Getting Old Will Haunt You

by Rita Lakin

  She lies down. ‘I’m too tired to even change my clothes.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’ She turns off the light.

  There’s silence for a while with only the sound of bodies twisting and turning. Hy peers through the crack in the curtain watching the sky slowly get lighter.

  Finally she says, ‘I can’t get back to sleep. I’m overtired.’

  ‘Me, neither.’

  She turns the light back on.

  They stay where they are, still lying down.

  ‘Hy?’

  ‘I’m here, Dolly-Ann.’

  ‘Did you ever think about me over the years?’

  Dangerous question. He never forgot about her. Careful. Be bland. ‘Many times. I wondered how you were doing.’

  ‘I was so dumb getting married so young. My folks tried to talk me out of it, but who listens to parents when you’re a kid.’

  Yeah, how could you possibly resist a dumb football player with a brain like a pea pod? Hy thinks, aggravated, but he wouldn’t dare say it. He’s surprised that he can still feel the hurt. ‘Yeah, kids are like that.’

  ‘Did you and your wife have any children?’ she asks.

  ‘We tried, but no luck. After a while we stopped trying.’ He doesn’t need to tell her about painful, frustrating, negative years until you finally make peace with what cards you’re dealt.

  ‘We had a son. Randy,’ she whispers.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘There’s nothing much to tell. He was a difficult kid from the git-go. He grew up hard to deal with. He and his father never got along. His father didn’t respect me, so my son didn’t either. And finally with the help of drugs and bad companions, he walked out of our lives altogether.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Poor thing. What a sad life.

  More silence, then she speaks again. ‘The footballer never got the college success he imagined. There were always bigger and better players. The big time was out of his reach. He never got over it. Then, such a cliché, he turned to booze and other women. Fighting with the son. Fighting with the wife. Fighting himself.’

  They are quiet for a while.

  She laughs cynically. ‘Who was that president who only lusted in his dreams or something like that? My hubby was a full-time lust-er. Anything with big boobs would do.’

  Whoa, thinks Hy, that’s a lot of pain in there. He feels sorry for her, but surprised, he really doesn’t want to hear any more.

  ‘Change of subject,’ she says, but not going far afield. ‘My brother’s life was no piece of cake, either. Injured in the war, WWII. Spent time as a POW. Came home a sick vet. They didn’t know about the psychological problems from war experiences back then. Manny never got over his nightmares. One bad marriage after another. Ditto with bad jobs. Then he got lucky and found Sally. Real true companionship. And then she goes and dies too soon. He’s been kind of unhinged ever since.’

  Hy is feeling something strange, hearing all these tales of woe. He is startled. He’d never really given it any thought before, but he’s had a successful life with a good marriage and years of considering himself happy. These tales of woe are depressing him.

  Almost as if reading his thoughts, she says, ‘Some of us don’t win that promise of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. May I turn out the light? I think I can fall asleep.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  And whether she’s able to or not, he falls asleep immediately, with a smile on his face.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Manny Bloom the Late Night Crawler

  Manny, dressed totally in black, never picks the same street twice. Not a good idea. Too easy to be caught. But there are plenty of streets to choose from. He knows Miami, having lived here twenty years. But in this, his life without Sally, he has learned to stay away from the rich beach areas. Miami Beach and Coral Gables the richest. Another keep-away, expensive South Beach, which stays awake most of the night. Oh, the music, the lights, the food and the dancing. It would be fun, but not in his plan book. Ditto Coconut and North Grove.

  Keep out of Little Cuba as well. He tried that once and because he didn’t know the language, it caused an incident of awkward communication.

  He smiles, remembering the senorita who welcomed him into her bed. Was that during the Calle Ocho Festival? Lots of rum, lots of laughing. Lots of dancing and soon, to bed. She kept saying si, si, si, which he did understand. Until her boyfriend arrived unexpectedly. No. No. No. He touches his jaw which still aches when it rains.

  Stay away from Valencia. He was caught on that street. Women who own their own guns? Hidden under their pillows? What is this country coming to?

