Every Woman's Dream (4 page)

Chapter 6

Lola

I
LIVED IN A NICE QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD WITH MY STEPMOTHER
, Bertha. Our house was about half an hour's drive from San Jose, California, in a Silicon Valley suburb called South Bay City, which had about forty thousand residents. Both of my parents had passed years ago and I had no other relatives to speak of.

When I was growing up, my father had cheated on my mother with other women, left and right, but the only one I'd ever cared about was a former hairdresser named Shirelle Odom. Daddy had moved her in with us and she had been very nice to me and Mama. I referred to her as “my other mother,” because she'd treated me like her own daughter and she helped take care of my mother when Mama had contracted terminal cancer. Shirelle had even bathed and fed my mother every day. But after a few months, that backbreaking responsibility and Daddy cheating on Shirelle with other women, got to be too much for Shirelle. She moved out and didn't tell us where she was going. A few weeks later, Bertha Mays moved in with us. She was a retired elementary-school teacher and one of Mama's best friends. Mama and Bertha had taught at the same elementary school I had attended.

Bertha took care of Mama until she died; and when Daddy got sick, she took care of him until he died. He'd made me promise him on his deathbed that I would “be nice” to Bertha and take care of her as long as she lived. I was only fourteen at the time, but I didn't have a problem making that promise because I cared about Bertha. Her adult children, twins named Libby and Marshall, were not only selfish and greedy, but they were also mean to me and Bertha. Living with my stepmother was a real challenge. Sometimes I felt like I was in prison because she was so attached to me and I had so little freedom. It didn't do me any good to complain. When I did, I only felt worse, because Bertha constantly reminded me about the promise I'd made to Daddy.

Next to Bertha, Joan Proctor was the most important person in my life. Her friendship meant the world to me. A visit to the big house three blocks from ours that she shared with her large, rowdy family was always interesting. For one thing, her bedroom was so much cooler than mine. She had posters of all the best rappers and other big stars on her wall, a brass bed, and a bookcase that contained some of the best street lit that had ever been published.

When I knocked on Joan's front door the first Saturday in March, around six months ago, her grumpy mother greeted me with a puzzled look on her plain, high-yellow face. “How did you manage to escape? I thought Bertha was sick with gout. She must be doing better,” Pearline snarled, waving me into the house. There was nothing ladylike or dainty about Joan's mother. She was so big and scary that when she'd applied for a job as a prison guard ten years ago, they'd hired her right away.

“Uh, no, she's about the same. My stepsister's husband offered to stay with her so I could take a break,” I replied. “Joan is expecting me.”

Pearline rolled her tight black eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “She's in her room. Go on up there and don't y'all make a lot of noise. Too Sweet's on a new diabetes medication, so she's been real cranky all day and I just got her calmed down enough to take a nap before dinner. Do you hear me?”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled.

When I got to the room Joan shared with Too Sweet, I was glad to see she was alone. She occupied a chair at the small desk next to her window, humped over the laptop computer that her real father had sent to her for her birthday.

“Get in here and come look at this,” she said in a low voice. “Lock the door first. You're not going to believe what I'm going to show you.”

I locked the door and sprinted across the floor. I was so curious I could barely contain myself. “Joan, what are you up to?” I asked, stopping next to her. There was a pile of magazines on the desk. She had one in her hand and was waving it like it was a winning lottery ticket. “What's up with that magazine?”

“I'm really going to have some fun now,” she announced. “Wait until you see some of the people I'm going to write to.”

“Are you talking about that pen pal thing you were babbling about the other day?” I asked. Last week Joan had mentioned something in passing about pen pals. I hadn't shown any interest in the subject then, so I was surprised she was bringing it up again now.

She stopped waving the magazine and held it up to my face. I frowned when I read the name of this publication:
Modern Love.
Yeah, right. I was tempted to laugh. The cover featured a beautiful, young, voluptuous blonde in a skimpy white dress sitting alone at a table, with candles and flowers on top, in a fancy restaurant. There was a menu in her hand and a huge smile on her face. Standing behind her, peeping over her shoulder, were several well-dressed men with mysterious expressions on their faces. The headline above the woman's head screamed in bold capital letters:
IS LOVE ON YOUR MENU TONIGHT
? It may as well have been a Pandora's Box because, in a way, that's exactly what it turned out to be. The unspeakable event that happened down the road years later, which would change my life forever, started with this magazine and a bunch of lonely old people seeking new friends....

