Getting Old is a Disaster

by Rita Lakin

  They look to Jack, waiting. What a bunch. The maneater is trying to make him feel guilty because such a hot tootsie could have filled her dance card over and over again.

  Carol Ann is making him feel even guiltier about her lonely night ahead, and Carmel is playing the “I’m so needy” card. Jack doesn’t have a chance.

  I touch his shoulder and shake my head. I say to the group, “Please, don’t let me upset your plans.” I give Jack a quick peck on the cheek and leave.

  As I hurry toward the stairwell, Jack is suddenly behind me. “Gladdy, wait.”

  “Let me know who wins.” I can barely stifle my sarcasm.

  “I am going to insist we play another night. Come back in. Please.” He tries to pull me into his arms, but the mood is gone. Talk about totally.

  “I can’t. Not right now. I have a splitting headache.”

  Jack tries for a smile. “Can’t you see the humor in this?”

  And I do. I laugh softly. Jack joins in. He says, “You think there’s some conspiracy keeping us apart?”

  “Probably. Go back inside before your harem girls melt into a pool of self-pitying tears. And beat the hell out of them. In cards, I mean.”

  He kisses me.

  I warn him, “And watch out for the tigress in there. She’s out to devour you.”

  I’m still laughing as I dash down the stairs. Suddenly, the skies open. It’s raining and of course I didn’t bring an umbrella. Then I realize I left my toothbrush at Jack’s. I slosh my way home, my feet getting wetter and wetter in my open heels. All the way I am giggling and muttering like a madwoman. “I cannot believe this, I absolutely, positively cannot believe this...”

  Enya in Trouble

  Enya thrashes about in her bed in the throes of a terrible nightmare.

  Closer and closer. They are coming at last. There is no place to hide or to run. Huddled in their bedroom, the four of them cannot look at one another because the truth will be revealed in their eyes—they are doomed. Eyes, eyes. She sees his eyes and the terrible scar. Why is there no help? The pounding rain will drown them. They are hammering on her door. No escape.

  As I dejectedly arrive back at my building, I am surprised to find many people holding umbrellas and standing around. I look up and see Ida on the balcony of our floor, staring across the courtyard parking area to the building opposite. She is holding a newspaper over her head against the rain. I turn to find out what’s caught her interest.

  Denny, our handyman, dressed in rain gear, is standing in front of his apartment, staring up at the second floor. Evvie and Bella are on the walkway in front of Enya’s apartment, 219, at the end of their floor. At the opposite end of the landing, Hy and Lola are standing in their doorway, whispering and gesturing.

  Evvie is pounding on Enya’s door. “Enya. Open up. Please?” Bella huddles right behind her.

  I am up the stairs in moments, joining them. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?”

  Evvie glances at me, surprised. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be with Jack.”

  I’m not about to go into detail about bridge players barging in on us and trumping our love scene. “Never mind that right now. Why is everyone outside?”

  “We heard Enya screaming and then it suddenly got very quiet. We’re trying to find out what’s wrong but she won’t open the door.”

  I try the bell, with no response. We attempt to peer into her kitchen window, which is next to the door. There is some ambient light, but no movement. I take out my cell phone and dial her number. It rings five times. Finally, a small soft voice answers. “Who’s there?”

  I sigh with relief. “Enya, it’s Gladdy. Are you all right?”

  “I need to sleep. I can’t sleep.”

  “Please let us in. Just for a moment. Okay?”

  She hangs up. I do, too. After a few seconds the door slowly opens. Enya, wearing an old gray chenille bathrobe, barely peers out. She looks haggard and frightened. I speak gently to her. “May we come in?”

  She nods. Evvie turns to all the onlookers to signal things seem all right.

  Ida calls from across the courtyard, “I’m on my way.”

  Bella backs away. “It’s fine,” Evvie tells her. “Go back to your place and rest.” Bella, relieved of having to deal with something possibly frightening, does so.

  The show is over. The onlookers return to their apartments. The rain stops.

