by Mike Befeler
“Do you remember how to get home, Grandpa?”
“I actually do. It’s a few blocks away.”
Marion and I strolled to the family digs, and I invited her in. Denny had gone to work, but Allison stood in the kitchen with her arms crossed like a mother waiting for an errant son. “It’s about time you showed up.”
“We just couldn’t break away from the poker game,” I said.
Marion called to leave a message for her daughter.
“As long as I’m here, show me your room,” Marion said.
“My bachelor pad.” I escorted her to my room.
She immediately looked at my dresser.
Uh-oh. Two framed photographs rested there.
“There’s my picture,” she said. “I hope the other one is your wife and not a new girlfriend.”
Chapter 9
I was frantically searching my addled brain, trying to figure out how to explain why I had Helen’s picture as well as Marion’s on my dresser, when I was saved by the bell. The phone rang, and Allison called to Marion to say her daughter wanted to speak to her.
After Marion put the phone down, she said to me, “I need to go into Denver with my daughter in an hour.”
Hoping to divert her attention, I asked, “Will you be back this evening?”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t smiling.
“Good. Let me take you out to dinner again.”
She stared at me, and I felt like I was going to break out in a sweat.
“We’ll see. You can call me later.”
“I think I can manage that.”
Allison and I gave Marion a ride to her hotel, and I walked her to the door.
“Thank you for an interesting night, Paul.”
I went to give her a kiss, but she turned her cheek and then brusquely walked into the lobby.
I sighed and headed back to Allison’s car.
When we returned home, I looked at the Boulder Daily Camera and saw a front-page article describing the raid on the Senior Center.
“Paul, how do you keep getting involved in these things?” Allison asked.
“I guess I’m just lucky. But at least this time I avoided being arrested.”
“We were so worried about your disappearance and just about to phone the police when you called this morning.”
“Nah. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
Allison looked down at my feet. “Paul, you’re not wearing any socks.”
“I’m just trying to look preppy with my loafers and no socks. I have to keep up with the young chicks like Marion.”
Allison shook her head. “Anyway, I’ll cut out the article on this escapade of yours. Jennifer will want to save it in her scrapbook.”
“I’m certainly contributing to her legal education.”
* * * * *
That afternoon I received a call from Meyer Ohana in Hawaii.
“I have some news for you, Paul.”
“Before you tell me, I have some news for you. I woke up this morning and could remember everything from yesterday. That’s the first time that’s happened.”
There was a pause on the line. “Uh-oh. Anything unusual happen last night?”
That stopped me cold. “Yes. Marion visited me.”
He chuckled. “You old playboy. I bet you two had a romantic evening together.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When you and I lived in the Kina Nani retirement home, we learned that only one thing jogged your memory.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t remember what that is.”
“Think back to yesterday. What unusual activity did you engage in?”
“I just missed being arrested. I hid in a closet with Marion . . . and . . . and . . .”
“Now you’re on track.”
“Are you implying what I think you are?”
“Yes. You old stud.”
“You mean sex clears up my foggy brain?”
“That’s right. Your magic elixir.”
“Damn. I’m too old for much hanky-panky.”
“Just be aware that this newfound memory will wear off when you go to sleep again,” Meyer said. “That seems to be the way that your brain works.”
“Or doesn’t work, as the case may be. Now, let’s hear this news of yours.”
Meyer cleared his throat. “I tracked down my contact in the Denver District Attorney’s office. After I promised to send him a box of fresh pineapple, he shared some information on that airplane murder.”
“So, did I do it?”
“They have your name on their list, but I can’t see that you have the right skills to have committed the murder.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You described to me your military experience during World War II. You were a paper pusher, not in combat.”
“Correct.”
“You ever study martial arts?” Meyer asked
“A little marital arts, but no martial arts.”
“That’s what I thought. Here’s the strange part. The coroner ruled that the victim was killed by a pressure point blow that had to be delivered by an expert in dim mak, a deadly killing technique.”
“I may be dim in memory, but that’s the closest I’d come to that.”
“While people slept on the plane, someone delivered a deadly blow to your seat companion. Apparently no one saw the murder take place.”
“And I’m guilty by proximity.”
“Not guilty yet, but you are a person of interest given you were overheard arguing with the victim and later seen shoving him.”
“But I’m not that interesting. I’m just an old fart.”
Meyer chuckled. “It does seem that Marion finds you interesting.”
“I happened to sweep her off her feet in a locked closet, that’s all.”
“Is this some new type of mating ritual?”
“No, it’s a long story.”
“What is it with you, Paul? Why don’t you marry her?”
“I don’t know. I can’t take care of myself, much less a woman.”
“Remember, you can always come join me here in this care home when you need additional assistance.”
“I’ve forgotten. Tell me again what they have you locked up for?”
He chuckled. “Two things. Macular degeneration and incontinence. I’m on some medicine that seems to help the latter. How’s your health?”
