Rita Lakin_Gladdy Gold_01 (6 page)

9

Dinner at the Deli

T
he parking lot is already
packed and the line outside the Continental deli winds clear around the
perimeter of the minimall.

We're late, of course. Half past three is a shoo-in. Four
o'clock is the right time. Four-thirty is pushing it and five is rush
hour for the early-bird dinner ($6.50 for six courses plus coffee).
It's now twenty-five minutes after five.

"I told you . . ." howls Evvie.

"Don't start," I caution my sister.

"The milk is spilled already," says Sophie, "so don't
keep drinking."

Francie, the birthday girl, glances at Sophie and shakes
her head. "I think she needs a translator."

"I think she needs a keeper," Ida snarls. "Why can't you
say 'Don't cry over spilt milk' like everybody else?"

"That's what I said."

We get out of the car and head for the end of a very long
line.

"Well, at least we can window-shop," Bella, our little
ray of sunshine, says, eyeing the minimall with eagerness.

I keep time. Ten minutes stalled in front of Discount
Linens. Fifteen in front of Klotz's Klassy Klothing. Sophie has
disappeared into the deli to scope things out and now she returns with
her report.

"The
kasha varnishkas
are already a dead duck. I
told Dena to hide a plate of kreplach for us, there's only two left. If
you were dreaming of the stuffed cabbage, wake up."

A few moans accompany the food report. Followed by a
couple of I-told-you-so's.

Now a short wait in front of the prosthetics shop (a
really cheerful window) and then the ninety-nine-cent store and finally
we are in. It's ten after six and naturally everyone is starved.

The place is packed and we don't get our favorite
waitress, Dena. Now you really hear groans. We get Lottie, she of the
long, bushy black hair (a strand of which Ida swears gets in her soup
every time we are stuck with her) and the very bad breath. She's so
ugly and antagonistic, Francie swears she must be a relative. Who else
would hire her?

As we sit down, she practically throws the pickle and
sauerkraut appetizer dish at us, then hurries away like Hurricane
Hannah, whirling from table to table, hurling dishes and insults with
equal fervor.

The deli customers consist of a smattering of families,
some couples, but mostly women sixty and up. We're all of us regulars
here.

We study the menu avidly, as if we didn't know it by
heart. Before we even get past the soups, there's Lottie, order book in
hand. "What'll ya have, gals?"

"I don't know yet," Bella says warily, bracing herself
for trouble.

"I don't got all day, so lemme hear something before I
die on my feet."

Intimidated, Bella blurts out her choices, stringing them
together like Jewish worry beads:
pineapplejuice-saladwithThousandIsland-matzoballsoup-broiledchicken-rice-spinach.

Ida, just to infuriate Lottie, goes into slow-motion
mode. Every word takes forever to pass her lips. "Let . . . me . . .
see. First . . . I might like the . . . tomato juice . . . with a piece
of lemon . . . or maybe the grapefruit. . . ."

Francie interrupts, trying to avoid trouble. She places
her order quickly. "Tomato juice. Pot roast. Baked potato. Salad.
French dressing." Evvie and I follow suit. We always get the same
things, anyway.

"And . . . how . . . is . . . the kreplach soup this
evening?" Ida's voice seems to get slower and sarcastically sweeter.

"It's the way it always is. In or out on the kreplach?"

"Well, I could say 'in.'"

"Say it!" we all shout.

"In. Alright already."

"And?!" Lottie is gritting her teeth.

"And . . . for my meat dish, I am simply torn between the
sauerbraten and the sweetbreads."

"Don't be so torn, pick already!"

Ida looks her dead in the eye. "I do not like to be
rushed. It is not good for my blood pressure."

"And I have six other tables to worry about. Think,
dollink, I'll be back."

Lottie leaves and we all glare at Ida.

"Enough, already," I say.

"Why? I'm enjoying myself." She leans back, relaxed.

"Meanwhile, I'm starving," wails Sophie. She takes a bite
of a sour pickle on the tray. "This is good."

"Then you should spit it out," says Bella, being bossy.

"Why?" Sophie asks mid-bite.

"My doctor says if it tastes good, then it's bad for you."

Evvie ignores this exchange and shakes a fist at Ida.
"Why can't you behave? You are ruining Francie's birthday party."

"You certainly are," adds Francie, pretending annoyance.

Now that we've ordered, the bottles come out of the
purses and the vitamins and the prescription drugs are lined up. Bella
gasps. "I'm out of my Zantac. What should I do?"

"Tomorrow is another day," says our Sophie
philosophically.

"I always take it before dinner."

Ida digs around in her purse. "I have some." She takes
one out. As she hands it to Bella, "I'll take two dollars now, thank
you."

Evvie swats her with her purse. "How can you! You would
sell seltzer to a dying man in the desert!"

Ida is insulted. "My late husband, Murray, taught me that
business is business. Supply and demand. Bella just demanded. I just
supplied. I get paid. It's the American way."

Bella's eyes start to tear up. Francie takes a tissue
from her purse and hands it to her. "Now you've done it."

"What did I say? I was talking about my Murray."

The tears flow harder, followed by pathetic little
hiccups. Evvie rolls her eyes heavenward. "You said the
h
word.
As in 'husband.' As in dead and not here anymore and we never go there!
And furthermore, Zantac only costs a dollar seventy-five, you gonif!"

"Oh, if only my Abe, my angel, was here, things would be
different." Bella was now going out on an old limb. Things would be
different, all right, and not for the better. As the years pass, Abe's
memory gets a whitewash. The mean-spirited, domineering Abe who often
brought her to tears now brings her to tears because she's rewritten
history. Now he's a saint!

