Sure enough, before Sam and Mr. Prophet could settle themselves in the back of the room behind upended tables, people began banging on the side door of the church. I heard Miss Betsy Powell’s voice. I swear, the woman screeched even when she wasn’t actively screaming.
“Why don’t you go to the door, Daisy,” said Flossie. “I’ll call out when the men are in position.”
“Sounds good to me.” So I went to the side door and hollered, “Just a minute! I’ll…get the key and open the door for you!” Hope nobody thought to ask how I’d entered the church if I didn’t already have a key.
“How’d you get in if you don’t have a key?”
Miss Betsy Powell. The woman was almost as big a thorn in my side as was Frank Pagano. “I put it down in the hall!” I bellowed back. “A friend is getting it for me.”
“Well, hurry up! This thing is heavy.”
Did I care if Miss Betsy Powell’s radio was heavy? No. I did not. I was becoming meaner by the second. I probably should have been ashamed of myself, but I wasn’t.
“Thanks, Daisy!” This, from Lucy Zollinger. A true pal, Lucy. Well, except she first thought up the idea for this ghastly exercise class.
“Here you go!” Flossie, who didn’t need to, hollered in my ear, making me wince. “Sorry,” she added softly.
“It’s all right. Everything’s all set in there?”
“Everything and everyone,” said Flossie.
“Excellent. I’ll unlock the—” Fuzz balls! I didn’t have the key.
Flossie and I only wasted a second looking at each other. Then Flossie scuttled back into Fellowship Hall, retrieved the key from Sam, and hurried back to hand the key to me.
Therefore, I opened the door. Four women nearly ran Flossie and me down as they rushed into the church.
“Oh, good. I can plug this thing in. It’s heavy,” said Miss Betsy Powell, lugging what looked exactly like the self-same radio I’d seen in Cullen O’Hara’s apartment above Mrs. Pinkerton’s garage. Someone had replaced the broken antenna.
“Here,” said Flossie, who was ever so much kinder than I, “let me help you.”
So Flossie and Miss Betsy Powell traipsed to Fellowship Hall. I trusted Flossie to make sure the radio was plugged in to the proper socket next to the proper table.
“Oh, Daisy!” Lucy said, with a giggle, “I’ve never seen red polka-dotted gym bloomers before!”
Glancing down at my charming outfit, I grumbled, “Neither have I. I couldn’t find my old ones, so I had to make a new set, and this was the only fabric I had enough of.” Merciful heavens, I ended a sentence with a preposition. Shocking.
“I think they’re adorable,” said Regina Petrie, smiling up a storm. “I found my old school gymslip, so that’s what I’m wearing.”
“So I see. It’s quite fetching on you.”
“Ha! Daisy, you’re so funny!”
Yeah. I was a regular barrel of laughs. Anyhow, Regina’s gymslip was perhaps a trifle more modest than Flossie’s and my gym bloomers, but not by much. It was a short-skirted, square-necked jumper under which she wore a white shirt and a navy-blue tie. The gymslip itself was a light blue. I suspected it had started out in life a darker blue, but I reckon time fades everything eventually.
Mrs. Dermott hurried to the door I still held open. “Oh, my goodness! I nearly forgot the class!”
And what a tragedy that would have been, I snarled inside my mind. Then I glanced again at Mrs. Dermott. She was probably my mother’s age. I know she had a grown son. And I’m not sure what ladies wore in the olden days, but I suspect she wasn’t wearing whatever it was. Rather, she had on what looked like a man’s shirt (possibly her husband’s) and a loose skirt that came down almost to her ankles.
She must have seen me eye her apparel, because she laughed and said, “I didn’t have any idea what to wear, so I decided to be comfortable.” She stuck out a foot, which was stuck into a canvas tennis shoe and rolled-down socks.
“Being comfortable is probably the best thing to be right now,” I told her, meaning my words sincerely.
“Am I the last one to arrive?” Mrs. Dermott asked, pressing her hand to her palpitating heart. I didn’t think a little running would make me so out of breath. I need this class!”
Bah-humbug.
Bad Daisy! I pasted on a smile and said, “We’re all gathering in Fellowship Hall, Mrs. Dermott. I think everyone is here.” Then I remembered Mrs. Barrow. “Maybe one more lady will be joining us.” I hoped she wouldn’t be.
