12
Getting Old Is Murder
I
t's Saturday morning. The day
is beautiful. Nothing is wrong, so why am I depressed? Must have been a
bad dream brought on by something I ate at the deli last night.
I'm down at the mailbox as are a lot of my neighbors.
It's a favorite meeting place, located to the left of the parking lot
on the side of our building facing the elevator. Get the mail, see
what's new on the bulletin board, touch base with the people who are
about to get into their cars and out to do errands. And of course, take
a copy of our free newspaper from the newly arrived stacks.
Everyone reads Evvie's review first.
KNISHES OR KNOCKS
GOING TO THE MOVIES WITH EVVIE
BY
EVELYN MARKOWITZ
Exclusive to:
THE LANAI GARDENS FREE PRESS
AFTER LIFE
OK, so it's a Japanese movie and who knows from
Japanese? I love going to movies from other countries. You always see
how the other half lives. Especially the French, ooh la
la. My pet peeve against foreign movies is that they always put
the subtitles on white backgrounds. So it isn't bad enough you miss
most of what's going on in the movie while you're reading the long
titles, but your head keeps jumping around trying to find them through
all the white. Result: You haven't a clue what it was all about in the
first place and end up needing an Alka-Seltzer.
When the video of this movie comes out, buy
one--you'll be able to throw out your sleeping pills. Such a sleeper!
I liked the idea. When you die you come to this
place and remember your favorite memory and you take it with you
wherever it is you're going. But let me tell you, if where you're going
is as dark and depressing as the place you're in in this movie, you
shouldn't go anywhere with this crowd.
All that agonizing for two hours, and what memories
do they come up with? Flying in a cloud. Reciting a really nothing
poem. Sitting on a bench. It's bad enough they have to eat all that raw
fish, do they have to live such boring lives? They should make the
director fall on a sword like they do in those other movies.
Now if my heroine, Barbra Streisand, was in this
movie, she would have made them use the fluorescent lights like we have
in the clubhouse so you wouldn't go blind trying to see what's on the
screen. And she would have come up with a great memory, like finding
this gorgeous hunk, James Brolin, for a husband after all those movies
never getting the guy, and always being left alone, sad, but brave. And
would that gorgeous Omar Sharif have been so bad? Too bad she couldn't
keep both of them.
QUOTH THE MAVEN:
Enough already. I give it 11/2 knishes. If this is
all we have to look forward to after life, then as Hy Binder, in our
phase, always says--I'm not going!
The End
Thank you, Evvie for another memorable movie
interpretation. I shake my head. Just what I needed--an article about
death in the mood I'm in.
Evvie's timing is always perfect. The celebrated
editor-reporter-reviewer arrives downstairs for a round of kudos from
everybody. And as always, she graciously takes the applause as her due.
"Loved it, just loved it," Mary Mueller gushes at her as
she and her husband, John, get into their Buick on their way to the
mall. John looks away, unable to face us these days because of what
Kronk wrote on their door.
"Well, that's a movie we can miss, thanks for the
warning," says Harriet Feder, as she installs her mother's wheelchair
into the back of their van. "Off to another movie today?"
Evvie nods. "Every Saturday afternoon."
I chime in. "Harriet, why don't you join us?"
Harriet beams. "Why, I'd like that--"
"Allow me to say no, thanks, for my Harriet." Esther
Feder's voice rings out from the passenger seat, where she is waiting.
"We're already going to see a movie later."
"We are?" asks Harriet, puzzled.
"Yes, Harriet, darling, I just got this idea. After my
doctor's appointment, we can pick up a tape from the video store and
watch it when we get home. You know how we both love that sweet Fred
Astaire. And maybe you'll make your mamma some microwave popcorn."
Esther now directs herself at me. "That daughter of mine won't let me
miss any pleasures just because the good Lord decided to make a cripple
of me. Everyone should have such a good daughter."
