Getting Old is the Best Revenge (5 page)

When Josephine finally crumpled to the scorching
floor, the man opened the door. Her body tumbled
out of the steam room. He bent down and felt her
pulse, then walked out into the hallway, still
whistling the same tune.

9

Stakeout

P
icture this. It's eleven o'clock, way past my

bedtime. I'm jammed inside my cramped Chevy wagon with my so-called associates, all of whom are trying to drive me crazy.

We're parked on an unlit, empty, gloomy street in Plantation, an area we never go to, in front of something called Salvatore's Bar and Grill. What do we old broads think we're doing, anyway? We're on our first stakeout! And I cannot believe how these girls are behaving.

Their idea of a stakeout: sharing the already cramped space with five ample bodies and a basket full of snacks, drinks, knitting supplies, cards, and blankets. In case they get hungry, thirsty, bored, or cold. I keep nodding off, but not them. They're all for this adventure.

Thanks to the revenge-driven Angelina Siciliano, we're here stalking Elio Siciliano, an eighty-five-yearold potential philanderer. We are waiting for the alleged cheating husband to come out of the bar and head for some sordid late-night rendezvous.

Evvie is seated next to me in the front, of course. No one would dare try to take that sister privilege away from her.

The three others are miserable in the back, what with the supplies packed over, around, and under their legs. They keep shifting positions, annoying one another, in an attempt to get comfortable.

I told them they didn't all need to come tonight. Why did I waste my breath? As if they would take a chance on missing something. And I warned them that the car light would be off, so how could they knit or play cards?

That didn't stop them. They brought flashlights. Worried that the light might call attention to us? No problem. Sophie covered hers with a purple sock.

Bella is sitting between Sophie and Ida, who are using her lap as a table so they can play their favorite two-person card game, Spite and Malice. A game that calls for dirty tricks and the language of a longshoreman.

Evvie has taped the Sicilianos' home address next to the snapshot Angelina gave us of her husband up on the dashboard. She says that's how cops do it. However, Angelina gave us a fifty-yearold wedding photo. I must admit young Elio looks dashing with his black handlebar mustache and full head of hair. I especially like the twinkle in his eye as he gazes down on his pretty new wife. But it isn't much help to me.

Evvie's already scoped out where Elio's car is parked, based on the license plate number Angelina also provided.

With her oven-mitt-covered flashlight in hand, she is attempting to write her latest movie review for the Lanai Gardens'
Free Press
to pass the time. I am merely sitting there, simmering, as I hear crackling noises behind me, indicating food being unwrapped and knowing what a mess I'll find in my car tomorrow.

"How's this for a title?" she asks me. " 'Good Girl Goes T
res
Bad. Review of
He Loves Me, He
Loves Me Not.
' "

"Pretty good," I say. Ever since our first case, the Kmart handbag rescue, Evvie has been dragging us to mystery movies only. The girls sit there scared witless, clutching one another, squeezing their eyes shut at the gory bits, yet secretly getting a charge out of all the excitement. Except that Bella now has nightmares and Ida never stops bitching about how much she hates those movies. Nothing deters Evvie. She sees it as necessary research for our new business.

Evvie continues to read her review aloud. " 'Another French movie, and you know how much this reviewer loves French movies . . .' "

"Yeah," Ida pipes up from the backseat, " 'cause they're so dirty."

"It's you, Ida dear, who has the dirty mind. The French are sophisticated." She goes back to reading. "Anyway, 'remember that adorable Audrey Tautou from
Amelie
? She's in this movie, too, but watch out, no
petits pois
this time. Now there's blood on her
chapeau . . .
' "

"Are you sure you want
petits pois
?" I ask. "I think that means green peas."

Suddenly there is a commotion in the backseat.

"You block my ten and I'll smack you," Ida shouts at Sophie.

Sophie slams down the cards in Bella's lap, shouting as she does.

"Take that! And that! And that!"

"Oof," says Bella in reaction to Sophie's enthusiasm.

"Bitch!" says Ida.

"Nah, nah," says Sophie.

"I'll get you for that!" And Ida slams down her cards even harder on poor Bella's lap, ruining Sophie's run.

"Oof," says Bella again, her stomach really taking a beating. "Excuse me," she announces, "I have to go."

"I told you not to drink all that seltzer," Ida says.

"Well, you punching me didn't help."

"Can't you hold it in?" Sophie insists.

"No . . ."

"Now what do we do?" Ida asks.

Evvie turns to them. "Well, cops usually carry an empty bottle with them."

"A lot of good that would do us," Ida comments.

"I have to go. Now!" Bella is wiggling from side to side.

I look up and down the dark street. "Nothing's open around here except the bar," I tell her. "You'll have to go in there."

"No way," says Bella, scrunching lower in her seat.

"Take your mind off it," Sophie offers. "Have a bite of halvah."

Bella wiggles in the seat.

"I gotta go," she insists. "But I'm not walking into that place alone."

"I'll take her over there," says Sophie. "But what do I say if somebody asks me what we're doing around here?"

That stops us for a moment.

"Just act senile," says Ida. "That's what they think we are anyway."

"Good plan," says Evvie.

Sophie and Bella slowly get out of the car, looking around the empty streets fearfully. There isn't a soul to be seen anywhere. Evvie whispers out the window, "I'm going to lock the door after you."

"Just don't blow our cover," says Ida.

