Getting Old is Criminal

by Rita Lakin

“Well, we know two things about this man already. He is compulsive about keeping to a schedule. And he plans everything in advance.

  “But what’s he really up to?” I wonder.

  “Up to no good, I would guess.” Casey leans back on her desk chair, relaxing. “Interesting case you guys have.”

  “Okay. What about Seaside Cliffs?”

  “All we know is he had a lady friend named Elsie Rogers. When she died of natural causes, he moved again.”

  “Any bets on the dates?” Barbi asks sarcastically. Barbi slides back to her desk and types once more. After a few moments she turns. “He met Elsie in January. She died at the end of March. He left right afterward, and one might guess, crying crocodile tears. Off on another month’s vacation. A mourning period, hey? This man is some piece of work. Let’s go back even further. Let’s try last year.”

  Again the typing. Casey reports. “Roman Villas, Tallahassee. September, October, November, last year. And again December off for good behavior. Hmm. Nobody died. He had an affair with a Pearl Mosher, but that’s all it says.”

  Ida is perturbed. “How can your machines tell you that?”

  Barbi answers for her. They like to take turns. “If it’s in writing somewhere, we can pick it up. The retirement communities have in-house news-papers. Just check the gossip columns.”

  Now Casey again. “Before that, Savannah, Georgia, then Macon, Georgia. Our boy has been moving his way down south.”

  “And no doubt the same pattern,” says Barbi. “Wonder why nobody ever checked all the other retirement communities before they let him in?”

  I stare at the sheet of paper in my hand, more and more worried. “Because, as I’ve said, he’s charming, and because he had the money to get in. As long as he had no police record, why not take him in? He always gets great recommendations from the previous facility. After all, they describe him as a ‘saint.’ ”

  Casey asks, “In Wilmington House, has he picked a new lady friend yet?”

  I say, choking on it, “Yes, he has.”

  “Anyone wanna place bets that he’ll be out of there by November thirtieth?” says Barbi to Casey. They laugh.

  I shudder. Will it be Evvie who dies of an “accident” before the end of November? Ida is thinking the same thing. She looks at me, eyes wide in fright. But then, it’s still early September, I think; she’s still safe. They only just met.

  “Wow!” All this time Barbi continues typing. She turns and faces us. “Wow!”

  “What?” Casey says, “Spit it out.”

  “He’s followed exactly the same pattern for ten years previously, plus this year, making it eleven. And...”

  We all react nervously to her excitement. “And what?” I ask.

  Barbi looks at us with an expression of disbelief on her face. “Before that, there is no residence for a Philip Smythe. As far as I can tell—there is no record anywhere of this man named Philip Smythe.”

  FORTY

  TEARS IN THE GARDEN

  It was one of those days when wise people stayed indoors. Seniors especially didn’t dare venture out. The heat in Tallahassee was oppressive, the humidity breaking records. But for the Cuban laborers excavating dirt for the new swimming pool, the weather didn’t matter; a job was a job. Roman Villas, a sister to the more southern Grecian Villas, was putting in a lap pool. Their gardens, which lay at the extreme border of their property, were considered a waste. Nobody bothered to walk that far just to smell the flowers. And over the years their questionnaire asking “What would you like added” yielded many requests for a lap pool. Business was good; Roman Villas could use the tax break. Thus the new pool.

  The laborers dug. Beautiful flower beds were being transferred by wheelbarrows to other areas. The clods of dirt spewed dust into the workers’ nostrils.

  Pedro Reyes angled his shovel deeper down below the hydrangeas he had just lifted out. The shovel was stopped by something odd. Surprised, he bent down to check it out. His shovel had hit plastic sheeting. His eyes suddenly met other eyes. Dead eyes. Attached to a body. A dead body, seeming to stare accusingly at him through the plastic covering. Pedro jumped up and gasped, his shovel flying through the air. “Madre mia, es muerto!” He moved hurriedly from the offending sight and crossed himself.

