Getting Old Is a Disaster (6 page)

  "How could I forget?" Jack gestures expansively with his hands. "No fax machine here. No problem."

  "And our silly fight that kept us apart for so long."

  "Over and forgotten."

  "In your New York hotel room, the phone rang, once again interrupting us with important news that had to be dealt with instantaneously."

  "Phone's turned off. No news can find us."

  I listen. The silence is wonderful.

  "Nothing's going to intrude. I'm telling you."

  "It will. I know it will."

  "Nonsense." He pulls me down on the couch. Then onto his lap. "Thank God."

  "Why 'Thank God'?"

  "Because I don't need Viagra."

  Kiss. Kiss. Ummn, more . . .

  "Lucky us to have each other."

  I snuggle closer into his arms. "No girls to interrupt."

  "No thinking about the girls allowed. Shut it down."

  "Done."

  More kissing and murmuring of silly nothings. How happy can one be? His body fits so well with mine. I let myself sink into the pleasure of the moment. It's been so long . . .

  The doorbell rings.

  We freeze.

  I moan, "No . . ."

  He echoes my "No," then shakes his head. "I will not answer it."

  We both jump up so quickly that we bang heads.

  The doorbell rings again. Jack mutters irritably, "I am absolutely not opening that door."

  The ringing is now followed by knocking and then a seductive female voice calling, "Come on, Jack, I know you're in there."

  Now it's Jack's turn to moan.

  Another voice is heard. A high-pitched one. "It's seven o'clock."

  And yet another female voice, a wispy one. "I brought the cards."

  Jack gets off the coach. I roll over into a sitting position, straightening my dress as best I can.

  He whispers to me, "Don't move, they'll go away."

  "Who are they?" I ask.

  "My bridge partners."

  A few moments later, Jack's cell phone rings from a side table, once again startling us. Jack snarls. "They aren't giving up." He glares at it as the phone keeps ringing, then finally it stops.

  We wait breathlessly. Silence. He smiles at me, sensing victory, then grimaces as the pounding on the door begins again.

  We look at each other. No use. Jack says, "One thing you can say about bridge players, they are tenacious!"

  Moving to the door, he runs his fingers through his hair and turns on the lights. "Damn, damn, damn . . ."

  He struggles with the double lock, cursing. When he finally opens it, there is an immediate flurry of activity. One woman, nice-looking, in her fifties, wearing navy blue sweats, lugs in a small square folding table. Two other women carry packages. One of them, a redhead wearing a rather sexy sundress with a jungle/tiger print, moves easily to the kitchen. The one following her is taller and big-boned. Even though they see me sitting there, none of them has the decency to be embarrassed.

  The sexy voice calls out, "We brought all the snacks this time because we knew you didn't have time to shop."

  The taller one adds, "Mostly pretzels and chips."

  As if in a trance Jack helps the woman in blue sweats unfold the card table.

  I sit up straighter on the couch, trying to look casual and relaxed although I am neither. I'm actually frustrated and annoyed. I cross and recross my legs. This can't be happening again. It can't. Is this some cosmic joke?

  Finally the trio turns to stare at me. The sexy woman stands much too close to Jack, who looks beyond sheepish.

  "Hi," says the sexpot. "I'm Louise Bannister." With that dress, I expect her to growl.

  The tall woman says, "I'm Carmel Graves, from one flight up."

  And blue sweats waves cheerfully. "I'm Carol Ann Gutsch from two doors down."

  "My bridge partners," says Jack, shamefacedly. "Tonight's our usual game night. I guess I forgot."

  I get up from the couch and move on shaky legs. "I'm Gladdy Gold," I manage to say, my voice breaking. I can't even look at Jack. "I was just leaving," I stammer.

  "No, don't," Jack says, holding tightly to my arm. He faces the trio of card players. "I'm terribly sorry, but I made other plans tonight."

  "So I see," says Ms. Bannister, assessing her competition. "I wish you'd called. I could have made other arrangements and not wasted my evening."

