Getting Old is Criminal

by Rita Lakin

  “Hey, look over there.” Evvie pokes me. We are about to pass Phase Five, when I see the police car. I pull over. To my surprise, there’s Morrie Langford in conversation with some of the residents. I recognize Dora Dooley, Jack’s neighbor; among them. I park and Evvie and I join them.

  For a moment I am startled. Morrie reminds me so much of his dad. Same tall height, same posture. Full head of lustrous brown hair, now salt-and-pepper on his father’s head. What Jack must have looked like in his thirties. Another jolt for me and I feel my pain once again. Morrie and I have become good friends since we met professionally. Now I feel at a loss as to how to behave with him. Does he know Jack and I have broken up?

  “There’s Gladdy,” says Sylvia Green, a tall, usually cheerful woman I know only slightly. “Just the person we want to see.”

  And in minutes, we get the story. Our Peeper struck again. The woman who saw him got so frightened that they had to take her to her doctor this morning.

  Dora is practically jumping up and down, pointing an accusing finger at Morrie. “You promised your father you’d catch him.”

  He smiles at the tiny woman. “I promised I’d try.” Morrie addresses us. “I want to help but there’s not much I can do. I can’t spare any cars to cruise your premises all night. Unfortunately, it’s not our top priority.”

  “Then what are we going to do?” Alice Potts is wringing her hands.

  Morrie makes a suggestion. “Perhaps putting up motion-sensor lights on every building will make a difference. He won’t be able to avoid the bright lights. That might deter him.”

  I notice Jack’s son won’t look me in the eye. I guess he’s already heard the news. “I’ll call an emergency meeting of our phase. You do the same with yours,” I say to the Phase Five women. “But installing lights will be very costly.”

  “This has gone on long enough,” Alice insists.

  “Yeah, you said that right,” Dora echoes her. “Are you done now? I have to get back to my show.”

  Sylvia has a solution. “Maybe if all the phases chip in we can afford those lights. I’ll pass the word along to all the phase presidents.”

  I promise to get in touch with my group right away.

  Morrie gives me a cursory nod and leaves.

  Evvie, watching him leave, looks surprised. “What’s with the cold shoulder? What’s eating him?”

  Guilt, I hope. Like father, like son? Leave when the going gets tough?

  As I turn into my parking spot I see Denny’s old car pulled out so that Irving and Yolie can help Millie into the backseat.

  Evvie heads upstairs to my apartment, but I amble over. “Hi. How is everyone?”

  Everyone seems nervous, that’s how everyone is.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “No, nothing,” Irving answers quickly. “We’re taking her for a checkup. And some tests. Just a checkup.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say. “Hope everything goes well.”

  Denny mumbles something incoherent and Yolie doesn’t look at me and I swear Irving is sweating.

  Millie giggles one of her inappropriate laughs. “They’re such liars.” Then, as it is with her, it’s as if a light goes off and she’s comatose once again.

  Denny rolls out of the parking area, burning rubber.

  Strange.

  I know one day we’re going to have to convince Irving to put Millie in an Alzheimer’s hospital. He looks exhausted. I know he can’t take much more.

  “Yes, Mr. Ferguson, I’m pretty sure Evvie and I will be getting into Wilmington House. The board might call you to confirm what we’re doing.”

  I nod at Evvie, who is leaning so far over my shoulder in order to listen that she is practically on my lap. I’ll bet Shirley’s doing the same on the other side of the phone. I listen a few moments and then Evvie pokes me, covering her mouth in order to hide her laughing openly.

  “That’s a very good idea, Alvin. In both our names. And very generous of you.” Now I can hear Shirley yelling, “Are you crazy?” in the background. “Thank you. We’ll keep you informed.”

  I hang up. Evvie hugs me. “Wow! A charge account at Wilmington House!”

  “Down, girl. That’s to pay the rental on the apartment and for the few sundries we might need.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Evvie dances around the room. “I heard him. Toothpaste and hairspray, stuff like that.”

  “We have a fiscal responsibility to keep our charges low.”

