by Jane Porter
“She was, dear.”
Ruth tugs anxiously on the button on her blouse. “How do you know? Did you see her dance?”
“No, but we’ve been friends a long, long time and you’ve told me about her.”
“I have?”
“Yes. And from what you’ve told me, she was a beautiful dancer.”
• • •
Today, much to Ruth’s disappointment, there is no movie, as the projection equipment is broken, but Kathleen, the activities director, assures us that the equipment will be repaired and running by Wednesday’s matinee, and Wednesday is a double feature, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and then the classic Driving Miss Daisy.
“I’ve seen Driving Miss Daisy,” Ruthie says, unhappy with the news.
“But you haven’t seen The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.” We walk slowly away from the Activities Desk, arm in arm. I don’t want Ruth to fall. She might be ten years younger than me but her dementia has aged her. She’s leaning on me, which is fine. But I have to concentrate so I don’t trip us up. It wouldn’t do to hurt her. The nurses aren’t happy that I lead Ruth around. They say we’re an accident waiting to happen but I say fiddlesticks. Ruthie relies on me. She needs someone to take care of her, and unlike the nurses and aides, I’m not paid to care for her. I care for her because I do.
“I think I have,” she says.
“I haven’t seen it yet, so I don’t think you have. It’s new. It was out in the last year or two and it’s supposed to be very good—”
“I don’t think so.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen it.”
“You haven’t seen it. This is the first time they’ve shown it here.”
“I’m sure I’ve seen it and it’s terrible.”
“It’s highly rated.”
“Rubbish.”
“Well then, since you’ve seen it, what is it about?”
“Flowers. Marigolds.”
Ruthie can be so exasperating at times. She’s more and more like a young child, and I’ve never been fond of young children. “No, dear, it’s not.”
“You just said it was.”
“That’s the name of the hotel—”
“I don’t care. I don’t want to see it. It sounds stupid.”
Ruth and I sit down on one of the benches lining the wide hallway. We often sit here and people watch. On weekends there are always people coming and going as adult children and grandchildren come for their weekly visits.
Ruth is silent now and I’m fine with it. It’s better to sit in silence than have her argue with me about nothing.
Lately it seems as if everyone and everything irritates me. I’ve never been known for my patience, but my patience is at an all new low.
Maybe it’s because I have a birthday coming at the end of summer. I’ll be ninety-five in September. Imagine that.
One hundred years old soon. And what do I have to show for it? No family. No kids. No grandkids.
Just Ruthie.
I smile at her now. She smiles back. It’s a sweet smile. But she’s not here. She’s not here very much anymore. Maybe it’s better this way. She doesn’t know she’s aging. Isn’t aware that there isn’t much time left.
Ruth was one of those who lost everyone in the Holocaust. Parents, sisters, brothers, grandparents, cousins. Nearly all died at Auschwitz. Ruth rarely talked about it, but she did say once, she didn’t know why she survived. And yet here she is, with adult sons and daughters with grandchildren of their own. I’ve met many of them. One of her sons and one of her daughters came with their children and grandchildren during Passover last month. It was nice to see them all together, but it distressed the daughter that Ruth kept getting their names wrong.
I never had children. But I was a teacher, a language teacher, and I had enough young people at school. I told myself I didn’t need them at home.
Here at Napa Estates, you can’t escape young people. At least, not on weekends. Sundays are the worst. That’s when everybody comes, after church, after brunch, or for brunch. I try to avoid eating in the dining room on Sundays between ten and two. That’s when there are the most visitors and the kitchen staff sets up buffet stations and carving stations as if we’re the Ritz. I detest the buffets. I don’t understand a carving station. Just put the meat on a plate and be done with it. And the last thing I want to do is walk around a crowded room carrying my plate. Yes, there are staff to carry one’s plate or tray for you. We are old people after all. But still, it’s pretentious. Many of us here have lived through one, if not two, World Wars. Our parents lost everything during the Great Depression. We spent decades expecting the Soviet Union to send some nuclear missile our way. We don’t need carving stations or heat lamps above a hock of ham.