  Carol Ann behaves as if someone ran over her pet cat. "I was so looking forward to tonight. I circled it three times on my calendar."

  Carmel also seems crestfallen. "Maybe I could still make it to the movies if I can find someone to drive me. I don't see too well at night."

  They look to Jack, waiting. What a bunch. The man-eater is trying to make him feel guilty because such a hot tootsie could have filled her dance card over and over again.

  Carol Ann is making him feel even guiltier about her lonely night ahead, and Carmel is playing the "I'm so needy" card. Jack doesn't have a chance.

  I touch his shoulder and shake my head. I say to the group, "Please, don't let me upset your plans." I give Jack a quick peck on the cheek and leave.

* * *

As I hurry toward the stairwell, Jack is suddenly behind me. "Gladdy, wait."

  "Let me know who wins." I can barely stifle my sarcasm.

  "I am going to insist we play another night. Come back in. Please." He tries to pull me into his arms, but the mood is gone. Talk about totally.

  "I can't. Not right now. I have a splitting headache."

  Jack tries for a smile. "Can't you see the humor in this?"

  And I do. I laugh softly. Jack joins in. He says, "You think there's some conspiracy keeping us apart?"

  "Probably. Go back inside before your harem girls melt into a pool of self-pitying tears. And beat the hell out of them. In cards, I mean."

  He kisses me.

  I warn him, "And watch out for the tigress in there. She's out to devour you."

  I'm still laughing as I dash down the stairs.

  Suddenly, the skies open. It's raining and of course I didn't bring an umbrella. Then I realize I left my toothbrush at Jack's. I slosh my way home, my feet getting wetter and wetter in my open heels. All the way I am giggling and muttering like a madwoman. "I cannot believe this, I absolutely, positively cannot believe this . . ."

a terrible nightmare.

  
Closer and closer. They are coming at last.
There is no place to hide or to run. Huddled in
their bedroom, the four of them cannot look at
one another because the truth will be revealed in
their eyes—they are doomed. Eyes, eyes. She sees
his
eyes and the terrible scar. Why is there no help?
The pounding rain will drown them. They are
hammering on her door. No escape.

* * *

  Denny, our handyman, dressed in rain gear, is standing in front of his apartment, staring up at the second floor. Evvie and Bella are on the walkway in front of Enya's apartment, 219, at the end of their floor. At the opposite end of the landing, Hy and Lola are standing in their doorway, whispering and gesturing.

  Evvie is pounding on Enya's door. "Enya. Open up. Please?" Bella huddles right behind her.

  I am up the stairs in moments, joining them. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

  Evvie glances at me, surprised. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be with Jack."

  I'm not about to go into detail about bridge players barging in on us and trumping our love scene. "Never mind that right now. Why is everyone outside?"

  "We heard Enya screaming and then it suddenly got very quiet. We're trying to find out what's wrong but she won't open the door."

  I try the bell, with no response. We attempt to peer into her kitchen window, which is next to the door. There is some ambient light, but no movement. I take out my cell phone and dial her number. It rings five times. Finally a small soft voice answers. "Who's there?"

  I sigh with relief. "Enya, it's Gladdy. Are you all right?"

  "I need to sleep. I can't sleep."

  "Please let us in. Just for a moment. Okay?"

  She hangs up. I do, too. After a few seconds the door slowly opens. Enya, wearing an old gray chenille bathrobe, barely peers out. She looks haggard and frightened. I speak gently to her. "May we come in?"

  She nods. Evvie turns to all the onlookers to signal things seem all right.

  Ida calls from across the courtyard, "I'm on my way."

  Bella backs away. "It's fine," Evvie tells her. "Go back to your place and rest." Bella, relieved of having to deal with something possibly frightening, does so.

  The show is over. The onlookers return to their apartments. The rain stops.

