Gotta Dance with the One Who Brung Ya - sex, scandals and sweethearts

by Jon McDonald

  She led me further into the room. She looked to be in her late sixties or early seventies, was no more than five feet tall, and she walked with a cane. The walls were covered in Russian Icons. Some looked old, and were probably very valuable. There was a cleared oasis on one side of the room with a couch, an overstuffed chair, a lamp and a TV set, but everywhere else the room was filled with cardboard boxes, trunks and dozens of plastic trash bags bulging with lumpy, unknown objects.

  “I want to ask you a question,” she leaned forward and pulled at my sleeve.

  “Okay,” I complied.

  “Are you interested in making money?”

  Oops, what have we got here? - the thought flashed through my mind. Not interested in any hanky panky, lady.

  “I certainly am interested. What have you got in mind?” I finally answered, being the perfect gentleman that I was - especially to little old ladies.

  “I get money from the county for my disability. I need assistance every day and they will pay you $150 a month. Just a couple hours work a day. Are you interested?”

  It seemed the universe was kicking in after all.

  “I would love to help you. What exactly do you need me to do?” I was thrilled that we would be able to cover our rent. Orlando, a dancer, had already arranged to teach some dance and movement workshops, and his fees would probably cover the rest of our modest expenses.

  “I cannot walk too good. I was a nurse and was attacked by the Black Panthers at a bus stop on my way to work at the hospital very early one morning. The doctors pronounced me dead, and as I floated above my body, I looked down and could see one young doctor continuing to work on me. He opened me up and massaged my heart and I went Boom back into my body. Just like that - Boom!” She clapped her hands together. “Such a lot of pain. But he saved my life. That is why I am disabled. I can’t work. The county gives me assistance. And I need you to help me a little each morning. Some mornings I need cleaning. Sometimes we go to the supermarket, the bank, or the post office. And I need help preparing food.”

  “I have an idea, then,” I spoke up. “Orlando and I cook for ourselves each evening. We could make extra food and bring you down a plate when we eat. It’s good. We’re great cooks. Is there anything you don’t eat?”

  “Oh that sounds wonderful. Yes, that would be very nice. No fresh spinach. No baloney. No brussel sprouts.”

  “When do you want me to start? We could bring your first dinner down tomorrow evening, if that suits you.”

  “Yes, yes.” She went over to her dressing table behind the screens and came back with a bank envelope. “Here, this is for you for the first month. And I will give you money for food too.” She went to her purse and took out twenty dollars. “Let me know when this runs out. And buy yourself a sweetie. Can you come down tomorrow at ten? I need to go to the market. You come with me. Okay, okay?”

  “Ten o’clock it shall be. See you then.”

  I went upstairs and did a little ‘thank you universe’ dance.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  I arrived at ten o’clock on the dot the next morning, ready to take Magdalena to the supermarket on Turk Street - which was only a few blocks away.

  “Knock, knock,” I announced, as I poked my head in her front door.

  “Yes, yes, come in,” she directed, calling me into her boudoir, where she was at her dressing table. “Come sit with me. Come on,” she urged. I entered, and pulled up a chair next to her. Behind the screens, and next to her bed, were stacks of trunks, more cardboard boxes, piles of old San Francisco Chronicles, glossy magazines, hat boxes and cloth covered boxes tied with large, silk ribbons.

  “Here.” She scrabbled around in a bowl on her dressing table and pulled out a key. “Just let yourself in. Good to have for emergency too. I’m not too well you know. The doctor opened my heart, and now I have heart problems. Have to take many medyecins,” she said with her Russian accent.

  “I understand. Thanks. Good to have the key. I can let myself in to bring your supper too.”

  “Here, let’s make a list for the store.” She handed me a pencil and the back of an envelope. “I need tissues, make-up – gotta see what’s on sale. I need Fourth of July cards for my daughter, my granddaughter, and my doctors. I need bread and crackers. I need medyecins – these need to be refilled.” She shoved a half dozen medicine bottles towards me to write down on the list. “I need cereal and milk. Maybe more, but that’s all I can think of right now.”

