Getting Old is the Best Revenge

by Rita Lakin

  That was a surprise. For me, too. I didn’t know I was going to say that.

  “In your senior world? At your age?” tut-tuts the cheerful, thirtyish Conchetta. “Aha. The girls must still be spying on you.”

  “More than ever. Jack thinks it’s amusing and I can’t stop blushing.”

  “You’re blushing right now,” Barney says impishly.

  And my cheeks feel warm enough for me to know I am. “Not only are the girls glued to Sex and the City reruns, they try out the smutty language on one another.”

  “I can just imagine.” Conchetta grins as she re-fills my cup.

  “Then there’s our new case. An elderly Italian couple from Plantation. She’s eighty-two and he’s eighty-five and she thinks we’re going to catch her husband in bed with some floozy.”

  “Delicious,” says Barney, “considering that my folks are much younger and they haven’t looked at one another in years. And neither one cares.”

  “I can relate to Gladdy. My mom and aunts are drooling over the actor Chayanne, after they saw that sexy dance movie about Cuba,” says Conchetta. “I tell them Chayanne’s a Puerto Rican, but they don’t believe me. He played a Cuban so he must be one. Hollywood wouldn’t lie.”

  “And to continue my sordid list,” I say, “what about Hy Binder’s nonstop dirty jokes? I wish everybody would just grow up.”

  “Must be something in the water at Lanai Gardens,” Conchetta suggests slyly.

  “Or maybe our local Publix supermarket is putting aphrodisiacs into everyone’s hamburger patties,” suggests Barney.

  “And wait ’til you read Evvie’s latest movie review, which comes out tomorrow.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” says Barney. “She can put an unusual spin on anything. Pauline Kael would have loved her.”

  “She dragged us all to see a terrifying French movie about sexual obsession.”

  “Now I really can’t wait to read it,” Barney says with a leer.

  “But here’s the topper. Just as I was about to drive off, I learned we have a Peeping Tom on the premises. What the hell is going on?”

  We are still laughing when the front door opens to admit a vanload of talkative seniors from a nearby retirement home, carrying books to return and eager to get more.

  Conchetta and Barney go back to work while I pick out new titles for my gang.

  I have Carl Hiaasen’s Skinny Dip in my hand when I suddenly get an idea. I drop it in my book bag and head for the newspapers section in an adjoining room.

  On a hunch I look up the obituaries of those two rich women who died. Thinking about the twenty-five-wealthiest-women list losing two members less than a week apart gets me wondering.

  I have the library table covered with newspapers, and I’m searching for articles about the dead heiresses, when Conchetta walks over and clucks at me. She takes my arm, pulling me out of my chair and over to a small machine. “You’re going to join the twenty-first century whether you like it or not.”

  “Yeah. Kicking and screaming. You’re as bad as Jack.”

  “It’s been a while since you retired from library work. Let me introduce you to microfiche.”

  And within moments I am happily knob-turning, scanning article after article about the two women. Finally I lean back, sated.

  “Now, was that so hard to take?”

  “OK. OK, I loved it, but don’t you dare tell Jack I said that.”

  “Scout’s honor. What did you learn?”

  “More coincidences. Both widowed from very wealthy husbands a few years ago and both remarried fairly soon after. Also, these society gals are in the papers and magazines whatever they do. Charities. Vacations. Parties. Family statistics—births, deaths, et cetera. When they sneeze it makes the news.”

  “But?”

  “There’s hardly anything written about their latest husbands. No big write-ups about the nuptials. No fancy wedding photos. Mr. Sampson was in plumbing. Mr. Martinson was in the entertainment business. Was. But are they still? Nada. Isn’t that odd? As if there were a news blackout covering the second-time-around hubbies.”

  “And what do you make of all that?”

  “Nothing yet.”

  I look at my watch. “Gotta go or, God forbid, I’ll be late for the early-bird special at Nona’s.”

  Conchetta walks with me to the checkout counter and stamps my books. “You might need a textbook,” she says as she reaches under the counter. “I picked this out for you a few minutes ago.”