  I can’t remember the last time any of us has been inside Enya’s apartment. Years and years ago. And only briefly. She is a very private person and wants to be left alone. We’ve tried to include her in events, but she politely refuses. While her husband, Jacov, was alive, he brought her to all the seders we had and the Hanukkah parties. But after he died she didn’t pretend anymore. She wanted nothing to do with celebrations, religious or otherwise. She’s eighty-four now but it seems that, as far she’s concerned, she died with her entire family in 1942.

  Her home is laid out as all of our apartments are: tiny entry hall, equally small kitchen, dining area and living room next, and bedrooms off to the side. But unlike the rest of us, who’ve decorated our homes to our taste, Enya has kept hers sparsely furnished. She has never bothered to adorn it in any way. She still has the few pieces of basic furniture she bought years ago when she and Jacov moved in. There is no artwork on the walls. However, there are books, magazines, and newspapers everywhere—both in English and German.

  Ida arrives and joins us.

  Enya is shaking, though the apartment has the heat turned up high and the weather outside is warm and muggy. Now that I can look at her more closely, it seems as if she’s aged overnight. We crowd the spotless kitchen. Evvie immediately starts boiling water for tea. I find a shawl on one of the kitchen chairs and wrap it around Enya’s shoulders. Ida brings in a throw blanket from the living room couch. She places it across Enya’s knees.

  When the water is ready, Evvie prepares a pot of chamomile tea. She has to hold the cup for Enya, who can’t control her tremors.

  “This will warm you up,” Evvie tells her.

  “It was a terrible dream. It woke me.”

  I ask, “Do you want something to eat?”

  “No, I only want to sleep and I can’t anymore.”

  Anymore? That sounds ominous.

  “Why not?” Evvie asks gently as she pours a little more tea.

  Enya clutches the shawl tightly around her and bows her head. She doesn’t want to speak, but we wait. Finally she lifts her head, her eyes glazed, as if we aren’t there. “There was a storm the night they came for us.”

  She stops, lost in her troubled thoughts.

  “A storm?” Evvie prompts. “Like the rain tonight?”

  She shakes her head. “No, so much worse. They pulled us out of our home, without coats or hats and clutching only a few small personal things. We sat in the open trucks, wet and shivering.”

  Evvie, Ida, and I look at one another; distraught. She has never spoken to any of us of the horrors her family went through. Jacov did when she wasn’t with him. But that was so many years ago. Why now? It’s as if I’d asked the question out loud.

  “I haven’t had these dreams for such a long time.” She shudders. “It’s the storm. I can’t bear the rain.”

  I remember Jacov telling us that Enya was a college professor in their native Prague. He was an architect. They were both married to other people, but they lost everything and everyone in the camps—Enya and Jacov were the only survivors in each of their families. They met in America after the war.

  “I’m so tired.” Enya pushes the teacup away and lays her head on the kitchen table.

  We are at a loss to know what to do to help her. “Do you want me to call your doctor?” I ask.

  “No, no doctor,” she whispers.

  Ida leans down and says softly, “Come back to bed, Enya dear.”

  She helps her up and Enya doesn’t resist. The three of us walk her down the short hallway and into her bedroom.
There is only a small light on the wooden chest of drawers next to the double bed, but it is enough for us to witness a shocking sight.

  The entire wall opposite the bed is covered with photos and papers. From top to bottom, old, crumpled, torn family photos and documents. Jacov’s smiling face and his equally smiling first wife in a marriage photo. Various happy shots of their four children before the monstrosity that took their lives. Enya’s collection of her dead—her husband and two children, standing in front of an obviously expensive house, the two little girls in ballet outfits. Documents, possibly in German. Maybe marriage licenses. College degrees. School report cards, it’s difficult to tell. The personal things they took with them that managed to survive.

  The remnants from a country gone mad. Reparations finally offered for that which was irreplaceable.

  Evvie and Ida help Enya into bed, then join me and share my shock. I can see it in their faces and they in mine. This is what Jacov and Enya looked at night after night from their marriage bed? The guilt of the survivors, so they would never forget? God have mercy on their souls.