Ruthie slides a hand into mine. “Everything okay, Edie?”
I look at her and she’s back. I pat her hand. “Yes, dear.”
“Lots of kids today.”
It’s true. We have a lot of visitors today. Tomorrow will be even more crowded for the Sunday brunch. I wouldn’t mind the visitors if the children just stayed seated during the meals. They don’t. The younger ones are usually completely out of control. Even the elementary-school-age kids can’t sit still, not without one of those gadget thingeys where they play games. Children today are raised with too much freedom. It’s as if parents are afraid to enforce rules. Or teach manners. Today, kids can do whatever they want, whenever they want.
It’s distracting. And it’s not fair to the child. It’s better that people learn young that life isn’t fair and requires tremendous discipline and sacrifice.
Ruth and I spend the next hour sitting on our bench, letting the sun warm our backs as people come and go. The hallway is lined with benches and nearly every bench is filled with residents. I’m reminded of old Berlin and Paris where people crowded the sidewalk cafes, sipping coffees, watching the world go by.
We, too, watch the world go by, even though our world is smaller and wrinkled and gray.
A boy and girl race past our bench. A harried mother trots after. More slowly comes the father, pushing a wheelchair. It’s Eunice Whitman. I’d heard her family was coming—she always has someone coming—and she calls out to me and lifts a hand in greeting.
I nod briskly and look away, not particularly interested in making conversation. Eunice feels differently as the man pushing her slows, and then stops with Eunice directly in front of us.
“Hello, Ruth. Hello, Edie,” Eunice says.
Eunice used to be considered a great beauty. I know because she reminds us all the time. She even won a couple of beauty pageants and could have signed with a talent agency and gone to Hollywood to be a star. She didn’t. Marriage and motherhood called.
I’ve come close to telling her that I’ve attended some of the best music schools in the world, including the Hoch Conservatory in Germany and the Imperial Academy of Music and the Arts in Vienna, studying with some of the greatest musicians, conductors, and composers of this century, but I can’t imagine saying the words out loud. Even though every bit of it is true. “Hello, Eunice.”
“What are you girls doing?” she asks.
What does she think we’re doing? My smile is tight. “Enjoying the afternoon.”
“No guests today?”
“No, it’s just us.”
She gestures up to the man behind her, and then the woman who has gone after the two children. “This is my youngest daughter’s husband, Chase Reeder. Chase and Jennifer live in Ohio.”
I focus on her son-in-law. He looks to be in his mid-forties. Maybe a little older. He’s tall, but very thin and weathered. Perhaps he has cancer. Or maybe he’s one of those distance runners. Marathoners. Never understood how someone would want to run that much just for fun. But then he does live in Ohio. “Where in Ohio?” I ask him, not all that curious but it’s better than talking to Eunice.
“Dayton.”
“Do you like it?”
“It�
��s a nice place.”
“You’re a native?”
“He’s a doctor,” Eunice answers for him. “A podiatrist—”
“A psychiatrist,” Chase corrects.
Eunice frowns and peers up to look at him. “I thought you were a foot doctor.”
He smiles at me and then down at her. His face is so very wrinkled and he’s not even fifty yet. “Close. A head doctor,” he says.
She hesitates, working this through. “That’s not close at all.”
He grimaces. “Sorry. Bad joke.”
She’s no longer smiling. She looks cross while I’m wildly entertained. Eunice thought that her son-in-law was a podiatrist. Very funny. Very, very funny.
Eunice is done socializing. She crooks a finger, gestures for him to continue.
Ruth watches them roll down the wide sunlit hall. “Who was that?”
“Her son-in-law.”
“In the wheelchair?”
“No. That was Eunice.”
“Who?”
“Eunice Whitman.”
“I don’t know her.”
