They May Not Mean To, But They Do(5)

“Pretty soon you’ll be in Sweden, Dad.”

“Sweden?”

It was that trip that shocked Freddie into action. By the time he came home, three days later, a little vague about having gone at all, she had called the Motion Picture Home so many times and spoken to so many people that when she discovered a room had suddenly opened up there, she was sure it was because she had annoyed the director of the facility to such an extent that the director had taken it out on an employee who had taken it out on a patient who had consequently died and vacated a room.

It took only five months for the Motion Picture Home to realize it had made a terrible mistake.

“We are concerned about STDs,” the director had said.

Duncan was now on assisted-living place number three.

“The social worker called again today,” Freddie told Molly.

“What did old Duncan do today? Pinch the nutritionist?”

Freddie shrugged. “They decided to cut back his wine at dinner.”

“They should just water it. Would he know?”

“That’s what I told them. But the social worker thought that would be dishonest. Dishonest! So she had a talk with him, and of course he objected. He demanded to see a lawyer. He threatened to sue. I think this place may kick him out soon, too.”

Molly held her drink out to Freddie. “Here. It’s neat. The social worker has no jurisdiction in this house.”

Freddie said, “I want to be cremated, Molly.”

“I know, honey.”

“No, I mean now.”

“I know, honey.”

Freddie said, “Let’s go to the beach and watch the sun set instead.”

It was a beautiful sunset, the brilliant red streaks of sky fading to gentle mauve. There was a full moon hanging over the parking lot, plump and orange. The wind blew and there was no one on the pier, just a few surfers below.

“We’re so lucky to live here,” Molly said as they walked back to the parking lot. She was radiant in the blinking light from a bar, her cheeks glowing red, then green, and Freddie had to agree.





4

They had been sorority sisters, and they were still friends—Daphne, Eileen, Natalie, and Joy. Daphne got on Natalie’s nerves; Eileen got on Daphne’s nerves; Natalie, who was bossy, particularly about her politics, which were of the radical right, got on everyone’s nerves; but all three were extremely close to Joy, which had kept the group intact through all the decades and divorces. Every few months they would get together for a girls’ lunch.

“I’m not happy about this old-age business,” Joy said.

“I refuse to feel old,” Daphne said. She slapped the table. “Je refuse.”

The silverware and coffee cups rattled, and Joy marveled at Daphne, not a bit different from the day they met, sleek, beautiful, noisy, every auburn hair in place. Natalie was, as she had been since college, wearing chic, expensive bohemian clothes, her hair cut in the same bohemian bob with bangs. Eileen had been less glamorous than the others, but she had grown into her looks as she got older, looking somber but dignified these days. They all still had their marbles, though only two still had their husbands. But pretty good for a bunch of old bags, Joy thought.

“We’ve been friends for sixty-five years.”

“Our friendship could get Medicare,” Eileen said.

Natalie began to explain how Obamacare was ruining America.

“How’s the new great-grandchild?” Joy interjected, offspring being a successful diversion for any of the girls. Though she was asking Natalie, Daphne immediately began digging around in her bag, probably for her iThing with her own great-grandchild baby pictures on it.

“They want to name her ‘Quiet,’” said Natalie.

“Convenient,” Eileen said. “They can call her and discipline her at the same time.”

“Mine is two years old next week,” Daphne added, holding up a screen with a picture of a little girl with an ice-cream-smeared mouth.

“‘Quiet’?” Joy was saying. “Why don’t they just name her ‘No’?”

They started laughing and couldn’t stop. They laughed until tears rolled down their faces.

“Oh, that felt good,” Joy said.

All around them well-turned-out young women picked at their salads, preserving their waistlines, as women of Joy’s generation used to call that mealtime behavior. Joy looked at them fondly, then slathered butter on a piece of bread, damn the torpedoes. She had no gallbladder, the surgeon had taken it out when he took out the colon cancer, “the blue-plate special,” he’d called it, and never mind her waistline, she was not supposed to eat fat with no gallbladder. She sipped her espresso. That was verboten, too, atrial fibrillation. Delicious, though. It did not do to ignore the delicious.

“I love food,” she said.

The tablecloths were pink and pressed. The napkins were large.

“I love napery,” she said.

“Now, Joy,” Daphne said, suddenly serious, “what are we going to do about Aaron?”

“I think he’s dying,” Joy said, and she began to cry softly.

Daphne put her hand on Joy’s, which was an enormous gesture of support, Joy knew. Daphne did not like touching people.

“Nonsense,” Natalie said.