"Poor Harriet," says Evvie as they drive off.
"I'm glad she didn't come with us," Ida says, still
smarting from the way Harriet treated her at the bank.
Sophie giggles, remembering Ida's embarrassment. Ida
pokes her in the ribs.
My eye is caught by the sight of Irving and his pal, Sol
Spankowitz from Phase Three, sitting on a bench near his front door,
foul smoke belching from their stogies. They are leaning over a
newspaper, deep in concentration. The two friends are an odd couple,
Irving being thin, almost frail and hunched over, quiet-spoken and
polite, while Sol is chunky, pear-shaped, and bald, the only sign of
hair his pencil-thin mustache. Sol is loud, brash, and as subtle as the
butcher block he used when he was still working. I hurry over, Evvie on
my heels, both of us thinking the same thing. Every Saturday morning we
take turns sitting with Millie while Irving plays a little pinochle.
And on Sunday afternoons in season, he and Sol go to Hialeah.
"I still like the six horse in the double," Sol says.
"Valenzuela's riding," cautions Irving.
"So, he's on a losing streak," Sol comments. "Maybe his
winning streak will come back tomorrow."
"Who's with Millie?" I ask. "You didn't leave her alone?"
Irving's hands go up as if warding off any other words.
His thumb motions toward the door. "Sleeping."
I smile. Irving, the ultimate cheapskate with words.
Many years ago, I once asked Irving why he didn't take a
vacation in Europe. He could always go back to Poland and visit the
place he was born. This was at a time all of us were still doing a lot
of traveling. His answer to me was, "I been." And that was that. End of
discussion. Short and sweet. Millie told us she thought the real reason
Irving never went back is that he ran from the draft and was afraid the
Poles were still looking for him.
"How are you, Evvie?" Sol asks, staring at her bosom. Sol
has the habit of never looking any woman in the eye. Somehow he never
gets past their breasts.
"I'm up here, Sol," Evvie says, pointing to her face.
Sol, startled, drags his eyes away and looks up into
Evvie's eyes. She barely hides her irritation. "We are what our minds
are, Mr. Sol Spankowitz. Our bodies are merely the vessels that carry
our heads."
Sol doesn't understand a word she says, but he manages a
brief, "Uh-huh."
Irving taps his watch, then nods at Evvie and me. "By
eleven?"
"Have a nice card game," Evvie says.
They walk away, heading toward the clubhouse, with Sol
still scanning the sports page. "What should we do in the trifecta,
Irv?"
"Wheel the three horse," answers the expert.
I poke Evvie in the shoulder. "You've got a potential
suitor there, sister. He's hot to trot."
"Let him trot down at the track. I'm not interested."
"Well. He
is
available. Not too many of those
left."
"Big deal. He was a lech even when Clara was alive."
I always tease Evvie about Sol, but somehow my heart
isn't quite in it today. "Well, he's good for a nice dinner now and
then."
"I can buy my own dinners, thank you. Besides, I still
have dear old Joe hanging around, now that the broad from Miami dumped
him. Besides, I like my freedom." She stops, seeing the amused
expression on my face.
"Gotcha."
"And what about you? You are so busy fixing me up, how
about your love life?"
"Let's change the subject."
Evvie smirks. She is about to open Irving's door when we
hear another door open right above our heads and angry voices arguing.
From where we are hidden by a straggly ficus tree, we see
Hy Binder hurrying down the second floor walkway, and Lola grabbing his
arm trying to stop him. Evvie and I exchange glances. The Bobbsey twins
fighting? This we gotta hear.
"But I got the lawyer hanging on the line." Lola sounds
frantic.
"He can hang forever." Hy is really angry.
"You gotta talk to him sometime."
"When hell freezes over. Twice."
"But our kids will kill one another over the money."
"Let them."
"Please, Hy, the man wants to tell you about a living
trust."
"The only trust I care about is the one I wear for my
prostate."