  Immediately the other workers ran to see for themselves. Ninety-year-old Pearl Mosher, who had been a chaste woman all her life, was now stared at by workers horrified at seeing what was left of her dead, naked body.

  FORTY-ONE

  AT THE MOVIES

  They sit in the last row of the theater so they won’t disturb anyone else—or be seen, for that matter. They eat popcorn sloppily and whisper and giggle and kiss and touch each other playfully.

  “We’re behaving like teenagers.” Evvie feeds Philip a handful of popcorn. She has never had so much fun with a man before, she thinks. Every day she falls more in love with him.

  “Did you ever behave like this as a teenager?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s about time.”

  “We should be ashamed of ourselves.”

  He nuzzles her neck. “No, we shouldn’t. We’re making up for all we missed in the past, and besides, we’re more fun than the movie.”

  They are watching a romantic French classic, Belle de Jour.

  She pushes him playfully. “Stop it. I can’t read the subtitles.”

  He nuzzles her again. “You want to know what they’re saying? Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime.” Each word punctuated with a tiny kiss.

  The “client” in the brothel on screen puts his hand on Catherine Deneuve’s breast. Philip does the same to Evvie.

  She smacks his hand. “You’re shameless.”

  “I’m only following the plot, step by step.”

  “You are so naughty. ” Evvie looks around, worried someone is watching them, but it’s the late show and few people are in the audience. She even hears snoring wafting from somewhere down below.

  “Okay,” she says. “Pay attention. I’ve got one. A Kiss Before Dying. Author?”

  “Ira Levin, from his novel of the same name.”

  “Actress? The original, not the remake.”

  “Joanne Woodward.”

  “Leading man?”

  Philip hesitates. “You got me. I forgot.”

  “Robert Wagner. I win.”

  “And this is your reward, Miss Smarty-pants.” He kisses her, hard, leaving her breathless.

  “We’re going to be arrested for indecent exposure. We’ll be disgraced in front of everybody.”

  “Who cares. My turn. A Place in the Sun. Author.”

  “Theodore Dreiser.”

  “Original title?”

  “An American Tragedy.”

  “Female lead?”

  “Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “Male lead?”

  “Montgomery Clift.”

  “Other female lead?”

  “Shelley Winters.”

  “Director?”

  Evvie is stumped. “No fair, only four questions allowed.”

  “George Stevens. You lose. My pleasure.”

  Evvie throws the rest of her popcorn at him. “Come on.” He takes her hand and places it on his knee.

  “How come you only choose movies where innocent women are murdered?”

  He moves her hand up his leg, slowly.

  Evvie gets with it, teasing him with light touches. He moans.

  Suddenly, Philip pushes her away, his whole body shaking as he cries out in pain.

  “What is it? Are you all right?”

  His hands move to his head.

  “You look like you’re in pain. What is it?”

  “It’s these damn migraines.” Philip presses his left hand against his temple as if to push the pain away. Then he reaches his other hand in his pocket and pulls out his medication. He’s trembling so hard, he can hardly open the container. Finally he manages to shake out two pills. Evvie quickly pulls the cap off their water b
ottle and hands it to him.

  Philip leans his head back against the seat, his eyes closed, his body shuddering. He moans quietly for a few minutes, then he opens his eyes again.

  “Are you all right, my darling?” She is frightened for him.

  “Forgive me, Evelyn, my dearest. For a moment I wasn’t myself.”

  With that he closes his eyes again as Evvie gently wipes his sweating face.

  FORTY-TWO

  FRIENDS AND SISTERS

  Ida tries to console me. I have been trying to reach Evvie ever since we got home from Barbi and Casey’s Gossip meeting. She doesn’t return my calls. Ida and I go for a walk to help me calm my nerves. When we get back there’s a message on the machine. From Evvie. For a moment, I have hope. I listen, then rewind it and listen again.

  “Stop calling. There is nothing you can say that I would want to hear. I am very happy. Leave me alone.”

