Jane Austen in Boca (18 page)

“You know Tom Wolfe?” asked Flo.

“We worked together years ago, when the New Journalism was just taking off, and I saw him again after the Boca debacle I told you about, when I went to do consulting in New York.”

“I thought you went to Washington when you left Boca?”

“Oh, yes, well, I split my time really between Washington and New York. There were two PR firms that wanted my humble services, and since I have friends in both places, it was easy to move back and forth. Each, I must say, had its enticements—Washington has the Smithsonian and the National Gallery, and New York has the Met and the Mets.”

It was at this point that Rudy Salzburg approached. He’d been prowling the lounge, stopping here and there to chat and schmooze as was his fashion, though he seemed to have a particular eye on Flo, waiting for a lull in her conversation to dart in and kiss her hand.

“ ‘She sits in beauty,’ “ he said now, clicking his heels and leaning forward obsequiously.

“Rudy, you dazzle me,” declared Flo.

“We’re thinking of refurbishing the porch restaurant,” Rudy explained, cutting to the chase now that the ritual amenities were out of the way. He was referring to the screen-enclosed area near the pool where lunch was served to those unwilling to go back to their apartments and change into “proper” clubhouse attire. “I’ve been looking at drapes and upholstery, and it occurs to me that, with a little help, we could make it very ritzy. I’ve been polling our benefactors to see if there’s interest.”

Flo promised to give it some thought, as she always did, and Rudy went off to approach Roz Fliegler, who was lying by the pool with Dorothy Meltzer, working on her tan. Roz had underwritten the potted plants in the dining room for the reason, as she put it, that “plant life makes for healthier air”—a fact of particular importance to her since she suffered from emphysema. Rudy had enthusiastically agreed that the plants were as good as oxygen tanks.

“I suppose you get asked to contribute quite a bit,” said Mel, “a woman of your means.”

“Only Rudy,” said Flo. “He doesn’t realize that Eddie lost the bulk of our play money in a bear market before he died. He thinks I have deep pockets, and I can’t say I mind him thinking it. It makes him so pleasant.”

“Ah,” said Mel reflectively. “A shame about the money. You must have been upset.”

“Not really,” said Flo. “Eddie was, but not me. I have what I need. I’m not a diamonds-and-pearls sort of girl, as you can see.

“I can,” said Mel slowly. “You’re certainly not an ostentatious person.”

“It’s just that my pleasures happen to be cheap ones. I was never into clothes or jewelry, as I say, and I like to read. I’ll read a book as soon as travel around the world. There, you see, we differ.”

“Yes,” said Mel, leaning back on the sofa again, his face taking on a dreamy, distracted look, “I suppose we do.”

T
IME PASSES DIFFERENTLY FOR
B
OCA RETIREES THAN IT DOES FOR
other people. Gone are the familiar rhythms of school and work. Days swim by, the demarcation of weekday and weekend eroded by the ebb and flow of golf games and long hours at bridge. Some days, a gastric ulcer flares and the sufferer may rise at six, walk the lush grounds of the complex, meeting others with similar complaints, then return for a leisurely breakfast, a game of cards, and a long nap, only to rise again for an early dinner and movie, then back to sleep, not rising until eleven or twelve the next day. Days and nights take on an uncharted, unpredictable aspect. Time moves either fast or slow depending upon the state of one’s muscles and the offerings at the multiplex.

For May, the days since the Valentine’s Day dinner-dance had passed slowly, though for the life of her she could not recall what she had done with herself since that Saturday night. She had expected Norman Grafstein to call—if not the next day, given that Sundays were often sacred, do-nothing days for many seniors (the result of the enduring habits of shopkeepers for whom Sunday had been the sole day when the bakery or restaurant or dry-goods store was closed), then certainly the next. On Monday, she had gone to lunch with Flo and Lila (the “bridesmaids lunch,” as Flo referred to it) and expected a message on her machine when she returned. There had been no message. On Tuesday, she had remained around the house, reading the
Sun-Sentinel
more thoroughly than usual and thumbing through the Judith Krantz novel that Carol had left behind, possibly as
inspiration to May (it was the kind of touch Carol was capable of). She had written a letter to her grandson, taken down the hem of a dress, and baked a kugel with cinnamon and raisins, which she recalled that Norman had expressed a fondness for. But no one had called that day either, outside of Flo to arrange for their Loehmann’s trip the next day. Now, Wednesday afternoon, having returned with the dress, she had hurried into the condo, relieved to hear the clicking that indicated a message on her machine, only to discover that it was Carol ordering her to “call and fill me in on every detail of the dance.” It was at this moment that May felt the pall settle over her, the kind of throat-choking, stomach-aching disappointment that she hadn’t felt since high school nearly sixty years ago.

