Getting Old is Criminal

by Rita Lakin

  “We were playing gin rummy,” Bella interrupts. “We rush over to her apartment and she’s standing in the corner of the kitchen whimpering and swatting newspapers at the walls.

  “She kept telling us there were ants everywhere, but there weren’t any.”

  Ida’s eyes tear up. “It can’t be the onset of...” She can’t even say the word. Alzheimer’s.

  Since the hospital is literally across the street, we are there in one minute. We could have walked it, but with Bella and her arthritis, it would have taken twenty minutes. We hurriedly find out Sophie’s room number, get visitor badges, and rush to her side as quickly as we can.

  Sophie is not the put-together woman we know. She looks bedraggled and frightened. And suddenly old. She is trussed up to IVs and other paraphernalia.

  “Why didn’t you call us?” Ida demands. “We would have come with you.”

  Sophie starts to cry. “I don’t know. I suddenly didn’t remember your phone numbers.”

  Bella and Ida move closer, each taking a hand to hold.

  I kiss her gently on the forehead. “Tell us what happened, why you called for help.”

  “I just woke up and I felt really bad.”

  “Where? Your heart?”

  “I don’t know. Everywhere. I just didn’t feel like me. I thought I was going to pass out. Everything in my body was wrong, I don’t know! I was scared I was going to die. I didn’t want to be alone.” She starts to cry again, deep gasping sobs. I’ve never seen her like this before.

  “Well, well, what have we here?” In struts her beloved doctor, Dr. Friendly, the one we call Dr. Strangelove behind his back. He gives me the creeps. He is short and humped and wears large round glasses with black frames. And he always looks like he needs a shave. He’s mostly bald, but what few hairs he has left, he strings across the top of his head. What I hate the most is his smarmy smile. We move back from the bed, out of his way.

  “Sorry I’m so late. Emergencies happen all the time around here.”

  With you as their doctor, I don’t wonder. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Well, we won’t know until we take some more tests, will we?” He listens to her heartbeat, takes her blood pressure.

  Oh yes, lots of tests, lots of expensive tests. “But what are her symptoms?”

  “She doesn’t seem to have any that I can tell. But I’m sure we’ll get her back in shape, presto majesto, won’t we, darling?” He smiles at Sophie and she tries a small brave smile back. “Meanwhile, I’m giving you a little anxiety reliever,” he tells her as he makes another notation on her chart. “I don’t want my big girl to be worried.”

  That’s some great idea, I think, something to mask the real symptoms.

  “She already takes ten pills every day,” Ida says, with some anxiety of her own. “What’s really wrong with her?”

  “We’re still working on that little mystery, aren’t we? We have our cholesterol and our arrhythmia and our blood pressure and our weak bladder, our osteo, and our restless leg syndrome under control. Now let’s see what’s new.”

  He studies Sophie’s face and asks, “What’s this rash?” He checks her arms as he tsk-tsks under his breath.

  He briskly makes another notation on her chart and then pats Sophie’s cheek. “We might add an antibiotic while we’re at it.”

  She smiles wanly at him.

  “Gotta go, others need me.” With that, he trots out of the room like the white rabbit on his way to the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

  As soon as he leaves, Sophie’s pathetic smile disappears and she sits there softly sobbing, clutching our hands, not wanting to let go.

  “We have to call Jerome.”

  Ida agrees with me, but Bella shakes her head back and forth. “She will be so mad if you bother him.”

  We are sitting in my kitchen having breakfast. When I arrived last night I quickly checked my messages. None from Evvie. I was hoping she’d realize I’d gone and she’d call.

  Sophie’s son, Jerome, the jeweler in Brooklyn, has always seemed self-centered to me. The few times she has asked for something from him, he gave it grudgingly or not at all. He never comes to visit, but sends flowers on her birthday and syrupy Mother’s Day cards. Why am I sure he gets his wife to do it? “But he should know about this. Something is very wrong. Sophie has never been like this before. She seems so fragile.”

  “Maybe Dr. Strangelove is poisoning her,” Ida snaps.