  Manny thought his salad days were up; shot while on the hunt? No, thanks. He wasn’t ready to meet his maker. He thought about praying, but he forgot how. Thank goodness (or was that God?) the broad managed to keep the weapon steady until the cops came to get him. Brrr, ice cold babe that one.

  Tonight he will do one of the numbers streets. SW37? SW42? Okay. Let’s try around SW37. No closed garages; carports only so he can count cars at home. Two usually means a husband inside. Or maybe a teenager. Not always right about that; cars get parked on the street as well.

  His bike winds its way down the quiet street. He’s had much practice. Even though a house is dark, if there’s a light on in the house next to it, that’s a no go. Don’t want any nosy neighbor peeking out a curtain.

  This one looks good, four houses in a row unlit and ditto across the street. Pick one. Eenie, meeney miney mo. He parks his bike on the side of the house, out of sight, and tries the door. Triple-locks, darn it.

  He ambles across the lawn, heading for the next door, as if he belongs there. Easy. Single lock. One car in carport. Looks like an early model Ford. Needs a paint job. Very dusty. At least a trip to the car wash? Decides it belongs to a woman. Men take better care of their cars.

  Yard needs work, too. Wilted flowers, need pruning. That’s part of the fun, guessing what delicious lady awaits him upstairs. Guessing a school teacher lives here. Quick instant analysis; yes, school teacher, low salary. Divorced, didn’t get alimony. House needs work.

  With a last look around; no one walking some dumb dog, no late-night numbskull, jogging. He takes a peek in a few parked cars. No couple doing the dirty in their back seat. All clear.

  Manny takes out his handy-dandy credit card and zip, he’s in.

  First stop. Inside door. Listen, anyone moving around. No.

  Second stop, the kitchen. Only light needed; the open fridge. Looks like a great leftover plate of spaghetti with meatballs. He’d be happy to nuke it, but until they invent silent microwaves, he eats his pasta cold. Loaf of bread. Butter. A bonus. No beer, though. Diet Pepsi. Yuk. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  Yum. Good dinner. Never did learn to cook, though Sally tried to teach him. No interest. Now it’s frozen dinners or take-out. Or meals in some other woman’s home. Like now.

  Ready for dessert, his style. He heads up the dark stairway, helped by ambient light, listening for any sound. Two bedrooms. Both doors open. The smaller one must have been for a kid, lots of old-time band posters; now not living at home.

  Bedroom two. A gentle snoring. Ladies don’t like it when you tell them they snore. They say only men snore! Bad gambit, he never uses that one. He smiles. He believes in making nice.

  A plus. Window shade up. Light from a street lamp.

  She’s sleeping on one side of the bed. Used to be a man on the other. The night is warm and she’s kicked off the covers. Overhead fan blows light breezes.

  From what he can tell, she’s sixty-ish. Not bad looking. Good. The younger ones squirm at the thought of an old codger touching them. This one’s wearing a granny-type nightgown. Been years since she ever wore a negligee. Given up on a man ever being in her bed again. Well, here I am, honey bun, ready to change your luck.

  Though she does look a little skimpy. Like our great leader,
he’s a big bosom kinda guy. But then again ya had to have big chests of money to get a big-chested gal. He laughs to himself. Good joke, he has to remember that one.

  Part one. Decrease the fear. He taps her gently on the shoulder. Eyes open. Instant gasp. Terror. Confusion. Wildly looking around for a way out.

  ‘Shhh,’ he says. ‘I have no weapon. I will not hurt you. Please don’t scream.’

  The woman couldn’t scream even if her life depended on it. And she does think her life depends on it. She’s in a state of paralysis.

  He waits a moment, in case she has a heart attack. You worry about that with old dames. No, her breathing is shallow, but that’s to be expected. That’s the part he doesn’t like. Frightening them.

  He pulls a chair next to the bed and sits down. And smiles a goofy, friendly smile, practiced long and hard in a mirror, to seem non-lethal. ‘So what grade did you teach?’

  Her lips barely part. Her voice stringy and hoarse. She can barely get the words out. ‘Third grade. Do I know you?’

