Getting Old Is a Disaster (19 page)

  It gets very quiet. We reach Lanai Gardens and I park in any old spot. We no longer have assigned spaces, what with the abandoned wrecks not yet cleared away.

  "Well, it's good to be home," Sophie says to cover the uncomfortable silence as we climb out of my car.

  I'm not about to touch Bella's line with a tenfoot pole.

* * *

Once back in my apartment, I call Stanley and tell him what we'd found out. He listens to the information and says that he wants to think about our next step.

  I try to nap, one of my favorite pastimes. There's something about drawing the shades and lying down on my bed and closing my eyes midday that is so appealing. I usually drop off the instant my head hits the pillow. Not today. First, my bed has new meaning for me. I think of Jack lying next to me every night from now on. His reaching for me and pulling me close and then our sleeping together like two well-worn spoons. I never thought I was lonely until he moved in. Now I know how much I'd been missing.

  How brave women are who live alone, whether by choice or not. We all put a good face on it, but it's never easy. Not easy raising children alone. Not easy having to bear all the responsibility in life with no one to share it. And hardest of all is to face that empty bed at night. We make peace with our lot, whatever it is. It's that or go mad. But lucky are those who find true love and companionship. As I did with my first husband. And now, with this wonderful man. I am twice blessed.

  Why all this philosophizing that won't allow me to sleep? It was Bella's remark. I know she didn't mean it to hurt me. And it didn't. But it made me remember that one should never take good fortune for granted. Life has a habit of whisking it away on a whim. How well I know that.

  My mind reels round and round. After an hour, I give up trying to nap, get up, and go into the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

  I concentrate on preparing dinner as I sip my tea. Well, this is another piece of the puzzle of living alone or not. Ordinarily I just throw something together for myself, and quite often munch from a carton, just standing in front of the open fridge.

  Now I'm back to planning meals, shopping for food, and cooking. Even though it's fun to see my man enjoying home-cooked meals again—who knows how many cartons
he's
eaten out of—I put this on the con side of the column. The pros are enormous, but still . . .

  A timorous knock on the door, or did I imagine it? No, I have a visitor. There's Bella standing outside, carrying a covered dish with something that smells wonderful.

  When I let her in, she waits in my hallway, tears forming. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said in the car."

  She walks into the kitchen and reveals her gift. "I baked you a peach pie, your favorite. I'm a very bad person."

  With that I put my arms around her and tell her she is anything but. "I'm actually glad you said it. It made me think."

  "No, don't try to make me feel better. I love you and I love Jackie and I even loved his dead wife, Faye. I wouldn't hurt any of you for anything." Now the tears are rolling down her face.

  I grab a dish towel, the closest thing, and hand it to her. She dabs at her eyes.

  "Come on, sit down, and join me in a cup of tea."

  "No, I can't. I won't. Jackie will be here soon and you have to get his dinner ready. Please say you forgive me."

  "I forgive you, honest."

  She hands me my towel and heads for the door. "You can give me back my pie tin anytime. I'm in no hurry."

  With that she's gone. Okay, sin forgiven. But there it is, the unstated contract, meals to be made.

* * *

Jack walks in. I'm in a frenzy of cooking. He comes up behind me and kisses the back of my neck. "What smells so fabulous?"

  "Pot roast, baked winter vegetables, potatoes au gratin, and a huge tossed salad with balsamic vinaigrette, and peach pie à la mode for dessert."

  "Yum. I'm already drooling," he says as he now kisses the top of my head. "No more eating out of open cans standing in front of the refrigerator. Ever again."

  I wheel around, spatula in hand. "I have two questions for you. Will you marry me? And do I have to do all the cooking?"

W
hat a splendid evening. Jack is so thrilled

      about my finally using the
M
word, he is eager to prove he doesn't only love me for my cooking skills. He demonstrates how much he loves all my skills. Okay, I get the point.