Lottie is back. Ida sees five sets of steely eyes glaring
at her. She shrugs. "I'm ready. Where were you? I'll have the noodle
soup and it better be hot. Salad, oil and vinegar and no cucumbers. The
steak rare and that doesn't mean well-done or medium or raw. Potatoes
mashed and leave out your usual lumps. Oh, yes, and make sure we all
have separate checks."

Lottie just stands there.

"What?" Ida asks, all innocence.

"Are you finished, Mrs. Have-it-your-way? I wouldn't want
to miss something of vital importance."

Haughty now: "Yes, thank you. That will be all, my good
woman."

"Oy," says Sophie, "I wish the food would get here so I
can take home the leftovers."

And it goes downhill from there. Ida sends her soup back
because it isn't hot enough. Bella chokes on a chicken bone. Ida pulls
Bella's arms over her head and pounds on her back. Evvie makes her eat
a piece of bread because that's supposed to prevent the bone from
stabbing her. Francie makes her do special breathing. Sophie makes her
blow her nose to free the passages. I am on standby in case we need the
Heimlich, but finally, the bone is gone, and everyone takes credit for
her method.

We give Francie her presents, apparently many minds with
similar brainstorms. They all give her pretty soaps or bath salts.
Francie good-naturedly wonders if we are trying to tell her something
about her personal hygiene. I, of course, give her a book. A cookbook.

We all order dessert, but none of us eats it. We never
do. There is always too much food to eat and dessert is taken home to
be indulged in later. Naturally, Francie, the chocoholic, orders the
chocolate cake with chocolate icing.

And finally the check comes. One check. Ida has a small
fit, but there is nothing we can do but figure out who had what, which
need I say takes another half an hour. Leaving the tip is one of the
heavy decisions of eating out. Everyone is responsible for deciding her
own. No one amount ever gets the same number of votes, with much
debating on how fast the service was, how good, etc. But having Lottie
makes it easy. Everyone tips the minimum. Except Ida, who tips nothing.

We drive home with Evvie leading us in a medley of
musical comedy tunes.

10

A Waltons' Good Night

W
earily we each trudge to our
apartments, bloated as usual with too much food, carrying our little
doggie bags. We watch one another, making sure we each get inside
safely.

"Don't forget to double lock," Francie calls.

"Don't forget, movies tomorrow afternoon." This from our
social director, Evvie.

"Don't forget, I have an early dentist's appointment,"
Ida reminds me.

"Good night, Bella."

"Good night, Ida."

"Good night, Glad."

"Good night, Evvie."

"Good night, Sophie."

"Good night, Francie. Happy Birthday."

I am the last one in and I know at least one of the girls
is watching out for me through her kitchen window.

We said good night, but we didn't know we were saying
good-bye.

11

Death by Chocolate

A
ll lights were off, but
one. Everyone was asleep before ten except Francie.

She was too excited.

Francie Charles was at her favorite pastime.
Surrounded by her cookbooks, she paged through Gladdy's birthday
present, a collection of the best desserts from
Bon Appetit.

Naturally she was perusing the "fabulous cakes"
section first. Her eyes glanced toward her doggie bag, still sitting on
the kitchen counter. She was debating. Have it now or save it for
tomorrow. She was practically drooling over the book's description of
the double fudge cake with whipped cream. Or maybe she might try to
make the triple mocha square first. It had been weeks since she'd baked
anything. Maybe she'd surprise the girls tomorrow.

Happiness, she thought, is having a sweet tooth. She
glanced up at the magnet on her fridge, last year's birthday present
from her daughter-in-law, Ilene. She always giggled when she passed it.
"Men think the greatest thing in life is sex; women know it's a Hershey
bar."

There was a soft knock on the door.

Surprised, she called out, "Who is it?" She was even
more surprised when no one answered. Now she wasn't sure there had been
a knock. But she went to the door anyway. "Anybody there?" No answer.
She looked through the peephole. Nobody. Slowly, she unlocked the door
and as she did, the package leaning against it fell onto the threshold.
Francie picked it up and looked outside onto the balcony. She looked
both ways, but there was no one there.

The package was a square white box tied with a
pretty
red bow. Something inside smelled wonderful. She reached for the note
taped to the ribbon and opened it. In an almost immature hand it read,
"Sweets to the sweet. Happy birthday." No signature. Inside the box was
a vision of beauty. A thick slice of chocolate almond mousse with fresh
raspberries and chocolate chantilly whipped cream! Francie was
astonished. Where did it come from? Who could have found something as
elegant as this in Fort Lauderdale? Her meager cake from Continental
went into the fridge. She grabbed a fork and very gently dug into her
gift to have her first taste. Heaven! Absolute heaven.

Now I can die happy, she thought, smiling.

Francie heard the turn of a key in her lock. Thank
God,
she thought, someone will save me. She lay on the floor, clutching her
stomach. She had been in pain for she didn't know how long, falling in
and out of consciousness. She couldn't move. Her body was paralyzed and
she knew she was dying. "Help me," she tried to cry out, but her tongue
was also paralyzed.

At that moment Francie realized three things: 1)
There was no help coming. 2) The killer had returned to finish the job.
And 3) she had forgotten to double lock her door after bringing in the
gift that would poison her.

Francie's eyes were the only things that could move.
They watched the betrayal, as someone she thought she knew so well
moved about her apartment, cleaning up. The plate and fork were washed
and put away. The remains of the cake dropped into a plastic carry-away
bag. The note crushed and put in a pocket. The crumbs wiped off the
counter into the sink.

Her body was dragged along the floor until she was
positioned lying near the phone. Her hand was placed as if she had been
reaching for it and failed. Her eyes looked into the eyes of her killer
and she realized begging was useless. What she saw reflected was a
coldness beyond compassion.

F
rancie's last thought was that she would
never see
her children and grandchildren again. And that was
more unbearable than the pain.