“This magazine has tons of dudes in the pen pal section and all of them are dying to correspond with women.” Joan waved the magazine again. There was an anxious, wild-eyed look on her face. Whenever I saw that expression, I knew she was up to some mischief.

“What dudes?” I asked.

Instead of answering, she waved the magazine in my face some more, but harder this time. “The men in Aunt Martha's Friendship Association.”

“Who the heck is ‘Aunt Martha'?” I mouthed. I was still tempted to laugh. For one thing, Joan was way too cool and fly to be reading love story magazines! One day I leafed through a few at the newsstand, where I purchased some of the hip-hop and hair and makeup magazines every month. I couldn't believe how corny the “true confessions” and the articles were in rags like the one Joan was waving in my face. Even some of the ads were laughable: outrageous wigs, crotchless girdles, and wrinkle-removing face creams that promised to turn a beast into a beauty. “Girl, have you been sneaking into your stepdaddy's liquor cabinet again?”

“I am not drunk. Now, do you want to get in on a good thing or not?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said with a shrug. “So tell me about Aunt Martha.”

“She's this old lonely hearts club woman who likes to help people find love. According to her bio in every issue, she's been married six times, so she knows more about love and matchmaking than most people.”

“A woman who has been married that many times ought to know a lot about love and matchmaking,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does Aunt Martha say why she couldn't hold on to her husbands?” As hard as I tried not to, I couldn't hold in my laugh.

Joan gave me a hot look and waited until I stopped laughing. “That's besides the point. The problem must be with the men she married. She's been with her latest husband for five years, so she must be doing something right this time. She used to live in a trailer park in Bakersfield, but now she lives in a mansion in Pebble Beach, so she must be doing all right by working for this magazine.” Joan snorted and gave me a critical look. “Anyway, every month Aunt Martha—and I'm sure that's not her real name—writes a column about how nobody has to be alone anymore, blah, blah, blah. She posts a long list of names of lonely men and women looking for mates. Some of them are fairly young, but the majority of them are senior citizens. You pick out the ones you want to write to and send letters to them in care of the magazine. The magazine forwards the letters to the people to let them choose the ones they want to reply to.”

I gave Joan an incredulous look. “You were serious the other day when you talked about getting some new pen pals?”

“Of course I was serious the other day. I am even more serious today. I'm going to correspond with senior citizens.” It was hard to believe that she could tell me something so outlandish and keep a straight face.

“If you want to start writing to pen pals again, why don't you write to people your own age, like we did last year in Mr. Maynard's social studies class? Why would you want to write to some lonely
old
people? And why would some lonely old people want to write to a teenager?”

“The
mature
people in this magazine sound much more interesting than a bunch of kids in foreign countries that Mr. Maynard had us writing to!” Joan stood up and folded the magazine open to a page that contained names, pictures, and profiles of people seeking new friends. “I'll bet some of them have some good stories to share. Look at this dude. Check out his picture.” Joan pointed to the man in the first column at the top of the page. “Manfred Ledbetter. He's from Jamaica, but he lives in England now.”

I looked at the picture and did a double take. “With those orange dreadlocks, his droopy eyes, and his long face, he looks like the Cowardly Lion from
The Wizard of Oz,
” I teased.

“So what? The man worked for the royal family. Read his profile.”

“Good God!” I exclaimed after I read that the man claimed he'd worked in Buckingham Palace. “If he's telling the truth, then I'm sure
he
is an interesting character.” My eyes went back to the picture. I was impressed, but I didn't want Joan to know that too soon. I didn't care how excited she was; I didn't want her to think that I was even remotely interested in any kind of club that catered to horny senior citizens. “Wow. Can you imagine the stories he can tell about Prince Charles and the queen. I wonder if he was still working there when Lady Diana was alive.” I looked at some of the other pictures and profiles. One thing I noticed that a lot of the people on the list had in common was that they all claimed to be very well-off. “I wonder why these folks are bragging about being rich.”

“If you were old and lonely, who would want you if you didn't have money? Some of these people in this magazine are in their
eighties—
practically deceased!”

