by Warren Adler
"Frieda, you're becoming a kvetch," Dotty laughed.
But she had lain back and put a straw hat over her face, through which, between broken straws, she could view Harvey Feinstein with more leisure. He was sitting at the foot of the beach chair on which the woman had been reclining, talking to her and looking at the phone. His wife, surely, she thought, as she tried to gather a more complete picture of the woman, a bleached blonde with a fair figure. When she stood up, Frieda could see that her thighs were starting to widen, an image that, despite her self-admonishment, gave Frieda pleasure. She did not admit, even to herself, that something else had given her pleasure, a quiver in another place, down there. The signs were quite physical, rather frightening in a woman of her years, although, from the talk of the yentas, she knew that the yearnings were still active, even actively pursued and proudly acclaimed.
"My Max, you'd think he was fourteen years old. He won't let me alone."
"You're lucky," some widow would invariably say. "Stop complaining."
"Who's complaining?" the lucky one would say.
"If he has any left over, I know somewhere he could use it."
"It's all right. He knows where his bread is buttered."
When she came back from the pool, she looked at her body in the full-length mirror, something she had not done in years, and surveyed what time had done. There was a roundness to her belly and hips, and her breasts, although pendulous, still retained, in her view, at least, a certain fullness around the nipples, which she was surprised to see were erect. There was cellulite around her thighs, but considering the shape of her peers, the only logical yardstick of comparison, she might still consider herself womanly.
The next day, she was up early and off to the bank, where she withdrew $1,500 from her $6,000 savings account and took the Sunset Village bus to the Poinsettia Beach Shopping Center. There, she bought three new dresses, two pantsuits, and a whole different line of make-up, the use of which was patiently explained by a blue-haired older woman with two-inch eyelashes. Then she went to the beauty parlor and had her hair dyed as close to its original color as possible, a kind of chestnut. The hairdresser frizzed it around the edge of her face, insisting that she looked twenty years younger.
"You couldn't make it thirty?" she joked.
"Got a young boyfriend?" the hairdresser minced.
"Seventeen."
"Sounds divine."
That evening, after she ate a salad and was feeling quite good about her willpower, she fiddled with the contents of the vials and tubes and pencils, put on her new make-up and carefully did herself up, satisfied that she had done the best she could with what she had--which wasn't much after sixty-eight years. But she did feel girlish. She felt young, and that was the important thing. She put on her new pink pantsuit over a new girdle that held her in, a little too snugly she realized, but soon her diet would be working and it wouldn't be as uncomfortable.
"Miss America," Dotty said, when she saw her.
"I'm changing my image."
She watched as Dotty surveyed her.
"Be honest," Frieda said.
"You look terrific. If I was a jealous woman, I'd be jealous."
"But you are a jealous woman."
"Then I'm jealous."
On the way to the clubhouse, they sat on the little open-air shuttle bus and she could feel Dotty's eyes on her.
"You're looking for a man, aren't you, Frieda?" she asked gently.
"What makes you think that?"
"My eyes."
Under her make-up and tan, Frieda knew she was blushing. She groped for something to put Dotty off the scent.
"I'm in my second childhood."
"One step from the home." To them the "home" was the next stop on the road to oblivion.
In the clubhouse, they found their usual card table and the canasta game began. She knew she couldn't concentrate. She surreptitiously searched the huge room, seeking out the face of Harvey Feinstein. Twice in the first hour she got up on the pretense of going to the ladies' room, conscious of the eyes of the men who turned her way, or so she imagined, since her new outfit, make-up and hair job made her somewhat of a central figure among her widowed canasta friends. She knew, too, that they were talking about her, probably discussing her strange behavior as a sign of senility, not uncommon in this place.
There was no sign of Harvey Feinstein or his bleached-blonde wife in the card room, in the lobby of the clubhouse, or in any of the special club and hobby rooms that lined the corridor adjacent to the card room.
When she came back after the second time, she said, "I really can't concentrate tonight, girls. Something I ate." She lifted a palm to her chest in a gesture to validate her imaginary heartburn.
They grumbled, of course, and she could see Dotty's lips tighten though they called after her to feel better. But she wasn't listening. Her eyes were like two searchlights scanning the crowd. It had never occurred to her how much older people looked alike and how difficult it was to find one particular person in this sea of tanned faces and bright clothes. She waited in the outer lobby of the auditorium, where some live show was going on, peeking inside when someone would open the door on their way to the bathroom. She calculated that she would have to wait until the show was over before she could make a proper inspection.
There was, she knew, always the possibility that the Feinsteins had chosen to stay home that night, and she was tempted to find their place and peek in the windows to make sure and save her all this energy. Walking into the quiet, gently warm night air, thick with the scent of tropical flowers, she moved around the back of the clubhouse to the shuffleboard courts, which were heavily in use, even at this hour. It was odd, she thought, how some people pursued their leisure as if it were hard work. She hated shuffleboard and couldn't understand why people, men and women both, were fascinated by it. She planned to ignore it, giving the players only the most casual glance and deciding in her own mind that such an occupation would hardly be worthy of Harvey Feinstein--when she saw him.