  I start to rewind again, but Ida takes my hand. “Glad, enough. Stop torturing yourself.”

  “I know. It’s just so hard to let her go.”

  “In all the time I’ve known you two, I’ve never seen her like this before.”

  “It’s because she hasn’t wanted anything badly enough. Believe me, when she really wants something she’ll do anything to have it. Like when she was a kid, she was always jealous of me. She couldn’t get it through her head I got things before her because I was the older one. When I got the two-wheeler bike first, she wanted one, too, and right away. Mom would tell her that in two years it would be her turn. She’d throw a tantrum. You can imagine how she behaved when I brought home my first boyfriend. She did everything she could to sabotage us.”

  “Good old sibling rivalry. I only have a brother and we always hated each other’s guts, but we never wanted what the other one got.”

  “My favorite memory is when Evvie found a dead mouse and put it under the couch where my boyfriend and I were sitting. The smell drove him home.”

  Ida grins. And I do, too.

  I can’t keep my eyes off the answering machine. Ida shakes her head. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “But she’s in real danger.”

  “If you insist on trying to interfere with Evvie and her obsession with Philip, you’ll only make her dig deeper in. You can’t reach her that way. I know that for a fact.” Ida turns to the window, her back to me. “That’s how I lost my son. Andy was going with Sheila, and they broke up. I made the mistake of telling him I never liked her; and I listed all her awful qualities. When they made up again and got married, neither of them wanted anything more to do with me.”

  It’s been years since Ida mentioned the rift in her family. But she never told me why they never write, why they don’t let her visit her grandchildren.

  “I tried to apologize. They weren’t interested. She turned my weak-willed son totally against me.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  She nods, through tears. Her voice is hesitant, as if she’s choosing her words carefully. “I guess I’ve always wanted to tell somebody. It would have been you, but you and Evvie were so close...”

  “I wish you had. How did you keep all this in without cracking?”

  She smiles wryly. “Maybe by becoming a bitch?”

  I reach out and hug her. I remember when Ida moved in. It was fifteen years ago or so. She came alone. She wasn’t interested in making friends and stayed by herself a lot. But slowly, I am guessing, when she felt safe, she started joining in the activities around here. She never spoke of her family except to mention her son and his family in California. But she said very little. And we were always aware she wrote them letters but they weren’t answered. She had no family pictures hanging anywhere in her apartment. But why do I feel she is still leaving something out?

  Briskly, Ida changes the subject. “I know this is different. It could be a matter of life and death.”

  “I have to warn Evvie.”

  “She won’t believe you. But you can’t get through to her by bad-mouthing Philip. Not yet, anyway. We have to wait for the right opportunity.”

  “You’re a wise old owl,” I say, hugging her. We both shed a few tears and feel better. “Let’s try and concentrate on something happier. Like the up-coming Tessie-Sol marriage.”

  Ida starts to laugh. “Did you see the expression on his face when Tessie saved his ass by proposing to him?”

  “I had the feeling he’d rather have been hauled off to jail.” Now I’m laughing.

  “I bet he’ll lose that sex urge for good the minute she gets naked.”

  “And then he’ll have to go back to being the Peeper.”

  Laughing hard feels so good.

  I lie on the couch. Ida went home hours ago. I am so tired, but I can’t sleep. I miss my partner, my sister. She was always my other half. What I didn’t know, Evvie usually did. Her insights were sharp. They complemented mine. If I saw something one way, she’d figure out the other angle. We should be sitting next to each other right now, excitedly firing away our thoughts. We’d put our heads together and come up with the solution. I still can’t believe she’s not here.

  All along, even when I was worried about her playing the role of a widow, I felt she had good instincts about Philip. But that was before she fell under his spell.

  I close my eyes and try to recall the things she said. My mind conjures up our first meeting with the Fergusons. When Evvie heard Philip’s name, what was her comment? After a few moments it comes to me. She said what a la-di-da name. As if he was already sounding phony.