The next morning when Flo called to ask about her plans for lunch, May could hardly keep her voice steady.

“What’s wrong?” demanded Flo, who immediately registered the tremor behind her friend’s words. “Aren’t you feeling well?”

“It’s nothing,” said May. “Only a headache. I’ll lie down for a while and be fine.”

“I’m coming right over,” said Flo. “You sound awful.”

When Flo arrived, May was sitting on the little balcony off the living room, staring out at the golf course. She was still in her housecoat, and as she turned, Flo saw that her eyes were red. “He’s decided he doesn’t like me anymore,” May said, stretching out her hand to Flo, who, for all that her heart went out to her friend, couldn’t help thinking that she had been privy lately to more emotional immaturity than she had a taste for. May, for the life of her, looked like a love-sick teenager.

“What are you talking about?” said Flo, taking her friend’s hand and contemplating the irony that seven decades of life had done nothing to alter this age-old scenario.

“It’s Norman,” said May. “I hadn’t heard from him since the dance, so finally I called and left a message. I asked him to brunch tomorrow. I made the kugel he likes.” She
gestured weakly toward the kitchen. “He called back at six—he knows I go to dinner around six, we all do, so he must have wanted to miss me. Here, listen.”

She walked over to the phone machine on the coffee table, rewound the tape, and pressed the button to play (she had clearly replayed the tape many times already). Norman Grafstein’s loud, genial voice, more tentative and halting than Flo had ever heard it, filled the room.

“May,” he said, then paused for a few seconds and cleared his throat. “I got your kind invitation and am afraid I’ll have to decline. Stan and I are off to North Jersey today for”—he cleared his throat again—”an indefinite stay. Stephanie—that’s Stan’s daughter, my daughter-in-law, you know—is expecting, and we, uh”—again a pause, as he seemed to lose his train of thought—“we haven’t seen Ben, that’s the three-year-old, in a while. It was Stan’s idea”—Norman at this point seemed to get a burst of energy and continued in a rush—”he says club life makes for selfish grandparents and we need to get up there and hone our skills. Well, that means a break from Boca for a while, and I’m afraid no brunch, though I appreciate the thought, especially of the kugel. I haven’t had that in a million years.” There was a pause again, this time a longer one. It was the logical place to sign off, but Norman seemed to find it hard to hang up the phone. “Well, 1 just want to say that I’ve very much enjoyed our time together and that I look forward”—he cleared his throat again—”to, maybe, soon—someday—having that brunch.” At this point, he seemed to think he had spoken too long and was determined to get himself off the phone immediately. “That’s about the gist of it, then. Take care of yourself, May.” He hung up.

Flo sat for a second, saying nothing. Then she looked at May whose face was streaked with tears. “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” said Flo, shaking her head. “I think Norman got scared, and I think his friend, Stan Jacobs, egged him on. Stan,
from what I can guess, has a way of influencing people based on his own prejudices and preconceptions. He probably thought that because he’s not ready to settle down, then Norman shouldn’t be, either. And it’s not as though Norman hasn’t enjoyed his popularity with the ladies. It didn’t help when Hy made the point about finding a man for financial security. It could only have fed his paranoia about being trapped. It’s the male fear of commitment that they write all the books about, and Norman, I suspect, was susceptible.”

“So you think he’s not going to call me again?” asked May, sadly.

“I wouldn’t say that,” said Flo. “I think Norman genuinely liked you—more than liked you—and if he has the decency and feeling that I think he has, he can’t help but eventually want to get back in touch. You can tell from the tape that he’s speaking against his will, like someone has a gun to his head, as they say. But men are weak creatures, May, and at this age, their memories aren’t good. I’m not trying to be pessimistic. I think Norman was happy with you—in fact, I know it. But there are distractions to get in the way, not to mention the possibility that he might drop dead of a heart attack tomorrow.”