* * *

I can't remember the last time any of us has been inside Enya's apartment. Years and years ago. And only briefly. She is a very private person and wants to be left alone. We've tried to include her in events, but she politely refuses. While her husband, Jacov, was alive, he brought her to all the seders we had and the Hanukkah parties. But after he died she didn't pretend anymore. She wanted nothing to do with celebrations, religious or otherwise. She's eighty-four now but it seems that, as far she's concerned, she died with her entire family in 1942.

  Her home is laid out as all of our apartments are: tiny entry hall, equally small kitchen, dining area and living room next, and bedrooms off to the side. But unlike the rest of us, who've decorated our homes to our taste, Enya has kept hers sparsely furnished. She has never bothered to adorn it in any way. She still has the few pieces of basic furniture she bought years ago when she and Jacov moved in. There is no artwork on the walls. However, there are books, magazines, and newspapers everywhere—both in English and German.

  Ida arrives and joins us.

  Enya is shaking, though the apartment has the heat turned up high and the weather outside is warm and muggy. Now that I can look at her more closely, it seems as if she's aged overnight. We crowd the spotless kitchen. Evvie immediately starts boiling water for tea. I find a shawl on one of the kitchen chairs and wrap it around Enya's shoulders. Ida brings in a throw blanket from the living room couch. She places it across Enya's knees.

  When the water is ready, Evvie prepares a pot of chamomile tea. She has to hold the cup for Enya, who can't control her tremors.

  "This will warm you up," Evvie tells her.

  "It was a terrible dream. It woke me."

  I ask, "Do you want something to eat?"

  "No, I only want to sleep and I can't anymore."

  Anymore? That sounds ominous.

  "Why not?" Evvie asks gently as she pours a little more tea.

  Enya clutches the shawl tightly around her and bows her head. She doesn't want to speak, but we wait. Finally she lifts her head, her eyes glazed, as if we aren't there. "There was a storm the night they came for us."

  She stops, lost in her troubled thoughts.

  "A storm?" Evvie prompts. "Like the rain tonight?"

  She shakes her head. "No, so much worse. They pulled us out of our home, without coats or hats and clutching only a few small personal things. We sat in the open trucks, wet and shivering."

  Evvie, Ida, and I look at one another, distraught. She has never spoken to any of us of the horrors her family went through. Jacov did when she wasn't with him. But that was so many years ago. Why now? It's as if I'd asked the question out loud.

  "I haven't had these dreams for such a long time." She shudders. "It's the storm. I can't bear the rain."

  I remember Jacov telling us that Enya was a college professor in their native Prague. He was an architect. They were both married to other people, but they lost everything and everyone in the camps—Enya and Jacov were the only survivors in each of their families. They met in America after the war.

  "I'm so tired." Enya pushes the teacup away and lays her head on the kitchen table.

  We are at a loss to know what to do to help her. "Do you want me to call your doctor?" I ask.

  "No, no doctor," she whispers.

  Ida leans down and says softly, "Come back to bed, Enya dear."

  She helps her up and Enya doesn't resist. The three of us walk her down the short hallway and into her bedroom. There is only a small light on the wooden chest of drawers next to the double bed, but it is enough for us to witness a shocking sight.

  The entire wall opposite the bed is covered with photos and papers. From top to bottom, old, crumpled, torn family photos and documents. Jacov's smiling face and his equally smiling first wife in a marriage photo. Various happy shots of their four children before the monstrosity that took their lives. Enya's collection of her dead—her husband and two children, standing in front of an obviously expensive house, the two little girls in ballet outfits. Documents, possibly in German. Maybe marriage licenses. College degrees. School report cards, it's difficult to tell. The personal things they took with them that managed to survive.

  The remnants from a country gone mad. Reparations finally offered for that which was irreplaceable.

  Evvie and Ida help Enya into bed, then join me and share my shock. I can see it in their faces and they in mine.
This
is what Jacov and Enya looked at night after night from their marriage bed? The guilt of the survivors, so they would never forget? God have mercy on their souls.