  She surreptitiously hands me a copy of the Kama Sutra.

  12

  The Men in My Life

  I’m about to leave my apartment on my way to meet Jack and Morrie for our Friday night dinner date, when the phone rings. One of the girls? A possible client? I could let it ring. I now have an answering machine, thanks to Jack’s persuasiveness. “It’s so simple an idiot could work it” was what he said to convince me. I didn’t know whether to smack him or kiss him. I did a little of both.

  I grab the phone before the machine picks up. Old habits die hard.

  It’s our client calling. “Hi, Mrs. Siciliano.”

  “Any news?”

  “Not yet. I told you I’d get in touch with you as soon as something developed.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Mrs. Siciliano humphs.

  I think to myself, This Angelina is one tough cookie. Of course I don’t use her first name when I talk to her. She’s not much into familiarity.

  “I just called to tell you you’re off duty for a while. My cousin died, and me and Elio are leaving for the wake and the funeral. We’ll be gone a coupla days. So if you stake him out, you’re staking for nothing.”

  “Thanks for letting me know. I’m sorry about your loss—” I start to say.

  But she’s already hung up.

  Morrie has been entertaining us with stories from the recently built police station on Oakland Park Boulevard as he, Jack, and I share sushi in a charming Japanese restaurant in Margate.

  “So we drag him into the station—the guy’s just robbed his own neighborhood bank, where everybody knows him, and all he wants to talk about is redecorating our building. ‘Who picked out this pissant wall color? A blind guy?’ he demands to know, this Martha Stewart of stupid thieves. Maybe he’d like us to decorate the walls with the hundred-dollar bills we found stashed all over his body?”

  I look from father to son. Morrie is sitting across from me. Now I know what Jack looked like when he was in his thirties. When he married Faye and had this lovely son. Lucky Morrie—if he continues to take after his dad, he’ll be just as attractive a man at Jack’s age.

  Jack is laughing at this wry account. Over the years Morrie must have shared a lot of war stories with him.

  “Hey, Dad,” he says, “tell her about the time you captured that crazy doper who locked his pals in a basement for a week when he was high because he thought they were aliens from outer space.”

  Jack starts to fidget. I see him making hand motions at Morrie under the table, but Morrie isn’t picking up on them.

  Morrie continues. “When Dad caught up with that nutcase, he ran to hide in a shower, turned it on full blast, and the only way Dad could cuff him was to get in the shower with him.”

  He swats his father playfully. “And what about that extortionist you had to chase driving up Fifth Avenue opposite the one-way traffic?”

  “Morrie, eat your miso soup, it’s getting cold,” Jack says, obviously trying to stop him.

  “Hold on,” I say. “What’s this? You were a cop?”

  “Of course he was,” says the proud son. “One of the best detectives the NYPD ever had.”

  “I thought you told me you had a desk job in Administration.”

  “I did, for my last ten years,” Jack says, embarrassed.

  “You said all you did was take information.”

  “Yes, that, too.”

  Morrie chimes in, “Yeah, in a lot of sweaty interrogation rooms.”


  “Jack, why didn’t you tell me you were a detective?”

  “Well,” he says uncomfortably, “you had just become a successful private eye, and I didn’t want to steal your thunder.”

  “I can’t believe you lied to me.”

  “Not a lie, a slight exaggeration. It’s not easy telling people you’re a cop. Do you have any idea what they do when they find out? There’s always one joker who’s going to ask, ‘How many people did you beat up today?’”

  Morrie joins in. “Or ‘Does it give you a thrill to carry a gun?’ That’s what all the gals want to know.”

  “It makes you gun-shy,” Jack says, “and excuse the pun.”

  I give Jack a look that says we’re going to talk more about this “slight exaggeration” later. He smiles and shrugs.

  Morrie easily leans over the table and gives me a friendly peck on the forehead. “I’ve been very self-involved here. Your turn. What’s the Gladdy Gold Detective Agency been up to?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” I dip my dragon roll into the soy sauce, dropping half the rice off my chopsticks as I do.