“Oh, Flo,” said May, laughing weakly in spite of herself, “don’t say such things.”

“I say them because they’re true,” said Flo, “and because I don’t want you to pine away. At seventy-two, you don’t have time for such things. I’m going to have to keep you busy. I may even have to bring in a professional—your daughter-in-law—to make sure that you’re properly distracted.”

“You wouldn’t,” said May. “You wouldn’t call Carol.”

“I don’t want to,” said Flo with mock sternness. “It’s stiff medicine, I know, but if you mope, I’ll be forced to. So don’t push me. Now get dressed. We’re going to lunch, then we’ll pop over to Royal Palm for a little shopping, and then maybe to the
dinner-theater in Ft. Lauderdale. They’re doing
Meet Me in St. Louis
with a Judy Garland look-alike, rumored to be a man. A soppy, badly produced musical comedy is just the tonic you need.”

T
HE WEDDING OF
L
ILA
K
ATZ AND
H
Y
M
ARCUS WAS HELD IN THE
large activities room of the Boca Festa clubhouse, with guests repairing to the dining room for the subsequent wedding brunch. The couple had invited a hundred guests, making it an unusually large wedding for people of their age, who had already been married over eighty years between them. It was no secret that some of the guests disapproved of the fanfare, but the immediate family appeared to be tolerant. Hy’s brother, who still worked in the family hat business outside of New Haven, had observed philosophically, “He was a fool all his life—so why should he change?”

Hy’s children were also surprisingly accepting, having learned years ago to ignore their father and do whatever they pleased. He had been an indulgent parent, proud of them and generous to a fault, and as they grew to maturity and came to modulate their earlier mortification at his boastful chatter, they treated him with irritable affection. Steven, the doctor in Manhattan, had been initially concerned that a marriage on such a scale was an insult to their mother, and that so much hoopla was undignified. His sister, Sarah, however, had set his mind at rest. She had pointed out that thinking about the effect on the dead was unprofitable, their mother not being around to be offended. As for the question of dignity, such were the privileges of being in one’s dotage. If anything, their father’s age had finally caught up with his mentality, making behavior that had been inappropriate all his life—most notably, at school graduations and recitals—entirely
forgivable and even charming. She reminded her brother, moreover, that the marriage was a godsend, relieving them of responsibility for their father’s care and allying him with a woman whom they could actually like. For Lila appeared to them to have unusual common sense and personal attractiveness. Wasn’t it a wonder, Steven confided to his sister, that such a woman would choose their father for the companion of her declining years? Hy was not a wealthy man, after all, though he was quite comfortable, and he was far from an intellectual heavyweight (the word “fool” always hovered in the air in any conversation regarding Hy Marcus). To this, Sarah, always with the greater abundance of insight, pointed out that Lila, without children, might be fearing the solitude of old age as well as the financial obligations. All in all, both concluded, after many phone conversations in which they congratulated each other on their mutual wisdom, the match had much in its favor, and they applauded it. If their father wanted a wedding that resembled the bar mitzvahs they were currently throwing for their children, then so be it.

Now, as the guests took their seats, Flo and May were asked to position themselves on one side of a large, ornately decorated
chuppa,
while a young woman in a black evening gown plucked the wedding march on a harp beside them. Flo was trying to hide her bouquet in the folds of her dress. The bouquet, she thought, struck a particularly ridiculous note, making her feel like one of those dogs wearing embroidered jackets that are a common sight around Boca, where many dog owners feel their pets should be entitled to enjoy an accessory now and then.

There was a low hum of voices as the last guests seated themselves and whispered to their neighbors, trying to get a handle on what was going on. Suddenly a hush fell over the assemblage, the back doors of the activity room opened, and the bride entered to a surprised murmur. Lila’s aqua gown trailed slightly on
the floor (she had stopped short of a train, though the idea had occurred to her). She had enlisted the services of a professional makeup artist, and her face appeared smooth and glossy in the manner of Loretta Young in her later years. Flo thought the look smacked of the mortuary but could hear whispers of admiration from some of the throng.