  Enya, almost delirious with exhaustion, cries out, “They’re coming for us. Hide! Hide! Something bad is coming, something very bad!”

  We rush back to her side. Ida covers Enya with the blanket, then turns to us. “I’m going to stay with her.”

  I look down on this tortured woman thrashing in her bed and I am in tears.

  When Evvie and I walk outside, it is raining again. Pouring. The wind now raging. I walk her to her apartment, two doors down. Hug her and kiss her good night. She offers to give me an umbrella, but I tell her not to bother, it will only blow away. Besides, my feet are already wet.

  I run across the courtyard, head down against the wind, getting soaked, of course. Was it only this morning Jack and I got up at dawn and met at the bus stop to rendezvous? What a day filled with dramas! The girls showing up with breakfast and interrupting us. The gang at the pool interrogating me. Morrie telling us to mind our own business about the Grandpa Bandit. The crazy dinner at the deli, and let’s not forget the bridge players showing up at Jack’s apartment. With Enya’s nightmares to end this stressful day, I want only to throw myself into bed and pull the covers over my head and sleep.

  In my apartment I attempt to towel dry my hair. And try to think about this emotional seesaw Pm on. But I am beyond tired.

  Suddenly I remember that the bandit’s note had more to say—we forgot about it when we ran out of the deli to chase him.

  Once again I call upon Scarlett O’Hara to guide me in times of tension. I dig the envelope out of my purse, and without reading the rest of his note, I toss it on the kitchen table and head for my bedroom.

  I’ll think about it tomorrow.

  Damage

  Rain poured relentlessly all night, amid dramatic displays of thunder and lightning. The winds raged, making eerie sounds in the darkness—creaking and groaning as if the buildings could bear no more.

  In the morning, Jack glances around as many of the residents of Phase Six group themselves in front of Z building in the early light. They seem a sorry collection, most still in pajamas and robes, shaking their heads, surrounded by the mess all over the grounds, and studying the building that is clearly in trouble. Z for Zinnia, Jack reminds himself. The rain has finally stopped, but the wind still howls and his neighbors all stand hunched over—even the palm trees are bending over. Windows have been blown out. The elevator has been seriously damaged. Carmel Graves reports the roof leaking in her third-floor apartment.

  Stanley Heyer is also here. Right now, he is pacing back and forth in front of his crumbling creation.

  Dora Dooley and Louise Bannister stand on either side of Jack, clinging to him. Carmel Graves huddles into herself, staring up at her damaged apartment worriedly. A Canadian couple, Larry and Sylvia Ulan, look on with concern as well. Residents from building Y across the way lend sympathetic mutterings.

  “Seems like the roof took a beating last night,” Stanley comments. He’d already sent his roofer up there this morning to investigate.

  “I was so scared,” Carmel says. “I thought the whole building would cave in on me. I hardly slept a wink.”

  “Me, neither, all that thunder and lightning right on top of us,” adds Louise, leaning closer to Jack as if needing his support—far too close for comfort.

  Stanley makes notes in a pad he holds. “Fortunately, it looks like you people got the worst of it. The other buildings report very little damage.”

  “Lucky us,” comments Louise.

  “And notice the cracks along the sides,” Sylvia Ulan adds, pointing. “This place is falling apart at the seams.” Her husband nods in agreement.

  “Well, I’ll get on it right way,” Stanley says, “but I got to warn you, with all these storms lately, there’s hardly a worker available. My roofer told me he’s already backed up into late October. I’ll see who I can round up.”

  “Please hurry,” Sylvia says, nervously clutching her husband. “Do what you can.”

  Stanley shakes his head. “Fifty years these buildings are standing. Never a big problem. Now this. Let’s hope the storms don’t get any worse.” The group slowly disbands, but Louise doesn’t seem willing to let go of Jack. “Wanna come up for a cup of coffee?”

  “I would love to, Louise, but I’ve got to get going. I-”

  “I’ll take you up on your offer,” says Dora.

