Getting Old Is to Die for (3 page)

Bella: "I think men are nice. But I can't remember."

Now the advice gets specific. Aimed at me.

Evvie insists I call Jack. "You have the only good one; don't lose him." And then she bursts into tears.

Ida passes the tureen around. "I personally wouldn't shed a tear over a man."

Sophie helps herself to a third portion. "Go ahead, beg if you have to. You could always cross your fingers when you do it."

Bella daintily waves the soup away. "I like Jack. He's a mensch. So where did he say he was going? Miami Beach?"

I need to get the topic off me. "He didn't say. I've tried calling him, but he won't answer the phone. He doesn't want to talk to me. Look, I'm all right. It's Evvie who needs help."

She counters, "I don't need help. I just need some peace and quiet."

Ida: "Feeling sorry for yourself is stupid. Just hate him and be done with him."

Sophie: "I still can't get them straight. Who do you love? Philip or Ray?"

Bella: "What about the killer? He should get the chair!"

Evvie jumps up. "Everybody leave me alone!" She hurries to the door. "Thanks for the soup. Next time, flank steak. My place." With that she's gone.

Bella is perturbed. "She didn't stay for the brownies."

2

FATHER AND SON NIGHT

I
should be getting home," Jack Langford says to his son, Morrie.

"It's only ten o'clock. What are you worried about? You'll turn into a pumpkin?"

"Very funny."

The two men are clearing the table in Morrie's small stucco house in the southern part of Fort Lauderdale. The kitchen and dining room form one unit, which makes it easy--perfect for a bachelor. "Too bad you're such a good cook," Jack comments, setting the plates in the sink.

"That's an odd thing to say, ungrateful even, since you polished off every bite of my beef Stroganoff."

"Maybe if you went hungry every night, you'd finally pick some nice girl and settle down."

"Now you sound like Mom." The men smile in memory of Faye, wonderful wife and mother.

"You're pushing forty, sonny boy."

"I might remind you, you didn't marry until you were forty."

Jack grins. He enjoys the teasing banter between the two of them. "That's different. In those lean days I needed to earn more money before I could settle down. And besides, we believed in long engagements." He reaches across the table for his wineglass and takes a sip.

"And what about Lisa?" Morrie rolls up his cuffs, turns on the hot water in the sink and squeezes soap on a sponge. "My sister didn't marry early, either. She wanted her career first. So, there you are; late marriage runs in the family."

Ignoring his futile argument, Jack plunges on, still smiling. "What was wrong with that beautiful redhead, Annie? I liked her."

"She was a micromanager and needed to know where I was every minute of the day. What I was thinking every moment. Not good for a cop's wife."

"And Lynn? You told me she was perfect."

"She was. For someone else. That's what she said when she returned my ring."

"Oops. You never told me that part."

"Hey, maybe I'm just unlucky in love."

"Or too picky. Keep looking. You better watch out or the guys in the station will think you're gay."

"Or smart. Especially the disillusioned, divorced ones."

It's a running joke between them, since Jack is a former cop himself, and Morrie's best friend--and former partner--Oz Washington, is gay. But everybody in the precinct knows Oz is a rotten cook. So much for stereotypes.

"You should talk." Morrie hands his dad a towel while he washes the plates. "What about Michelle? Why didn't you marry her? You were soooo in love. What was it, eight years ago when you took that trip to France?"

Jack is startled. He hasn't thought about her in a long time, having written off their month together as a brief fantasy. The beautiful, sexy Frenchwoman and the lonely American. The perfect vacation. The perfect love affair. Why had he been so afraid to bring her here? Wasn't he tempted to stay with her, to live in Paris? No, he couldn't be so far from his children. And he wasn't sure Michelle would have come to America; she was famous in Paris, with her own television talk show. And she was much younger. But Jack had never even asked her--he was so sure Michelle would turn him down.

"I'm sorry I ever mentioned it."

Morrie grins, mimicking, "'Mentioned it?' You mooned around for months, drove us all crazy. 'Should I go back? Should I call?'"

"No use lamenting over something that's long gone." Jack sighs. Fantasy, all fantasy. But every person should have one once in their lives.

"And now, Mr. Authority on Commitment, you haven't swept Gladdy Gold off her feet yet. I eagerly look at my mail every day waiting for my invitation to the wedding."

Jack shakes his head. "She hasn't emotionally buried her late husband yet. She thinks she has, but she hasn't. So she clings to her sister and her friends, afraid to move on."

"But she was willing to go away with you. To a secret island. Another perfect vacation?"

