“I thought you just went to Sam’s Club yesterday,” Aunt Helene said, her eyes narrowing.
“So I went back. Is that against the law?”
My aunt rolled her eyes and threw up her hands.
I gave my aunt a look that said, “I’ll explain later.” My mother turned to me and said, “Sit and talk to your aunt and I’ll be right back. But don’t talk about me.”
“Mom, let me help you with those groceries,” I offered, getting up.
“Sit, sweetheart,” she said, pressing me back down on the couch. “You’re probably still tired from your flight yesterday. Your aunt never gets a chance to spend time with you. She misses you.” I watched my mother walk into the kitchen. Was she moving more slowly than I remembered?
“You came to take her home, didn’t you?” accused Aunt Helene.
“Yes,” I replied honestly. “I think it’s time. We need her at the office. She can’t stay here forever.”
“Did you ever ask her if she wanted to come back, to the business, I mean?”
“I’ve been asking her every week since she got here.”
“And she’s been stalling, am I right?”
I nodded in agreement.
“There’s a reason she’s procrastinating,” my aunt said. “Has she told you she’s made a decision about selling the company?”
“Yes, and that’s one of the reasons I’m here. To talk her out of it.”
“She’s made up her mind,” my aunt protested. “It’s a great deal of money.”
“She can still get the money. But instead of selling outright, Palladino Properties could become an affiliate of one of Hammond Reddekker’s holding companies. We’d become part of one of the premier real estate providers in the country.”
“I know that was the deal your mother initiated, but she told me she doesn’t want to go through with that.”
“Do you know how great this acquisition would be for Palladino Properties? The potential for growth? The resources we could offer our clients? Hammond Reddekker could infuse a lot of capital into our business, enough resources for us to upgrade our entire operation, improve our Web site, and compete with the national firms. And I came up with a campaign that would highlight Donny in a series of television ads that could put Palladino Properties on the national map. ‘Palladino Properties: Your Home Base.’ It would feature footage of a young, powerful Donny Palladino hitting the ball out of the park, rounding the bases, and sliding in to home. Now women across the country will fall under Donny’s spell all over again, but this time off the playing field.”
“That sounds nice, but your mother is worried about taking on so much responsibility. Her goals have changed.”
“When is the last time you talked to her about this?”
“Right before you came. She’s afraid to tell you how she feels. She doesn’t want to disappoint you. She wants to do what’s right for you and your brother and your father’s memory, but that’s not what’s right for her at this stage in her life.”
I sighed. “Then I need to talk to her again.”
“What you need to do is listen, Honey, to what she’s trying to tell you. Her heart isn’t in it anymore. This was your father’s dream, not hers.”
“Well what does she intend to do with the rest of her life? Wait for the end in Millennium Gardens?”
“Is that what you think we’re doing here? Waiting to die? We’re living very fulfilling lives. Every Friday night they play Cuban music at the clubhouse and they teach salsa dancing and Zumba.”
“I didn’t mean anything by that,” I apologized to my aunt, who looked like she was on the verge of walking out. “But my mother had a very active life in Atlanta. She still has a lot to give. Donny and I need her to come back.”
“Whose needs are you looking out for? Hers or yours?”
“She needs to face what’s happened,” I argued, “and look at life from a realistic perspective.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Honey. You haven’t lost your husband.”
My aunt’s words stung, but she didn’t know that was exactly what was about to happen to me.
And I knew Aunt Helene was not just talking about my mother’s loss.
“So how are you doing, really?” I wanted to know, taking her hand.
“I’m fine,” she answered, patting my hand and placing it back on my lap.
Aunt Helene never struck me as the type to shack up—or, as Hannah would say, hook up—with someone. My aunt had always been very conventional. But apparently things were different here at Millennium Gardens. She had essentially been shacking up with her significant other before he died.
“Aunt Helene. Why didn’t you and Mr. Cohen ever get married?”
“I loved having him around,” she confided. “We had a very pleasant relationship and we got closer and closer, but I didn’t want the responsibility or commitment of being married.”
“Why not?”
“He had his own apartment. I had mine. We were on separate tracks but managed to meet in the middle ground. I like my privacy, doing my thing at my time. Harold was the same way. He preferred watching football games and the fights and being quiet. I went to bed at 11:00; he went to bed at 2:00. I liked to watch nature shows and he was interested in the stock market. Why does it do this and that? Why is it up one day and down the next day? He liked to wear his hair long. I like a man with a hair cut. If we had a disagreement, we repaired it and kept going.” She sighed. “But I like my home. I like thinking of your uncle. After so many years being involved with one man, I didn’t want to have to adjust to another man as a husband.”
I was thinking about my own marriage and the adjustments I’d soon have to make, and then we got to talking about love the second time around.
“It’s not exactly the same,” explained Aunt Helene. “Being older, you look at things a little differently, and it could be exciting, but in a very different way. There’s another dimension to it. When you’re young, your hormones take over more so than logic.”
What about sex? I wanted to ask, but didn’t have the nerve. Aunt Helene, however, seemed to anticipate the question.