  Bingo. Is he good, or is he good! He’s got a gift. Sally used to say he could charm any woman with that dopey grin.

  ‘No, we’ve never met. Would that we could. You’re a fine-looking woman.’ This tack works only with women over sixty. He should write a book about how to tame women. He’s an expert.

  Of course, she is biding her time, waiting for a way, thinking to escape. Hoping for some miracle. Yes, looking back and forth to a phone she can’t reach.

  ‘Don’t hurt me,’ she whispers.

  They always say that and he feels badly. Though they are frightened, he’s not a man who hurts women. He has to make them understand. Sally used to tease him and call him lover boy, ’cause he never had enough of the bed stuff. Sally, why did you leave me?

  ‘I don’t have much money, but my purse is downstairs.’

  He shrugs. He knows it before they say anything. Same words.

  ‘I don’t want your money.’

  Now the ladies are even more frightened. She is thinking rape, even murder. He has to work on finding a better way of getting to the point faster, without the obvious steps they go through.

  ‘I know this will sound strange, but I’m a lonely guy looking for companionship.’

  She manages to speak again. She squeaks, ‘Why don’t you try a church? You could meet lots of nice women that way.’

  Manny laughs out loud. That’s a new one. ‘What’s your name, honey?’

  ‘Patricia,’ she whispers.

  ‘What would you like?’ he asks sweetly. ‘I’m guessing it’s been a long time since some good man treated you nice in the bed things. I’m here to please you. Any way you want. Straight sex. The missionary position. Doggy style. Kinky sex, though I’m personally not thrilled about that.’ He makes a joke. ‘I don’t even own handcuffs.’

  He attempts another goofy smile. But her terror is worsening.

  Another joke. ‘Foreplay is available, as well.’

  Patricia tries to shrivel into something small; as if she can somehow disappear. ‘I don’t think so,’ she whispers.

  Like a good salesman who’s shown all his wares, he shrugs. Win some, lose some. He learned that years ago when he sold vacuum cleaners door to door. ‘Okay with me. No sex, but how about I sleep next to you, no fooling around, just for comfort?’

  She manages to nod. Anything, anything to keep herself alive.

  With aplomb, he kicks off his shoes and climbs into the vacant side of the bed and turns his back away from her. ‘Night, night, don’t let the bedbugs bite.’ With that, moments later, he falls into a deep sleep.

  He misses the sight of the rigid lady, lying there totally flummoxed. Listening to a lunatic, who snores. He misses that fact that she doesn’t sleep at all. But is too terrified to try to phone or leave the bed and possibly wake him.

  To her amazement, he stays for breakfast. While he eats the bacon and eggs, coffee and toast she managed to cook with shaking hands, she will sneak a cell phone into the bathroom, lock the door and call the police.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  A Side Trip. Julio the Guide

  Day Four

  Julio arrives at eight a.m. sharp and parks around the corner near Buildings O and P, with no bells or music as promised; far enough so they won’t be seen or heard by her close neighbors. Ida, who is there already, is pleased. So far, so good. Julio gets points for punctuality.

  She almost leaps, climbing into the truck. ‘Drive,’ she says, ‘and fast! Get out of here.’ She searches for the safety belt and buckles herself in. Her body wobbles from side to side as he quickly pulls out. She is relieved that this beat-up, old panel truck has a belt. That’s another good sign.

  She is amazed at herself, trusting some total stranger that she only met yesterday. She is proud of her sense of adventure. And her ability to pick a good employee.

  Bumping along in this odd food truck, she is excited by all those Spanish words painted on it. Wait ’til she gets to tell the girls about her new helper. And how well she is handling working on her own. A prime player of the Gladdy Gold company.

  However, a first thing first; wearing the Columbo raincoat, is problematic. She tugs at it to pull it out from under her. The safety belt is practically strangling her; and she’s stuck and can’t extricate herself.

  Julio wonders why this woman wears a raincoat in such a hot city. But never mind, from yesterday, he already thinks she is strange. Such a remarkable country, this America. So many different kinds of people that is necessary to understand.