  Jack tries not to grin. That’s not what Louise had in mind. She never stops trying.

  “Forget it,” Louise says sharply. “I’ve got too much to do.” With that she flounces off.

  Dora shrugs. “What a ding-a-ling. Well, I got my soaps waiting for me. Who needs her swamp mud coffee?” And she’s off.

  Jack looks up again at his damaged building and shakes his head. Not a good sign. He wonders how Gladdy’s building held up.

  The way things are going around here, when will they ever find time alone? He’s got to think of something.

  The girls are fairly jumping up and down with excitement. Having finally read the rest of Grandpa Bandit’s note this morning, I discover he intends to rob another bank. Today! This very afternoon, in fact. I quickly called the girls to an early-morning meeting at our usual patio table under our favorite palm tree. Our poor tree lost many a frond during last night’s storm, Except for trash blown everywhere, though, our buildings didn’t suffer too much damage. But because of the heavy wind, now starting, we change our minds and go back inside to my apartment instead.

  First order of business is to check on Enya. Ida says she slept fitfully, but she is up and about this morning and seems in better spirits. So hopefully her nightmares will stop.

  I know I have to call Morrie and give him a heads-up about the bandit. But based on his unfriendly attitude about this case, first we must make our own plans. Grandpa’s going to hit the SunTrust on Oakland Park Boulevard, according to his note. Fortunately, we are familiar with that corner—we shop there often. Naturally Morrie will tell us to stay away, but we intend to find a hiding place nearby so we can watch Grandpa in the act. How can we resist?

  Sophie reminds me that one of our favorite delis, the Bagel Bistro, is right across the street, so we agree to use that as our observation point. I advise the girls to dress in subtle colors so we won’t be noticed. Sophie beams at that; she can hardly wait to coordinate her outfit.

  “Grandpa’s got to know we’ll tell the police. How’s he going to make his getaway with them there?” Ida wonders. “He must have a reason for wanting us to know his plans. This is going to be trouble for us, I know it.” Always the cynic. “Maybe this time they’ll catch him,” Bella says. “And we get the credit for leading them to him.” Sophie looks up from polishing her nails. Her newest color is Burnt Orange to match her latest hair dye.

  Evvie smiles. “Wanna bet he eludes them again? He has to have an escape plan. I’m dying of curiosity to know how he does it.”

  The girls listen
as I talk to Morrie on the phone. “No article this time. He wrote a real letter. Yes, I’ll read it to you. He says, Today I’m hitting another clueless bank, this time SunTrust, between two P.M. and four P.M. Oakland Park branch. He also says, ‘Getting old ain’t for sissies,’ and once again he writes, ‘Catch me if you can, girls.’ That’s it.”

  I listen, and shake my head. I say, “Yes, Morrie, even though it’s clear now this is our case, we’ll stay away,” with as much sarcasm as I can muster. Then I add, “And don’t forget to send us the list of banks he’s already robbed. Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s in the mail. Sure.”

  When I hang up Bella does a little dance in anticipation. “This is gonna be so much fun!”

  After the girls leave, I call Jack. He tells me about his damaged building and I catch him up on our bandit.

  “Did you call Morrie?” he asks.

  “Of course I did.”

  “And did he tell you to stay away?”

  “Naturally.”

  “And you aren’t going to listen to him, are you?” I think a moment—do I lie or tell the truth? Jack answers before I weigh this decision about honesty in relationships. “You’re going. I know you are.”

  “Don’t tell Morrie,” I beg.

  “I would never mix in with your business tactics, but you can guess what I’m thinking.”

  “I know... I know,” I say, feeling guilty.

  We both change the subject at the same time and, saying the same thing: “I missed you last night.”

  The girls and I meet at my old Chevy wagon at one o’clock. We’re hoping to get there a little before Morrie and his cops arrive. As agreed upon, we are all in pastel shades or light grays and tans. Except Sophie. Her idea of subtle is a bright yellow slacks outfit with a bright yellow ribbon in her hair. She’s carrying a huge yellow flowery purse.