Calm down, Frieda, she told herself. Her objective was becoming quite clear to her. Her heart beat faster and her knees felt a bit unsteady as she walked toward the court on which he was playing, determined to display herself, to catch his eye, to insist that she be noticed. Pausing, she looked at her face in the hand mirror under the floodlights used to light the shuffleboard courts and proceeded to a place that would put her in contact with his vision. There was a bench directly behind the court on which he was playing. Moving toward it, she slowed down so as to catch his eye as he turned to prepare himself for his shots. Across the court she could see his bleached-blonde wife, moving awkwardly as she attempted a shot in her husband's direction.
Coming closer, she saw him turn and momentarily focus his eyes on her face, then move back to concentrate on his shot. He saw me, she assured herself, feeling fluttery and deliciously girlish, although she did not see any flash of recognition.
"You're terrific, Harvey," she heard the bleached blonde call. "Like you played this game on cruise ships."
So he was not called Heshy anymore, Frieda thought, proud of her special knowledge. She stood behind him now, imagining that she appeared intent on watching the game and wondering quite seriously if there was such a thing as telepathy so that she might will herself into his thoughts. As she was thinking this, he turned, and she forced herself to smile slightly, a gesture miraculously returned by him but so casual as to indicate his non-recognition. His partner was a fat woman, whose chins shivered as she expended energy on her shot, her big hips and behind shaking visibly beneath her slacks.
"Not bad," Frieda said, making him turn. She could hardly just stand there watching them without making some sort of comment.
"It's only my second time," he said.
"You're a natural."
She barely understood the game and, after a while, felt uncomfortable about just standing there like a pear ready to be plucked from a tree. The reference triggered her m
emory and gave her a momentary twinge of pleasure. Schmuck, this is Frieda, she told him urgently to herself. Stop that stupid game and notice.
But he would not stop that stupid game and after watching a long time, she knew that she would have to catch him when he wasn't concentrating so hard.
In bed that evening watching "The Tonight Show," she pondered the ways in which she might catch Harvey Feinstein's eye. It was obvious, although she harbored secret feelings to the contrary, that his memories of her were too deeply embedded, so far beneath the surface of his consciousness that it would not be easy to dredge them up. She did not want to shock him with her presence, nor upset him, nor do something that would make him feel guilty or force his avoidance of her. Frieda Goldberg, she told herself, might have been many things, a cold domineering wife, a little overbearing as a mother, stubborn, independent, but not stupid. Frieda Goldberg definitely was not stupid.
She was still pondering the method the next day as she lounged in a chair beside the pool watching the spot where Harvey Feinstein and his wife sat yesterday, wondering if her new bathing suit set her off well. She imagined she had lost weight. It was obvious to her that Dotty thought she was acting strangely.
"You want to play tonight, Frieda?"
"I'll see later."
"You've got to give us time to get someone else."
"I'll give you time."
Without seeing, she sensed that Dotty had turned away in disgust, rolling her eyes upward to indicate to their friends that something strange was going on in Frieda's head--which, of course, was true.
When the bleached blonde walked across her field of vision, Frieda sat up alertly to see if Heshy was behind her. It was a peculiarity of this place for men to walk, or lag, behind their wives, and she waited patiently for a sign of him. When he did not appear after several minutes and the blonde settled down to her ablutions--the smearing of the sun lotion, the tying of the kerchief, the adjusting of the lounge, the placement of the ashtray and the cigarettes beside it--she understood quite clearly what her method would be. She would reach Heshy Feinstein through his bleached-blonde wife.
Getting up casually, she strolled slowly to the pool next to the spot where the blonde was sitting and put her foot in the water.
"Cold," Frieda squealed.
"The water is cold?" the blonde asked.
She now stood over the lounging woman, being sure not to block the sun. It was, she knew, a mark of politeness in this place.
"It warms up later. Then it gets too hot. Like pishocks."
The woman laughed. She had an even, good set of matching teeth, although the lines around her mouth were quite pronounced. From far, she looks better, Frieda thought.
"I saw you and your husband playing shuffleboard last night," Frieda said. She knew she was courting danger as being dubbed a yenta, but she hoped that the woman would take that role before she did.
"You're very good players," she added after a pause.
"Considering," the bleached blonde said, "we've just been here two weeks and this is only our second time." She seemed eager for friendship.
"You like it here?"
"Wonderful. Brooklyn was getting impossible. The shvartzes everywhere. We lived in Flatbush."
"They're everywhere now in Flatbush? I lived in Crown Heights. I'm here two years. Thank God, my daughter lives in Chicago."
"You don't miss New York?"
"You miss it?"
She moved upright on the lounge, engaged at last. Frieda sat down at the foot of the chair, where Heshy had sat the day before.
"My children live there. And my grandchildren. It's not easy to break away. They both live on the Island. My boy is a dentist. And my daughter married a furrier. I figure that once a year they'll come here and once a year we'll go there. And their children will come for the holidays."
"Everyone figures that."
"My name is Frieda Smith," Frieda said, holding out her hand. "Ida Feinstein," she said, taking it gratefully.
"I'm a widow."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry."
