by Rita Lakin
“Well, I need it to keep the other guys away.”
“Yeah, right, there’s a line of them from here to Publix, just waiting for you to dump me.”
The popcorn dings in the microwave. “Showtime,” I say, kissing him.
We’ve both seen Miss Congeniality at least three times. That’s the Sandra Bullock movie where she goes undercover at a beauty pageant. We throw lines out before the actors get to speak them. And chortle and giggle at the remembered scenes.
A moment of unhappiness seeps through. I wonder what Evvie and Joe are doing. Was their dinner table just another combat zone? Are they watching the same movie—Evvie, who I know loves this movie, and has seen it with me the last three times? Are they in different rooms? Left to laugh all alone? Or not laughing at all? In a perfect world those married couples out there would give up their old foolish battles that no longer matter, and as that ’60’s hippie slogan goes, “Make love, not war.”
Evvie hears the front door open and she can sense Joe walk in and hover behind the couch where she is sitting. “Can’t you find something to do and not bother me?” she says without turning around.
She’s settled comfortably in her living room in front of the TV, watching Miss Congeniality, and she doesn’t intend to let Joe spoil it for her. It’s one of her favorite movies. She takes a sip of her tea and then a bite of her chocolate chip cookie, not looking at him.
“I could go to bed, but you’re on the couch.”
“Sit in the kitchen and read a book or something.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing the rest of the movie with you.” Before she can cut him off, he says, “Please, Ev. Let’s stop this fighting. Can’t we have a truce?”
For a moment she doesn’t answer. “Come on and sit down, then.” She grudgingly moves over to make room for him.
He quietly sits down next to her. Then a moment later, “Evvie, I need to talk to you.”
“Only at commercials.” She pulls at her cotton skirt to make sure his leg isn’t touching it.
“It’s a commercial now. I have to tell you something. I’ve been meaning to tell you since I moved in.”
“Say it fast. There’ve already been six commercials. The movie will be back on in a minute.”
“I didn’t tell you the truth about why I moved here.”
Evvie’s eyebrows raise. “So?”
He hesitates, then leans over and whispers in her ear.
“What!” she shrieks in response, turning to stare at him.
“I can’t stand saying it out loud. Please don’t make me repeat it.”
She looks at him, stricken. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Please don’t say anything. Let’s just watch the movie. I beg you.”
They sit there side by side, but Evvie no longer sees what’s on the screen.
Our movie is interrupted by the phone. As I go to answer it, I ask Jack to tell me later what I’ll miss. We both laugh at that.
It’s Stanley again.
“I couldn’t wait,” he tells me. “I had to call the woman, you know, the sister?”
“What did you say to her?” I sit down at the kitchen table. This might take a few minutes.
“I didn’t say too much. I told her I needed to talk to her about her brother, Johnny. Something that happened a long time ago. She sounded very nice on the phone and naturally asked what it was regarding. When I told her it was too complicated and took too long to explain, she said she’d be glad to meet with me. I’m surprised she gave a stranger her address.”
“Sounds encouraging. When are you going?”
“Well, I had it in mind that maybe you would come with me? A woman along would make her more comfortable. I hope it won’t be a waste of our time, but I feel I need to know.”
In the background I hear Jack laughing out loud. I wonder if it’s the scene where Sandra Bullock jumps off the stage and takes a flying leap at the startled Texan carrying a gun. “If you think it would help. When?”
“I was thinking tomorrow. We could hop on a plane and fly across to Tampa very fast. I already looked up flights and we could leave by nine A.M. And I MapQuested where she lives.”
“Very organized, Stanley. All right.”
“Thank you. As my dear mother used to say, A katz vos myavket ken keryn mayz nit khapen.”
“Sorry, Stanley, my Yiddish isn’t that good. You’ll have to translate.”
“Literally it says, ‘A meowing cat can’t catch mice.’ But what it means for us is that we can’t just talk about doing something, we’ve got to go out and do it.”