Jack swats his son with the damp towel. "It proves my point. If she really wanted to be alone with me, she wouldn't have told Bella where we were going. I suspect she was relieved to get the fax that forced us to come home early. On a subconscious level, that is."

"Thank you, Dr. Phil."

"She'd deny it, but I think I'm right."

By now all the dishes have been washed and dried. The two men head for the door.

"Eat and run, you're that kind of guy," says Morrie, punching his father gently on the shoulder.

"I guess I'm half hoping to get home and find a message from her on my machine."

"Hey, Dad, the phone works two ways. You could call her."

"No." Jack shakes his head. "She needs the time alone to work it out in her own mind."

"So your plan is to wait until she comes to you?"

"I'm working on a different plan. I'm thinking of going up to New York for a while."

"And...?"

"Visit your sister and Dan and the kids."

"And? Stop stalling. I know you're up to something."

"Visit some of my old cronies in my old precinct..."

"And? More
and
s?"

"And try to reopen Gladdy's case and see if I can find the perp who murdered her husband."

Ignoring the amazement he knows will appear on Morrie's face, Jack opens the door and, not looking back, waves good night.

3

MORRIE DISSEMBLES

I
've had it with my sister's problem.... Mine is different. No, let's be honest. Forget pride. I miss Jack terribly and I want answers. I need answers! If the father won't talk, I'll get it out of the son.

I keep leaving messages at the police station for Detective Morgan Langford but he never returns my calls. It must run in the family. Morrie knows perfectly well why I am calling. This time I don't request him, but ask the operator when he is expected in to work.

What a hypocrite I am, giving Evvie advice that I don't take for myself: Give up the impossible. I tell Evvie to walk away from Philip because it's a hopeless case, and here I am going behind her back to try and get Jack into my life again. Truly, Evvie has no choice; she must find a way to go on without Philip. There is no chance they can ever be together again. So shouldn't I do the same with a man who no longer wants me? No! Not until I am very sure that's the case.

So here I am, waiting at the Lauderhill police station. It is fairly new and doesn't have the romance, if you will, of the old station, with its run-down seedy look and customers of the same persuasion. Where are the drooling drunks, the sarcastic punks, the fistfights? The awful smells of lives gone bad? Gone with the new architecture. This front waiting area is so clean and so dull, you would think you were at an accountant's office. I announce myself to the front window and I blatantly lie and tell them I have an appointment with Detective Morgan. Since I was told he was in, now let's see him get out of talking to me.

After a few moments during which I imagine he is wrestling with his conscience, Morrie finally comes out of the locked door. He is in his shirt-sleeves and exudes an air of being busy.

I put my hands up. "I know. You don't have time. I only have one simple question: Where is your father?"

With that, he walks me outside, where I can face the new library, which shares the same parking area. I still prefer going to my old library, where I feel at home with old bookshelves and old friends. This new one is ultramodern, with a large room containing long banks of computers with kids playing games instead of doing their homework; not for me.

"Look, Gladdy," Morrie says, "please don't put me in the middle."

"Why shouldn't I? You are in the middle. You know where he is and I want you to tell me."

I think I've surprised Morrie. He wouldn't expect this frontal attack. He probably thinks I'd just wither away if he refused.

"I can't." Morrie holds firm.

"Because you don't know or he told you not to tell me?"

"Please let me go back inside and interrogate a man who might have just chopped up his wife with their garden ax. It would be easier than this."

"Coward."

"Yes. I am not at liberty to tell you anything and that's my final word."

"You sound like that old game show and I'm not promising you a million dollars. Okay." I change tactics. "Why doesn't Jack want me to know?"

"My lips are sealed."

"He's gone off with another woman?"

Morrie sputters at that. "He wouldn't--" Then stops.

I hide a tiny smile. That's a small victory, anyway. "Well, that's settled. Can you at least tell me when he'll be back?"

"I don't know."

Well, that's not a lie. I can see it in his eyes. He knows where he is, but he doesn't know when he'll be back.

"When you speak to him would you please give him a message?" I can feel my eyes tearing and my throat starting to choke up. "Please tell him I really need to talk to him."

Horribly uncomfortable, Morrie shrugs. Just before I turn away and head for my car, I toss this unkindness at him: "No wonder you're not married. You may not be scared of ax murderers, but you sure are scared of us women."

I don't really mean it, but I find satisfaction in rattling his cage. Somehow I feel better after this non-meeting. My Jack isn't off with another woman after all. He still loves me. I hope.

I can feel Morrie's eyes on my back as I reach my car.

As Ida once told me, sometimes a woman just has to be a bitch.

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