“Except for my crappy brain, I’m in good shape. I take walks, eat my daughter-in-law’s good cooking and stay as much of a curmudgeon as possible.”
We signed off. Meyer seemed to be a good friend and was certainly willing to help me. I just couldn’t remember him. And the one thing that apparently unclogged my defective memory was a little romp in the hay, or closet as the case may be. What a life I led.
* * * * *
Later that afternoon, I called Marion, wondering what kind of mood she would be in.
Her daughter Andrea answered.
“This is Paul Jacobson. Tell your mother that her secret admirer would like to take her out to dinner tonight.”
“I think she may be ready to speak to you again. Just a minute.”
There was a pause, and I could hear some muffled background conversation. Finally, Marion came on the line.
“Yes, Paul.”
“This old coot would be deeply honored if you would accompany me out to dinner.”
“Since I haven’t had any better offers, I suppose so.”
“We’ll have a more conventional date tonight. I’ll make arrangements and pick you up in a taxi at seven.”
* * * * *
“Any idea where I should take Marion to dinner tonight?” I asked Denny when he returned home from work.
“You might want to try Pasta Bella. It’s an experience in eating.”
The taxi showed up, and we picked up Marion and then arrived at the restaurant.
“This place is supposed to be an experience in eating,” I s
aid to Marion as I smacked my fingers, “and I’m ready for a robust meal.”
We were escorted to a table in the corner, replete with white tablecloth, linen napkins in the shape of swans and a romantic candle.
An eager young waiter held the chair out for Marion and then unfurled her napkin with a snap. In the meantime I had disassembled my own swan. He took our drink orders, mine an iced tea and Marion’s an Italian soda.
We revisited the events of the night before and both started laughing at the memory of our close encounter with the raiding police. Marion seemed to have forgiven me for the other picture on my dresser. Either that or her memory was getting as bad as mine.
Then our waiter bounded up to the table and gave my iced tea to Marion and vice versa.
“You have them backward,” I said.
He wrinkled his brow, pursed his lips, and then as if he had made a major discovery, smiled and switched our drinks. He hovered over the table a moment then asked, “May I take your dinner order?”
“Sure” I replied. “But you may want to give us menus first.”
His eyes opened wide. “Yes, sir.” Then he galloped away.
Before you could say “rigatoni,” he scampered back with the menus, proudly handing them to each of us.
We made our selections and when our young friend returned, Marion ordered a salad and shrimp scampi, and I ordered a salad and veal marsala.
“Aren’t you going to write it down?” I asked the waiter.
He smiled like I had just jumped off the shrimp boat. “Of course not. We’re trained to remember.”
“Have it your own way,” I said.
He charged off to the kitchen to inform the chef of our decisions.
“It is an interesting experience living with your kids,” Marion said.
“You planning to stay there long?”
“I don’t know yet. I may eventually go back to Hawaii. And you?”
“I’m enjoying seeing my granddaughter. I’ll see how long they can put up with me.”
The waiter returned and put minestrone soup in front of both of us.
“I hate to spoil your day,” I said. “But we ordered salads.”
He looked worried for a moment. Then the angelic smile returned to his face, and he grabbed both bowls and dashed off again. He returned shortly with the salads.
“He may not be very competent, but he’s speedy,” I said.
“He seems to enjoy his job, anyway,” Marion said.
Our main courses arrived, and I took the first bite of mine. I chewed thinking veal, but somehow it tasted different.
I had another bite on my fork, when our waiter came rushing up, grabbed my plate away, and said, “Wrong order.” He raced away.
Moments later he reappeared and set the right meal in front of me. I would have been content to finish what he had first given me.
We had good appetites for two old coots and finished everything on our plates. We decided to top off our meal by ordering a tiramisu to share, and by then I nearly broke into a serenade in Italian.
Marion had achieved something rare for oldsters: no problems with memory, eyesight, hearing, walking, breathing, or eating—making for an attractive, intelligent and interesting companion.
After the speedy service so far, we waited and waited. No tiramisu. No waiter.
I finally flagged down another waiter and asked where our young server had gone.
“He went off duty ten minutes ago,” the waiter said.
“Would you be kind enough to retrieve our dessert?”
“Yes, sir.”
When it arrived, our forks sank into the soft blend of cake and liqueur, certainly making up for the delay. Our bill followed, and I noticed a charge for both chicken marsala and veal marsala. Now I knew what I had eaten a bite of. I explained the duplicate charge to our new waiter, and finally all was resolved.
We talked on and on, like we had known each other forever.
“We had discussed living together at one time, but it’s probably best that we each have a chance to spend time with our families,” Marion said.
I squeezed her hand. “I’m not the easiest person to be around.”
We took a taxi back to Marion’s hotel. We kissed goodbye at the door.
“Thank you for the experience in eating,” Marion said.
“Yes, it certainly was.”
Marion grabbed both my hands and took a step back to look at me. “How wonderful seeing you again, Paul.”
