Marcia had plotted out her route from room to room. She visited Mavis Getty first, because her appearance mattered the most. This time Mrs. Getty was waiting for her. “Yoo-hoo! Diana!” she shouted as soon as she saw Marcia coming down the hall. Marcia could see that she had put on the Autumn Flame lipstick again, but she needed another manicure.
“Why are you late?” Mrs. Getty demanded. “They told me you’d be here right at one o’clock.”
“It is one o’clock.” Marcia checked her watch. “It’s one-oh-two.”
“Oh-two,” Mrs. Getty said. “At least you’re here now. Come on in and shut the door. I have so much to tell you.”
“Can I do your makeup while we talk?” Marcia asked. “And your nails? You do want me to do your nails, don’t you?”
“Yes, I want you to do my nails, this is all about my nails. You’ll never guess what happened.”
“The man from Nashville!”
“Melvin. Don’t you just love that name? Mel-vin. Well, it turns out that Melvin is quite the chess player. He’s been playing up a storm with some boys, maybe you know them, nice boys, he says they are, clean-cut, real polite. So the Manor is sending him to—get this—the Creek County Seniors Chess Tournament. To represent West Creek Manor. But that’s not the best part. You’ll never guess the best part.”
Marcia had almost finished removing the old, chipped polish. “What’s the best part?”
“They told him he could bring a friend with him, a friend, they said.”
“And he’s bringing you!” Marcia crowed.
“He told them he wanted to bring ‘the gal with the purty nails.’ Can you believe it? Wouldn’t you think the first thing a man would notice about me is my natural red hair? But no. ‘The gal with the purty nails,’ he said.”
Shyly, from her tote bag, Marcia pulled out the portrait she had done of Mavis Getty. It had turned out surprisingly well. She had managed to capture some of the sparkle in Mrs. Getty’s green eyes.
“Oh, my goodness!” Mrs. Getty said. “Is this for me? Can I put it up here on my wall?”
“If you want to.”
“Of course I do! You know that other Diana, Diana number two, she told me she wishes she could put some of your pictures in that school magazine of yours.”
Marcia was starting to get used to the idea, though she still hadn’t dared show any of her West Creek portraits to Mr. Morrison.
“What do you think of that? Me, a pinup girl in a high school magazine! I’ll have to tell Melvin.” And Mrs. Getty blushed almost the same shade as her bright-red hair.
Alberta Estes looked excited about the Oktoberfest, too. She was wearing a soft blue dress that exactly matched her eyes, and she had found a plastic flower, of the same shade of blue, to tuck into her bun. Marcia decided to leave her bun alone today and concentrate on bringing out her eyes and adding some pink color to her pale lips.
Maybe the two chess players who watched all the girls would look at Alberta Estes across the room at the Oktoberfest and realize how foolish they had been to ogle girls seventy years too young for them. But Miss Estes deserved someone better.
Marcia had an inspired thought. Wasn’t Mr. Adams, her math teacher, single? She was almost sure he had referred to himself once as an “old bachelor.” Ancient as he was for a middle-school math teacher, he was young and dashing compared to the male West Creek Manor residents.
“When you went to the one-room school on the prairie,” Marcia asked as she put the finishing touches on the eye shadow, “were you good at math?”
“Oh, yes,” Alberta Estes said. “We called it arithmetic back then, and it was just simple sums, none of your fancy x’s and y’s. But I definitely had a head for figures. I always kept the accounts for Pa and Bill on the farm.”
Marcia sighed with satisfaction. Now she needed to lure Mr. Adams out to West Creek Manor on some clever pretext. She would leave that for another day
Mabel Thompson was sitting in her room when Marcia entered, her sad eyes looking as sad as ever.
“Are you ready for the Oktoberfest?” Marcia asked, hoping the enthusiasm she was forcing into her own voice would be contagious.
“Oktoberfest?” Mabel Thompson asked blankly
“A big party! A dance! There’s going to be live music, and everything. And I peeked at the refreshments, and they look great. Sort of German. Bratwurst—can you smell it? And squares of German chocolate cake and Black Forest cake.” Four hundred calories a piece, Marcia estimated. She might have one, only if she absolutely couldn’t resist.