  “What—and lose all the money she can still spend on him? I doubt he’d want to kill the fatted calf.”

  “You two are terrible,” Bella says. “You are so disrespectful. Besides, Sophie is not fat.”

  “He doesn’t deserve our respect. I still believe Jerome should be told.”

  Ida is worried. “Let’s think this through. He might come down here and decide Soph should move up north to some assisted-living facility. He’ll dump her in some awful place and forget about her. We’ll never see her again.”

  This stops us. Finally Ida scribbles on a piece of paper. “Glad, you call him, and if he mentions most of these words I’ve written, then we’re wasting our time.”

  I glance at the paper. She’s written “Too busy to talk, maybe he should look into assisted living,” “Can’t get down right now, busy season,” and “Keep an eye on her, call me later.”

  I look up Jerome’s store number. Bella pours more tea and finds some stale Oreo cookies to give us strength.

  I dial the number. Jerome answers. “Jerome, it’s Gladdy Gold. I’m calling because your mom’s in the hospital.” I listen. “No, it doesn’t seem too serious, but your mother needs some help. Perhaps you could come down for a few days and assess the situation.” I nod at Ida and repeat what he’s saying: “Oh, it’s your busy season.” Ida holds up one finger. “I think she needs a little support from her family.” Again I repeat his answer for them: “You think she should be in assisted living?” Ida scowls and holds up two fingers. “But you can’t be sure of that unless you come and see her. Oh, it’s not possible for you to talk right now; we should just keep an eye on her. Yes, we certainly will do that.”

  I shrug and hang up. Ida holds up three fingers, wiggling them now. Bella is amazed. “You must have ESP,” she tells her.

  “No, I just know a lazy good-for-nothing son when I see one.” Ida speaks from experience. Unfortunately.

  The ball is back in our court. “We have to figure out what’s wrong.”

  “What can we do?”

  “First, give her lots of love and attention. And then, maybe we’ll come up with something by ourselves.”

  Ida says, “We always do, don’t we? After all, we only have one another.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TROUBLES

  Conchetta and I sit in a cool spot behind the library on a couple of old patio chairs that have been there forever. It’s her lunch break and we’re catching up. She shakes her head as I tell her about Sophie and Dr. Strangelove. Sophie is home from the hospital now, but she doesn’t seem like her old self. More head shaking as I tell Conchetta about Evvie becoming one of the rich people overnight and taking up with a potential murderer.

  “Incredible.” Her head is still shaking as I tell her that Jack and I no longer see each other. Jack’s choice.

  “No, not Jack! He loves you.”

  “Maybe so, but he’s out of my life.”

  “Madre Dia! And all that’s happened this week?” she marvels as we sip water and fan ourselves with back-issue magazines left on the small patio. “Bet things were never this interesting in the years when you were a librarian.”

  “That’s for sure,” I say. “The plots were always in the books, not in my life. How’s your family?”

  “Pretty dull compared to your comings and goings. My sister, Nina, is pregnant again. The family is hoping for a boy after three girls.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Never mind me. You seem so unhappy, amiga.”

  “I’m
miserable. I’m so tired of trying to take care of everyone and their problems. I guess I need somebody for me to lean on.”

  She angles her ample shoulder toward me. “This one’s available.”

  I take her up on her offer. I lean into her and we sit that way quietly for a few moments, listening to the sounds of ducks in the near distance. All the houses in this neighborhood back onto canals. And ducks are ever-present.

  Conchetta breaks the silence. “Let me quote my uncle Paco. No matter what’s wrong, he always says get a second opinion. The car won’t work, the mechanic wants to bill you five hundred bucks for a valve job. Paco’s advice: Get another opinion. Sophie’s doctor is a quack at best, so get...”

  I finish it for her. “Another opinion.”

  “Yes. And this case of yours, ditto. Evvie is not thinking clearly right now. Discuss it with someone who’s not emotionally involved.”

  “You’re on a roll. And Jack?”

