Freddy Robinson makes me sick. Honestly, I just hate old men who wear their pajamas all day long. I tell him that if he had a shred of self-respect and dignity left, he would get up in the morning and get dressed like the rest of us. But no. Five minutes before Lois clears breakfast he comes shuffling in wearing the same old slippers, rumpled gray pajamas, a three-day growth, hair jutting out in all directions, a big vapid yellow-toothed grin, and the same disgusting red plaid bathrobe he had on when he said good night. I swear, some night when he’s asleep I’m going to take that robe out in the street and burn it right in front of the house! He insists that my animosity stems from the fact that he routinely beats me at chess. He is wrong. When he mentions this he looks to the others for support, and they, inexplicably nod their heads as if now they understand the real reason for this unpleasantness over his unseemly toilet. It is a fact that his constant mastery of my game is a source of never-ending torment to me. Much worse than the pain in my hip or the nagging worry over the numbness in my leg and the financial strain of keeping up my treatments. But it is the sight of him, his odious demeanor, and his obvious disdain for the sensibilities of others that annoys me to the point of distraction.
Barbara is the nurse I have hired to come in every afternoon and see that the house members are all in good shape. After losing Ida the way we did, it’s a comfort to know there is someone nearby. It’s rather like having a mechanic on duty, but better. I like large fannies and I have made it absolutely clear to her and to anyone else who might be interested that I hired her because of her big rear end. Anyone who doesn’t like it can take their twelve hundred dollars a month and go die someplace else. Barbara has taken a liking to us and drops in from time to time when off duty. Sometimes she’ll take one of us to the theater or to see a film or just out for a ride to enjoy a beautiful morning. Barbara’s grandfather was in vaudeville; she grew up around show people, so we have something we can talk about. Barbara may have figured out that my Tuesday afternoon luncheons with my nephew Kevin are purely fictitious, but she has the common sense to keep that intelligence to herself. After my treatments, I always enjoy a couple of whiskeys at the Lodge. This gives a festive touch to the deception when I return.
We live in a Big Old House, which I bought at an estate sale many years ago. There is an extra bedroom that goes unrented that we use for a quiet room and library. Janelle spends most of her time there, as do I. Most people our age live in constant fear of nursing homes or old-age homes. We are fortunate to have this alternative. I let them think that their membership here is democratic. We take a vote, then, if things don’t turn out the way we thought, well, changes are made. After all, it is my house and I am the one who will quietly handpick the people I choose to die with. Except for Freddy. I’m not sure how he got here. And although he is the one who is usually stirring up the others, who, for some unfathomable reason, seem terribly fond of him, he is easily anticipated and overruled.
The Big Old House also has a fabulous front porch where, during fine weather, most of us want to be. Gina invites friends to play cards. Freddy pretends to read but just sits there waiting for cars to go by. He scowls at the local kids with a truly ugly countenance. In that regard, he’s better than a watchdog. Ed sits up in the evenings and listens to ball games on the radio. My favorite time of day is just before dawn when I can have the porch all to myself. I put on a collar and tie. Nice slacks and shoes. A sport coat. I step out onto the platform to the applause of crickets, the neighbor’s cats, and the cars parked along the street. The street lamp across the way looks like a great white spot.
“Ladies and gentlemen:”
It always began with bright blue lights. Two of them, either side by side or set apart, were suspended at eye level in the darkness like two great blue suns set in space. But there was no vacuum there. Indeed, the space between me and the burning blue was filled with a churning and volatile consciousness.
A litter of protean forms, sheltered by the darkness. Hungry sentient carnivores, an unruly lot of boors and bourgeois who would, when emboldened by their numbers and presumed solidarity given their common investment of an evening and a theater ticket, react en masse to my trained and ready utterances.
“Yes folks, my mother was good to me. She always told me, son, never take candy from strangers…unless they offer you a ride. You can see I’ve been around the block a few times.”
They were easily tamed. The advantage was mine. I had a secret weapon. I introduced them to Eva. She turned them into a gelatinous goo. They hadn’t a chance. Their poor fragile undeveloped libidos lay helpless before her like plump ripe poppy blossoms before the scythe. God, there were times when I envied the poor bastards. She could give them a look and with the turn of a shapely leg and the raising of an eyebrow set them to squirming audibly in their seats, or smile a smile that none of them had seen since their mothers welcomed them home from their first day of school.
Eva was trained for the ballet but was too small and voluptuous, too adventurous for the respectable stage. A tragic blend of sex, talent, and wisdom, what a timid person might call worldly. Adrienne Lecouvreur was her hero. “Oh to be poisoned by love and to die in the arms of my sweet savant!” Once Eva was on stage, the rest of the company could relax.
