Getting Old is a Disaster

by Rita Lakin

  Another Teller Tells Another Story

  Pallie Finchum is a very different experience from Sarah Byrne. No laughing here. This one’s a straitlaced bank teller who reminds me of an old-fashioned schoolmarm. Maybe it’s the tight brown bun perched on the top of her head or her starched black suit. She’s in her fifties, thin-lipped, and very unfriendly. She, too, had been mentioned in an article after one of Grandpa’s robberies. We called her. She refused to speak to us, so today Evvie and I track her down at lunchtime. The others stay home because I tell them five of us stalking her would be ridiculous.

  We wait for Finchum to leave the bank. Noon, right on the dot. She then enters Fuddruckers directly across the street. That’s a surprise—the noisy youth-oriented restaurant doesn’t seem her style. We manage to get a table right behind her.

  She orders a chicken salad and iced tea. We order a couple of hamburgers and Cokes. We let her read her book and eat in peace. While she sips her tea and before she pays the check, we get up and sit down next to her, Cokes still in hand.

  Naturally she’s startled. Very quickly we introduce ourselves and remind her that we’d tried to make an appointment. When she recovers from her shock, she says, “Get away from me or I’m calling for help.”

  “Please,” I say, “just a few minutes of your time. We need to talk to you about the old man who held you up.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  Evvie smiles. “Actually, it is. He’s our client.” And she hands Finchum one of our business cards. I remember how Jack surprised me with these cards as a “new business” present. I’ve given out about eleven so far. These cards will outlive me.

  The woman accepts it with the same attitude she might have shaking hands with an alligator. “Your client? That’s preposterous.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s true,” Evvie tells her.

  “Prove it. Tell me what he looks like.”

  I don’t know quite what to say since we’ve never met our client. Nothing fazes Evvie, though; she jumps right in. “Don’t play with us. You don’t know what he looks like, either. He’s very secretive about his appearance. He usually wears a disguise. I’m sure he was wearing one when he walked up to your window. The only thing he lets people see clearly is his gray hair.”

  Miss Bun-on-top-of-head pauses, but she’s not giving up yet. “You’ll have to do better than that. Tell me something you know that only the police and the bank and I know.”

  Evvie, former budding actress, is in her element. “Gramps, our master of disguise, comes up to your window and shows you his gun, wrapped in a sandwich. Usually turkey, and he holds the mayo so it won’t be messy.”

  This information startles Finchum. She weakens a bit. “It wasn’t turkey.”

  “All right, already,” Evvie says, pretending annoyance. “So what was it? Pastrami? Baloney? What?”

  Pallie Finchum finally relents. She leans over and whispers, “It was corned beef on a Kaiser roll.”

  “How much did he demand?”

  “Forty-four dollars and seventy-eight cents.”

  I’m surprised by this but I don’t show it. “And,” I add, “he showed you the green feather and called himself Robin Hood.”

  The bank teller sighs. “That’s exactly what happened. My life has been hell ever since. My manager says I can never tell this story to anyone. So do the police. Why would I want to tell anyone? It was too embarrassing. But I did tell my mother. I live with her.”

  “And?” Evvie asks.

  “She was so upset, she wanted me to quit. How can I quit? I need the money.”

  She stands up from the table. “I have to go back to work. This robbery has ruined my job for me. Now my manager watches me all the time.”

  And with that she leaves us sitting there.

  Evvie look at me. “First it was five hundred something and now forty-four and change. What in blazes is that about?”

  “One of the first things I’ll want to ask ‘our client’ if we ever catch up to him.” I stand up. “Time for another meeting to figure out what we know.”

  We’re in the clubhouse with the door locked and a sign tacked on that reads PRIVATE PARTY. KEEP OUT. We need to use the chalkboard. Outside, the wind is blowing, rattling the windows and doorknob, promising a new storm. Inside, we are cozy. Evvie pops some popcorn for us in the community microwave.

  We list on the board what we know and what the police know.

  “Keep calling it out,” I say, chalk in hand.

