stands there. And Denny. And Bella. All of them ashen-faced. Behind them I see other people standing around too, watching. For a moment everything is frozen. I am aware of half of Sophie’s hair covered with curlers, the other half limp and wet. Denny has keys in his hands and his hands are shaking. Bella is moaning.
It must be bad. I shiver. “Who is it?”
Sophie sobs. “Francie . . .”
I shake my head violently as if to throw the word off. My mind refuses to accept this. Please, God, not Francie! I can hear Evvie gasp and I feel her grab my arm.
As much as I don’t want to hear it, I need this to be over with. “Tell me . . .” My voice is a croak.
Sophie begins to hyperventilate and Bella’s eyes lose focus. Denny tries. “I went up . . . the air-conditioning didn’t work good . . . the air comes out warm it’s supposed to be cold . . . I promised in the morning . . . She said come up, but not too early . . . She didn’t answer, so I thought she went out . . . so I opened the door with my key. . . .”
He quits. This is all he can manage.
“Denny, tell me, how bad is she hurt?! Did you call nine-one-one?”
He looks at Sophie plaintively for help. “I went to get you, but you weren’t home. So, I went to Mrs. Meyerbeer. . . .”
I wait for the miracle I know won’t come. Too late to plea-bargain with God . . . Too late . . .
Sophie can’t stand it anymore. She screams. “She’s dead! Francie’s dead!”
Evvie gasps, starting to slide down. I clutch her arm and pull her back up.
“Bella.” I try to get her attention. I touch her hand. She finally manages to focus and look at me. “Bella, please stay with Millie.”
She doesn’t answer. She goes inside. And I start running, pulling Evvie w
ith me. Sophie and Denny follow right behind us. Denny and Sophie are both crying. Stupidly, I wonder where Ida is, and then I remember dropping her at the dentist this morning. I am dimly aware of people everywhere. Standing in the street, or on their balconies. Whispering. Crying. Shaking their heads in disbelief. Bad news travels fast.
Francie is dead. Francie is dead. . . . How can I go on without her?
13
Funerals on the Run
Where are we now?” I ask for the hundredth time, or does it only seem that way?
“On four-forty-one and passing Twelfth Street,” Evvie reports. As always she sits in the front seat next to me. The upper half of the opened map covers her side of the windshield, and the lower half is spread across both our laps. And she still doesn’t have a clue as to where we are.
“It can’t be,” I tell her, once again pushing the map out of my line of sight. “We passed that corner five minutes ago.”
“I told you we were lost!” wails Ida. “We already passed Fuddruckers twice!”
Bella is keening, “Oh, God . . . Oh, God . . . We shoulda been there half an hour ago.”
“I knew we shoulda taken University. This traffic is killing us!” Ida’s voice is sharp.
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda,” singsongs Sophie for the third time in fifteen minutes.
All our voices are shrill. We are beyond our boiling points. Today, of all days, the air conditioner isn’t working. Even Ida is hot, which should give you an idea of how bad it is. The windows are all open, and between the dirt flying in and the deafening noise of the trucks rumbling past us—I am not coping well. And naturally we are all dressed up in clothes that feel way too tight after living day after day in loose sundresses and bathing suits. We are sweating and miserable.
“We’re so late, we’re so late. . . .” Bella, who is in tears, sounds like a demented Alice, only this is no tea party we’re going to.
Ida is now shouting. “Of course we’re late. Because Sophie wasn’t ready.” She elbows her in her stomach. “How could you be late for Francie’s funeral!”