“October’s always been a sad month for me,” Mabel said. “My son, Robbie, was killed in Vietnam in October. October eighteenth, nineteen sixty-seven. Friendly fire, they told me. Shot by mistake by his own side.”
“Let me fix your hair for the party, okay?” Marcia asked. There were only so many times she could listen to the story of Mabel’s son, Robbie. It would be horrible to lose a son in such a pointless, tragic way, but after hearing about it half a dozen times in the past few weeks, Marcia had to change the subject.
“Next time I come, I’m going to bring some electric curlers. Have you ever tried giving your hair more of a curl? I think it would make a big difference. Now, you sit back and relax while I see what I can do. Tell me more about Robbie. What kind of costumes did he have for Halloween?”
“He was a cowboy,” Mabel said. “Every single year, he was a cowboy. I still remember the day my husband brought him home that first cowboy hat …”
And Mabel talked on, smiling to herself in the mirror, while Marcia gently combed her soft, wispy, white hair.
Marcia had left Agnes Applebaum until last. She greatly doubted that Mrs. Applebaum would let her “smear” any “crud” on her face or show anything but withering scorn for the Oktoberfest. But Marcia was going to try, anyway. The worst Agnes could do was bite her head off.
“Hi, Mrs. Applebaum!” Marcia greeted her. “Are you ready for the Oktoberfest?”
“No,” Agnes Applebaum said. “And I suspect you knew my answer before you asked. I intend to spend the next few hours sitting peacefully in my room reading a large-print edition of one of Henry James’s duller novels.”
“You’re not even going to the Oktoberfest?”
“Why on earth would I do such a thing? I can think of nothing more pathetic than watching a group of ninety-year-olds in their wheelchairs singing all the words to the ‘Beer Barrel Polka.’”
“Why shouldn’t they have some fun?” Marcia demanded indignantly “Do you want everyone to be as crabby and miserable as you are?”
Agnes laughed. Marcia knew by now that feisty replies amused her. “No, but I plan to continue in my own crabby and miserable way, thank you. It’ll be bad enough being unable to shut out the sound of the band—it’s your middle-school band, correct? One shudders to think of their idea of what ninety-somethings want to hear.”
Today was Marcia’s day for flashes of genius. “If you come to the party, I’ll introduce you to Alex, and you can see what you think of him.”
Sure enough, Agnes Applebaum’s eyes brightened. “The rattlesnake boy? He still hasn’t asked you to that dance of yours?”
Marcia shook her head. “I don’t think he’s going to.”
“Have you tried whispering sweet nothings into his ear?”
“No! You’re not supposed to let boys know you like them. You’re supposed to tease them about things, and make them feel guilty, and call them names like ‘big brute’ and ‘hairy beast.’”
Even as she said it, Marcia had a dawning realization. Alex didn’t seem to like it when his father put him down and teased him and embarrassed him. Could he really like it all that much when Marcia did it?
“The rattlesnake strikes when he’s afraid,” Mrs. Applebaum reminded her. “When I was a girl-and yes, I was a girl once, a million years ago—we were told that you could catch more flies with honey than you could with vinegar. Maybe you can catch more rattlesnakes with honey,
too.”
Rattlesnakes, flies—what were you supposed to do with boys? Marcia thought now that she might have been going about things all wrong, shoving her broken ankle in Alex’s face, teasing him about being a big brute and a hairy beast—though she didn’t think she had ever called him “hairy beast” to his face, thank goodness. Agnes Applebaum seemed to know more about boys than the authors of all those dating-advice books put together.
“All right,” Agnes said briskly, “you’ve intrigued me sufficiently. I’ll come to this parade of horrors, to this Oktoberfest. Now leave me alone.”
“You don’t want me to fix your hair or anything, do you?”
Mrs. Applebaum shot Marcia one last baleful glance. Marcia shot her a grateful smile, and fled.