"I told you we needed a jerk," Bella whimpers as they head for the bar.

We wait, eyes glued on the bar door,
shpilkes.

I turn the radio on to take our minds off what might be going on inside the bar. I get a news station. All ears perk up as we hear: "As reported earlier today, Josephine Dano Martinson, sixtyone, died tragically at the Boca Springs Health Spa where she was a member of long standing. She was found dead of heart failure, lying near her own private steam room."

We look at one another, surprised.

The announcer continues. "Mrs. Martinson, one of Florida's twenty-five wealthiest women, died on the day she was to host a fund-raiser for the Boca Raton Opera. She is survived by her second husband, Robert Martinson."

"Two dead rich women in less than a week," I say.

"Coincidence?" asks Evvie.

"Probably," I comment. "Maybe."

Ida says, "Too bad Sophie is missing this. Here's another rich widower she won't be able to get her hands on."

Suddenly the bar door bursts open and Sophie bolts out, practically dragging Bella with her. They are moving fast. I quickly unlock the car doors. Sophie shoves Bella into the backseat, knocking her on top of Ida, then jumps in after her. "Shut the lights, fast!"

"What?" spits Ida, as she caroms Bella back at Sophie. "What did you do?"

"Nothing. The card game's over. They're coming out."

"Did you get to go?" Evvie asks Bella worriedly.

"Yeah, but I was in such a rush I got my support hose all twisted."

All our eyes are now facing the bar entrance as a group of tough-looking older guys pile out. They say their macho good-byes, playfully punching one another as they head for their cars.

"Quick," Ida says, smacking Evvie on the back. "Which one is Siciliano?"

"I can't tell yet," she says.

"That's what I keep telling you, they all look alike in the dark," Ida says maliciously.

"Don't look for the guy," I say. "Just watch his car."

"That's so smart," says Bella admiringly, as she gets her twisted hose straightened out.

Moments later Elio Siciliano climbs into his big black Chrysler. I try to get a good look at him, but all I see is a large, bulky guy with a semibald head of gray hair and bowed legs.

He starts up his motor, and I start mine.

The girls in the back lean over the front seats to stare out the windshield. They are fairly panting with excitement.

"Uh-oh," I say.

"What?" a chorus of four voices yelps.

"What if he's a fast driver and I can't keep up with him?" I've been doubting the sanity of this whole endeavor all evening.

"Never mind that," says Bella. "What if he catches us and has a machine gun?"

Luckily, Mr. Siciliano drives at a moderate speed. Eight blocks later he arrives at a modest light gray stucco cottage. I check the address. It's his. After he parks in his garage, I head for home. The stakeout is over.

Operation Elio is a bust.

So that's it. We wasted a whole evening and I have nothing to show for it but a car littered with garbage.

We arrive back at Lanai Gardens around midnight. The girls, still on a high, are already rewriting history, chatting about what they'll report around the pool tomorrow. Not me. I just want to crawl into bed with a pillow over my head and think about the possibility of moving to Alaska.

10

Attack of the Flying Aunts

I
am awakened at four a.m. My pillow is damp; my sheets are in a tangle. I can't believe it. It's the Flying Aunts dream again.

Why can't I have one of those easy ones, like the losing-your-car-keys dream or the forgettingwhere-you-live dream?

I hate this one. It's my mother and her three sisters, harpies, zooming kamikaze-like down at my poor father, screeching at him while he's strapped in an electric chair at the kitchen table. Like always, he's clutching the
New York Post
in one hand. But in his other hand? I always have to wait and see.

Evvie and I are also in this dream. As usual, I'm a shy eight and she's an adorable six. Tonight she tosses her curly red hair about and hits me with a giant jar of Gerber's baby spinach. Believe me, she's hit me with worse. A seltzer bottle last time.
Fakackta
dream.
Oy.
And her singing!
Jack and Jill
went up the hill and Jack fell down . . .
The Flying Aunts love it. They
kvell
how she's better than Judy Garland. And cuter, too. They never
kvell
over me.

Then, just before the screeching aunts can put the plug in the socket and electrocute Dad, he throws me the thing he clutches in his other hand. It's always a book. It's always a different book. Tonight it is an illustrated
Cinderella.
"Read," he says. "Read!"

The dream always ends with my mother's complaint: "He never remembers to take out the garbage."

I get up, make coffee, and ask myself, so what was that about, my childhood? Why now? Hey, that was sixty-seven years ago and
now
it's relevant? Give me a break. I need this like I need another hole in a bagel.

Mom was always talkative. And oh, so busy, and so was Evvie. Two curly redheads in perpetual motion, unlike the plain, straight-brown-haired, quiet, boring ones.

They went to the beauty parlor together and to Klein's department store on Union Square for every Saturday sale, while Dad's idea of excitement was to take me to the Plumbers and Steamfitters Union Hall down near the Battery.

All the guys hung out there. I was their mascot. They smoked cigars, chewed gum, and ate pistachios. They shot pool at the moth-eaten table in the back room. They listened to the Yankees games or the fights at Madison Square Garden on the big Philco radio. I thrived on secondhand smoke. I loved that place.

There was a small makeshift library where the guys left books to trade, mostly tattered maleaction-adventure paperbacks. But for me, they raided their kids' bookshelves, handing their gifts to me shyly; their kids never read them anyway.
Black Beauty. The Wind in the Willows. The Red
Pony.
I absorbed them all.