Love Is a Rebellious Bird

by Elayne Klasson

  A woman dressed in a St. John knit suit, gold braiding along the jacket collar, patted down her perfect blond bob and looked up from the half glasses perched on her nose. She’d been reading the printed menu. There she was—Mrs. Adelle Rosen—trim and neat and Republican.

  “Dolores,” the alpha old lady said, looking at her watch, “I did not think it possible, but the service in the dining room seems to have gotten even slower. Do you know how long we have been waiting? Fifteen minutes. They hire a new batch of servers and it only gets worse. And why, I wish you’d explain, do they have us order our dinner for tomorrow, when today’s has not yet arrived? How do I know what I will feel like eating for dinner tomorrow?” She waved the menu indignantly.

  “I know, I know, Adelle,” Dolores said soothingly. “You’ve been terribly patient about the new help and the new rules. But now I want you to welcome someone. Mrs. Sherman. Judith moved into Loma Alta only this afternoon.”

  Mrs. Rosen looked me up and down, noting my jeans and faded black turtleneck. Clearly, not appropriate dinner attire. Too bad, I snarled in my mind. It was moving attire.

  “And fish. Again. The third time this week,” Mrs. Rosen continued, ignoring me and pointing at the printed sheet. “We’ll all die of mercury poisoning.”

  I sat down. Dolores and I exchanged a look, then the social worker pointed to the clock. “Got to go, ladies,” she said. “Meeting. I’m so sorry. Mrs. Block, Mrs. Saperstein, Mrs. Rosen, introduce yourselves. Remember, each of you were once new here. Be nice, ladies, please. Bye for now, Mrs. Sherman. I’ll come up and check on you before I leave tonight. Keep a list. Tell me what you need.”

  This might take some getting used to, I thought. Having a social director look in on me. Especially one, who despite a facelift that raised her eyebrows into a permanent arch of surprise, was practically my own age. I smiled and nodded at Mrs. Rosen across the table. Bitches. They’re everywhere. At the playground in grade school. In high school. College. Even in the old people’s home. Whoever says that little old ladies are sweet, obviously has not dined at Loma Alta. Young bitches grow up to be old lady bitches. Why wouldn’t they?

  I turned to the two women at either side of me, who had not yet spoken. “Call me Judith,” I said. “Tell me about yourselves,” I added in my best social worker voice and smiled.

  “Vera Saperstein,” said the woman on my right, a woman who appeared well into her nineties. “I practically opened the place. But I’m not the oldest resident here—that one is ninety-nine. However, I’m the oldest resident here who still has all her marbles.” She tapped the side of her head. Mrs. Saperstein was wearing a muted brown pantsuit, but the color was in her jewelry, an amazing display of gems. There were rubies and emeralds and sapphires on her fingers, and she had a pendant around her neck that contained the largest amber I had ever seen. I couldn’t take my eyes off that stone, the deep honeyed brown of it. Now I’d always know what the color amber should look like.

  Mrs. Saperstein noticed me staring. She said, “You’re admiring my jewels? Everyone notices my rings and pins and necklaces.” She wiggled her fingers gaily toward me.

  “That amber is beautiful,” I said. “Its color. The perfect shape. It belongs in a museum. It’s fabulous.”

  “Thank you, my dear. My late husband was a jeweler. Whenever he came across a particularly beautiful stone, wherever we were in the world, he had to have it. He’d buy it and make it into a piece for me. This one we picked up in Russia. I wear them all. In rotation. Why not? What am I saving them for?”

  “Enough about your jewelry, Vera.” Mrs. Rosen broke in. “There will be plenty of time for her to admire your baubles.” She looked over at me. “Let me warn you,” Mrs. Rosen said, “everyone here repeats the same stories. And, the food. For what they charge, you think we’d get quality, not this substandard rubbish. Someone ought to investigate. Maybe you. You seem like you’ve still got the energy. Or, are you sick? You look young, but perhaps you signed yourself into this place because you’ve got an incurable illness? Never mind. Don’t tell me.” She waved her hand, as if warding me and my germs away. “I do not want to know. But if you do get bored and need a project, I wish you’d look into the buying practices. I assure you, someone in the kitchen is on the take.” She sniffed, then dismissed me and went back to studying her menu.