I say goodbye and hang up and happily get back in time. I didn’t miss Texan-with-the-gun scene after all. I snuggle under Jack’s shoulder, prepared to enjoy the rest of the movie with, dare I say it, my husband-to-be.
Gladdy and Stanley Take a Trip
I enjoy my short early-morning plane ride with Stanley Heyer. Despite being acquainted with him for more than twenty years, I really don’t know him that well. I’m familiar with the fact he’s been married to Esther for a very long time. That he has two grown children, and now three grandchildren. And that he takes his religion very seriously.
Maybe it’s my guilt over Stanley’s being aware of my living with Jack that makes me blurt out we are getting married. Talk about Jewish guilt. Well, there’s also Catholic guilt and Protestant guilt. And on and on. But I find it amusing that at seventy-five I want this pious man to think I’m still a nice Jewish girl.
He is thrilled. Naturally he asks the expected question: “So when’s the wedding?”
“We haven’t gotten that far yet, but hopefully soon.”
“A good man, Jack.”
“I know.” Now I’m sorry I brought it up. I’m always embarrassed answering personal questions. I change the subject. “Tell me about Esther. How is she?”
His face lights up. “Fine. Fine. I’m blessed to have a loving wife for fifty years. What more nacbas could a man want?”
“How did you meet?” The countryside down below seems so wonderfully peaceful. How ironic. Not that many miles away from where we are overwhelmed with the damage done by the hurricane.
“Interesting you should ask. It was 1959. I had joined the neighborhood temple. On my very first Shabbat, after services, a beautiful girl with long curly red hair and big brown eyes was introduced to me, but I was too shy to say more than hello. But I saw her step outside alone and I worked up the courage to ask her if I could walk her home. My excuse was that a young lady should not have to walk home alone in the dark. She said she always came to services with her friend, but her friend was sick tonight. To my amazement, she agreed.” He smiles broadly. “And one thing led to another.”
“That’s a lovely story.”
I stare out the window for a few minutes more. I’m enjoying this difference in the lush Florida landscape when one gets away from the east coast beach cities. I turn to Stanley.
“And Abe Waller?” I say, just to make conversation. “You and he have been friends for a very long time.”
“Yes. Best of friends for more than forty-nine years. That’s another good story to tell. It’s about six months later. I come home one night from temple and I see a man standing in Phase Six, looking from one building to the other. I ask, ‘Can I help you?’ He says, ‘I’m thinking of moving here. Is it a good place to live?’ I smile. ‘A good place to live?’ I say he asked the right customer, the man who built it. I extol its many features. He looks at the yarmulke on my head. He hesitates for a few min-utes, as if he’s gathering up courage to ask. ‘Yes, you must be the right man,’ he says. ‘You would know if we are near a good synagogue.’ ” Stanley makes a wide gesture with both his arms, almost knocking his club soda off his little tray table. “ ‘Have I got a synagogue for you!’ I tell him. With that, I insist on taking him upstairs for a cup of tea and to meet my beautiful Esther, who is already pregnant with our first child.” Stanley’s eyes tear up. “It was then I saw the tattooed number
s from under his shirt cuff. Those numbers from hell.”
He shakes his head as if to push away the memory. I hold in my own tears.
With a quivering voice, Stanley continues. “He lost his whole family to the camps. Esther and I and the children became his family.”
We stay silent and deep in our own thoughts, until the captain announces our plane is about to land in Tampa.
Stanley manages a small smile. “Oy, I talk too much.”
I pat him on the shoulder. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”
“Okay,” says Ida, as the girls turn the corner to Phase Four. “This is where she lives. Though I’m telling you, this is a stupid idea.”
Sophie sulks. “You said it fifty times already. You don’t have to go with us.”
“I do, because if I didn’t, you’d do something dumb and Gladdy would be mad at me for not looking after you while she was away.”
Bella is annoyed with Ida, too. “I wish Evvie had come with us.”
Ida says, “She can’t. She’s with Joe. Something about having to take him somewhere.”