  “That’s a puzzle. I think you need to wait until you see him again. And you will. He’s a good man. He wouldn’t want to make you unhappy.”

  “He already has. Guess there’s no statute of limitations on getting dumped no matter how old you are.”

  More sitting quietly. A gaily colored kite appears, flying lazily above us. Then it disappears over the palm trees. “Conchetta, lately I’ve been thinking of our old group. When Francie was still alive, when Millie didn’t have Alzheimer’s. Sandy and Joan hadn’t moved back north. You were always the baby in the group among us old bags. Remember the fun we had?”

  “Sure do. The concerts we went to, the lectures, the crazy Bollywood movies from India that we loved.”

  “What I liked best about them is the way hundreds of people would just appear and sing and dance regardless of the plot.”

  I’m starting to feel better already. I start to giggle.

  “And the wild parties we had for the Oscars when we dressed up as characters from the nominated movies. Remember when you came as Darth Vader and your pants dropped off when you and Sandy were having a sword fight?”

  Now Conchetta is giggling as well.

  “Oh, what about election nights? The screaming and throwing popcorn at the TV set every time you-know-who captured a state.”

  She hits me playfully on the shoulder. I hit back. “Please don’t remind me. Millie, Sandy and Joan, and Francie tap-dancing to that song they wrote called ‘Chads: Dimples, Hanging, and Preggy.’ Silliness like that. Don’t get me started on stuffing ballot boxes.”

  I laugh out loud. It’s the first time in a while. How nice to be spending a relaxing time with a friend. “We don’t have much fun anymore. No, I shouldn’t say that. You and your family still laugh a lot.”

  “You don’t hear us when we discuss Cuba.”

  “I feel discombobulated. I want to go back when we were all together.”

  “Not going to happen, pobrecita. You have to make do with what is. As you very well know.” “Remember Francie always saying carpe diem? Seize the day!”

  “Yeah, and she was right. Take every day and make it count.”

  “And she did. Every day was to be lived to the fullest for Francie. Now she’s gone—”

  Barney pops out of the back door. “School bus with a zillion noisy teenagers. Help!” He hurries back inside.

  We get up, stretch. “I feel like I’m one hundred years old,” I say.

  “Me, too, and I’m only thirty-eight.”

  We laugh and hug each other and I feel a little better.

  That afternoon I drive back to Wilmington House in Alvin’s Caddy. I feel like a yo-yo. I almost forgot to change cars. Can you imagine the looks I’d get from the attendants if I accidentally drove the old Chevy up to the entrance?

  Ida will keep an eye on Sophie and report to me. This is difficult. I feel I need to be in both places and it’s not possible. My priority right now is finding out what Evvie is up to.

  Of course, that might not be so easy. When I go upstairs, Evvie is not in her room. Where has my sister gone now?

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE POND

  They are the only ones near the pond. Philip has picked out a solitary spot where they won’t be seen easily from the path. Evvie sits on the grass at the edge, letting her bare feet dangle in the cool water. Philip is at her side, holding her hand. She wears a lovely pale yellow, strapless sundress. Her matching sandals lie nearby. As she leans toward him, a small bottle of pills drop out of the pocket of her dress. He quickly reaches for them before they roll down into the water.

  “Oh, goodness, I forgot my pills.”

  He hands her a bottle of water and then examines the medications container. “There’s no label.” Gently pulling the container away from him, she thinks quickly. She could tell him the truth, that the pills are vitamins, but then why carry those, when she supposedly has a life-threatening illness? “I always carry them in a small bottle instead of dragging the larger one they came in. ”

  “What are you taking?”

  She hesitates. He smiles and reaches into his jacket and pulls out a bottle as well. He winks. “You tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

  Evvie tries to remember what Sophie takes for her heart. “Dijoxin.” She takes one pill out and swallows it with water, then puts the bottle back in her pocket. Playfully, she reaches for his bottle. She has to divert him. She hopes he doesn’t know that Sophie’s pill is white and quite small, unlike the large gray vitamin.

  “It’s Vicodin.”