  Evvie heads out the door. “I heard you. Yum yum! I just can’t wait to move into our fancy retirement hotel. Maybe I’ll nab some old rich guy and never have to leave again!”

  Lying in bed that night, I can’t stop thinking about Jack and wondering where he is. I remember how the two of us showered in our outdoor waterfall in Pago Pago. How cool the water was. The first time we saw each other naked. How his body fit so well against mine. How we teased, saying we’d wait until later, but later never came. I play the scene over and over again, each time demanding of myself that I stop. But I can’t.

  Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe I don’t need the aggravation of having a man in my life. Everything was much simpler before. And yet— that incredible feeling of pleasure. At what price?

  Now I can hardly wait to get to Wilmington

  House where I can worry about Esther Ferguson’s Romeo and not my own. And what price did she pay for her pleasure? Oh, such dark and dreary thoughts.

  I turn on the TV and catch a comedy show.

  I will not let Jack get me down.

  FIFTEEN

  NO ESCAPE FOR THE WICKED

  Like fugitives, we tiptoe our way to my car, looking every which way to make sure we aren’t seen by the girls. Evvie and I are going to prepare for the big move into Wilmington House. First stop: shopping for ritzy clothes. We only have a couple of days—I hope we can find something.

  Frankly, I didn’t think the Wilmington board would vote us in. But I guess the convincing argument was that they desperately needed to know if they had inadvertently allowed a killer into their midst. I’m sure they tried to look for an out in Philip Smythe’s rental agreement, but the first and last month’s rent must have been already paid. And I’m sure his former records and bank statements reaffirmed he was more than able to afford to live there.

  Evvie is merrily singing Gilbert and Sullivan under her breath. “ ‘With catlike tread upon our prey we steal... tarantara, tarantara! ...’ ” She stops. “Oh, oh.” She points toward my car, where three determined figures stand with crossed arms and grim faces. Evvie mutters under her breath, “Guess the yenta grapevine told them we were heading out.” Then she waves with phony cheerfulness. “Hi, girls, what’s up?”

  “Going somewhere?” Ida asks. “I thought you had mah-jongg this afternoon.”

  “Just not in a mah-jongg kind of mood today.”

  “More like in a spending-a-rich-guy’s-money mood?”

  “Lay off, Ida.”

  I feel terrible. Ever since Evvie abruptly announced she was going with me before I could tactfully pave the way, I have felt so guilty. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could take you all with us, but it’s just not possible.”

  “We know that,” Bella says, her arm around Sophie. “It would be silly to have a mob hanging around.”

  “But you could use us as accessories around the fact,” says Sophie, in her inimitable way of expressing herself.

  “You’re not mad anymore?” I feel so relieved.

  “Of course not,” says Bella. “You need to leave some of the troops back at the home office. The Peeper case is still hot on the griddle.”

  “In fact,” says Ida huffily, “we’ve already arranged the multicondo meeting, so there. We are very capable of running the shop without you.”

  I have a feeling they’ve already had one prideful meeting without Evvie and me. To come up with these fancy words to throw at me. Good for them. They’ve got spunk.

  But Bella is hurt. “Why didn’t you invite us a
long today? You know Soph and me are good with fashions.”

  Sophie nods vigorously. “Versace. Dior. Pucci and Gucci. Hey, we saw The Devil Wears Prada last year with that wonderful Meryl Streep. I’m a regular fashionista.”

  “We can’t afford them,” I say. “We can’t spend that kind of money. It’s not fair to Mr. Ferguson.”

  Ida imitates him. “ ‘Money is no object.’ I say spend.”

  “I know that,” says Sophie, “but I know how to recognize a knockoff, and I know where to find them.”

  “Yeah,” Bella adds, “you need us. The two of you dress like it’s still 1945.”

  “Thanks for nothing,” says Evvie hotly. “Besides, the styles always come back. Now it’s called retro.”

  Ida laughs. “You are going to make great big fools of yourself. Those rich ladies will smell WalMart and run for the hills.”

  Bella and Sophie pull me toward the car door. “Not if we can help it.”