"How long is he gone?" Aha, Frieda thought, bracing for the interrogation, a true yenta.
"Seven years."
"There's a lot of widows here?"
"You wouldn't believe it."
"I'm so lucky to have my Harvey. He was a schoolteacher in the New York public school system, in Forest Hills, which was lucky except for the long ride to Brooklyn. I used to worry myself sick. Thank God," she knocked her knuckles on the metal lounge, "he never had a problem."
"He likes it here?"
"Loves it. He doesn't like the hot sun so much. But he stays home, does the housework, the dishes, and reads. He'll come later. He taught biology. A very smart man. Not so sociable as I would like, but I'm sure he'll adjust."
Frieda caught the tinge of regret, noting that Heshy was having a hard time adjusting to retirement. It was not uncommon.
"You like to play cards?"
"I love canasta. I miss my regular game. Also Mah-Jongg. I'm sure I'll find a regular game here," she said expectantly.
"Ida," Frieda said, "you've come to the right store." She led her over to her friends and introduced her to Dotty and the others. Soon they were exchanging histories and information and Dotty was filling her in on the gossip, especially as it pertained to the new section to which the Feinsteins had just moved.
"She'd be a perfect replacement," Frieda said, after they had talked for a while.
"A very attractive woman," Dotty said loudly enough for ingratiation. She could see Ida Feinstein beam.
"Yes, I quite agree," Frieda said, turning to Ida. "You'll love it here. You'll see how the place grows on you."
"It all depends on the friends you make. That's exactly what my son told me."
Frieda made sure she left before Heshy came down to the pool. She stood up and announced that she wouldn't be playing that night.
Dotty smirked. "Can you make it, Ida?"
"I'd love it."
"Your husband wouldn't mind?" Dotty asked.
"If he minds, he minds," Ida said, flaunting what seemed like independence in this circle of widows. She paused a moment. "Perhaps he can find someone to play shuffleboard with."
Frieda was too excited to eat, and she carefully checked her make-up bottles and vials and tubes to create what she imagined was the best face possible. Why lie to yourself? she asked, putting on one of her new outfits, a bright-yellow dress that the clerk said made her look youthful. That was the way they sold goods in Florida.
She deliberately set off early for the shuffleboard courts to avoid the eyes of Dotty and the yentas who did not burrow out of their condominiums until later and, most important, to be able to flag down Heshy Feinstein before he found a partner to play that detestable game with. Sometimes a little sacrifice doesn't hurt, she told herself, climbing into the gaily colored open-air shuttle bus and looking toward the bright sunset that turned the whole western sky molten red and gold.
Picking a vantage point near the shuffleboard courts, she watched the emerging groups of people seeking the evening's play. The lights seemed to brighten as the sun went down and soon she felt her own impatience and uncertainty. Suppose he had chosen not to come? Suppose Ida had not won her battle for independence? It was past the hour when they would have assembled in the card room and she was growing impatient when she finally saw him walk through the clubhouse exit toward the courts. Standing up, she moved toward the fence. She had taken the precaution of putting her name on the list and now noted that her court would be coming up shortly--providing that the honor system of vacating the court after an hour was adhered to, which did not always happen without the use of intimidation.
She felt him standing behind her, watching the games in progress. She wondered if being close to her, smelling her, had not jogged his memory. I am Frieda Goldberg, she screamed within herself, hoping he would hear. She dared not confront him openly with such a confession, fearing
rejection. Another couple was standing next to her.
"I'm looking for a partner," she said so that he might hear.
"We're already a twosome," the man said.
"A gruesome twosome," the woman said, obviously wanting to ease what she considered the pain of the other's rejection.
"I'm in the market," Heshy Feinstein said. His voice was clear, strong, and came to her over the distance of half a century. She turned and looked at him, looked deep into his eyes, which she had recognized instantly. He, however, quickly glanced at his feet.
"Perfect," she said. "My court comes up in a few minutes."
"Say," he said, "aren't you the woman who was here last night?"
"Yes."
"My wife said she met you at the pool."
"Oh?" She feigned a slow recollection.
"Ida Feinstein."
"Ida," she said, noting that he was searching her face, "a lovely woman." She paused. "You've only just arrived?"
"Two weeks," he said. She detected a note of sadness.
"You miss your work," she said softly, a trifle breathless she imagined, wanting to offer him greater understanding than he had had in fifty years.
"It's not easy. I've been active as a teacher for all those years. It'll take some getting used to."
When their court was ready, they proceeded down the line and took their sticks from the rack.
"I'm really not good at this," she said. "You're much better."
"I've only played twice in my life."
"You're probably a natural athlete."
"Yes, people have said that."
She held the stick and moved forward with her disk, overshooting the board and crashing into the wall beyond.
"Too hard," he said.
The next disk barely made it to the point of the triangle.
"I think I need a little instruction," she said.
He was a teacher and immediately began a pedantic lesson in the relationship of the disk to the stick to the muscles of the arm. He gently took her bare arm and moved it in a pushing motion. She felt the goose pimples erupt, her arm grow limp.
"Stiffer," he said.
I can't stand this, she told herself. She managed to move the disk to the lowest score.