As soon as she entered the dining room, Marcia checked the room for Alex. She saw him right away, talking to Melvin-from-Nashville over by the refreshment table. Ever since the Jay-Dub party, Marcia had felt shy with Alex. It was a good thing she had made her promise to Agnes: now she had to talk to Alex, shy or not.
The West Creek Middle School jazz band was playing some really old-style tune. They sounded as good as a CD to Marcia, which proved how wrong Agnes Applebaum could be, at least about some things. Marcia still hadn’t decided what she thought about Mrs. Applebaum’s assessment of Alex.
Mavis Getty wheeled into the room. Marcia saw her scan the party for Melvin. Had she been that obvious when she looked for Alex? Marcia hurried over to join her.
“He’s by the snack table,” Marcia said by way of greeting.
Mavis laughed. “It figures. If you’re looking for a man, start by finding the food.”
“Aren’t you hungry?” Marcia asked, smiling.
Mavis laughed again. “Now that you mention it, I am.”
Alex had drifted away by the time they crossed the room. No one was dancing yet—was anybody going to dance? Could they dance, with their wheelchairs and walkers? The room was fairly crowded, though, with the residents chatting in small groups, or sitting alone listening to the music. Marcia saw Lizzie, talking with Alberta Estes and Mabel Thompson. Maybe Alberta and Mabel could become friends, the one always so cheerful and positive, the other lost in her sad memories. Alberta would be good for Mabel. Alberta Estes would be good for anyone.
At the snack table, Mavis rolled herself right up to Melvin. He was one of the few residents, male or female, who wasn’t in a wheelchair. With his close-trimmed gray mustache and trim figure, he was a handsome man, though Marcia noticed that the two halves of his face didn’t fit together perfectly. Maybe he had had a stroke, or something, on one side.
“Why, Miss Mavis, don’t you look lovely,” he said in a cute southern drawl.
“You’re looking pretty dapper yourself, Melvin,” Mavis said. “This is my friend …” She hesitated, plainly groping for Marcia’s real name.
“Diana,” Marcia said, holding out her hand.
Melvin lifted it to his lips and kissed it! Marcia managed not to giggle. No wonder he noticed ladies’ fingernails!
There was an awkward silence. Marcia could tell from Mavis’s sidelong glance at the food table that she was trying to decide whether or not to eat a juicy, sizzling bratwurst in front of Melvin. It was clear she wanted to eat one, but not in front of her beau. Marcia remembered from Gone With the Wind that southern belles never ate in front of the men they were after. Most southern belles didn’t weigh as much as Mrs. Getty, either.
The band started a new song, slow and romantic. Mar- cia took a chance. “Why don’t you two dance?”
“I couldn’t,” Mavis breathed, gazing down at her lap. Marcia hoped that Melvin knew that meant “I’d love to.”
“Miss Mavis, may I have this dance?” Melvin asked, making her a low bow.
For answer, Mavis lifted her face, radiant with happiness. Melvin took both her hands in his and gently pulled her, wheelchair and all, to the center of the dance floor. Slowly they glided in a stately circle to the music, while the other residents applauded.
Marcia scanned the dining room again, this time for Agnes Applebaum. She wasn’t there, the promise-breaker!
Marcia found her back in her own room, dozing over the open book in her lap. Gently she shook her awake. “Mrs. Applebaum, it’s time for the party”
Agnes glared at her. “You promised,” Marcia said sternly.
“I don’t recall anything about a promise.”
“Well, you said you’d come, and it sounded like a promise to me.”
“I’ll come for five minutes.”
“All right. For five minutes.”
Entering the dining room, Agnes took one look at Mavis and Melvin, still dancing, and closed her eyes. “Who are those two, making a spectacle of themselves?”
“They’re not making a spectacle of themselves; they’re falling in love.”
“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”
Marcia ignored her. “Doesn’t the band sound great?”
“It sounds better than I expected,” Agnes admitted. “Now you promised something, an introduction to the rattlesnake boy. Where is he?”
“He’s over there, in that group of West Creek kids.”