No, I don’t suppose she does anymore.
FIVE
Ali
I have a text message from Diana Martin, the florist I met on the flight, who has an extra ticket for an event at one of the wineries tonight. It’s the annual Concert in the Cellar, so there’s music and dinner and some kind of an auction, but I don’t have to go glitzy. Even though it’s a fund-raiser, it’s not black tie. Apparently no one in Napa likes to dress up in formal wear because then the men couldn’t wear their jeans and boots.
I go home and shower and change, and Diana picks me up at six. During the drive she fills me in on tonight’s event. The Concert in the Cellar benefits the National Children’s Leukemia Foundation and is hosted by a different winery every year, and this year it’s at Dark Horse Winery. The tickets, she adds, sold out within a day of them going on sale.
“Is that unusual?” I ask, holding up my hand to shield my eyes from the slant of late-afternoon light. Soon the sun will drop behind the hills but it hasn’t yet and the visor doesn’t cut the glare.
“The event always sells out, but not within a day.” Her brow creases. “You’re not familiar with Dark Horse Winery?”
I shake my head. “Should I? Is it a new winery?”
“They’ve been around almost ten years, but they’re definitely high profile, as Napa wineries go. The winery is owned by Craig and Chad Hallahan and was the basis for a Food Network reality show a couple years ago.”
“Really?”
“The show only lasted two years, and tended to focus more on the handsome bachelor brothers then the winery itself.” Diana shoots me an amused glance. “Craig and Chad are in their late thirties and gorgeous, wealthy, and still very much single.”
“So that’s why the tickets sold so quickly. They’re popular with the ladies.”
“Very popular,” Diana agreed, turning off the highway to drive beneath a tall wrought iron and stone arch announcing the entrance to Dark Horse Winery.
The dusky sunlight gilded over the tight neat rows of grapes coloring the hills copper and gold, making the hills gleam. It had been a beautiful warm day and I roll my window down, letting my fingers open and catch the air. You can smell the soil, earthy and fragrant.
My mother, the gardener, would love the smell.
As we approach the winery, we brake to join the queue of cars ahead of us, all waiting for the valet attendants.
Diana had said people didn’t dress up for the event, but the women stepping from cars are all in cocktail attire and heels.
I wish I’d worn something more elegant. My red knit dress is cute but it’s not very sophisticated.
The winery is built of stone with a great weathered trellis off to one side. Miniature white lights glimmer in the dusk. The setting looks more Tuscan than Californian, but maybe I don’t know what California style is. My parents might both be natives, but I was born and raised in Washington. I miss Washington’s big mountains and lakes and evergreens in moments like these.
Diana and I are handed glasses of red wine as we join others drinking and eating on the flagstone terrace.
“I did the flowers for a wedding here a couple weeks ago,” Diana says, sipping her wine. “The couple married in the chapel, and then had their reception here on the patio. It was a stunning wedding. They spent over one hundred thousand dollars on the flowers alone.”
I think of the wedding I’d planned with Andrew. My throat squeezes tight. It’s hard to breathe.
I look away and study a server carrying a silver tray of canapés. Salmon and cream cheese with a bit of dill on something. And I suddenly know why I feel out of sorts in my red knit dress in this swanky Northern California setting.
Andrew should be my date tonight.
Andrew should be partnering me through life.
I did everything with him for years and this is the first social event I’ve gone to without him.
I take a quick sip from my wine and another, masking the ache in my chest with the warmth from the wine.
I shouldn’t have come tonight. Why did I accept the invitation? But on the other hand, it had sounded fun. I’d been excited to go out, do something, and Diana offered me the ticket, not someone else. I can’t let her down. I can’t be bad company.
I force myself to pay attention to Diana, even though she is now talking about yet another wedding and weddings aren’t my favorite subject. But I smile and nod and ask questions when appropriate and then finally we’re called to dinner.
