by Sue Margolis
“Well … I was lying in bed the other night and I had this sudden epiphany. Suppose after you die, there’s no afterlife? What if it’s just nothing? You can’t waste your life and hope for better things on the other side. You need to grab happiness where you can.”
“Amen to that,” I say.
She changes the subject and says that if it’s all right with me she’s taking Sam to meet Bernie. It turns out she’s spoken to him on the phone and he’s invited Sam along to one of the coffee shops in the high street to play a few games. “Usually he meets up with his chess buddies. But today they can’t make it. So he’s got nobody to play with. He said I was more than welcome to bring Sam along.”
“You sure he wasn’t saying that just to be polite?”
“No. He likes Sam and he thinks he’s a really talented kid.”
“So, how well do you know Bernie?”
“He’s only been coming to the center for a month or two. To be honest, I’ve hardly spoken to him.” She pauses. “Are you asking me if Sam will be safe with him?”
“I guess I am.”
She says not to worry. She will hang around and read a book while they play. “I won’t let Sam out of my sight.”
Since Rosie has a playdate and I was planning on doing some grocery shopping in the high street, I tell her I’ll join them for a few minutes. I’d like to meet Bernie, get the measure of him, as well as to thank him for inviting Sam along to play.
• • •
The moment we walk in, Bernie gets up from his seat to greet us. He has to be six-four or -five. He’s wearing tailored slacks and a navy sports jacket. His appearance isn’t lost on my mother, who is giving him the once-over.
“Wow, for an old man, he’s really tall,” Sam whispers. “I’ve only ever seen him sitting down.”
I tell him not to be so rude.
“It’s fine,” Bernie says. “And do you know what? I haven’t lost an inch with age. Not a single inch. In fact, I’m the same height and weight now as I was when I beat Razor Robinson in 1948.”
“Was he a famous chess player? I’ve never heard of him.”
Bernie chuckles and explains that before he took up chess he was an amateur boxer.
“I was pretty good, too.” He takes off his jacket, flexes his right biceps and invites Sam to feel it.
“Wow.”
“Yep. Still rock hard. I lift weights at the gym three times a week. I make some of these young guys look like weaklings, I can tell you. The secret to healthy aging is to keep fit.”
Mum says she had no idea he was a boxer.
“Only for a few years when I was young. After Razor Robinson broke my nose, my mother threatened to have a stroke. So I never turned professional. Instead I became an accountant and took up chess as a hobby.” He turns to Sam: “Guess how many chess trophies I’ve won. Go on. Guess. OK, I’ll tell you … twenty-four.”
“That’s a lot,” Sam says.
“It is a lot.”
But Sam’s more interested in Bernie’s boxing career. He wants to know if he knocked Razor Robinson out.
“You bet. Clean out in the third round. I got him with a sucker punch. But not before he did this.” He taps his lumpy, splayed broken nose and turns sideways. “It’s given me a great profile, don’t you think?”
“That is so cool,” Sam says.
“No, it isn’t,” Mum snaps. “It’s horrible. Boxing is nothing to be proud of. If you ask me, it should be banned. What sort of civilized society allows people into a ring with the sole aim of beating each other senseless?”
“Women don’t get it,” Bernie says, giving Sam a conspiratorial wink.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mum says.
“It means that men have a basic primal urge to fight and dominate and achieve personal glory. Women will never understand that.”
Sam is looking up at Bernie, wide-eyed and in awe. Mum tells him to take no notice of Bernie’s primal urges—the mention of which has made her turn quite pink. Boxing is obscene, she says. Sam ignores her.
“So, would you teach me some boxing moves?” he says.
Bernie puts up his fists and starts bouncing on his feet, bobbing and weaving. I get the feeling he’s showing off to Mum. If he is, it’s not working. She’s looking at me, rolling her eyes.
“Sure. No problem,” he says.
“You will not,” Mum says.
I feel it’s time for me to step in. “Thanks for the offer, Bernie, but I’m not sure Sam’s mum and dad would approve. Might be best if you stick to chess.”