Out front, the theater was always clean and orderly. There was paper in the bathrooms, the ticket-takers and ushers were polite and efficiently courteous. Backstage everything was broken, dirty, and chaotic. Nothing worked and no one cared. No one cared about you because you didn’t care about them. Neither party could afford an emotional investment of that kind. When the show is over, we’re going to push on and with any luck we’ll never see the joint again. Everyone carries a heart broken in two places. One by love, and the other by the stage. Everyone has that in common. A cynical smile covered a knowing eye that in turn covered the last burning ember of hope one would never admit to but would protect with all the strength and guile that could be summoned. And one can summon vast reserves of cunning and guile. A strange bond formed. It was temporary and forever. Well, nothing is forever, I suppose.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” Eva would trill as she waltzed off on the arm of some wealthy patron after a show. I wonder if she’s sleeping now.
I booked the gigs and wrote the routines. I always left something extra in her envelope. She was terrible with money and couldn’t hang onto men either. She would fall asleep with her head in my lap in the back of the bus and I would fan her with an old program. Her mouth, so sensuous when animated was, when at rest, a wound, a painful-looking flaw in the otherwise elegant perfection of her small, delicate face. She never loved me, I know, though she loved nearly everyone else. My flaws were too well hidden. She found self-confident and self-contented men a bore.
She did give me a chance one time. It was in some small town somewhere I’ve now forgotten. Far away. We had a rare night off between shows. The others all had colds and so took advantage of the layoff to stay in at the hotel. Eva had the idea that it would be a gas to dress up like normal people and go out to dinner like a normal couple and have normal conversation and eat normal food. I found a business suit in a costume trunk, and she put on a soft cotton dress and a string of cheap fake pearls with matching earrings. She arranged a curl in front of each ear and parted her hair on the side, like a boy. All night long she pretended to hang upon my every word. Her usual ceaseless babble about art and theater and who’s this and who’s that, which never concerned me and never allowed me to get a word in edgewise, was strikingly absent from her conversation. She had a look of bemused concern upon her face all evening. We made eye contact all night. In fact, as I remember it now, she must have revealed her whole sweet ironic life to me in those flashes and flares. Alas, I was too young, too harried, to interpret them with enough accuracy to be of any help to her, I’m afraid.
When we left the local steakhouse and went to a local bar, we were tipsy, in hysterics. Her arms draped around my shoulders as she whispered her impressions of the Plain Janes and Johns from the restaurant in my ear, the two of us exploding with laughter as we stumbled into the bar. Once inside she resumed her act of being normal. We even exchanged dry, familial kisses to authenticate our routine.
We kissed good night at her hotel room door. A long, sweet, tongueless, thank you kiss, from the girl of my dreams for the boy next door. She would mention that night from time to time with a wry, happy smile. For a day or two, the others eyed us suspiciously, on the chance that assuming something had happened between us they might coax us into revealing if something actually had. I was willing to let them believe what they would, but things were moving pretty fast.
“When we get to New York I’m going to take my money and buy a beautiful fur coat, seamless stockings, new heels, and wear nothing else for an entire week!” When we got to New York she disappeared forever. Didn’t make opening night. In a panic to fill time, I dressed like a woman and did our old tango number all by myself, a fading beauty giving a last dance to a world that was passing her by, dancing with my own ghost, with tears streaming down my face as tears of laughter flowed freely from the crowd. It was a smash. It made me famous for a while. Eva sent me a telegram of congratulations, “Once again, as always, something out of nothing, hugs & kisses—Eva,” leaving no return address. I repeated that horrific goodbye many times over the years. It was one of my most popular numbers.
The morning paper hits the porch just before intermission. I read the box scores and wait for Lois to arrive and fire up the kitchen. Today is the Fourth of July and the boys at the Lodge always throw a big parade. It’s really just a big pain in the ass. I don’t know why I even bother. It seems like every time someone needs an old fool for a community production or a Santa Claus or a eulogy, my card gets punched. They always say it’s for the children. I suppose it is. Or rather, to get the children to even notice we exist. Freddy wants in so bad that every time the Lodge is mentioned he fidgets like a schoolboy who can’t control his bladder. I tell him we don’t admit cranky old fucks in their pajamas. This really pisses him off. If he was smart he’d let me win at chess a little more often.
I’ll go up to the attic and open the trunk. Maybe I’ll put on the big Indian headdress I used to wear during Eva’s Pocahontas number. “Katchawiggawaggamogga?” Eva would ask the open-faced guys in the crowd, causing their tongues to fall out of their mouths. Yes. The headdress should do fine. Little Carol should like that. I’ll ride atop the fire engine and wave to her. Oh yes, there’s an air show too. She loves to watch airplanes. Now that I think of it, she probably won’t even notice me.
Kids.
Shit.