“Sex is up to the individual, and what their needs are. Not only up to the individual, but it has to do with who can perform sex. There are some who think about sex an awful lot but that’s about all they can do. Unfortunately, Harold and I were in that category.”
What category did I fall into? My husband was certainly “performing sex,” but not with me. In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time we had “performed sex.”
I was fascinated with the subject of significant others. After all, my mother seemed about to get involved with one—Max—a man I had yet to meet.
“Do any of the significant others end up getting married?” I asked.
“I’ve had friends who did get married,” Aunt Helene answered. “From the outside it looks great. I don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. Some significant others maintain their apartments. A lot of women who have gotten remarried gave up their apartments and were very sorry because the relationship didn’t work out and they got divorced within a few months. Then there’s the problem of who gets the apartment—who leaves and who stays. Harold and I were content the way it was. I didn’t need marriage. I keep very busy with my girlfriends. But I also like the idea of having a date all the time, and I liked the affection. When Harold and I cruised together, we shared a room. It never bothered me. Of course he was eighty-seven years old. When we cuddled, that was terrific. The cuddling, the head on each other’s shoulders, was sufficient. I didn’t want to go any deeper. There comes a time in your life when sex is not the most important thing. Does that shock you, Honey?”
“No,” I said, grinning. In light of what was happening in my own marriage, concepts about sex and acceptable behavior were already beginning to shift.
“When you get to be as old as I am, nothing shocks you anymore,” Aunt Helene laughed.
“You’re n
ot old. You’re younger than my mother.”
“Age has a way of creeping up on you when you least expect it. Your mind is as active as always, and you want to go all the time. But I have arthritis. My hip hurts a little bit. Oh, well, you just go on, try to exercise, eat well, keep your weight down, and the rest is in God’s hands. Women may not think anything about living with a man or having sex with a man, if the man can, that is. But it’s not the safest thing. There are men here with AIDS.”
“Are you serious?” I asked, my mouth opening in surprise.
“Yes. It’s a low percentage, but men go out of the Gardens looking for women. Just the other day there were people here from the health department giving an educational lecture, and they were distributing condoms in different colors—blue and pink ones—in the clubhouse. They were warning women, ‘You don’t know who this man has slept with before. You meet a gentleman for the first time, he takes you out to dinner, and he expects to be paid for dinner. He’ll say, ‘Let’s go to my house and have sex.’ Harold wasn’t like that. I wasn’t in love with Harold like I was with your uncle,” Aunt Helene admitted, “but being with him still gave me a good feeling.”
“Do you think you’ll ever find someone else?” I asked. “Stop me if I’m being too nosy.”
“No, it’s okay. I don’t think I want a long-term relationship anymore,” Aunt Helene answered, throwing back her head and laughing. “Even the term long-term is relative around here. I have fond memories of both my men. But I’m getting on in years, and I like the idea of total independence. I don’t want to be the kind of woman who goes out looking for a man, like some of the women here. If a man asked me to go to dinner or a movie, and I think he has a brain in his head, I would go. I do believe in destiny, finding your soul mate or perfect match. If it’s going to happen it’s going to happen. I guess you’re never too old for love or sex.”
I blushed.
“You know there’s no shame in a woman going out with a man, going to his house, living with him. In a community like this, surrounded with older residents, it’s accepted behavior. Well, not by everyone. There’s this group, Seniors Against Sin, that’s distributing these awful red flyers all around the complex. It’s disturbing. I haven’t gotten any. I guess because I’m not currently in a relationship. But some of my friends have been singled out. Everyone here knows everyone else’s business. It’s putting us all on edge.”
“Have you called the police?” I asked, wondering if I should be worried.
“No. I mean, they’d just ignore us and think we’re a bunch of crazy old fools. After all, they’re just flyers. It’s not like anyone is holding a gun to our heads. We’ve told the Homeowner’s Association about it.”
My mother came out of the kitchen carrying a tray. “Here, I cut up some nice apples, and I’ve got some cheese and crackers. Eat. What did I miss?”
“We were just talking about those Seniors Against Sin flyers.”
“Oh, yes. I got one of those taped to my door.”
“Probably because you’re seeing Max.”
“I’m not seeing Max,” my mother protested. “He’s just a friend.”
“And I was telling Honey about the concept of significant others,” Aunt Helene said.
“You mean like Birdie Rosen and Ben?” my mother asked.
“A perfect example,” she replied. “Just last week Birdie Rosen’s significant other, Ben, went into the hospital for open heart surgery and he never came out. When they were together, he treated her like a queen. When he went shopping for groceries, he’d buy one for him and one for her because he knew she was on a moderate income. He was not a rich man, but he was comfortable. He even paid whenever they went on dates or trips. They were going to take that Christmas cruise with their friends Max and Jean. The one Max has invited your mother to take with him. But after Ben died, where did that leave Birdie? Ben’s children were very appreciative of the fact that she had taken such good care of their father for all those years, but Birdie was still an outsider and they weren’t willing to share a penny of their inheritance with her. Since Ben never made specific provisions for Birdie in his will, she was left high and dry.”
“That’s sad,” I said.
“But around here, those are the realities of life,” Aunt Helene said.