  I sighed and looked at the woman on my left, who was different in every way possible from the other two. She was a shadow, faded and pale, no makeup, no decoration, her downy white hair cropped so close to her head that bits of pink showed through. I extended my hand to this shadow woman. “You’re Mrs. Block?” I asked.

  The small woman nodded. What probably had been deep blue eyes were now pale, watery, and red rimmed.

  Vera Saperstein spoke for her. “You won’t get too far with Louise. She’s not much of a talker. And, Her Highness, over there.” She tilted her head toward Mrs. Rosen. “Unless she wants to interrupt someone else, she rations her words. Very stingy. I figure about forty-five per meal. She might have reached her quota already. And, don’t expect a smile. She rations those, too. One a week, at most.”

  Mrs. Rosen ignored Mrs. Saperstein and reached for a yellow golf pencil from the shallow crystal dish at the center of the table. She began circling items on her menu.

  Dinner, seven days a week, with this bunch. I gazed at Mrs. Saperstein. A walking jewelry store, but a probable source of amusement. And Mrs. Rosen. Or perhaps it was Ms.? She looked as if she had been a professional woman, not a bleeding heart liberal social worker like me, who’d worn jeans to work and been overwhelmed by the child welfare system that only rarely allowed me to do my job. No, Mrs. Rosen looked like someone who’d had a significant career in which she made important decisions. She was crisp, ironed, and smelled of expensive perfume. I would have to get to know this woman. Charm her, or maybe shock her out of her bitchiness. She looked as if she was in the same virginal condition in which she’d entered this life. No men to rumple her. But who knew? There were always surprises when you learn about other women’s lives.

  A waiter approached the table bearing a tray with four steaming bowls on it.

  “Hello, sweethearts,” he said in Spanish-accented English, using the mock-flirtatious tone reserved for old ladies by young, good-looking men. “I’ve got some nice chicken rice soup for you. Very, very hot. Muy caliente, just like you girls. Nobody burn themselves and sue me, okay?” His biceps flashed in front of me as he put the soup bowls down. I wasn’t dead. Not yet. I could see the body he honed in the gym—even under the unflattering scrubs that made him look like an orderly.

  I lifted my spoon and looked around the table, remembering the children I used to visit, placed in foster homes by Alameda County Child Protective Services. These children had already been scarred by events that should not befall any child. When I visited them, I’d wonder to myself about their future—what they’d look like when they grew up. Would the little dark-skinned girl with the delicate nose and full lips remain a beauty? Or would years of cheap food and street drugs turn her lumpy and gray? Would the stuttering, fearful boy I saw in a group home gain some confidence and be able to look down future tormentors? Or would the gangs of Oakland enfold him in false security?

  Now, at dinner, I did the same wondering with my three dining companions. However, instead of imagining the children as grown-ups, I went backward, wondering what these three old ladies had looked like in their prime, when their lives had been at their fullest. Which were the stunners? Who had driven men wild? Jeweled Mrs. Saperstein’s voice was now so deep, it sounded as if it came from the throat of a man. Yet, I could picture her sixty years earlier—a raven-haired knockout. I bet there was a cigarette between her sultry, dark lips, lips that blew expert smoke rings. I imagined this feisty Vera frequenting Las Vegas with Mr. Saperstein. He’d have worn a whopping diamond tiepin and probably wisecracked with the high rollers.

  Mrs. Adelle Rosen, on the other hand, was all elegance and eff
iciency. With her perfect bones, straight nose, high cheekbones, anyone could see that she’d been beautiful. She had aged well. Her posture was erect, her hair still thick and full. There was no paunch under the silk blouse she tucked neatly into her trousers. I had long ago stopped tucking blouses into my slacks, had given away all my belts. But Mrs. Rosen wore a narrow brown belt at her waist, fastened with the familiar Gucci horse bit. Even now, her elegance and evidence of a still-shapely figure had the power to make me jealous, I’m afraid. I saw her efficiency, the need to tick things off a list, as she was now doing with the dinner menu. No warmth. Had there ever been?

  And what was emaciated Mrs. Block’s story? This woman emitted an odor as well, but not of expensive perfume. It was a somewhat unpleasant odor, stale and yeasty. This had been my greatest fear—the scent of bodily fluids. Smells bothered me greatly and the old lady odor coming from tiny Mrs. Block made me put down my soup spoon. What had she looked like as a young woman? I wondered, but saw nothing through the haze of her dreariness.