To spite Ida, Sophie knocks forcefully on Margaret Ramona’s ground-floor door.
The woman opens it and greets them with that cigarette hoarse voice of hers. “Welcome, welcome. Madame Ramona and all the spirits bid you come in.”
Ida rolls her eyes. Once again the “Madame” is wearing large flamboyant clothes. Ida wonders at it, because the woman’s hands and feet seem thin. She wears a lot of makeup on her pointy- chinned face. And has an unsightly big pimple— why doesn’t she do something about it? Her long gray hair has pink ribbons entangled in it. Weird broad, Ida thinks.
Madame Ramona leads them through her living room, heading for the Florida room in the back. Bella pokes Sophie, indicating the paintings on the wall. Ida shakes her head in disbelief. Each of them is painted on a black velvet backdrop and has a gold velvet frame. Elvis Presley with a guitar. Michael Jackson holding a teddy bear. Liberace seated at a piano with a lit candelabra. Shirley MacLaine in a spaceship.
The Florida room looks like no other they’ve ever seen. You would never know it was meant to be a sunroom, since it is painted all black, even the windows. The only light comes from white candles on a black chest. Four chairs surround a small table that is covered with a blood-red fringed cloth. On the tabletop is a crystal ball, which Madame Ramona turns over, making imitation snowflakes swarm about a Christmas tree. Next to the crystal ball is a deck of cards. Oh, yes, and an ashtray filled with cigarette butts. Bella and Sophie ooh and ahh. Ida smirks. A phony, no doubt about it.
“The spirits bid you welcome and wish you to sit down.”
Sophie and Bella plop down immediately. Ida continues to stand, making sure she knows where the exit is if they have to make a quick run for it. She studies “Madame” for a moment. What’s with the smug smile? Ida wonders.
Sophie attempts conversation. “So, is it true you come from Canada?”
“Shhh!” demands Madame Ramona. “You are disturbing the spirits.” She quickly starts dealing from the tarot deck. “Queen of Wands,” she intones melodiously, as she slaps that card down. “There is a woman in your life who holds power over you. The wand represents electricity.”
Bella whispers to Sophie, “See, I told you she’d know about Dora Dooley.”
“Shhh!” Madame Ramona hisses again.
She deals another card. “Ahhh. The Fool. There is someone else in your life. You think he is a fool, but it is he who fools everyone.” She turns over another card. “The Magician. Yes, he deals in magic. You will understand his kindness someday. Now you see him, then you don’t.” She whisks that card away.
Sophie and Bella stare, transfixed, even though they have no idea what she’s talking about. Ida just keeps shaking her head.
Madame Ramona continues to deal. “The four of Cups. The Magician gives you a clue with this magical number. He says to think four.”
Suddenly she reshuffles the cards and places the stack facedown in front of her. She shoves a cigarette into her mouth with one hand as the other hand snakes out. “Ten dollars. No checks.” “What?” squeals Sophie. “You said at the meeting the readings were free.”
“That special offer ended yesterday.” Her hand stays open.
“Go back to before,” Bella says, upset. “What about that Queen of Wands? You know. Our queen of the remote. Our problem. We need you to tell us what to do with her watching all that TV.”
Madame Ramona shakes the crystal ball dramatically, and when the “snow” settles down, she says, “The crystal ball has three words for you: Pull. The. Plug.”
She gets up, indicating it is time for them to leave.
“That does it!” Ida is incensed. She takes a one-dollar bill out of her purse and tosses it at Madame Ramona.
“You owe me nine more,” Madame shouts, lighting her cigarette and coughing at the same time.
“Sue us,” Ida says as she pulls both girls out with her.
Outside the door, Bella begs Ida, “Don’t tell Gladdy. Please.”
Lucy Blake Sweeney lives near the waterfront. This isn’t the Tampa tourists see. These mean streets have seen hard times. Stanley and I knock at the door of the run-down cottage that is desperately in need of paint. The woman who answers is wiry and haggard. But her denim clothes are clean and her hair is combed. Her demeanor suggests she could be quite a scrapper when necessary.