  This is not just a thrift shop—it is an upscale thrift shop, clothing donated by women with do-re-mi who have tired of their casually worn attire. The girls are having a ball. Sophie and Bella are pulling things off the rack faster than Evvie and I can try them on. Trying to match us to our new personas. Even Ida has caught the excitement. I see her hiding behind a mirror, holding a last-season Donna Karan up to her body and daydreaming.

  I’ve decided to go for sleek and sophisticated. A quietly rich woman who keeps to herself a lot. One who watches things from the sidelines. Evvie is going for raffish abandonment. Her chance to act on a stage at last. She chooses to play the role of a former socialite who landed a rich husband. Maybe many rich husbands. And she outlived them all.

  “Get a load of this,” Evvie says gleefully, holding up a three-strand “diamond” necklace.

  Sophie, the jewelry maven with the son in Brooklyn Heights who taught her everything about gems, examines it closely. “A really good imitation. You can pull it off, Ev. If you pretend to believe it’s real, they’ll believe you,” says the expert. “It will go beautifully with this Givenchy scarlet red cocktail dress and matching boa. And the Jimmy Choo knockoff shoes.”

  By now the checkout counter is piled with clothes. I wait with bated breath for the total. I worried needlessly. As it turns out, two hundred dollars and change for two wardrobes. I’m impressed. Sophie and Bella high-five each other.

  While they shopped and tried on and giggled and chatted, they planned.

  “Have we got a surprise for you this afternoon,” announces Sophie to Evvie. “The perfect opportunity to try out your new personas. Are we all gonna have fun!”

  The staff of the senior recreation center in Margate has tried to make the ordinary gym look festive. Balloons float above the small tables and rickety chairs set up for this four P.M. event. Two facing chairs at each table. Photos from magazines of young, happy-looking couples are taped onto the walls. There is much giggling among the waiting women, ranging in ages from sixty-ish to ninety-ish, who line up against the wall. They have clearly dressed up for the occasion.

  The men of similar age hover in a cluster across the room, pretending not to scope out the action, except for the gregarious few who mingle among us to get a much closer view. Could the mingling be because these men have thick glasses and hearing aids?

  The girls and I stand in line to pay our admission at the door. When it’s my turn, Evvie pipes up that I’m just a looky loo, since I already have a boyfriend. And therefore maybe I only need to pay half price.

  Yeah, Evvie, and how come you haven’t noticed that said boyfriend is never around these days?

  “Full price to all,” says the tough ticket taker with frizzy orange hair. “This is a fundraiser, honey, not a nonprofit, so cough it up.”

  My girls put on their name and number tags and stay close to one another. Ida is ready to bolt, but Sophie reins her in tight. Bella is all giggles. Evvie, wearing one of her new outfits, is attentive. There is an air of anticipation as the women size up the men and vice versa.

  “What a bunch of alter kockers,” Ida decides.

  “And you old broads ain’t that great, either,” says a burly, fat-gut guy standing behind her.

  Bella laughs. “Ignore him.” She puts her arm around Ida.

  Ida groans. “This is a waste of time, coming here.”

  Evvie, raring to have a good time, says, “I like to think of it as practice. When we get to Wilmington House, Gladdy and I will need all the flirting experience we can get.”

  I look at her doubtfully. “Flirting?”

  She gives me one of her pretend innocent looks. “Why, we might have to—to get information out of Romeo. You know, like Juliet?”

  A pretty young woman wearing a pink, fluffy cocktail dress and a lot of makeup walks to the podium and taps a pencil on the wood for quiet. All eyes are on her. The men on the women’s side scurry back across the room. Brimming over with enthusiasm, she calls out, “Hello, my name is Cindi, and welcome to Senior Match Dance!” She waits for the applause. “How many of you have been here before?”

  A smattering of hands go up.

  “The rejects,” whispers Ida, making sure fat-gut is no longer standing nearby.

  “How many here for the first time?” A much larger group now.

  “Helloooo, suckers.” Ida again.

  Sophie smacks Ida on the back with her purse. “Shut up already; let’s have some positive thinking. We’re here for Evvie. She might meet the man of her dreams tonight.”