  “We’re related,” Mrs. Saperstein said, watching me study Mrs. Block. I realized nothing was going to escape Vera Saperstein.

  “Related?” I said, surprised. “You and Mrs. Block?” Could any two beings look less alike than Vera Saperstein, a large peacock of a woman, and Mrs. Block, so tiny and pale?

  “We’re machatunim, Louise and me. You’re familiar with that word? You’re of the Jewish faith?” Mrs. Saperstein asked nonchalantly in her gravelly voice, though I had a feeling she’d been leading up to this particular question ever since I sat down.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m Jewish. But I don’t know that word.”

  “You don’t know what it means to be machatunim? You’re a Jew?” She sounded shocked.

  “No.” I shrugged. “Sorry.”

  “It means,” Mrs. Saperstein explained, “that my son is married to Louise’s daughter. There is no translation for the word in English. Our children are married to each other. We share our grandchildren. Isn’t that something? Never did we expect to live side by side like this. Louise came from Brooklyn, the same apartment in Borough Park for sixty years. But the snow and ice got to be too much. Especially when, well, you know.” She hesitated, then raised her eyebrows meaningfully at me before she went on. “Could she go to Florida? Among strangers? Of course not. My son, who is an angel, wouldn’t hear of it. He said to her, ‘Ma, you’re coming to California. I know just the spot for you.’ So here we are, me and Louise Block, the machatunistas together. Looking after each other.”

  The tiny woman answered softly, looking down at her wrinkled hands, “You, Vera. You’re the one that looks after me. I’m no good to anyone.”

  “It’s okay, Louise, you’ll get on your feet again, darling,” Mrs. Saperstein said, and reached across the table to pat Mrs. Block’s hands with her own bejeweled ones. Vera lowered her voice. “Louise has had a hard year,” she said in her sandpapery whisper. “First her husband. Then her son. One right after the other.”

  The tears that had been welling up in Mrs. Block’s eyes began to fall. She started to sob, quiet little sobs that sounded like the cry of an exotic bird.

  The thought went around the table like a child’s game of telephone, transmitted silently from ear to ear to ear. What should we do? None of us wanted to get involved. The other two women wanted to finish their meal, perhaps goad each other a bit, talk about the food or the prices. I couldn’t wait to eat my early dinner, then go upstairs and unpack. Get settled. I did not want to inquire into the grief of this little woman with the soft white hair. But how could I ignore her? She was now crying brokenheartedly. People at other tables were beginning to notice and turn toward us. Do something, said their stern expressions. She’s one of yours.

  “Sha, sha, Louise,” Mrs. Saperstein pleaded. “Please eat your soup. I’m sorry I upset you. I promised the kids I’d get you to eat. Now you’re not even touching your soup. You can’t live on black coffee alone. That’s all I ever see you take, coffee. No nourishment at all.”

  Adelle Rosen straightened her already straight back as she brought dainty spoonfuls to her mouth. “Mrs. Block, have you availed yourself of Dolores’s services yet? I, myself, have not done so, but I know some people find it quite useful to speak with her.” She reached inside her beautiful black kid bag and removed a carefully folded tissue, then slid it over to Mrs. Block.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Mrs. Block said as she took the tissue. “Sometimes I don’t know when it’s coming on. It takes me by surprise. It’s not your fault, Vera. And then this.” She waved her hand over the bowl in front of her.

  The flirting server came up behind Mrs. Block. “Whatsa matter, sweetheart? You don’t like the soup? Everybody likes the chicken soup. You find it too salty today?”

  “No,” Mrs. Block said. “It smells lovely. Sorry, I’m just not hungry. May I have some coffee, please, Gabriel? Black.”

  “For you, honey, I always got coffee,” the young man answered.

  Gabriel brought the cup and soon after, the main course. “Hope you like this, Mrs. Sherman. Our first night special.” He slid a plate of Chinese chicken salad made with miniature canned tangerines and crispy wonton noodles sprinkled over the top before me. I like Chinese chicken salad a great deal, perhaps even more so with tangerines from a can. But it was hard to dive in with Mrs. Block weeping beside me. Gradually, her crying slowed, though her large red-rimmed eyes still watered. The four of us sat in silence, three of us slowly eating our meals.