  Evvie: “He’s always in a disguise, with distractions, so nobody really gets a good look at him.” She hands out paper cups filled with popcorn and we nibble as we chat.

  Ida: “He goes to the nearest restaurant and buys a sandwich to hide his gun.”

  As I write, I add, “He probably gets the sandwich at an earlier time or the cops would have caught him by now.”

  Sophie: “The two amounts of money he robbed were different. I’ll bet they’re different in each bank. That’s pretty weird.”

  Bella: “Maybe he gets bored and changes it. Or maybe he forgot what he asked for last time.” She ponders this. “I know I would.”

  I look at the chalkboard, where I’ve copied out the list of six banks that arrived in today’s mail. Frankly I didn’t think Morrie would really send it. “I bet when we visit these banks, we’ll find some kind of restaurant nearby. And that will be the sandwich wrapper of the day. He’s toying with the banks and the police.”

  Evvie says, “Morrie probably knows in his heart that we can solve the case and is depending on us.”

  “Maybe,” says Sophie. “I bet the cops are all frustrated because this old guy keeps foiling them.” Ida adds a clue. “I checked on the shuttle van that Grandpa got into the other night when we had dinner out. The driver said Grandpa didn’t belong to the Golden Era Retirement Home, but he admitted the old guy tipped him for a ride with them.”

  “Did the driver describe him?”

  “No, he never really looked at Grandpa.” Sophie says, “I like that he calls himself Robin Hood and leaves the green feather. He steals from the rich to give to the poor.”

  I’m not so sure of that. “Maybe yes—maybe no. We’ll ask him when we find him.”

  The wind outside is picking up, rattling the windows of the building. “Everybody got their flashlights ready if the power goes out again tonight?” Evvie is always on storm duty. She gets the appropriate number of nods.

  “Bella,” I say, “you look puzzled.”

  “I still don’t know how he can rob a bank without legs.”

  Ida throws a handful of popcorn at her. “Get it through your head already. He has legs. He hid them under the box he was sitting on.”

  She pouts. “It looked real to me.”

  “Which brings me to a few puzzling questions,” I say. “Didn’t Morrie tell us that the police warned all the local banks about him? So, why were the tellers surprised?”

  Evvie refills my popcorn cup. “And how does Grandpa make his getaway?”

  Ida says, “I’m guessing he hides things nearby, in his car. Or in a backpack. What we saw was a legless-man routine. I wonder how many other getaways he has in his bag of tricks?”

  Evvie adds, “What I want to know is how he knows us—does he live here in Lanai Gardens? Is he someone we see often?”

  “And we should pay attention to this map,” I say, indicating the Fort Lauderdale map I’ve taped to the board. I used a marker to circle the locations of the six banks. Grandpa has hit so far—all within a five-mile radius of one another. “Within this same area there are at least three more banks that haven’t been robbed yet. I wonder where he’ll hit next time? We also need to figure out if there is a pattern to how often he robs and if there is a similarity to the time of day...” My cell phone rings, interrupting my daunting list of next steps. It’s Jack. I tell him what we’re up to. I turn so the girls won’t see me blush as Jack informs me he’s coming to my apartment tonight for our next at
tempt at a “sleepover.”

  “What was that about?” Evvie asks when I hang up. But I’m saved from having to answer her question when a loud burst of thunder and lightning hits right above us.

  I quickly erase the board. Everybody hurries to the door. Evvie tosses suggestions as we go: “Keep safe. Pull the blinds. Stay away from windows.” We race back to our apartments, holding hands. But I’m not thinking of the amount of rain or the velocity of the wind or Grandpa Bandit— I feel warm and fuzzy at the thought of my own thunder and lightning show on for tonight.

  Let’s Try Again

  It’s after midnight. The weather outside is wild—the worst storm we’ve had in many seasons. But indoors we are comfy. Jack and I are wrapped in a blanket and stretched out on my couch in the living room, in front of a romantic fire sizzling in the fireplace. Candlelight takes the place of the power we no longer have. Wine warms our insides. Our clothes are still on, but in much disarray.