  I sit up. I’m getting excited. Evvie, dear, you were onto him and you didn’t know it. I try to remember the next comment she made about him. But first, I raid the fridge. A few cookies with lots of sugar might help. Nervous eating is called for.

  Then when Smythe made his grand entrance at Wilmington House, Evvie said he could play Dracula in summer stock. Even then he seemed unreal to her.

  I think about the parking lot, the time we were giving the girls hell for sneaking in, pretending to take a tour. Philip drove up with those women in the car, and Evvie said—now I pace, trying to recall her words. Evvie said, “Talk about corny acting.”

  Now I’m pacing faster, and stuffing more cookies down my throat. I’ll be sorry tomorrow. When she started dancing with him at the mixer, the first thing she said to him was, “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like a movie star?” I assumed she was handing him a line. She was. But there are a million other lines she could have used. Yet every time she’s commented about him... yes!

  And when he interrupted the canasta game she was playing, he flirted with all the women, giving them all a line.

  Evvie, you did it! You nailed him. You’ve seen just about every movie you possibly could, every TV show as well. You didn’t realize it at the time, but your subconscious recognized him. You’d seen him as an actor! An actor using a stage name. Not his real name at all.

  So eleven years ago an actor took on his character’s name, Philip Smythe—and began a secret life. Why?

  Suddenly it’s as if a weight is lifted. Evvie and I are doing what we do best. Working together. Figuring things out. As if she were sitting here with me right now, I can almost feel her presence in the room. Thanks, sis.

  Now I’m anxious again. I called my friend Conchetta at home a while ago and filled her in on all the latest developments. She said she’d look up Philip Smythe’s name on her home computer.

  A few minutes later, she calls back.

  “Any luck?” I ask.

  “No,” she answers. “I Googled the name but nothing came up. I assume if it was a famous character name, it would have appeared. I also tried theater TV, and movies on the Internet Movie Database. If they don’t have it, it’s either nonexistent or not important enough to make the cut. Sorry.”

  I’m disappointed, but I try to hide it. “Well, thanks for trying. I know I interrupted you and your family’s evening entertainment.”

  “Not t
o worry. We taped this week’s episode of Lost; our family’s hooked on it. I hope you can get Evvie out of there soon. Keep me informed.”

  “I will. Thanks again, Conchetta. I’ll see you at the library soon, I hope. When we can get this thing wrapped up.”

  More pacing. And thinking.

  So not in movies, theater, or TV. Through my tears of frustration, I finally smile. Maybe not nighttime TV, but daytime? Who was it told me about a show where the characters all had stuffy names? Of course. Now I know just the person who might be able to tell me who played the part of Philip Smythe.

  I can hardly wait until morning.

  FORTY-THREE

  DORA KNOWS HER SHOWBIZ

  It is a beautiful September day, not a breeze in the air, just gentle warmth caressing the body. Everything seems so different with Evvie being away. The girls step out of their doors this morning expecting we’d go back into exercise mode, now that I’m staying home for a while. I still can’t make up my mind. Remain here until I hear from Evvie, or go back to Wilmington House, where I can keep an eye on her even if I can’t protect her? At the moment it feels right to stay. I can think better in my own surroundings. While we were away, Ida was trying to keep the girls on our usual schedule, but without us, it faltered. But even though the girls are expecting it, I’m not adhering to our old schedule. The girls are befuddled.

  They watch me walk away from my building. Ida tentatively calls out, “Want company?”

  I shake my head and continue on. I walk briskly to Phase Six. My head is full of last night’s realizations. Was Evvie’s subconscious right? Am I correct in thinking so? It’s a long shot, but I’ll know soon enough.

  Before I knock on Dora Dooley’s door, I can’t help but glance up at Jack’s apartment. Has he been around since I ran into him last time? Or is he still off somewhere? Does he think of me at all? Or am I out of sight, out of mind? I shake my head. Stop it, that’s not why you’re here.