"That's a truss. Not a trust. Stubborn man! Everybody has
to make out a will."
Hy turns just as he starts down the stairs.
"I told you a hundred times. I don't need a will. I'm not
going!"
With that he rushes past us, giving us dirty looks, gets
into his car, and careens off. Lola, crying now, runs back into the
apartment and slams the door after her.
Evvie erupts with laughter. She looks at me. "What?" she
says. "Why aren't you laughing?"
I shrug. "I know it's funny, but it's also depressing, Hy
being afraid to plan for death."
"Boy, are you grouchy today," Evvie says as she opens
Irving's door. We walk in quietly, hearing nothing.
Millie is indeed sleeping, curled up on the couch in the
sunroom. We also call it the Florida room, this screened-in porch. I
remember when Millie decorated it with wild, brightly colored pillows
and rattan furniture, how delighted she was with how it looked. She
told me it made her think she was in a Bette Davis movie. "She looks so
peaceful," I whisper.
"Like she's off in some other world," Evvie says.
We sit quietly for a few moments. What a day. My mood
just keeps getting darker and I can't shake it. Millie's eyes open. She
seems restless. Evvie reaches for the pitcher on the side table and
pours her a glass of water. Millie grabs the glass and drinks the water
down greedily. Then she flings the glass to the floor. Not a problem:
We started using plastic dishes a long time ago. Evvie tries to take
her hand. Millie shoves her away. Now, she tries to put a shawl around
her shoulder, but Millie hurls that away, too.
"Ev, stop!" I say. It breaks my heart to see how hard my
sister tries.
"I feel so helpless."
"I know dear, we all do."
I'm suddenly aware of shouting outside. "Glad! Evvie, are
you in there!?" Then pounding on the door.
We both jump up. "That sounds like Sophie," Evvie says.
"What's going on?"
I unlock the door. Sophie stands there. And Denny. And
Bella. All of them ashen-faced. Behind them I see other people standing
around too, watching. For a moment everything is frozen. I am aware of
half of Sophie's hair covered with curlers, the other half limp and
wet. Denny has keys in his hands and his hands are shaking. Bella is
moaning.
It must be bad. I shiver. "Who is it?"
Sophie sobs. "Francie . . ."
I shake my head violently as if to throw the word off. My
mind refuses to accept this. Please, God, not Francie! I can hear Evvie
gasp and I feel her grab my arm.
As much as I don't want to hear it, I need this to be
over with. "Tell me . . ." My voice is a croak.
Sophie begins to hyperventilate and Bella's eyes lose
focus. Denny tries. "I went up . . . the air-conditioning didn't work
good . . . the air comes out warm it's supposed to be cold . . . I
promised in the morning . . . She said come up, but not too early . . .
She didn't answer, so I thought she went out . . . so I opened the door
with my key. . . ."
He quits. This is all he can manage.
"Denny, tell me, how bad is she hurt?! Did you call
nine-one-one?"
He looks at Sophie plaintively for help. "I went to get
you, but you weren't home. So, I went to Mrs. Meyerbeer. . . ."
I wait for the miracle I know won't come. Too late to
plea-bargain with God . . . Too late . . .
Sophie can't stand it anymore. She screams. "She's dead!
Francie's dead!"
Evvie gasps, starting to slide down. I clutch her arm and
pull her back up.
"Bella." I try to get her attention. I touch her hand.
She finally manages to focus and look at me. "Bella, please stay with
Millie."
She doesn't answer. She goes inside. And I start running,
pulling Evvie with me. Sophie and Denny follow right behind us. Denny
and Sophie are both crying. Stupidly, I wonder where Ida is, and then I
remember dropping her at the dentist this morning. I am dimly aware of
people everywhere. Standing in the street, or on their balconies.
Whispering. Crying. Shaking their heads in disbelief. Bad news travels
fast.
Francie is dead. Francie is dead. . . . How can I go on
without her?