  “Don’t be modest. I saw you on TV. You’re a celebrity now. Cases must be flooding in.”

  “Well, the girls and I are on a stakeout. Cheating hubby, you know how that is.”

  “Stakeouts are a drag. All that sitting and waiting.”

  “Yeah,” I say, one tough comrade to another. “How do you handle the boredom?”

  “I do a lot of thinking. Try not to crave the coffee I want but don’t dare drink. Go over notes of the case. Think about all the things I’m doing wrong in my love life.”

  We all smile at that.

  “I, on the other hand, can do no thinking. I’m stuck listening to the girls shriek at one another as they play cards in the dark. As they rustle sandwich bags and continuously eat. As they kvetch about everything.”

  Jack says, “Having company makes it less boring.”

  “Boring, they’re not. They’re adorable, but you don’t want to spend too much time locked in very tight places with them.”

  Our main courses have arrived. My tofu sukiyaki smells delicious.

  As we dig in, I ask Morrie, “What’s happening with those two cases, the wealthy society ladies in West Palm Beach and Boca? You hear anything new about them? I know it’s not in your jurisdiction…”

  He looks puzzled. “You mean the woman who died on the golf course?”

  “And,” I add, “the one who died of heart failure in the steam room at the spa.”

  Suddenly, I am winging it. Up to this minute I hadn’t given a thought to mentioning these events. But as I listen to their crime stories, my library research resonates in me. “All that money? Sure sounds like a motive to me.”

  “You’re reaching,” Jack says mildly.

  “Don’t you think their precincts investigated?” This from Morrie.

  “And I’ll bet both husbands had perfect alibis.”

  “From what I’ve heard—they did. But they didn’t need alibis.”

  “I think it was murder.” Even as I say the word, something icy creeps into my heart.

  They both stare at me.

  “I mean, in all the books and all the movies, the husband is always the prime suspect.”

  I can’t stop my mouth. It just won’t listen to my head. “Sure, death by sports and leisure. Maybe the next one will be a ‘heart attack’ in a hot-air balloon.”

  Two sets of chopsticks are put down. Two sets of eyes show astonishment.

  Why can’t I stop myself? I babble on.

  “You don’t like the husbands? Maybe there’s a serial killer who is after very rich women. Someone who had a very deprived childhood.” In my embarrassment, I’m trying for a light tone. But I sound like an idiot.

  At Morrie’s raised eyebrow, I continue my imitation of a lemming jumping off a cliff. “Maybe some other very rich ladies want to get on the twenty-five-wealthiest roll and they’re knocking off these women so they’ll move up on the list.”

  Morrie says, “What don’t you understand about ‘natural causes’?”

  “You’ll change your tune when the next heiress bites the dust. Pardon me for mixing my metaphors.”

  The two of them now talk over my head, pretending to ignore me.

  Morrie asks Jack, “What would you do about such insubordination if she were in your precinct?”

  “I’d probably demote her to Traffic,” he answers. “And tell her to stop reading so many books and watching so many movies.”

  “Stop talking about me as if I weren’t here.” I need to get off the hot seat. “Enough about me. So, Jack, tell me. How did a nice Jewish boy like you decide to become a cop?” I pour myself some jasmine tea. I need the distraction. I could kick myself for getting on to this subject.

  Jack’s obviously told this story many times. “As the old ads used to say, I was a ninety-pound weakling and I was getting smacked around a lot. We grew up in a tough neighborhood in Brooklyn where there were three sets of immigrants—Jews, Italians, and Irish. And since Jews always seem to be the ‘chosen’ people, I was chosen to get beaten up by whichever gang was roaming the streets that day.

  “So I joined a gym, buffed up, and met some guys who were cops. Italians, Irish, and Jews. They taught me how to fight back. They became my mentors and I followed in their footsteps. I had found my career.”

  “And, naturally, I followed in my dad’s footsteps,” adds Morrie.

  “Now if you’d marry me, we’d have three detectives in the family.”

  I shouldn’t say it but I do. “Jack, just don’t tell me you were in Homicide.”