I accompanied Mrs. Dermott to the fellowship hall and decided Mrs. Barrow could just knock if she wanted to come in. Because the church women didn’t know my other friends, I made introductions all around, and they all seemed happy to meet each other.
Then Lucy and I stood there and looked at each other for a second or two, Lucy with a pleading expression on her face. I knew what that meant, and I silently blessed Flossie for bringing her copy of the wretched book from which we would select exercises to perform. Editorial comment: from which I would select the exercises. If I had to teach the blasted class, I was going to do it my way. Do I sound crabby, or what?
But first things first. “Miss Powell, do you know how to get a music station on this lovely radio? My goodness,” I continued, raising my voice slightly so Sam and Mr. Prophet could hear me, “isn’t this one of those brand-new RCA Radiolas? I saw an advertisement for them in the newspaper. They’re quite expensive, aren’t they?”
Wouldn’t you know it? At that precise moment my juju pierced my chest with a blast of heat. I slapped a hand over the hot spot and said, “Sorry. Little burp.” Nertz.
With a titter—marginally more tolerable than one of her screams—Miss Betsy Powell said, “Yes, they’re terribly expensive. My gentleman friend gave me this one.” Peering down at it and rubbing a thumb over a scratch I hadn’t noticed before, she added, “He doesn’t know how it got this scratch, but I don’t care. I thought it was so sweet of him to give it to me.”
“Indeed,” I said, thinking why wouldn’t he give it away? It was not only stolen property, but scratched stolen property. If, of course, Cullen O’Hara hadn’t bought it himself. I suppose it wasn’t impossible he’d come by the thing legitimately.
Naw. It was stolen. I didn’t want to give any of the bestial men involved in Vi’s kidnapping any credit at all. However, one thing did confuse me a trifle. “Um…what did you say your gentleman friend’s name was, Miss Powell? I can’t quite recall.”
“His name is Albert Costello,” said she, confusing me even more than I was already. I thought Albert Costello’d been bumped off. “He’s Italian. Just like your detective friend.”
Another giggle made me want to wallop her. After another painful reminder from my juju, I controlled myself. I also didn’t point out that Costello wasn’t an Italian surname, but an Irish one. Didn’t have a clue about the Albert part.
“How nice,” I chirped instead. Then, thinking maybe she just hadn’t received news of her beloved’s untimely demise, I said, “When did he give you this lovely radio?”
“A couple of days ago, I think. I can’t remember,” said she, plugging the radio’s cord into a nearby electrical socket and making a horrible scratching noise fill the hall. A turn of the dial switched the…Well, I don’t know what you call them. Stations? Frequencies? Anyway, the scratching went away and tinny music bellowed forth.
“Can you turn it down a bit? We don’t want to deafen ourselves.” I tried to sound sweet. Truly.
“Of course.” Miss Powell tittered again.
Maybe I could just strangle her with the radio’s cord. But no. Not with so many witnesses.
Not that I’d do such a thing.
Once the music was at a tolerable volume, Miss Betsy Powell stood back, put her fists on her hips, beamed at the radio and said, “There you go! All set.”
“Indeed. Thank you so much for bringing the radio, Miss Powell.”
“I thought it would be easier than bringing a Victrola and a lot of records,” she said.
And she was correct. Although it nearly killed me, I told her so. “I’m sure you’re right. Thank you very much.” I wanted to quiz her more about Albert Costello but couldn’t with all the other people in the room. Except for Sam and Mr. Prophet, whose presence was supposed to be a secret, they’d all wonder why I required Miss Betsy Powell’s gentleman friend’s biography. I trusted Sam was taking detailed notes.
After the radio had been set to rights, Miss Betsy Powell, Regina Petrie, Flossie and Mrs. Dermott stood in a clump staring at Lucy and me. Guess it was time to start.
“Want me to begin?” I asked Lucy, even though I already knew what she’d say.
“Would you? Thanks so much, Daisy!”
Told you so.
“Very well.” I smiled at the group of women, which had been enlarged slightly by the advent of Lucy in their midst. Lucy is kind of tall and stringy and doesn’t take up much space, so she only caused a teeny ripple. “Let’s begin this class with toe-touches. Stand up straight, everyone, pull our tummies in, lift your arms in the air, and let’s touch our toes!” God bless my well-honed acting skills. My very first command had sounded honestly enthusiastic.