  “I really missed you,” Jack says, nuzzling my neck.

  I nuzzle him back. “It’s only been three days, silly.”

  “It felt like a week to me.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Helping out. Stanley Heyer’s been leading a group of residents from building to building, looking for damage from all the recent rain. And what mischief have you and the girls been up to?”

  “Trying to find our Grandpa Bandit. He’s very elusive.”

  We kiss. Then kiss again. Our hands are exploring. Our breaths shorten. No need for words. I am happy to realize that even at our ages sex is still an active urge. And to think I was sure I would never have these tingling feelings again.

  The candles are burning down. The room grows dimmer. Our bodies are well heated. I am softly moaning with pleasure. Jack indicates the bedroom. He’s ready. I’m ready.

  As we get up there’s a knock at the door.

  We stare at each other in utter disbelief. It can’t be happening again.

  “Someone’s knocking?” Jack asks incredulously.

  “Impossible. On a stormy night like this? Must be a branch hitting the door.”

  “Or maybe a whole tree falling down on the building,” he suggests jokingly.

  The doorbell rings. Then there is the sound of a key turning in the lock. In the near-darkness we see the door open, and a small apparition enters. At first I don’t recognize it—it’s all bundled up with rain jacket, large floppy rain hood, boots, and a broken, upturned umbrella.

  It’s Bella. She flings the soaking-wet umbrella to the floor, drops the rain jacket from her shoulders, and kicks off her boots. She is wearing her favorite lobster and squid pajamas; her hair is in curlers.

  Her teddy bear is tucked in under the waistband of her jammies.

  She slogs toward me, shaking her damp head. “What are you doing here, Bella dear?” I ask gently.

  She walks through the hallway and into the living room without stopping.

  “The storm is scaring me. I don’t want to be alone.” Her voice is slurry and sleepy.

  “But, Bella! Dear, you live next door to Evvie. Why did you walk clear across the courtyard to my building? It’s dangerous out there.”

  She doesn’t even look at me as she moves through the living room. “I tried Evvie. But she was sleeping so soundly she didn’t hear the bell. I used the key, but she double-locked the door. So I came to you.”

  With that, she enters my bedroom.

  Jack and I stare at each other. Jack whispers, “She has keys to all your apartments?”

  “Yes, we all do, in case of emergencies.”

  “She didn’t even see me.”

  “That’s because she forgot her glasses.” I smile weakly.

  We tiptoe into my bedroom. Bella is already snuggled up in my queen-sized bed, comforter tucked under her chin, sound asleep. Her teddy bear rests on my pillow.

  I can’t help it. I start to giggle.

  Jack scowls. “This is funny?”

  The giggle becomes a laugh. “My turn to say ‘Can’t you see the humor in it?’ ”

  Jack sighs, then gives in to a wry smile. We tip-toe back to the living room and sit down on the couch. “Shall we continue where we left off?” he asks dolefully.

  I giggle again. “You know what this reminds me of? Being seventeen and having a date in the living room and trying to smooch while my parents were sleeping in the next room. No way. I mean, horrors, what if they woke up and saw us?”

  “And now you have this woman well into her second childhood in your bed and you still can’t make out.”

  “What if she wakes up and heads for the kitchen to get a glass of water or something?” “You said she can hardly see without her glasses. She’ll never notice us.”

  “It won’t work.” I sigh. “I’m sorry, Jack.”

  “I know,” he says, sighing, too. “I guess I should head for home.”

  “No. Stay. It’s awful out there.” I leave him standing there while I bring him a blanket and pillow. “Should I tuck you in?”

  “Sure. Why not. Want to read me a bedtime story?”

  I swat him playfully.

  “And, darling Gladdy, I’ll make sure to leave very early in the morning so Bella won’t even know I was here. Okay?”

  We kiss good night. As he rolls over in an at-tempt to get all of his over-six-foot-tall body comfortable, I head for the bedroom to my unexpected sleepover guest. Behind me I hear Jack mumble, “How far do we have to go to be alone? Tell me. I’ll book us a flight anywhere. Just name it.”