  He looks at me for a long moment and says in a flat tone, “Then I won’t tell you.”

  The two men stare at me curiously.

  Why did I bring it up? Why? I lower my eyes and clutch my fingers around my chopsticks. I never talk about that. Never.

  13

  Dancing Books

  I squint at the clock in the very early light. Six A.M. Dream wake-up time again. Don’t these dreams of mine ever give me a break and come at a decent hour?

  I’m supposed to analyze you, Mr. Dream? Wait. First I’ve got to deal with Mr. Coffee.

  This one usually makes me smile. Get this: Imagine an MGM extravaganza. In Technicolor, with the Glenn Miller band playing “Moonlight Serenade.” A glamorous Busby Berkeley Hollywood set all in white and gold. With a double staircase and glittering chandeliers. Here they come, the Dancing Books. Perched atop sexy legs, like the old Chesterfield TV ads, tap-dancing their way down to center stage, then into the audience where I sit enraptured, front row center. Each book kisses me gently on my forehead as it imparts its story to my mind and heart. Little Women. Marjorie Morningstar. Catch-22. Madame Bovary. To Kill a Mockingbird. Bonjour Tristesse. The Catcher in the Rye. Breakfast at Tiffany’s. East of Eden.

  On and on they come.

  I keep saying thank you, thank you, for loving me. I keep smiling until The Reluctant Hero in Modern Fiction jumps off the stage and hits me in the head.

  And as usual, that’s when I wake up.

  Thanks, Jack. You always ruin this happy dream. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, my darling. I must explain that I’m referring to the first Jack, Jack Milton Gold, the love of my life, the man I married when I was twenty. He of the glorious light brown curly hair and hazel eyes and infectious smile and love of everything and everybody.

  I met him in college five years after the end of World War II. Those were the happy days, that era of my most intense reading. I went to college and discovered I wasn’t an alien from another planet after all. There were actually others like me.

  He was getting his master’s in literature; I, my B.A. in library science. We met in Chaucer, fell in love in Shakespeare, and decided to get married halfway through the Romantic poets.

  Could anyone have been happier? Living in New York in the fifties, the home of everything artistic and exciting. We had our very own, very s
mall three-room apartment near the Hudson River. Jack taught at Columbia University. I was a happy housewife, learning to cook and trying to study at the same time. Fanny Farmer in one hand, the Dewey decimal system in the other.

  And then our beautiful baby, Emily, arrived.

  I was blessed.

  And then I was cursed.

  The Reluctant Hero in Modern Fiction. That was the title of the textbook Jack wrote and used in his classes. And it always hit me in the head at the end of every Dancing Books dream.

  Once, during one of our all-night study/love-making sessions, I asked him to tell me about his war. I remember him saying that, yes, war had been hell, but afterwards, if you survived, life went on with or without your participation. “You have two choices,” he told me. “You can wallow in what you can’t change or you can fall in love with the miracle of every single day.”

  Jack Gold was my hero. He chose to fall in love with me and with life.

  When the fairy tales I read as a child told me I’d find a hero to love, they were right. They also promised I’d live happily ever after. I didn’t know “ever after” was only eleven more years.

  I distract myself from dredging up the past by rereading a few pages from an old favorite, Gone with the Wind. (Is that a boring title, or what? I guess all the good biblical titles had been taken.)

  Is it eight A.M. already? I see the girls out my window gathering for our morning workout and I close the book.

  Like Scarlett, I’ll think about the bad stuff tomorrow.

  14

  A New Job

  It’s eleven A.M. and the mail has arrived. Front doors open, people stroll over. For many, this is the big event of the day.

  Evvie is already at the mailboxes. It’s also the day her weekly Lanai Gardens Free Press is delivered, and she’s graciously handing them out to her admirers. There’s something for everyone in this newspaper my sister started years ago because, as she said, she desperately missed the Daily News and the New York Post. She covers everything from Hadassah meetings, clubhouse events, and religious services to garage sales. Everybody reads her reviews of plays, movies, lectures, and concerts, written in her own highly individualistic style.