I blinked at Joan and shook my head in amazement. “
Dinosaurs
like them ought to be looking for a mate in Jurassic Park, not some magazine. And another thing, why would somebody that old still be looking for love in the first place? Their body parts must be mummified by now.”

“That's not our problem,” she clucked.

I placed my hands on my hips and gave Joan a guarded look. “What are you really up to? Have you finally gone off the deep end this time, or are you just trying to get my goat? I know you don't think I'm dumb enough to believe you want to get acquainted with some old men just for the hell of it. What's really in something like this for you?”

“My mama and all three of my sisters told me that the best kind of man for a woman to have is a rich old geezer with a bad heart.”

“Are you telling me that you're actually going to write letters to some of these rich old men?” I laughed again. Joan pressed her lips together and gave me a testy look. I gave her an apologetic look as I rubbed my chin and cleared my throat. I decided to humor her. “I'm sure they are some nice old men. And real generous too. They might send you all kinds of nice presents. You know how rich old people like to spend money,” I said with a nod. “But there's no telling what you'll have to say to them in your letters for them to start sending you stuff.”

Joan gave me a look that was so intense, it made me shudder. “I'll tell them anything I think they might want to hear,” she vowed.

Chapter 7

Lola

I
SNATCHED THE MAGAZINE OUT OF
J
OAN'S HAND, FROWNING AND
shaking my head. I had always thought that magazines like the one in my hand now were only for people like Joan's pathetic cousin, Too Sweet, and other sad sacks who didn't care about fashion, makeup tips, and celebrity gossip.

“Damn, girl,” I mouthed, gazing at the page I had turned to, the one with the most names. “This sounds like a real serious lonely hearts club. Look at all of the people on this list!” I paused and gave Joan an amused look. I was trying to decide if she really was serious about this thing or if my girl was just punking me. From the tight look on her face, I knew she was into this for real. I decided that the least I could do was act like I was really interested. When Joan sank her teeth into something, she didn't let go until she had gotten as much out of it as she could. And for her to be all hyped up about something this peculiar, I had to go along for the ride. It would be good for a few laughs if nothing else.

“I didn't know organizations like this were still around. I saw a movie that was made thirty or forty years ago about people looking for love in a lonely hearts club that ran ads in magazines. Who is going to look for somebody in a magazine when we have the Internet available now?” I asked.

“Who cares? We're talking about a different generation, girl. People who still like to do things the old way. You know how older people are when it comes to all the new technology available these days. Shoot! Mama doesn't even know how to use a computer.” Joan paused and laughed. Then she took a deep breath and lifted another one of the magazines. “I checked out the listings in the last four months' issues. Each edition has all new names, two or three dozen each month. I had no idea there were so many old men out there looking for love or reading magazines like
Modern Love.
”

I didn't know what to say next. “Since when did
you
become interested in old men?” I dropped the magazine back onto the desk.

“
Rich
old men. What girl wouldn't want an old man with deep pockets?”

“I wouldn't. The last thing I want is some old goat fumbling all over my body. Or having a heart attack while he's on top of me. The gossipmongers would be talking about that from now on.”

“Pfffft!” Joan gave me a dismissive wave and an exasperated look. “It'll never come to that. Even just corresponding with them will be fun. Look at it this way—I'm still thinking about becoming a journalist someday so I can write human-interest-type stories. I could learn a lot from elderly people, especially the oldest ones and the ones who live in foreign countries. They must be like human encyclopedias. This is one way for me to get a leg up in case I do become a journalist, and a way to get some nice gifts. Rich old men can be real generous. I've already written a letter to the first one. He's a retired oil man in Texas in a wheelchair. He has no family, so I won't have to worry about any meddlesome sons or daughters or grandchildren getting all up in his business. If I'm lucky, he could turn out to be a gold mine in knowledge and, uh, everything else.”

“Just being pen pals with some of these people and sharing stories with them because you're bored is one thing. There's nothing wrong with that. Taking money and gifts from them is something else. And it's risky business.”

“Getting out of bed every day is ‘risky business.' Why are you acting so worried about this, anyway?”

“Because I am worried. All kinds of freaky and bizarre shit could happen to you. I don't want to read about you in one of those gory true crime books.”