“But they let me have the rifle. I know they wouldn’t mind.”
“Well, I think you need to check with them first.”
Bernie nudges Sam. “While we’re playing I’ll also give you a few tips on how to get round women.” He pauses. “So, Sam, what can I get you to drink? A Coke maybe?”
“I’m not allowed soda.”
Bernie turns to Mum and makes a sad clown mouth.
“Don’t look at me. I don’t make the rules.”
“Come on,” he says, offering me the same beseeching face. “Once can’t hurt.”
I feel myself smiling and caving. “OK, just this once.”
“Yay.”
“See?” Bernie whispers to Sam. “I told you I was good at getting round women.”
Then he insists on treating Mum and me to coffee and Danish.
Bernie’s cocky and full of himself, but I’ve warmed to him. He’s funny, he has an old-fashioned twinkle in his eye and I like the way he is with Sam. After we’ve had coffee, I take my leave and head to the supermarket.
Sam and Mum don’t get home until after lunch. Sam is full of the new techniques Bernie has taught him. “He taught me to castle early and get my king behind my wing pawns. Bogdan never taught me that.”
I have no idea what he is talking about, but I tell him it sounds great. Mum, on the other hand, isn’t in the best of moods.
“If I have to listen to one more minute of that man talking about himself …”
“But he tells really cool stories,” Sam says. “I loved the one about boxers putting starch on their bandages to make their punches harder.”
“Well, I don’t approve of the way he’s filling your head with all this aggression.”
“Bernie says you need a bit of aggression when you play chess. He taught me this opening called the Sicilian Dragon. That’s quite aggressive. I wish Bernie was my chess coach instead of Bogdan.”
“No, you don’t,” Mum says. “The man’s got an ego the size of a planet. And your parents wouldn’t approve.”
“Awwww.”
She hands Sam a plate on which she has placed a large slice of chocolate cake and shoos him out of the kitchen.
“So, did I detect just a smidgen of sexual tension between you and Bernie?”
“What? Weren’t you listening to a word I just said? The man’s cocky and arrogant. For your information, I do not find that sexy.”
“Maybe. But for his age he’s very well preserved.”
“I wish they would preserve him—preferably in aspic.”
“No, you don’t. I think you quite like him.”
“I do not. And anyway, he’s seeing somebody. A woman from the day center called Pearl.”
“Really? That’s a pity.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. Then she heads to the larder and takes out a packet of split peas. If there are enough carrots and onions, she’s going to make pea soup. We haven’t had it in ages.
CHAPTER
sixteen
The early-morning sun is casting shadows on the white bed linen. Mike kisses the length of my neck and moves on to my breasts and stomach. “So, what do you fancy for breakfast?”
“You.”
“That goes without saying,” he says, stroking the insides of my thighs. “But what would you like apart from me?” Smiling, I reach down, take hold of him and start pumping slowly.
“It’s not going to happen unless I take another tablet. We might as well eat while we wait.”
Middle-age sex.
Last night, on the sofa while he had his hand inside my skirt, I was still under the impression that he didn’t need performance-enhancing drugs. But when I suggested moving things to the bedroom, he said maybe give it a few more minutes. Of course I asked why. He looked a bit sheepish, took his hand away, said he’d only just taken his tablet and that it took a while to kick in. “Please don’t be cross with me. I know I should have come clean when you asked me the other day, but I was too embarrassed… . Erectile dysfunction is hardly a turn-on.”
“But I told you I wasn’t bothered.”
“Even so …”
To make him feel better I told him I had a confession, too. I reached into my bag and produced my post-menopause must-have—my trusty tube of FemGlide. “Sandpaper sex isn’t much of a turn-on either. So maybe I should go to the bathroom now and …”
He took it from me. “Don’t you dare. You leave that to me.”
“Seriously? You find that sexy?”
“You bet. Don’t you?”
Since he’d mentioned it, I guess I did.