  I pretend to count off names as I call back to him. “Timbuktu. Bimini. Lower Botswana.” I can’t resist using the new computer terms I overheard in the library. “Google Travelocity and pick somewhere.”

  The Next Morning

  As I drink my morning coffee, I have the TV on low. I don’t want to wake Bella. The newscasters making small talk agree that it was quite a storm last night, with winds up to twenty miles per hour. The screen shows image after image of downed trees and flooded streets and highways backed up for miles.

  My original houseguest, Jack, did what he said he would: He woke up very early in the morning and snuck out. What a comedy of errors. I looked in on him around three A.M., during a bathroom trip. It’s the first time I’d ever seen him asleep. His long legs hung over the couch. Poor thing, he looked so miserable, yet adorable. He probably thrashed around half the night trying to fit his body into that small space. Oh, well, one of these days I’ll get to see him sleeping in my bed. I’m really looking forward to it. Waking up next to him—how wonderful that will be. To see him sitting opposite, having breakfast with me, is something I will treasure. Though the way the fates have had it so far, who knows when that will happen.

  I’m sitting at my kitchen table, enjoying my fantasies, when Bella walks in. Talk about another kind of adorable. She stands there in her cute PJs, rubbing her eyes and holding her teddy bear. I can picture Bella as she was as a child, in that same posture. Sweet and gentle. And as usual, confused.

  Bella asks, “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

  I smile at her. “No, you mean what are you doing in my kitchen.”

  She looks around, realizing that indeed she is in my apartment. “I don’t know. How did I get here?”

  She sits down and I pour her a cup of coffee. “Don’t you remember coming over here last night during the storm?” I indicate the cluster of rain gear that we both can see in the adjoining hallway. “I did?”

  “You tried Evvie’s door but couldn’t open it, so you sloshed across the courtyard to me.”

  She blows on the top of the cup to cool her drink. Bella likes her coffee lukewarm.

  We sit there quietly sipping and enjoying the silence and comfort of longtime friendship. Suddenly Bella perks up, remembering:

  “I had the funniest dream last night. I was in a strange bed and some man was standing over me, looking at me. Isn’t that weird?”

  I cough, sputtering my cof
fee slightly. “That’s quite a dream. Did you recognize this stranger in the night?”

  “No, it was too dark. But I think he was nice.”

  The sun is out, although it’s weak and weary. Black thunderclouds darken the horizon.

  Ida is at her mailbox when Bella and I exit the elevator. She looks Bella up and down, eyebrows raised. Bella is still holding her teddy bear. “Are those your pajamas you’re wearing under all that stuff?”

  “Don’t ask,” I say.

  Bella blushes, and hurries across the courtyard to her building, where she passes Evvie talking to her ex, Joe. Before Evvie can comment, an embarrassed Bella scampers into their building’s elevator with her eyes closed against curious expressions on anyone else’s face.

  Evvie and Joe are standing near Joe’s old Ford V8. He’s parked, with his door open, right in the middle of the street. I can hear their voices clearly.

  “I don’t want them,” Evvie says loudly.

  “Why not? They’re just flowers.” Joe is obviously frustrated, but trying to stay cool.

  “So, what’s the occasion?” My sister busies herself reading her mail.

  “Does there have to be an occasion? All right, maybe it’s a peace offering so you’ll stop treating me like dirt under your shoe.”

  She snorts. “As far as I’m concerned, this war is still on.”

  “How about amnesty?” he begs. “After so many years.”

  “How about you shut your car door before another car bangs into it?”

  As he does so, Evvie is aware of me looking their way and she beckons me to hurry over—I suppose to get her away from Joe yet again. As I cross the courtyard, I see Denny busy sweeping up last night’s mess. Many of my neighbors are brushing leaves, and whatever else the wind brought, off their parked cars and balconies. Palm fronds and debris clog the street. Trash barrels are overturned. Denny waves to me and I wave back.

  Joe is holding a lovely bouquet of flowers, which he is attempting to pass to Evvie, who refuses them. I hate being put in the middle of the two of them.