“At least Birdie and Ben found a little bit of happiness in their final years, which is why I’m encouraging your mother to go to this dance. I don’t think I’ve seen her smile since your father died.”
“Exactly,” Mom said. “I’m in my final years, so what do I have to smile about?”
I knew what my mother meant, but I didn’t want to share my aging anxieties with her. She didn’t need the extra aggravation.
“Mother, that’s morbid and in your case, premature,” I argued. “You’re still young. And you’re beautiful. Why don’t you go to the dance? You can stay for a little while, and if you feel uncomfortable, Aunt Helene will take you home.”
My mother hesitated.
“Okay, I’ll go with you. I even brought a dress for just such an occasion.”
“But I have nothing to wear,” Dee Dee said, “except black.”
“Oh, well, now you sound like Cinderella,” I teased. “I think we need a shopping trip. Aunt Helene and I will be your fairy godmothers and find you something special to wear to the ball. And it’s turning cold in Atlanta. I’d like to buy you a holiday sweater. Nothing practical or classic. Something trendy and fun. We can make an afternoon of it—go to the salon, the works. You could use a nice haircut. Maybe I’ll even let Rumpelstiltskin mangle my hair.”
Aunt Helene’s hairdresser—I call him Rumpelstiltskin—has a heavy hand on the heat and his endless blow-drying has a tendency to turn my golden hair into straw. Some people go to their hairdressers for a haircut and blow-dry. Everyone went to Rumplestiltskin for his advice. The best place to go for window treatments, where to buy tile, who could build a cedar closet, the best painter, the best restaurant, the best hotel to stay on vacation—and the best gossip.
Aunt Helene lifted a few strands of hair from my head. “He can get rid of this gray, too.”
“I don’t have any gray hairs,” I objected. “They’re Arctic Blond. But I’m due for a cut. I’m always too busy to go to the salon in Atlanta. So, Mom, what do you say?”
“I say I need more than a new hairstyle and a dress. What I need is a facelift. All of my friends are getting facelifts.”
“Well, aren’t you lucky you don’t need one,” I replied, licking the hot tears from my mouth. Losing confidence was a sure sign that my mother was growing old. A facelift was the last thing she needed. Touching up my mother’s face would be like marring the Mona Lisa. Only my mother never smiled anymore. Maybe because she had no more secrets.
Chapter Five: The Silent Bullfrog
“Mom, I think we have to talk about this merger,” I said after Aunt Helene went home.
“You mean the sale,” she answered stubbornly.
“Well, that’s what we have to talk about,” I replied.
“Why don’t we go out to the pool, relax a little bit before our hair appointments,” my mother suggested. “We can talk there. Did you bring a bathing suit?”
“Yes,” I acknowledged, thinking, Who has time to swim? I was going to be gone the entire afternoon, between shopping and the salon. But this day was about my mother. “I’ll go change.”
After a restless night in a strange bed, listening to ’40s music in the background, I woke up disoriented, with big band sounds pounding in my head. No wonder my mother was on the verge of insanity. Marc was not the only one going through a midlife crisis. But Marc didn’t have to deal with an internal furnace that woke him up several times a night, never able to get comfortable enough to fall back to sleep. And Marc’s bedclothes weren’t drenched in sweat. But since I was a woman, I guessed my midlife crisis didn’t count, because I didn’t go acting out all my fantasies for the whole world to see.
I
had been too tired to unpack last night, but now I started hanging my clothes in the closet. My hand paused on the frothy lime green cocktail concoction that had originally belonged to Vicky. I planned to wear it when we took my mother to The Addison. The one Marc called my “mildew” dress. Vicky had purchased it for a Holy Land Foundation Dinner at her church, but when she put it on the evening of the event, she decided it was too risqué even for her, and especially for the bishops and monsignors. But I didn’t have Vicky’s cleavage problem. When I’d tried to return it, Vicky refused to take it back.
This dress should be worn to shake things up, I thought. Marc doesn’t like me in flashy colors. But after what he did to me, I shouldn’t have to answer to him anymore. And I wasn’t going to see Marc on this trip anyway.
I squeezed into a leopard-print, figure-hugging bathing suit. Not that anyone here would be alert enough to notice my figure, but it never hurts to look your best. I put on a long black eyelet cover-up, grabbed my wide-brimmed hat, sunglasses, and a file folder, and pulled my cell phone and BlackBerry from my purse.
When I returned to the living room, my mother was staring at my manila folder.
“You’re not going to bring work out to the pool are you?”
“Well a few Faxes came in that need my attention. I have some phone calls to return, and I brought the thumbnails that the agency did on the TV campaign I want to show you.”
“Honey, why can’t we just be a mother and daughter going out to the pool for a relaxing swim? Does it always have to be business between us?”
“We’re going out there precisely to talk about the business. You have a deadline coming up in a few days. I want to make sure you’ve considered all the consequences of an outright sale.”
“I’ve already been over this with Marc, and he says that is what’s best for—”
“Marc doesn’t speak for me,” I said abruptly. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“He’s been helping me structure the deal,” my mother said.
“I don’t want him involved in my business,” I said.
Significant Others Page 6