Our mutual age-related deficiencies turned out to be liberating. In my twenties I worried about new boyfriends seeing me naked. I tortured myself about my figure, which was gorgeous—my weight, which was perfect. Last night as I let Mike undress me and get busy with the FemGlide, I didn’t give a damn about my thick waist, my thicket bush, my breasts, which swayed and swung. And nor, it seemed, did he. I lost count of the times he told me how beautiful I was.
It was all so easy. The fact that we’d taken time to know each other helped. We relaxed, let go. We had fun. Neither of us had anything to prove. It was slow and tender and when I came I cried. Of course Mike panicked and thought my tears were his fault—that he’d done something wrong.
“It was perfect. You did nothing wrong.”
“What, then?”
“It’s been so long,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, “that I’d almost forgotten what an orgasm felt like. I didn’t know if I could still do it. But I did and it was wonderful. Thank you.”
I didn’t tell him that I had also been worried about whether I could come with a man who wasn’t Brian. I thought the guilt might kick in. But it didn’t. The truth was, I hadn’t felt so turned on in I don’t know how long—decades probably. Brian and I had been married forever. Even before he got ill, sex wasn’t as high on the agenda as it had once been. It had given way to affection and comfortable companionability.
“The pleasure was all mine,” Mike said.
“Really?”
“Like you need to ask.” He took my hand, placed it on his erection and we did it again. We would have gone for the hat trick, but his tablet was starting to wear off. So we drank Scotch and lay in each other’s arms, watching Louie reruns until we fell asleep.
• • •
Mike takes another tablet and makes bacon sandwiches. We eat them in bed while we wait for him to get a hard-on. Every so often I reach out and start fiddling with his penis. “Just checking.”
He says that despite his excellent multitasking skills, he can’t get an erection and eat bacon at the same time.
“Bet you can.” I’m laughing and stroking his balls. He’s practically choking on his sandwich.
We’re still eating and fooling around when my phone rings. The caller display says Ginny. I decide to let it go to voice mail. Then it occurs to me that if she’s calling at eight in the morning it could be urgent. Mike peers under the covers. “I’ll be a while yet. Take it.”
“Hi, Ginny. You OK?”
“Fine. I didn’t realize it was so early. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“No, we’re up.”
“We? Oh God. You’re at Mike’s, aren’t you? I’ll go.”
“No, don’t. It’s fine—really.”
“So you slept over.”
“I did.”
“Wow… . So how was it?”
“Maybe we could hook up later for a chat?”
“Roger that. You can’t talk.”
“Not really… . So, were you calling about something in particular?”
“I was. I’ve been up all night thinking about it. I’ve decided to go and see my mother. You’re right. She’s ill. I don’t know how much time she has left. I could live to regret it.”
“Good for you. I know you’re doing the right thing.”
“The thing is, I was wondering if you’d come with me for moral support. I can’t believe I’m asking you. You know how gung ho I am. It takes a lot to scare me, but I’m absolutely petrified. I don’t want you to come in with me. But if you could wait outside in the car …”
“I can do that. When were you thinking of going?”
“I think it might be best to strike while the iron’s hot. Maybe this morning? She doesn’t go out, so any time will do.”
“OK. I could pick you up, say, around eleven?”
I look a question at Mike. He says that’s fine by him. He’s got a piece to write.
“Perfect,” Ginny says. “Thank you so much. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
While Ginny says she’ll treat me to lunch afterward, Mike is lifting the sheet and pointing. “Sorry, Ginny. Got to go. Something’s just come up.”
• • •
Ginny’s mother, Edith, lives in a dark Victorian Gothic villa facing Hampstead Heath. The green-and-cream paint is bubbling and curling. The asphalt driveway is cracked and full of weeds. It’s the kind of place the Addams family might have taken as a vacation rental.
To calm Ginny’s nerves, I made sure we spent most of the journey discussing Mike and me. Ginny is delighted that we finally did the “deed.” “It would be wonderful if you two made a go of it. Shame about that bloody daughter of his. When she finds out she isn’t going to be best pleased.”