Good Lord, but I’d stiffened up since high school! I could barely touch my toes. When I glanced at the flock of classmates, I noticed they were all—except Flossie—having the same problem as I. Flossie had to run around after Little Billy all the time, so she was probably in better shape than the rest of us sluggards.
“How many of these do we have to do,” asked Miss Betsy Powell, puffing.
“Ten,” I said, not puffing only with a great effort. “Let’s do them to the rhythm of the music.”
“Five-foot two”—touch—“eyes of blue”—straighten— and we did that ten times.
“Now,” I said, still not puffing, darn it, “let’s do our leg-lunges.” I demonstrated, standing straight, my tummy pulled in, my hands clasped behind my neck, and I lunged to the right. Then I straightened and lunged to the left using, of course, first the right leg and then the left to accomplish the lunges.
The radio was now playing “The Charleston,” which was as good for lunging as anything else, I reckon. Don’t know why we couldn’t just dance. We’d probably get more exercise dancing than doing lunges, but I didn’t write the book from which we were taking our instructions.
“Ten of each,” I told my flock. “Right side, left side, right side, left side. So count one for each time you’ve completed both right-and-left lunges.”
“I don’t understand,” said Miss Betsy Powell. She would.
“I’ll count for you,” I told her, smiling sweetly.
She looked doubtful, but when I hollered, “One!” she lunged to the right. Then I lunged to the left and she stared at me. I said, “Lunge to the left,” and she did. Then I yelled, “Two!” After that, she seemed to catch on.
When I finally bellowed, “Ten!” Miss Betsy Powell stopped lunging. “One more set,” I told her. So she lunged to the right and then to the left with the rest of us.
When she’d accomplished her last lunge, she panted, “Can we take a little break before we go on?”
I looked at the group. All the other ladies gazed at Miss Betsy Powell. None of them seemed as winded as she. So what now? Darned if I knew.
“If you’re a little fatigued, I imagine it wouldn’t hurt to take a short rest, but don’t forget the reason for this class, which is to build our stamina and get really healthy.” Very well, so I just made that up. By golly, if I had to lead this class, I’d be darned if I’d allow the members of same not to participate. “However, the rest of us will keep on exercising.” I didn’t even bother glancing at the others for confirmation or consent.
“So let’s get going,” I said with much more vim and vigor than I felt. The radio had quit playing “The Charleston” and taken a maudlin turn with Al Jolson singing “Sonny Boy.” Not my favorite song of all time, but that didn’t matter. “We’ll do a different set of toe-touches this time. Remember to stand up straight. This time hold your arms out to your side with your legs about a foot apart.” I almost added “No pun intended,” but didn’t, because it wasn’t really a pun. Besides, it would have been stupid. I did, however, demonstrate the first toe-touch, which was touching your right foot with your left fingers. “Then you touch your left foot with your right hand.” I demonstrated that way, too. Then, just as Al Jolson went in to the goopiest part of the song, the whole class joined in. Even Miss Betsy Powell. Guess she felt guilty for acting like a mewling baby.
“Again,” said I, “one set of toe-touches—one right and one left—counts as one repetition. We’ll do ten sets of two.”
Fortunately, by that time “Sonny Boy” was over. “Love Me or Leave Me” was next. It was an improvement, but not by much. However, all the ladies worked very well and followed my instructions. Even Miss Betsy Powell kept up.
I’d begun to perspire a bit and wished I’d had sense enough to bring along an extra hankie. But what the heck. I swiped a palm across my brow and forged onward. After taking a peek at the book, I said, “Very well, our next exercise will be another one in which a right-left combination counts as one repetition of the exercise. Keep your feet spread, stand up straight, then bend to the left slowly, keeping your back straight. Don’t jerk your body. Try to control your movements.” I demonstrated.
And that—my demonstrating, I mean—if you look at this thing logically, made no sense. I didn’t know the exercises any better than the other women did. In fact, because I thought the book should never have been published, resented it like mad and hadn’t studied it, I probably knew less. But there you go. Once you get a reputation for one thing, it seems to carry on into another. What kind of reputation did I have that people thought I could lead an exercise class?
Oh, never mind.
As Eddie Cantor began singing, “If You Knew Susie Like I Know Susie,” we all bent to the left and then we bent to the right. “One!” I bellowed.
We all, including Miss Betsy Powell, by gum, got all the way up to ten.
Then Miss Betsy Powell fell to the floor in a heap, making a kind-of splatting sound as she landed.