  “I’ve heard of it. What’s it for?”

  “Migraines. I’ve had them all my life.”

  “Oh, you poor dear, they must be painful.”

  “Yes, they are.” He looks at her bottle again. “Is that all you take? Just the one? What exactly is your condition?”

  Her mind is working as fast as it can. “I have my other pills in the morning.” She reaches for his hand again. “It’s such a beautiful day; let’s not waste it on depressing subjects. We’ll start to sound like really old people who only want to talk about their illnesses.”

  “You are right, my dear.” He kisses her hand, and looking deep into her eyes, he recites, “ ‘Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that’s the stuff life is made of.’ Ben Franklin. ”

  Evvie rallies. She can handle this. “How about, ‘Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Old Time is still a-flying.’ Robert Herrick.”

  He continues it. “ ‘And this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dying.’ ”

  It’s a strange moment. Evvie is sorry she chose that poem; she had forgotten those next chilling lines, yet Philip seems pleased. How charming that he loves poetry as much as she does. It was poetry that got her through the lonely years at school when she felt so awkward and unattractive. And when she wasn’t reading poetry, she was acting. Her shy, real self would disappear while playing the wonderful parts onstage. Cruel queens, famous heroines, and gorgeous debutantes: that’s when Evvie came alive. On the stage. But it all came to nothing, Evvie thinks bitterly. Her parents had forbidden her to pursue a theater career. She was expected to pick some neighborhood boy and get married.

  Philip leans closer to her, his lips nearly touching hers again. She pulls away slightly. Being outdoors makes her nervous. What if someone should come along? She has to change the mood. “You have such a beautiful voice, Philip. Did you ever have professional training?”

  “No, my dear, these are the affectations of English private schools. Or as they call them, public schools.” This time he kisses her lips gently.

  Footsteps crunch along the nearby path and Evvie instinctively pulls away.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE BUSYBODY

  It takes me a while, but finally I find Evvie sitting on the grass next to the pond. I hurry toward her, and then stop when I realize she is not alone. She is with Philip. They are holding hands and looking longingly at each other. Evvie is wearing another expensive-looking new outfit, something sexier than
the clothes we originally bought.

  I hesitate. Part of me doesn’t want to intrude. The more sensible part says this is a job and I’d better check up on my assistant. I pretend to be strolling and just happen to see the happy couple. Now I get to play the hypocrite.

  “Evelyn. Philip. Hello, there.” My voice is an octave higher than normal. I am fairly trilling. Evvie startles and, caught off guard, throws me a dirty look. Philip immediately stands up, dusts his pants, and breaks out the charm.

  “Gladys Gold,” I say quickly, before he realizes he’s never seen me before. “We met Saturday night. At the mixer.”

  Naturally, he won’t admit he doesn’t recognize me. “But of course,” he says. “Though it was rather crowded.”

  “Yes, wasn’t it? But such fun.”

  He gazes down at Evvie. “It certainly was.” Luckily there is a bench right next to them, so I perch at the edge. If I sat down on the grass, I’d never be able to pull myself up. I indicate Philip should sit again, but he doesn’t. “Don’t let me disturb you,” I babble on. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you when we spoke that night, we had something in common.”

  “Really?” He is losing interest, but what I’m about to say should grab his attention.

  “Oh, really?” Evvie adds, her voice like ice. You, too, sister dear. This ought to teach you not to be so smart. “Yes, my niece, Myra, works at Grecian Villas. You know, she works for Mrs. Gordon, the manager? Myra told me so much about you.”

  There is the slightest twitch in his eyes, but he pretends delight. “Yes, of course I remember her. A lovely lady. Very kind.”

  My dear sister is sizzling. I can always tell when she is angry because her earlobes turn red. Evvie reaches out to Philip. “Philip, dear, we have to leave.”

  He gallantly helps her stand as I glare at Evvie from behind his back. Don’t you dare, I mouth to her angrily.

  Evvie, spiting me, puts her arm through his and starts to lead him away. “So sorry. We have an appointment,” she says to me, ever so sweetly.