“Tell me about it.”
I park the car on the street. Ginny picks up the bouquet of red tulips that’s been lying on the backseat and stares out of the window, gathering her thoughts. “I haven’t set foot in this house for over thirty years. It feels so weird.”
“You’ll be fine. Remember—slow, deep breaths.”
She opens the door. “Into the valley of death rode the six hundred …”
“Come on. It won’t be that bad.”
“You don’t know my mother. Wish me luck.”
I lean over and give her a hug and a kiss.
Once she’s out of the car, she pauses to inhale. Then, shoulders back, she marches up the driveway. Before she knocks on the door, she turns to glance at me. I nod and give her the thumbs-up. She picks up the brass knocker and brings it down once and then again. She gives the old lady time to answer, but after half a minute or so there’s no sign of Edith. She knocks again. Still nothing. I watch her crouch down and open the letter box. The next moment she drops the bouquet and comes charging down the drive. I unwind the car window. “What is it?”
“She’s lying on the hall floor. She must have had another stroke.”
We dash back up the drive, me on the phone to the emergency services. Ginny is ahead of me, shouting through the letterbox.
“Mum. It’s Ginny. Can you hear me? Lift your hand if you can hear me.” She looks at me and shakes her head. “I think she’s gone.”
“You don’t know that. She’s probably just unconscious.”
Ginny picks up a large piece of stone from the neglected rockery and smashes a pane of glass in the front door. While I yell at her to watch out for broken glass, she reaches inside and releases the lock.
Lying in the dark-paneled hallway on a worn cherry red carpet is a gaunt figure with long gray hair that looks like it could do with a wash. Ditto her faded silk dressing gown. Judging by the way her limbs are splayed and twisted, she’s taken a bad fall.
Ginny is on her knees, feeling for a pulse in the old lady’
s wrist. I’m looking at her face, which is corrugated and pale and caved in at the mouth, for want of her false teeth.
“Nothing. I think she’s gone.” I get down beside Ginny and put an arm around her shoulders. But she doesn’t need comfort. There’s not a glimmer of emotion. Ginny hasn’t had a relationship with her mother in three decades. To her, this could be any sad, unfortunate old lady lying dead on the floor.
There’s a knock on the door. Two women paramedics come striding in and ask if we wouldn’t mind moving back.
Ginny and I hover by the stairs. One of the paramedics is checking for a pulse in Edith’s neck.
“Why are they bothering?” Ginny says. “They can see she’s gone.”
“I’ve got a weak pulse here,” the paramedic says. Her colleague arranges an oxygen mask over Edith’s face.
“Good God. She’s alive?”
“Just about.”
Ginny says she’ll go with Edith in the ambulance. I offer to follow, but by now she’s texted her brother and arranged to meet him at the hospital. “You go home. We’ll be fine. And, Judy … thank you for everything.”
“No problem. Go. And keep me posted.”
• • •
When I get home, Rosie asks if I had a nice time at my friend’s house.
“I had a very nice time. Thank you.”
“When Cybil comes for sleepovers she sleeps in my bed, and sometimes we watch movies on the iPad. Did you sleep in the same bed with your friend?”
“Actually we did.”
“Did you watch stuff?”
“Not so much.”
“That sounds really boring.”
Mum, who is sitting reading the newspaper, doesn’t look up. Rosie says she’s going to her room. She’s got a playdate this afternoon and she wants to get together some games to take with her. I check that she’s all the way upstairs before telling Mum about finding Edith collapsed on the floor.
“Good God. What a shock for Ginny … and for you. I’ll put the kettle on. What you need is a nice cup of sweet tea.”
“Mum, I’m fine, honestly.” But she’s filling the kettle anyway. “It’s Ginny I’m worried about.”
“Of course you are. Such a lovely woman. From what you’ve told me the mother sounds like a piece of work, though… . I don’t care if she is on her last legs.”