  Some couples create prenup agreements about money, real estate, and jewelry. Ours is about chores. Which ones we hate to do and which ones we actually enjoy. We have fun making lists. And we fool around before, during, and after. He's perfectly willing to do half the cooking (he says he makes a mean lasagna) or we can go to restaurants anytime I want. Ditto on housework. (He loves ironing. Huh? Who loves ironing?) As well as taking clothes to the cleaners (fine with him) and food shopping (together—we'll make it enjoyable). Checkbook reconciling. Banking (he likes it, he can have it), and so on and so forth.

  What we are in total agreement on is that we are both willing to share the sex. Ha-ha-ha. Little joke there.

  "Glad," he says to me as we microwave popcorn for an evening of watching old movies on TV. "No spreading the word yet. Not until I put an engagement ring on your finger."

  "I don't need a ring to know I'm yours."

  "Well, I need it to keep the other guys away."

  "Yeah, right, there's a line of them from here to Publix, just waiting for you to dump me."

  The popcorn dings in the microwave. "Showtime," I say, kissing him.

  We've both seen
Miss Congeniality
at least three times. That's the Sandra Bullock movie where she goes undercover at a beauty pageant. We throw lines out before the actors get to speak them. And chortle and giggle at the remembered scenes.

  A moment of unhappiness seeps through. I wonder what Evvie and Joe are doing. Was their dinner table just another combat zone? Are they watching the same movie—Evvie, who I know loves this movie, and has seen it with me the last three times? Are they in different rooms? Left to laugh all alone? Or not laughing at all? In a perfect world those married couples out there would give up their old foolish battles that no longer matter, and as that '60's hippie slogan goes, "Make love, not war."

Evvie hears the front door open and she can sense Joe walk in and hover behind the couch where she is sitting. "Can't you find something to do and not bother me?" she says without turning around.

  She's settled comfortably in her living room in front of the TV, watching
Miss Congeniality,
and she doesn't intend to let Joe spoil it for her. It's one of her favorite movies. She takes a sip of her tea and then a bite of her chocolate chip cookie, not looking at him.

  "I could go to bed, but you're on the couch."

  "Sit in the kitchen and read a book or something."

  "I wouldn't mind seeing the rest of the movie with you." Before she can cut him off, he says, "Please, Ev. Let's stop this fighting. Can't we have a truce?"

  For a moment she doesn't answer. "Come on and sit down, then." She grudgingly moves over to make room for him.

  He quietly sits down next to her. Then a moment later, "Evvie, I need to talk to you."

  "Only at commercials." She pulls at her cotton skirt to make sure his leg isn't touching it.

  "It's a commercial now. I have to tell you something. I've been meaning to tell you since I moved in."

  "Say it fast. There've already been six commercials. The movie will be back on in a minute."

  "I didn't tell you the truth about why I moved here."

  Evvie's eyebrows raise. "So?"

  He hesitates, then leans over and whispers in her ear.

  "What!" she shrieks in response, turning to stare at him.

  "I can't stand saying it out loud. Please don't make me repeat it."

  She looks at him, stricken. "I don't know what to say."

  "Please don't say anything. Let's just watch the movie. I beg you."

  They sit there side by side, but Evvie no longer sees what's on the screen.

* * *

Our movie is interrupted by the phone. As I go to answer it, I ask Jack to tell me later what I'll miss. We both laugh at that.

  It's Stanley again.

  "I couldn't wait," he tells me. "I had to call the woman, you know, the sister?"

  "What did you say to her?" I sit down at the kitchen table. This might take a few minutes.

  "I didn't say too much. I told her I needed to talk to her about her brother, Johnny. Something that happened a long time ago. She sounded very nice on the phone and naturally asked what it was regarding. When I told her it was too complicated and took too long to explain, she said she'd be glad to meet with me. I'm surprised she gave a stranger her address."

  "Sounds encouraging. When are you going?"

  "Well, I had it in mind that maybe you would

come with me? A woman along would make her more comfortable. I hope it won't be a waste of our time, but I feel I need to know."