“I certainly have enjoyed the last day being with you.”
“Well, maybe we can get together in a week. My daughter and I are driving to Kansas to visit my younger brother who’s hospitalized. We’ll be passing back through the Denver area on our return trip.”
“Let’s get together then,” I said. “I’ll keep my social calendar open for when you’ll be here again.”
“I’ll give you a call when we know our return plans.”
I watched her go through the door. I would enjoy seeing her again. Not that I would remember her.
As I rode back home in the taxi, I felt in turmoil. It would be nice to spend more time with Marion, but I only remembered who she was because we’d had sex the night before. Not much of a basis for an on-going relationship if I couldn’t remember her from day to day. No, I’d plug away and see if I could stay out of jail.
When I entered the house, I found Jennifer sitting at the kitchen table doing homework.
“Hi, Grandpa.”
“What are you doing up so late?”
“I’m finishing my final science report that’s due tomorrow. I’m studying buoyancy.”
“That’s not my best topic. When I go in the water, I sink.”
“Oh, Grandpa. You need a little swimming practice.”
“I’m too old for that. I’ll stay out of the water and do fine, thank you.”
She stared at me. “Are you and Marion going to get married?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Well, she likes you.”
“Yes. We’re good friends, but I wouldn’t want to foist myself off on her.”
“Maybe she wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m not that easy to live with. It takes some work for me to just get used to myself.”
* * * * *
When Saturday rolled around, I still remained a free man. No police or lawyer or undertaker arrived to cart me away.
Jennifer came bouncing downstairs. “We have to go early to find a good place at the Kinetic Conveyance Race. I want to be as close to the reservoir as possible.”
“I’m not much for oceans, lakes or reservoirs,” I said.
“Grandpa, you need to think positive about water.”
“It’s okay for drinking, but that’s it.”
We piled into the family car and took off to wait in a line of vehicles entering the parking area. Then Denny handed over a ten-spot for the pleasure of leaving the car in a cow pasture.
Everyone seemed in a holiday mood. I looked out over a crowd dressed in a wide assortment of eclectic outfits on this warm May day.
Allison had provided a gallon of suntan lotion and outfitted each of us with a hat and sunglasses. We set up our folding chairs in the perfect picnic spot as selected by Jennifer, a knoll above a spit of sand with a worn wooden sign that read Chandler Beach. Various conveyances assembled along the lakeshore—a flotilla of boats, canoes and kayaks powered by bicycles, paddle wheels, propellers and oars to form forty or so people-powered sculptures. Costumes included chickens, purple-people-eaters, pink snakes, fruit, nuns, maharajas and dancing bears.
I felt like I had died and gone to a bizarre-o circus.
Remembering my mission, I strolled over to the staging area to see if I could spot the entry from Colorado Mountain Retirement Properties. I looked for a sign that would say “Scam Outfit” but didn’t find it.
I wandered through all the contraptions, feeling like I was lost in a colony of seafaring space travelers
escaped from an intergalactic zoo. I avoided a crowd of people dressed in red shark costumes and bumped into a silver creature with swim fins and a snorkel. I stumbled away and almost tripped over a vehicle with bicycle wheels and pontoons connected to a multi-colored snakehead poised ready to sink its fangs into me. Up ahead I noticed a large wooden head that resembled a barracuda. That had to be it.
And I was right.
I approached a man decked out in body paint with a shark tooth necklace around his neck, and asked for Gary Previn.
“Right over there.” He pointed to a man with his back to me, engaged in a lively conversation with a group of men.
“Is he the leader of this motley crew?” I asked.
“He is. Gary knows this reservoir like the back of his hand. That’s why we’re going to kick ass today.”
I had a different view. I was rooting for Previn to fall on his butt.
The group disbanded. Previn remained alone, standing a solid six feet tall with broad shoulders, one of which I tapped.
He spun around with his hands raised, then paused and smiled at me with steel gray eyes that locked onto my gaze. He had a firm jaw and closely-cropped dark brown hair. With the red and blue body paint he looked like the Caucasian answer to Geronimo.
“Mr. Previn, may I speak with you for a moment?”
He eyed me up and down. “It’ll have to be quick. We push off in a few minutes.”
“I sat next to one of your sales reps on a plane flight from Honolulu to Denver.”
His eyes gleamed. “He had an accident. You didn’t happen to be involved?”
“Someone else caused his death. And another thing. Someone murdered Randall Swathers at the Centennial Community Center. Your receptionist said you were supposed to be with him that day.”
He shrugged. “My plans changed. I had some books to check out at the Boulder Library that afternoon.”
“Awfully suspicious that two of your sales people died under strange circumstances.”
“Fortunately, I’ve been able to replace them. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to head out onto the reservoir.”
“You’d never get me out there,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“Being in water over my head scares me shitless.”
“That so? By the way, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Cousteau. Jacques Cousteau.” I turned and headed back to my family.