  She then began applying her eye shadow, and then her lipstick. She had somehow lost the art of a straight line, or even a gentle curve, and she blinked and bumbled her way through the haphazard makeup applications. This took at least fifteen minutes. During this episode she regaled me with her history.

  “My father was a Russian doctor, but we lived in China. My husband was Russian too, but we met and married in China. He was captured by the Japanese during World War Two, and held as a prisoner of war. I never saw him again. When the Communists took over China my daughter and I, we were forced to leave. We had two choices – go to Australia or go Brazil. We go Brazil. But always I wanted to come to America. I raise daughter all by myself. I was a dancer. See that?” She pointed to a garment hanging from one of the bedroom screens in a plastic dry cleaning bag. It was more like a coat than a dress. It was composed of highly ornate Chinese gold cloth with sparkles and long sleeves.

  “I did exotic dance. Very classical - very Russian - very Chinese. I danced and danced. Men threw many moneyees at me. I keep it all to come to America.”

  She had put on a skullcap, made from old panty hose, over her thin pasty hair, and fastened it with bobby pins. Then she positioned the red wig atop her head. The wig was so cheap it looked like a motel carpet. Then on top of that went the hat - a round pillbox with a veil, which she pulled down over her face to become the Marlene Dietrich in Shanghai Express. All she lacked was a blood red camellia and a ruff of black feathers.

  “My coat.” She gestured towards a ratty, grease spotted, blue wool coat on a chair next to her dressing table. I brought it over, resisting the temptation to first shake it out a window to release any mice or old bird nests. I helped her into it.

  “Okay, we go now.” She rose, took her cane and her handbag, and was ready to start out the door.

  “Ah Magdalena, aren’t you forgetting something?” I pointed out as gently as I could.

  “What?”

  “Shoes.”

  “Oh,” she exclaimed with a hoot and a laugh. “See, that’s why I need you. The doctor opened up my heart you know, and now I cannot remember anyeething.”

  It took us forty-five minutes to walk the few blocks to the store. She had to stop every few yards to catch her breath. For me, my first radical lesson in patience.

  When we arrived at the store, I was not allowed to quickly run around picking up what was needed on her list, in my very focused and efficient manner. No, I had to go with her while she picked out each and every single item by herself. And, of course, each cereal box had to be examined, and the labels read, like she was one of the American Founding Fathers examining the Constitution for imprecise words.

  Then, welcome to the makeup isle. Each sale item was fingered, removed from the shelf, turned over several times, and selected or replaced. Lipstick shades were compared like Michelangelo choosing colors for the Sistine Chapel. Cuticle remover, cotton balls, Q-tips, eye shadow, false lashes and adhesive were collected and placed carefully in the shopping cart like she was collecting uncooked Easter eggs.

  Then we had to wait in cracked plastic chairs while her prescriptions were refilled. No, we couldn’t go about the store on the other errands, and just come back to pick up the medyecines when they were ready. No, we had to sit and wait, along with a line of junkies, hungering for their methadone fixes. She asked me to remind her to pick up an additional card for the pharmacist when we selected the greeting cards - the last item on her list.

  I never knew there were so-o-o many greeting
cards for the Fourth of July. Each one had to be opened, read aloud, and considered in great detail. And only then, were the winners selected for each recipient on her list.

  But not only did we need to select cards for each member of the family, all her doctors and nurses and the pharmacist, but we also needed to get additional birthday cards, graduation cards, get well cards, and bereavement cards in case some of her friends at the senior center suddenly kicked the bucket before her next visit to the supermarket.

  Then finally we were at the checkout counter. Coins were carefully counted out, after each bill had been placed on the counter one at a time. The glaring looks from those impatient folks standing in the line behind us signaled imminent mutiny.

  Finally we were able to leave the grocery. And as a special treat we got to take a taxi back to the house. After all, we now had shopping bags to carry.