  After dinner, when we stood to go, I swear I couldn’t help myself. It was the social worker reflex in me, just as Dolores had predicted. I took tiny Mrs. Block’s hand and said, “Let’s go sit on the patio outside the atrium. I hear piano music. It sounds pretty.”

  “No, no,” she said. “You’ve got your unpacking to do. Please, don’t bother yourself. I’m sorry. I’ve ruined your first meal here.”

  “I have plenty of time to unpack. Now I could use some fresh air—it looks nice out there on the atrium. Come, we’ll listen to the piano together.”

  She nodded slowly. “I like music,” she said and kept her hand in mine. The grand piano was a fine one, and the young musician, probably a student from Stanford or San Jose State, played capably, first Schubert, then some Brahms. For a while, we sat and listened. But when the musician slipped into show tunes, Mrs. Block stiffened. She recognized the opening chords of the first song and quickly got to her feet and said, “I can’t listen to this one. I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.” She hesitated before asking, “Would you come up to my place? Would that be okay? I’ll make us some coffee. Or maybe you’re a tea drinker?”

  “Of course,” I said and sighed, resigned to beginning my unpacking in the morning. How could I not accept the woman’s invitation? “Yes, tea,” I added.

  We got on the elevator and she pressed the button for the floor above mine. I followed shrunken Mrs. Block down the hall, her rounded back making her even smaller than she was. She worked the keys into the lock of her apartment and led me into a room filled with heavy dark furniture, every surface covered with family photographs.

  After she started the teakettle, she joined me in the living room. I pointed to a family portrait. It was of a nice-looking bald man, posed with a slender brunette and two teenaged kids sitting on a driftwood log, ocean waves pounding the beach behind them.

  “Your daughter and her family?” I asked. “Mrs. Saperstein’s son?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Marcy and her husband insisted I come out here. They worried that I was starving myself. ‘Come,’ they said, ‘enjoy the sunshine. Let someone do the cooking for you, for a change.’”

  “But you are very thin, Mrs. Block,” I said. “Very pale. I can understand their worry.”

  “Who wants to eat? Who wants the sunshine? Of course I’m thin, but I can’t eat. Nothing goes down.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because of Artie. My son, Arthur, may he rest in peace.”

 
; Mrs. Block’s eyes began to water again. I had seen many people cry, but this woman had endless tears—they flowed unceasingly. I wondered if they would ever dry up. Was there a time when a person’s tear ducts were empty and could make no more tears? The kettle began to sing and, still crying, Mrs. Block went to the kitchen and returned with our tea.

  “Which one was Artie?” I asked. I’d been looking around the room, practically wallpapered with photographs. “Will you show me a picture of him?”

  Mrs. Block placed our teacups on a low table and walked to the bookshelf, picking up a photo framed in black wood. “Artie,” she said, and held out the picture so that I could study it.

  In front of an impressive-looking building, a theater, for it had a marquee, stood a young, very good-looking man. His arm was draped around an older plump, dark-haired woman. This must be Mrs. Block, I thought, though I could see no actual resemblance. The woman in the picture was smiling from ear to ear, blooming with health, her round face framed by the upturned collar of a full-length mink coat. The man was dressed in perfectly fitting clothes—camel blazer, tight-fitting jeans, a scarf tied expertly around his neck. His boyish smile was also bright. He looked down fondly at the older woman, a head shorter than he was.

  “He’s so good looking. Like an actor. And look at you, you’re beaming.” I didn’t want to look up and trade the image of the healthy woman in the photo for the skeletal one beside me. I tried to make out the words on the marquee above the mother and son. Something short and, I sensed, important. Was it “Cats” or “Gypsy”?

  “He created the dances for big shows on Broadway,” Mrs. Block answered. “A very well-known choreographer.” Mrs. Block wiped her eyes, still sad, but speaking proudly, saying the words distinctly, making sure I heard every syllable.

  “You must have seen all his shows.”

  “Of course. Every show he did—many, many times. There was always a seat for me and my husband—although my husband didn’t go as often as I did. At every performance, I waited for the dancers to come out. That was the best part for me. I didn’t care what the actors said, sometimes the songs made no sense. I just wanted to see them dance. The steps my Artie thought up in his head and then taught them.”