Stanley introduces the two of us and Lucy invites us in. She looks sideways at Stanley’s yarmulke and black outfit. She must be wondering what this man would want with her.
We sit at the edge of her rickety living room couch at her suggestion. “The springs sometimes just up and bite your... bottom, so be careful.” Out of courtesy, she is watching her language.
She sits opposite us on the only chair in the room, a straight-back plain wooden one.
She leans forward. “I gotta admit you got my interest piqued. Ya want something to drink? I got some Cokes and beers.”
Stanley answers for us. “No, thank you. We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
She shrugs. “Been laid off again. Time’s a’plenty right now.”
“About your brother,” Stanley begins. “We don’t know whether or not we’ve come to the right place.”
“I’ll let you know.”
He nods. “Your brother, Johnny, died many years ago. Very young.”
“So far yer batting a thousand. The dummy went and left me alone. He was twenty and me nineteen. Never said where he was going, just told me he had to wander. I had no money. No support anywheres. He was all I had for a family.” Her eyes tear in memory. “But what does that have to do with you? Don’t tell me you’re from some bank and you just found a life insurance policy that’s been lost for nearly fifty years.”
I say gently, “Sorry. No.”
Stanley continues. “There is no easy way to say this, so I shall just say it. We come from Fort Lauderdale and we have just suffered through a hurricane. A building fell down and we found a skeleton underneath.” He pauses.
She shakes her head. “Now you lost me. What has that to do with me?”
Stanley seems tired, so I speak. “We think it was your brother.”
Lucy gets up and slaps her thighs, amused. “Boy, are you in the wrong place. My Johnny is buried right here in the church cemetery, not five blocks away. And believe me, there’s no doubt but that is his body in that there casket.”
Stanley starts to get up. “Mrs. Sweeney, I’m sorry we bothered you for nothing.”
“Wait,” I say. “Would you fill me in on what happened to him?”
Stanley has no idea why I’m asking. Frankly, neither do I. I’m going on pure instinct.
“I don’t mind,” she says. “I haven’t thought of the poor lad in years. I only found out later that he’d taken a job on a freighter that came all the way from Argentina. Guess he wanted to see the world.” She takes a photo off a chest of drawers an
d shows it to us. “That was my brother. Tall, skinny, long drink of water, he was, with big dreams.”
Stanley and I exchange glances. We are both remembering that the foreman, Ed, described his worker as “large, even heavy.” Definitely the wrong man. Out of politeness, we wait for Lucy to finish her story.
“Anyways,” she says, “the kid always had bad luck. He wrote to tell me he was on that ship and I was so excited finally hearing from him. The day his ship pulls into port, not eight blocks away from where we’re sitting, I wait and I wait and there’s no Johnny. Later on, I find out he fell overboard.”
“Somebody see him fall?” I ask out of curiosity.
“No. The shipping company lied to me. They denied he fell from the ship. Insisted they signed him out that last day. But how could I believe a boy raised on the docks would just fall off of one? I knew something was screwy.” She hangs her head, sadly. “He washed up on shore a month later.”
We sit a few minutes longer, but there’s nothing left to say. Lucy shows us to the door. Stanley takes out his wallet and offers her some money for her time, what with her being laid off.
Lucy rears back, insulted. “I don’t take charity.” With that she slams the door on us.
Stanley and I walk to the nearest cab stand. “Sorry I dragged you along on such a wild-goose chase.”
“That’s all right. How often do I get to travel to these exotic places?”
“My pleasure.” He smiles and follows me across the street. “So what now? Who is the dead man? Will we ever find out?”
Dead End
As we sit at our usual picnic table late that afternoon, I report to the girls about the trip to Tampa. Behind them I can see yet another dump truck dragging away one more load of wrecked furniture. After I give them all the details, I say, “I guess he was the wrong Johnny Blake after all.”
I pause. My brain is trying to come up with something.
“What?” Evvie asks.