  The whole morning consisted of four hours, for which I was being paid for two. But I was not going to complain. After all, every day could not be like this one. Right?

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  Orlando and I carefully plated up Magdalena’s meal each evening, and I took it down to her at 6:30. I would let myself in with the key and sometimes, when she was napping, I would leave the plate in her little pocket kitchen. She would place the empty plate for me outside her door when she was finished, and I would pick it up before going to bed.

  The days went by simply enough. Some days the work was short. A quick clean, or perhaps I’d help her read and understand her mail, as even with glasses she couldn’t see very well any more. While government form letters were always a puzzle to her. And then there were the shopping days, which were always lengthy, labored, and very tedious. I was earning s-o-o-o many Heavenly Brownie Points. I was becoming the Olympic Champion of Patience.

  Then one morning when I arrived, Magdalena was all abustle. She had a very special project for us that day. She went once a month to a local senior center to tell fortunes - as a Russian Gypsy. Today was the day to prepare the fortunes. She had a stack of index cards, and a stack of horoscopes that she had cut out of the daily newspaper. She had me separate the individual horoscopes from each horoscope column, and regardless of which sign was represented, she had me paste each one onto an index card until the card was filled up. Then we would cut up the card, separating all the individually pasted horoscopes, and she put them into a cloth bag she kept especially for that purpose.

  When she did her gypsy routine at the senior center, she would put on a record of Russian gypsy music, and dance her very classical, very Russian, very Chinese dance extravaganza. And when she was finished, she would have each senior select a piece of index card out of her bag, and then Magdalena would read their fortune aloud to them. This she did every month, and that was the highlight of her otherwise simple and restricted life. Somehow the fact that the doctor had opened her heart did not seem to matter to her all that much at these times.

  When I left her that morning she was in a state of high excitement, and urged me to be early the next morning, as the taxi was coming for her at 9:30, and she had to be all made up, dressed, and ready to go long before that.

  So the next morning I arrived at eight o’clock. She was already at her dressing table, wrestling with the transformation from little old lady to exotic gypsy. She was wearing a long red, full skirt; an intricately embroidered white peasant blouse; a floral fringed shawl tied around her waist, and a silk kerchief tied tightly behind her head. And finally, a large single gold earring dangled from her left ear.

  She saw me come in, and leapt from the dressing table, twirling around in circles, without her cane, in Romany pirouettes.

  “You like? You like Magdalena – the Russian gypsy princess?”

  “Charming. Disarming. An unstoppable force of nature,” I exclaimed, while somewhat apprehensive that she might also take a tumble. But her years as a dancer did not desert her, and she flowed across the room, her eyes shining, and a huge smile enlivening her face.

  She was ready long before the taxi arrived. She put on her coat and checked her bag three or four times to make certain that she had not forgotten her little bag of fortunes. She re-examined her makeup, and finally had me escort her downstairs to the street where we were to wait for the taxi.

  “Oh thank you so very much,” she smiled and patted my hand as I helped her into the back seat of the cab. She waved, as the cab sped off for the, no more than five-minute, ride to the senior center and her, once again, gala performance.

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  It was Magdalena’s birthday, and we were to celebrate with a party in our apartment with Miss K as the guest of honor. She refused to let me help her dress for the party that evening. She wanted her appearance to be a surprise.

  Orlando and I baked a birthday cake, and planned a special Russian meal of borscht, pierogi – a delicacy from a local Russian bakery - and a salad.

  From our kitchen we could look down upon, and through, a window of the Russian church next door. San Francisco had a large Russian population, and besides the numerous small churches scattered throughout the city, there was a major Russian Cathedral out west on Geary Boulevard. Magdalena very much wanted me to take her to a service there one day. This would be a special adventure, as it was not something she could do by herself any more. So most weeks she attended the church next door. And that is one reason why she had chosen her apartment – to be next to the church.

  Often we would look down through the open church window in the summer and catch a service underway - with the wonderful singing, the swinging incense burners, and the ringing hand bells accentuating the stages of the service.

