Getting Old is a Disaster Part 18

Abe wipes the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. "No, please. I am moments away from completion. Do not let me disturb you. The machine is yours to use."

She returns, opens the door of the empty washer, her back to him so he will not see her personal garments.

He, too, turns away, toward the small mirror. He takes off his c.o.ke-bottle gla.s.ses and wipes the steam from them. Enya looks up and sees him reflected in the mirror. Then, not wanting to embarra.s.s him, she quickly looks downward again.

The dryer comes to a halt. The room grows silent. As Abe removes his dry laundry, he attempts small conversation. "It was very kind of the people to allow me to use their place."

She pours soap powder in, and chooses the wash she wants, then places the quarters into their slots and turns the machine on. As she upends her garments into the machine, she says, "Yes. Mr. and Mrs. Duma are nice people. Very quiet."

"I promise to be quiet also."

She looks up at that, discomfited. "I did not mean-" She breaks off.

"I am not offended." He finishes removing his dry clothes and places them on the table and starts folding with great precision. "Forgive me for my forwardness, but your accent . . . May I ask where you are from?"

"So many years in this country, I don't lose it. I am from Prague originally. And you?"

"From Munich." He pauses. "That was a long time ago."

They are silent for a few moments, absorbing this information. She places her empty basket onto the bench. She tries to hide how tense she is, even though he seems a gentleman.

Abe finishes folding. He lifts his basket and moves toward the door.

As he pa.s.ses her, he looks down at the numbers on her left arm. She immediately gasps, trying to hide them with her hand. She is not used to people staring at them, but then her eyes are drawn to just below the wrist of his long-sleeved shirt. He, too, has the d.a.m.nable numbers.

Their eyes meet for the first time. Hers, watery and weak. His covered with strong gla.s.ses. He says very softly. "We are members of a very exclusive club, ja? ja?"

Her head barely nods.

He opens the door and bows. "Good day, Frau Slovak."

28.

Gossip

A ny luck?" I ask Barbi and Casey as the girls ny luck?" I ask Barbi and Casey as the girls and I return. The cousins needed a couple of hours to research our new a.s.signment. The girls were happy about that since there is a deli nearby that they like and we had a leisurely lunch.

Now we seat ourselves on the usual white chairs around the white table in the totally white room. Since this isn't our first visit, we no longer react to the strange working conditions of this all-white high-tech office located in a strip mall.

Barbi starts. "Given the fact we're dealing with dates so far back, even so, we did find quite a number of Lucy Blakes in that time span in the Tampa area . . ."

Casey continues, "Having a relative named Johnny, who was deceased, narrowed the options down to very few. We'll print out what we have."

I enjoy watching the two women as they swivel their desk chairs around and slide across the room to their twin computers. The girls continue to be awed at these two unusual women who we know are pretending to be cousins.

"So," asks Ida, making conversation, "are you getting any clients since the hurricane?"

"Just one other, so far," Barbi answers, reaching for the paper coming out of the printer. "One gal, kind of a character, wore a weird, lumpy outfit, wanted to know about cities in Georgia. Ones that didn't get bad weather."

They come back to where we're sitting. And hand us copies.

"Got a hit on a Lucy Blake Sweeney. In Tampa."

Casey says, "Could be a fit. She's seventy-seven years old. Actually written up recently in the local paper-something about a strike at a local fishery on the Gulf."

"Well, that's a place to start," says Ida.

Barbi says, "Just thought we'd check some obits for that era. Blake's a common name and these are the two nearest 1958. A John Adams Blake died in '59, but he was age sixty."

"Wrong year and age," says Evvie.

"And this one, John Willis Blake, age twentyseven. Could be the right age, but he died in March. Six months earlier than what you're looking for. Small obit notice, no information about any remaining kin.

"That's about it," says Barbi.

Sophie is excited. "Why don't we call that Lucy

woman anyway? Maybe they didn't have a body and just had a funeral because they thought he was dead."

"Wait," I say. "We can't just call and say, 'You don't know who we are, but by the way, your brother didn't die when you thought. We found your brother's skeleton, and he died here.' This is a long shot."

Ida says, "But it's all we have right now."

Evvie says. "What if our skeleton isn't her brother and we just stir up a lot of confusion?"

Bella jumps in. "And what if she has a heart attack because we scared her out of her wits?"

I hold up my hands to stop the flow of what-ifs. "I need to talk to Stanley and ask how he wants us to handle this."

We thank Casey and Barbi and head back home. The noise level in my car's a crescendo.

Bella says, "Why don't you take Dora for a while?"

Sophie says, "You shouldn't have taken her in the first place. So why should I get stuck with her?"

"But I can't stand it anymore. I thought I was deaf, but she's deafer. The TV is blasting me out of my apartment. Ida, maybe you'll take her for a while?"

Ida sneers, "Over my dead body."

Evvie says, smirking, "Don't look at me. Unless you'll trade her for Joe."

Bella blushes. "I'm a single woman. I couldn't live with an unmarried man in my apartment. That would be a sin."

It takes a moment for her words to sink in. I'm I'm the single sinner living with an unmarried man. Joe and Evvie don't count because they were once married. the single sinner living with an unmarried man. Joe and Evvie don't count because they were once married.

"Bella!" Evvie says agitatedly.

She looks around, confused. "What? What did I say?"

It gets very quiet. We reach Lanai Gardens and I park in any old spot. We no longer have a.s.signed s.p.a.ces, 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 he's eaten out of-I put this on the con side of the column. The pros are enormous, but still . . . 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.

Is he going to expect me to do that every single day? Wait just one minute . . .

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 a 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?"

29.

An Evening at Home

W hat a splendid evening. Jack is so thrilled hat a splendid evening. Jack is so thrilled about my finally using the M 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. 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 ch.o.r.es. 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 s.e.x. 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."