Mrs. Fletcher(85)
Now that she was all dressed up, it seemed crazy not to go out—just for a quick drink, a little human contact. Nothing fun or interesting was going to happen if she stayed home, that was for sure.
The Lamplighter Inn was a lot busier than it had been on her previous visit, the Saturday crowd younger and louder than she’d expected. Feeling instantly self-conscious, Eve took the last open stool at the bar and ordered a dirty martini from a baby-faced bartender who looked like she’d just graduated from college.
“Is Jim Hobie working tonight?” Eve asked.
The bartender gave her a suspicious look. She was wearing a cropped shirt, and Eve could see a tattoo of a black rose peeking out from the waistband of her jeans.
“Hobie only works weeknights. You know him?”
“Not that well. Our kids went to school together.”
The girl nodded and swiped Eve’s twenty off the bar. When she returned with the change, she frowned like there was something on her mind.
“I know it’s none of my business,” she said, “but you should be careful. Hobie’s a nice guy, but he says a lot of shit that he doesn’t really mean. And then he acts like he never said it in the first place.”
“Okay.” Eve took a sip of her cocktail. “Thanks for the warning.”
The girl laughed sadly and rubbed her tattoo, as if it were a sore spot.
“I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Join the club,” Eve told her.
“What do you mean? Did you and him . . . ?”
“No,” Eve said. “I just meant, you know, you’re always hoping for the best and . . .”
The girl laughed. “You get Hobie.”
“Exactly.” Eve shrugged. “But it doesn’t mean you were wrong for hoping.”
It wasn’t a bad night in the end. She stuck it out for two drinks, and chatted with a couple of not-completely-horrible guys around her own age—a divorced home inspector and an ex-cop who’d retired on full disability, though he seemed to be in perfect health—both of whom were reasonably attractive and had nothing of interest to say. But at least she’d tried, that was the important thing.
*
She left the bar a little after ten and got into her car. While she waited for the engine to warm up—it was another frigid night—she took out her phone and looked at the pictures she’d taken earlier in the evening. They were really good—not just the haircut and the clothes, but the look on her face, and even the way she was standing, with her hand on her hip, and her head canted at the perfect, self-possessed angle. Everything felt right and true, just the way she wanted it.
There I am, she thought.
She selected the second photo—the sexier one—and texted it to Julian. She’d been wanting to do it all night. It was exciting to finally press Send, to turn the fantasy into action.
He didn’t answer right away, so she pulled out of the parking lot and started toward home. She’d only gone a couple of blocks when her phone chimed. Eve was adamantly opposed to texting and driving, so she forced herself to wait until she’d pulled into her driveway to read his reply.
Great pic! But you missed a few buttons
Just a minor oversight. I thought you might like it.
She got out of the car and went inside, her heart beating at a rapid clip. There was nothing quite like the suspense of waiting for a flirty text—as if the whole world was on pause, holding its breath until the next little ding! started it up again. She’d just locked the door behind her when he replied.
I fucking love it!
She sent him a blushing-face emoji that must have crossed with his follow-up:
Could u take one with your shirt off?
Eve laughed out loud, a melodic, two-martini chuckle.
Don’t get greedy, she told him.
An Invitation
As always, it was work that kept her grounded, reminding her that she could still make a positive impact in her community, and in the world. It was hard to feel sorry for herself at the Senior Center, where she encountered so many people who were dealing with problems that made her own seem trivial—chronic arthritis, early-stage Parkinson’s, severe hearing loss, the death of a beloved spouse, a Social Security check that didn’t cover even the most basic monthly expenses. The resilience of the elderly—their sense of humor and reluctance to complain, their determination to make the best of a bad (and almost always worsening) situation—was both humbling and inspiring.
That winter, Eve threw herself into the day-to-day life of the Center with renewed energy and commitment, delegating fewer tasks to her staff and playing more of a hands-on leadership role than usual. She personally revived the Mystery Novel Book Club—it had faded away after the death of its founder and guiding spirit, a retired English teacher named Regina Filipek—selecting Gone Girl as the first title and leading a lively, if occasionally frustrating, discussion of the book’s many byzantine twists and turns with a group of seven mostly enthusiastic readers.
She was also drafted into the Tuesday morning bowling league, joining a team called the Old Biddies as a temporary substitute for Helen Haymer, who was suffering from a severe case of vertigo that had left her housebound. None of the Biddies’ opponents minded that Eve was a ringer, thirty years younger than the woman she’d replaced. This was partly because they were tickled by her presence at the bowling alley—as executive director, she was a bit of a celebrity—but mainly because she was such a weak bowler compared to Helen, a former school bus driver with a 150 average, one of the highest in the league (Eve was lucky to break a hundred on a good day). She hadn’t played organized sports in high school—she’d grown up right before the golden age of girls’ athletics—and was surprised by how much fun it was to be part of a team, cheering on her fellow Biddies when they rolled a strike, bucking them up after the gutter balls, patting them on the back and reminding them that it didn’t matter, that there would always be a next time.