by V. M. Burns
Amazingly, Dorothy didn’t seem to be humoring my grandmother. Nana Jo’s performance was inspired, and each year she got better and better.
Nana Jo looked at her three closest friends. “Who got the part?”
Ruby Mae put her head down and refused to make eye contact.
Irma Starczewski reached for her mug, but it was empty, so she pulled a flask out of her purse and took a swig.
Nana Jo put her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes, and stared at Dorothy.
For a large woman, almost six feet tall, Dorothy shrank as she stared at Nana Jo. “Maria Romanov.”
I thought Nana Jo was red before, but the beet red coloring from earlier was nothing compared to the purple red that crept up her neck.
“Maria Romanov? That two-bit hack’s only acting talent is in her ability to convince people she’s a decent human being.” Nana Jo pounded the table again, rattling the mugs.
Just as quickly as the anger flared up, it vanished. Nana Jo flopped down in a chair. Nearly as tall as Dorothy, Nana Jo went through a transformation. Instead of the vibrant, active, five-foot-ten, sharpshooting, aikido-tossing woman I knew and loved, there was a seventy-something, old woman in her place.
She took a few deep breaths. “If that’s what Horace wants, then I guess I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”
“Bull—”
“Irma!” we shouted.
Irma coughed and clamped her hand over her mouth. Years of heavy smoking, drinking, and hanging out with truckers, if Nana Jo was to be believed, had left her with a deep cough, a salacious sexual appetite, and a colorful vocabulary.
I leaned over and gave Nana Jo a hug. “Your performance was amazing and I’m not just saying that because you’re my grandmother.”
She absentmindedly patted my arm. “Thank you, Sam, but Horace Evans is a top-notch director. He once directed Ethel Merman.”
“He even won a Tony award. I’ve seen it. He keeps it in his bedroom.” Irma smiled and then broke out in a fit of coughing.
The fact that Nana Jo didn’t acknowledge Irma’s quip about the location of the award was an indication of her state of mind. “We’ve been fortunate to have someone with his experience and credentials at Shady Acres.”
“Really? I didn’t know he had a Tony award. They always run something about the Senior Follies in the newspaper, but they’ve never mentioned it.”
“He likes to keep it low-key.” Dorothy nodded. “He worked on Broadway for more than twenty years.”
“How in the world did he end up in Michigan?” I asked.
“He wanted to be close to his family.” Ruby Mae looked up from her knitting. “I think his son was an engineer for one of the car companies.”
North Harbor used to have a lot of manufacturing plants that supplied parts for the Detroit automobile industry, but when the economy went south in the seventies, so, too, did most of the manufacturing jobs.
“I appreciate the kind words, but Horace is an expert. If he thinks Maria Romanov will make a better Eudora Hooper than me, I’ll just have to accept his decision.”
We tried to cheer Nana Jo up, but nothing we said had any effect. She smiled and continued to shrink. Only once did she perk up and demonstrate the flash of fire which characterized her personality.
The door chimed and a customer entered the bookstore.
Nana Jo rose from her seat. “It’s time to face the music. On opening night, I hope you all break a leg.” She pushed her chair in and headed to the front of the store. “And I hope Maria Romanov breaks her neck.”