Marcia hoped she wasn’t making a terrible mistake, letting Agnes Applebaum meet Alex Ryan. How could it not be a terrible mistake? There was no way Agnes Applebaum wouldn’t say something shocking or insulting. Even calling Alex “rattlesnake boy” would be bad enough. But it was too late now to change her mind.
When he saw her approaching, Alex left the other kids to say hello to Marcia. That was a good sign. Marcia tried to remember the rules for introducing people. Did you introduce the young person to the old person? Or the old person to the young person?
“Mrs. Applebaum, I’d like you to meet my friend Alex Ryan.” Alex shook Mrs. Applebaum’s hand politely. Marcia was relieved to see he was using his best butler man- ners. But it was Mrs. Applebaum’s manners she was worried about.
“I hear you’re a fine chess player,” Mrs. Applebaum said.
Marcia let out her breath. She had been afraid Mrs. Applebaum was going to say, “I hear you’re a fine snake rattler.” Or “I hear you haven’t asked this girl to your school dance.”
“Thank you,” Alex said.
Agnes gestured toward Mavis and Melvin. “What do you think of that, young man? Old folks out there making fools of themselves, dancing?”
Alex shot Marcia a nervous look: What am I supposed to say now? “Well, that’s what people do at dances, isn’t it?” he ventured. “Dance?”
Mrs. Applebaum pinned him with her sharp eyes. “Is it? Then why aren’t you dancing?”
“I—uh—just got here.”
“They just got here, too.”
Alex looked helplessly at Marcia. Then he held out his hand.
The residents had clapped when Mavis and Melvin began dancing. When Marcia and Alex began dancing, they cheered.
“We look like idiots,” Alex muttered to Marcia. It would have helped if they had known the steps to whatever dance they were supposed to be doing. Waltz? Foxtrot? Instead, they shuffled back and forth in time to the music.
Marcia didn’t care. It felt so good to have Alex’s right hand on the small of her back, and his left hand holding hers. “It doesn’t matter how we look,” she whispered back.
The silence between them felt comfortable this time. Marcia let it go on for a few moments, then she said, “Alex?”
“Uh-huh?”
“Thanks:”
“For what?”
“For putting up with Agnes Applebaum. And for being so nice to Melvin. I’m so glad he and Mrs. Getty are finally dancing together.”
“Speaking of dancing …” Alex said.
Marcia hoped he couldn’t feel her spine stiffen. She willed her palms to stay dry.
“The West Creek dance?” Alex went on. “Did anybody ask you yet?”
“Not really.”
“You want to go to the dance with me?”
>
“Okay.” No, that wasn’t strong enough. “Yes,” Marcia said. “I want to go to the dance with you.”
They kept on dancing. Marcia’s heart sang: Thank you, thank you, Agnes Applebaum!
thirteen
Marcia and Sarah both decided to wear glitter eye shadow to the dance. Upstairs in Marcia’s bedroom, they sat side by side in front of matching Jay-Dub makeup mirrors, making last-minute adjustments to their hair. In another half hour, the boys would pick them up, chauffeured by Travis’s mom.
“Does my hair look greasy?” Sarah asked. “I washed it two hours ago, but it’s already getting greasy.”
“It looks fine,” Marcia told her, staring at her own flushed, excited reflection.
“You didn’t even look!”
Marcia obligingly turned and studied Sarah’s curly blond hair. Natural blondes had no right ever to complain about anything. “It looks fine.”
“Even the bangs? You don’t think they’re sort of sticking together?”
“No,” Marcia reported honestly. Sarah was absolutely, completely, totally beautiful. “Do mine look frizzy? Right around my face?”
“Your hair looks great.”
Marcia stood up and faced her full-length mirror sideways, checking for a tummy bulge. In her short, sleeveless black dress, with control-top panty hose underneath, she saw no bulge at all.
“How much weight have you lost?” Sarah asked.
“Six pounds,” Marcia said. “One hundred ten at the end of August, one hundred four today.” She was glad she had lost her tummy bulge. But after so many weeks at West Creek Manor, she no longer thought that a tummy bulge was the most terrible thing in the world.
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