I will get through the evening. Even if it means I’m going to have to drink a lot of Merlot tonight.
• • •
I do drink a lot of Merlot. I drink so much that I oversleep the next morning and am late arriving at Napa Estates to have Sunday brunch with Dad.
As we wait for the hostess to seat us, Dad asks me about last night’s event. I tell him the music was excellent. It was a concerto for guitar and strings and the setting couldn’t have been more lovely. “The only bad thing is that I might have had a little too much red wine.”
“Headache?” he guesses.
I nod. “Food should help. Water, too.”
“Have you taken anything for it, yet?”
“I will, as soon as we eat.” Although honestly, food sounds horrendous right now. I’d like to be back in bed, in a dark room, sleeping the afternoon away.
“So you didn’t enjoy your girl time,” Dad says as we’re seated at a table for ten.
I gaze longingly at the small tables, the ones set for two and four. I’d like to sit at one of those today. I’d like to just hide in Dad’s apartment but that’s not going to happen. Dad has become a very social senior.
“I did. It was fun,” I answer, sitting down in one of the empty chairs next to his.
“Your friend. She’s not married?”
“No. She’s single.” And Diana was funny when she talked about her love life and her dates and how horrible her last date was in bed. According to Diana, that’s why she sleeps with them early on, to weed out the lousy lovers before she’s emotionally invested. “She was sharing her dating adventures with me last night. They’re pretty comical.”
He leans on the table. “So when are you going to date again?”
I draw back, offended and caught off guard. “I don’t know. When are you?”
“Hmph. Maybe sooner than you think.” And then before I can even begin to process this, he gestures for some of his eighty-and ninety-year-old cronies to come sit with us.
• • •
The Extra Strength Tylenol begins to kick in halfway through brunch. Gradually I can eat a little more and focus a little better on the conversation at the table.
With the seventieth anniversary of D-day just a few weeks away, the invasion at Normandy and World War II is very much on everyone’s mind, particularly as so many of these men served in the war, seeing action if not in Europe, then in the
Pacific.
Dad chases his eggs around his plate with toast. “Just like people always remember where they were when they heard that Kennedy had been shot, I’m sure everyone here remembers where they were when they learned about the attack on Pearl Harbor.” He finally gets his eggs and toast together and he looks up at the others, encouraging them to talk since he’s twenty years younger than many and he enjoys the stories of the war.
“It happened Saturday,” George says, needing little prompting. “But most of us didn’t find out until Sunday, hearing it on the shortwave radio station broadcasting from Hawaii.”
Harold nods. “Heard it Sunday morning, too. I was fifteen and had been out delivering newspapers and it’d been a quiet morning. Nobody was out and about. It wasn’t until I returned home that I found out why. Everybody was inside, listening to the radio because hell broke loose.”
“War,” George says.
“War,” Floyd echoes. “And I wasn’t delivering papers that morning. I was collecting eggs. That was my job every morning and I came in all pleased that the hens were laying, and I was sure my mother would be happy with the number of eggs, because she sold the extra in town every day, but nobody wanted to hear about the eggs.”
“Not that you could hear the radio well,” he adds after a moment. “Damn static-y. I couldn’t really hear what was going on and when I asked what the fuss was, Ma told me to hush because the Japanese had just bombed Pearl Harbor.”
Graham adds milk to his coffee, spoon clinking loudly against the cup. “After that broadcast, my dad went out and bought a rifle and a map of the Sierra Nevadas, just in case we needed to head up to the mountains.”
“We did, too. Stocked up on supplies and ammunition.”
“But why?” I ask, unable to stay silent.
All heads turn in my direction, expressions incredulous.
“In case the Japanese landed,” Graham answers. “If the Japanese were going to bomb Pearl Harbor, what was to stop them from coming here?”
“That’s what folks were saying.” Floyd shakes his head. “So I went and enlisted. I had to protect my family. My mother cried her eyes out, but it was the right thing to do.”