  “More like her nightmare.” Ida ducks before Sophie can hit her again.

  Cindi is revving up to play cheerleader. “Are you too old to date?”

  A chorus of yesses shout up at her. Not the right answer. That stops her for a moment. “Of course not. You’re never too old.”

  “A lot you know,” shouts an eighty-five-year-old up front.

  “How many of you are sick of staying home nights?”

  No one responds. Is she kidding? Who goes out at night? Nobody.

  Cindi will not be discouraged. “Tired of blind dates?”

  A white cane is seen waving from the back.

  Followed by a reedy voice. “What’s wrong with blind dates? Try me; I’m a bundle of laughs.”

  “I’ll try you, honey,” shouts a homely woman to the left, “if you promise not to ask anybody what I look like.”

  More laughs at that.

  Cindi is losing a bit of her rah-rah, but is game to go on. “Tired of waiting for the phone to ring?”

  A voice down center shouts, “It hasn’t rung in forty years. Think I should give up?”

  Lots of agreement there.

  Cindi keeps bulldozing. “Aren’t you sick of wasting time going from one bad date to another, going through long boring dinners that will lead to nothing but frustration?”

  I hear a voice near us call out, “Dinner? Who gets that lucky? Lucky is lunch, where you get a greasy hamburger on a stale roll, in a fast-food place with a lot of screaming kids.”

  “Or an ice-cold bagel with a schmear, sitting on a free bench,” shouts another. I can’t believe it. It’s Evvie reliving her breakfast with Sol.

  “Hey, whatever happened to Dutch treat?” calls a male voice across the room. “Why do we guys always have to be the ones to pay?” A chorus of male yeahs goes with that.

  There’s a lot of back-and-forth jeering.

  The pencil is tap-tap-tapping. Cindi is shouting now, hoping to prevent an uprising. “And that’s why you’ve come here! Equal opportunities for everyone! A chance for thirty men and women to date in one night. The shortcut to love at first sight. You’ll look at him, and he’ll look at you, you’ll ask each other questions. You’ll know if there’s a spark.” She holds up her left hand; something glistens on her ring finger. “That’s how I met my husband and that’s why I’m a believer. It’s never too late to fall in love!”

  The room erupts in applause. And catcalls. Mostly catcalls.

  Sure. Never too lat
e to get hurt again. I think it, but I’m not about to shout it out. Frankly, I wish I were home reading a good mystery.

  “Easy for her to say. She’s twenty and skinny and gorgeous.” I look back. This time it’s Bella making her little comment, feeling self-righteous.

  Cindi is closing fast. “Okay, let’s party! Women, each of you take a seat at one of the tables. Men, line up in a straight line. When the music starts, you start dancing your way around the room, but stay in line. When the music stops, sit down next to your nearest lady. Try to be relaxed, ask questions, look one another in the eyes, and say something that describes who you are. When the music starts again, the gentleman will say thank you as he gets up,” she says pointedly, “as will the woman, and he moves on, dancing to the right. The next round, the women dance, the men sit, and the women get to choose their men.”

  Huge applause at that.

  “At the end of the dance portion, we’ll match up the requested numbers and the social hour will begin. If you don’t get a partner, well, there’s always next week.”

  “If I live that long,” shouts a ninety-year-old in the far corner, leaning on the wall for support.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the ball is in your court. Have fun!” Cindy nods to her assistant at the sound system.

  There is much tentative moving about. The girls grab seats next to one another. I don’t want to participate, so I just stand around. I can’t think of anyone except Jack. The girls grin nervously, except for Ida, who has already lost all interest.

  “Break a leg,” says Bella, unclear on the concept.

  With much pushing and shoving, the men manage to get in a line. The music starts. It’s “Hava Nagila”—of course everyone knows that one. The women energetically sing along and tap their feet as the men, obviously self-conscious, stomp their clumsy way around the room in a parody of dancing. The blind man has his dog with him. The dog has better rhythm than most of the men. There are two men with walkers, one with crutches, and one old geezer attached to an oxygen cart, walking with the aid of his nurse. God bless them all, for never giving up trying. But, I better keep out of their way.