“Get a grip, Lola. I don't understand why you're even going there. All I'm talking about is exchanging a few fun letters with some interesting men and making a little money. How many times have we not been able to go shopping or buy the latest CDs because we were both broke?”

“So?”

“So . . . if we hook a few sugar daddies, we won't have that problem anymore. These old dudes sound so lonely, all they want is some cute young thing to correspond with. And like I told you, it'll be fun to hear some of their stories.”

“Joan, can't you find a better hobby?”

“I hate it when you give me a hard time! I knew I should not have told you about this!” Joan hissed, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. She was exasperated with me and I was just as exasperated with her. But this was nothing new. Despite being BFFs, Joan and I still locked horns from time to time.

“Then why did you?”

“Well, uh, I thought you might want to get into it too.” Joan rose from her seat and moved toward the door. “Listen, I'm going to go downstairs and get us some soda. Be right back.”

As soon as she left the room, I picked up the first magazine again and turned to the listing for the lonely hearts club. This time I looked at some of the pictures and profiles longer and more thoroughly. I put that magazine down and picked up another one and turned to the lonely hearts section. I ignored the women and concentrated on the men.

Joan returned ten minutes later with two Diet Cokes and handed one to me. I remained standing by the side of her desk, still looking at the faces of those lonely people. Some of them looked so sad and I felt so sorry for them.

“So, Lola, what do you think?” she asked with a loud sniff as she sat back down at her desk and took a sip of her drink.

I took a sip of mine before I responded in a stern tone of voice. I knew she didn't like to be scolded, especially by me, but this was one time when I didn't care. “Be serious. You're
seventeen.
Every single one of these men say they'd like to hear from women in their twenties and thirties.” I set my drink on the desk and flipped to the last page. “Look at this eighty-four-year-old Julio Mendoza—with his
five
middle names—in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico!” I howled, stabbing the page with my finger. “He says he's only interested in hearing from women in their twenties.”

“No problema, chica,”
Joan rattled on, speaking with an exaggerated fake Spanish accent. She continued in her regular voice. “I'll send them a picture of a woman in that age range—Elaine.” She stared at me and winked.

I squinted my eyes and looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. And I was beginning to think she had. It took me a few seconds to respond. “Your sister? Have you lost your mind, girl? What if she opens your mail like she did when you were pen pals with that sex-starved boy in France who used to write letters to you with all that nasty talk last year?”

“She won't. That's where you come in.”

“Me? Oh, now I know you've lost your mind! I'm not getting caught up in this foolishness!” I dropped the magazine back onto the desk. “What way would I ‘come in,' anyhow?”

“Relax. Keep your titties in place. I'm just going to use your address. That's where you come in.”

I gave Joan the most incredulous look I could manage. “Oh, hell no!” I hollered, waving my hand and shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “If you're going to do this crazy shit, rent a post office box or one of those private mailboxes. I'm not going to get in trouble.”

“Look, ‘Paranoid Patty.' I'm trying to earn a little extra money, not spend it. Elaine pays over two hundred bucks a year to rent her private mailbox.” Joan snorted and gave me a thoughtful look. “Didn't you tell me that you're still the only one who gets the mail out of the box at your house?”

“Yeah. Bertha hasn't gone out to get the mail in years.”

“Then, why can't you help me save a few dollars and let my mail come to your house instead of me wasting money on one of those private mailboxes?”

“Because I have a good reputation in school and everywhere else and I want to keep it that way. If I'm going to be a teacher or a nurse, I can't get caught up in a lonely hearts scandal—”

Joan gave me a look that was so hot, I actually felt the heat on my face. “Why would there be any kind of scandal?” she snarled.

“Well, something bad could happen. Remember what happened to Anna Nicole Smith on account of that rich old man she married? The late-night talk show hosts made so many jokes about her, it ruined her career—”

Joan wasted no time interrupting me. “Jay Leno and Letterman make jokes about her because she got fat and lost her shape.”

“Whatever, whatever,” I chanted. “I just don't want to get myself in trouble over something this off-the-wall. I have enough to worry about already.”

“Suit yourself.” Joan tilted her head to the side and gave me a look that made me uneasy. “If you're smart, you'll write to some yourself. We have to move on this fast, though, before some other women grab up all the best men. Some of them are probably no longer available, anyway, so I'm going to write to a whole bunch.”