  In the background I hear Jack laughing out loud. I wonder if it's the scene where Sandra Bullock jumps off the stage and takes a flying leap at the startled Texan carrying a gun. "If you think it would help. When?"

  "I was thinking tomorrow. We could hop on a plane and fly across to Tampa very fast. I already looked up flights and we could leave by nine a.m. And I MapQuested where she lives."

  "Very organized, Stanley. All right."

  "Thank you. As my dear mother used to say,
A
katz vos myavket ken keyn mayz nit khapen.
"

  "Sorry, Stanley, my Yiddish isn't that good. You'll have to translate."

  "Literally it says, 'A meowing cat can't catch mice.' But what it means for us is that we can't just talk about doing something, we've got to go out and do it."

  I say good-bye and hang up and happily get back in time. I didn't miss Texan-with-the-gun scene after all. I snuggle under Jack's shoulder, prepared to enjoy the rest of the movie with, dare I say it, my husband-to-be.

I
enjoy my short early-morning plane ride with

  Stanley Heyer. Despite being acquainted with him for more than twenty years, I really don't know him that well. I'm familiar with the fact he's been married to Esther for a very long time. That he has two grown children, and now three grandchildren. And that he takes his religion very seriously.

  Maybe it's my guilt over Stanley's being aware of my living with Jack that makes me blurt out we are getting married. Talk about Jewish guilt. Well, there's also Catholic guilt and Protestant guilt. And on and on. But I find it amusing that at seventy-five I want this pious man to think I'm still a nice Jewish girl.

  He is thrilled. Naturally he asks the expected question: "So when's the wedding?"

  "We haven't gotten that far yet, but hopefully soon."

  "A good man, Jack."

  "I know." Now I'm sorry I brought it up. I'm always embarrassed answering personal questions. I change the subject. "Tell me about Esther. How is she?"

  His face lights up. "Fine. Fine. I'm blessed to have a loving wife for fifty years. What more
nachas
could a man want?"

  "How did you meet?" The countryside down below seems so wonderfully peaceful. How ironic. Not that many miles away from where we are overwhelmed with the damage done by the hurricane.

  "Interesting you should ask. It was 1959. I had joined the neighborhood temple. On my very first Shabbat, after services, a beautiful girl with long curly red hair and big brown eyes was introduced to me, but I was too shy to say more than hello. But I saw her step outside alone and I worked up the courage to ask her if I could walk her home. My excuse was that a young lady should not have to walk home alone in the dark. She said she always came to services with her friend, but her friend was sick tonight. To my amazement, she agreed." He smiles broadly. "And one thing led to another."

  "That's a lovely story."

  I stare out the window for a few minutes more. I'm enjoying this difference in the lush Florida landscape when one gets away from the east coast beach cities. I turn to Stanley.

  "And Abe Waller?" I say, just to make conversation. "You and he have been friends for a very long time."

  "Yes. Best of friends for more than forty-nine years. That's another good story to tell. It's about six months later. I come home one night from temple and I see a man standing in Phase Six, looking from one building to the other. I ask, 'Can I help you?' He says, 'I'm thinking of moving here. Is it a good place to live?' I smile. 'A good place to live?' I say he asked the right customer, the man who built it. I extol its many features. He looks at the yarmulke on my head. He hesitates for a few minutes, as if he's gathering up courage to ask. 'Yes, you must be the right man,' he says. 'You would know if we are near a good synagogue.' " Stanley makes a wide gesture with both his arms, almost knocking his club soda off his little tray table. " 'Have I got a synagogue for you!' I tell him. With that, I insist on taking him upstairs for a cup of tea and to meet my beautiful Esther, who is already pregnant with our first child." Stanley's eyes tear up. "It was then I saw the tattooed numbers from under his shirt cuff. Those numbers from hell."

  He shakes his head as if to push away the memory. I hold in my own tears.

  With a quivering voice, Stanley continues. "He lost his whole family to the camps. Esther and I and the children became his family."