  Julio does her bidding, ‘Buenos Dias, Senora,’ he says as he fairly careens out of the gate and pulls into the front entrance to Lanai Gardens. ‘We are going maybe to a fire?’

  ‘I just don’t want my nosy neighbors to see us.’

  ‘And why is that a bad thing? You don’t like your neighbors?’ To Julio, living in the Cuban community, this is unimaginable.

  Ida stares sideways at her driver, eyes narrowing with concern, ‘Let’s set down some rules right now. I hire you. I pay you; therefore I’m your boss. You drive; you don’t talk.’ There, that’s settled. It’s important, when doing business to make sure there is clarity. Saves problems later when it becomes a legal matter of ‘she said, he said’.

  Ida goes back to trying to release her raincoat from under her bottom, with little success. She’ll just have to wait until they arrive.

  Julio is stopped in the front of the entrance gate. He is held up at the traffic light signal. The light is red.

  Ida grins. This will be a memorable journey. I’ve never driven in a big truck before. And with my own private driver.

  The light turns green. Julio doesn’t move.

  Ida is startled. Julio is staring straight ahead. Nothing is happening. She is confused. ‘Why are you standing here? Now the light won’t change for one minute and thirty-nine seconds. I know because I once timed it.’

  Julio remains still. She pokes him. ‘What’s the matter with you? Are you deaf? Say something!’

  Julio is calm. Julio is almost always calm. Later he might tell her that’s how he learned to survive in his adopted country. A country he worships. Julio has learned to speak English literally. ‘You said I shouldn’t talk.’

  The light changes again. ‘Oy! Turn left! Turn left, we need to get to the freeway.’

  Julio is about to obey. But, he’s missed his chance again. The light turns yellow, then red again. He still doesn’t look at her.

  She’s having a conniption. ‘Now we have to wait another minute and thirty-nine seconds! Don’t you have any idea where we’re going?’

  Julio shakes his head.

  Ida wants to scream. ‘Oh, for God’s sakes. Talk, already!’

  Julio smiles. ‘Yes, senora?’ This strange lady changes her mind many times. How is he supposed to read what is in her mind?

  She gives him the address of the trailer park. ‘Do you know how to get there?’

  He points to his GPS. ‘America
; such a wonderful place. Filled with such amazing toys, like a computer and iPhones and iPads and this magic thing that gets information on how to get anywhere from a satellite, some kind of space vehicle, up in the sky that flies around in orbit, compliments of the United States government. Definitely magic.

  ‘This GPS … it knows the way; it is never wrong. It will take us wherever we want. But por favor, first I need to make a stop. Only for a few moments. It is on our way. Also in Miami.’

  Ida shrugs. Now that she let him talk he doesn’t shut up. Being Ida, she wants to add to her list of rules. No stops! But something in her suggests she ought to go a little easier on her new employee. Grudgingly, ‘Only for a few moments.’

  Julio groans. Ay chico! Wait until she meets his abuela. A woman who knows no time.

  When they get off the I-95 freeway, Julio tells Ida, ‘Welcome to Little Havana. This huge area is an almost eighty-five percent Cuban community.’ He assumes, rightly, that she’s never been here.

  As Julio drives, Ida is startled by the unexpected brilliant splash of colors. Signs everywhere, walls covered with vivid, fascinating murals. And so many stores. Restaurants, people eating. People happily walking in the streets as well as on sidewalks. Loud and exciting music is heard playing on every street corner. She is startled by huge life-size statues of chickens.

  Her curiosity gets her to ask, ‘Why are there so many statues of chickens?’

  Julio grins. ‘They are sculptures of roosters. There is much art in this community. I think the roosters are a symbol of something. But what, I don’t know.’

  ‘I keep seeing signs that say Calle Ocho.’ She pronounces it cawl owcho.

  ‘Calle Ocho,’ (calyay ocho, pronounced correctly) ‘is a famous long street where every year in March there’s a huge Festival. Last year it was said that a million people came. Very exciting.’

  He indicates, ‘As you can see, I don’t open my truck here. Plenty of Cuban food available on any street corner.’