“Uh-uh,” I said, shaking my head so hard it felt like my brain was rattling. I glanced at the magazine I had just held a few moments ago. “I wouldn't know what to say to an older man that he'd be interested in hearing, anyway. You know how dull my life is.” To this day, I don't know what made me pick up that magazine again and turn to that list of names. One in particular caught my eye. “Look what Orin Hillyer, age seventy-five, in Salt Lake City has to say. He claims he'll spend his whole fortune if it means he'll find a suitable companion. Hmmm. He doesn't look too bad for a man his age. He's a retired real estate developer. Isn't that what Donald Trump is?”

“Something like that. I've already drafted a letter to Mr. Hillyer,” Joan told me with a hungry look in her eyes.

I read the rest of Mr. Hillyer's profile. He liked to watch old black-and-white movies, take long walks, and read science-fiction novels: three things I enjoyed. I was not having much luck keeping my interest low or my common sense in the front of my mind. Despite me protesting up a storm, laughing, and talking all kinds of other shit, I had to admit to myself that Joan might be onto something real cool. “Dude has a yacht and a beach house in Aruba! Damn,” I said, giving her a slack-jawed look. “This one must have a hell of a huge fortune. What I can't figure out is why men with so much to offer can't find a woman the normal way. Could you imagine Donald Trump advertising in a magazine when he was between wives?”

Joan's lips curled up at the ends and she blinked rapidly for a few seconds. I couldn't tell if she was amused or just anxious. “Lola, most rich people are eccentric. Maybe they've all tried to find somebody the normal way and it didn't work out.”

“Poor Mr. Hillyer. He hasn't been in a relationship since his wife died five years ago! He must be the loneliest one on the list. I feel so sorry for him. If I were you, I'd write to him just for the heck of it. It could be a lot of fun, I guess. Maybe he'll send you pictures of his beach house. What do you think?”

“I think there's only one way to find out,” Joan chimed in, stabbing my chest with her finger. “You can write to him if you want to, since I haven't mailed my letter to him yet. I've picked out enough names already and I don't want you to think I'm too greedy. I'll give you some real hot pictures of Elaine that you can send in your letters claiming it's you.”

I narrowed my eyes and glared at Joan. “I don't know about doing
that.
There's another thing I'm sure you didn't consider.”

“What?”

“What you're planning to do may not be legal. . . .”

“Girl, it's not legal to jaywalk, but you do it. You cheat on your exams—”

“I only did that twice!” I interrupted.

“Will you hold your tongue and let me finish! You lie to your stepmother, and you sneak into the movies without paying when we go to the mall. And what about that time you swiped that bottle of Versace perfume from Macy's?”

“That was over three years ago when I was too young to know better and I never stole another thing! I had just lost my daddy and I needed something to cheer me up,” I pouted.

“The point I'm trying to make is, don't you get all ‘holier than thou' on me now. Besides, you keep talking about how bored you are. Well, let me tell you something. Since Lonnie Roberts broke up with me, I'm more bored than you are. And when I'm bored and the boys are not paying me enough attention or even telling me how good I look, I feel homely. Just think of all the compliments you can get from an older man.”

I gave Joan a reserved look. I decided to continue being opposed to her plan as long as I could, just to keep myself balanced. But the truth of the matter was, the more she talked about it, the more interesting it sounded. “If, and I do mean
if,
I decide to write a few letters, what would I say to a bunch of old men? I barely know what to say to boys our age.”

“Lonesome old men would be happy to hear anything from a beautiful young woman. By the way, not all older men are gross. My stepfather's niece married a real handsome man in his fifties. For all we know, you might find your soul mate this way.”

With a weak smile, I gave Joan a submissive look. She was the leader; I was the follower. Unfortunately, I almost always ended up going the distance with her, no matter where she led me. What Joan was proposing this time was serious and something I would never consider on my own. However, I had visions of older, dapper men in the same league with Sidney Poitier, Harry Belafonte, and Donald Trump fawning over me and treating me like a princess. Men like them could introduce me to a life I could only experience in my dreams. When I looked at it from that perspective, it didn't seem so bad. “I don't have anything against older men. But if I get involved with one, I'd rather do it the normal way.”