  Magdalena had become more open and playful with Orlando and me as she got to know us better. She loved to surprise us with little gifts and, of course, greeting cards for every imaginable holiday, Russian saint’s day, or even a graduation celebration for the daughter of one of her doctors.

  She was in gay spirits as Orlando escorted her up the stairs to our apartment this evening. To mark the special birthday occasion she was dressed in a floral silk dress, a necklace of paste diamonds, and a matching tiara atop a blond wig. I was busy in the kitchen finishing up the borscht that would be served before the pierogi.

  Orlando took her into our living room where we had a table set with some flowers, candles, wine, and a couple of silly presents that were nicely wrapped - each with a greeting card, which we knew she would like. He got her comfortably seated, and we began serving dinner immediately, as we knew she went to bed early, and we didn’t want to over-tire her with a late night.

  She was delighted when we presented her with the birthday cake. And after having had a few glasses of wine during dinner, she had become mellow, contemplative and a little sad. Orlando asked her about her daughter, Elaina.

  “Where does she live?” Orlando asked. “Do you see her often?”

  Magdalena hesitated before speaking. It was clear to me that this was a delicate subject, painful for her to talk about.

  “She lives in San Bruno,” Magdalena said. “She wants to come visit, but she has a daughter, and it’s very difficult for her to get away.”

  “Just down the peninsula. That’s not too far. Then do you go visit her?” Orlando followed up.

  Magdalena pursed her lips several times before answering. “Not able to travel that far.”

  “Do you have any pictures of your daughter and granddaughter?” Orlando asked, trying to show his interest and raise her spirits.

  “I’ll show you sometime,” she answered. “But they are very old pictures.”

  “That’s okay. You can show us when you want.” I tried to divert the conversation, as I knew her daughter’s indifference was painful to her.

  “I think it’s present time, don’t you?” I asked cheerily. Magdalena’s eyes lit up, and with her Betty Boop lips she gave each of us a kiss on the cheek. “You are such nice boys. But you don’t look like brothers,” she twinkled.

  “Oh Magdal
ena, we’re not brothers. I’ve told you that. Look at us. Orlando is very dark and from Paraguay. And I am blond and from Cincinnati. How could we be brothers?” I teased back.

  “Oh yes, I know. This is San Francisco. I watch television. My doctor is like that too, you know. But to me you are cute little brothers.”

  I had another birthday surprise for her besides the wrapped presents. “Magdalena, as your very special birthday treat,” I offered, leaning in closer, “I’m going to take you to the Russian Cathedral on any day and time of your choosing.”

  Her eyes lit up, and she clapped her hands together in great delight. “Spasiba, spasiba!”

  ◘ ◘ ◘

  A visit to the Russian Holy Virgin Cathedral for Magdalena was like a visit to Mecca for a Muslim. This was an important event to be prepared for weeks in advance. She booked the taxi three weeks ahead of our departure. She bought a new wig that took us an hour to pick out at the beauty supply store, and she dug deeply into her Chinese trunk looking for the special lace shawl with which to cover her head in the Presence.

  The day finally arrived, and she made sure I was dressed in at least a shirt and tie, as I did not own a suit or sport jacket. She had packed a bag with oranges and apples for sustenance. With those she packed a container of wipes, hand cream, sunglasses, a map, lipstick, nail polish, blush, hair spray, scissors, two spoons, a water bottle, and a toothbrush. One had to be well prepared for a pilgrimage to face the Lord.

  When I came down to pick her up she was seated on the sofa, completely dressed, the mantle over her head, white lace gloves on her hands, and the fully packed bag beside her on the floor, handbag in her lap.

  “I guess there’s no need to ask if you are ready.” I said, perhaps a little unkindly.

  “I called the taxi to make sure it would be here on time. The service is at twelve.”

  “But the taxi is coming at ten. I’m sure we will arrive in plenty of time. Early even.”

  She tusked at me. It was nine-thirty. “Let’s go down now.”