Hip to Be Square Read online

  While Petulia goes to take a much-needed Sprite break, I offer to address Miss Tess and her behavior.

  I take a long route to Tess’ room, allowing me time to work up an attitude of disappointment. I further stall by reaching my hand into the south wing suggestion box—an idea I implemented last year to help ease the direct verbal complaints from residents and funnel them in a more orderly, constructive system. So far, the boxes have served as waste baskets, ash trays, and collection receptacles for humorous and often feisty observations of the facility, its people, and this culture.

  The one I found yesterday was written by Myrna Frederickson. It was not signed, but I knew her chicken scratch from too many games of hangman. “We should all gather our money and see if there is any way to buy back the fine services of Beau. He never threw people out of games and was a most delightful young fellow. And cute. Our staff now is mostly ugly. Ugly and decidedly mean.” For once she used the collective “staff” instead of my name directly.

  Today I’m afraid to reach into the pine square with a grinning slit at the top. Only one crumpled piece of paper lies in wait for my retrieval. At first I assume it is someone’s fast-food burger wrapper, but I see my full name written in big, loopy letters and smooth it out to read the mysterious note. “Mari Hamilton walks on by and doesn’t even notice that the scenery has changed. She had better pay attention.”

  I reread it at least three times. Did the insightful writer have something specific in mind, or is he or she intuitive enough to know I also have just stumbled upon this truth for myself? My thoughts sift through my phobias until my feet bring me to stand before room 312. I’ll assess my own problems later. For now, I anticipate the smile of my favorite resident as I slowly push the door open with the toe of my sturdy shoes.

  Tess sits in an already muggy room wrapped in a luxurious mink stole that forty years ago fit strong, perfectly toned shoulders. Now it dwarfs the eighty-year-old into a little girl wearing her mother’s clothes. She looks down with false guilt and readies herself for my equally false reprimand.

  “Tess Childers, you cannot scare off the new volunteers like this. One day we will all stop believing anything you say. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sorry, Mari.” Her favorite line of all time. “We would both be better off at Pearly Gates. I hear they have great benefits for their employees.”

  “Benefits? What are benefits?” I tease her. Neither of us would go there. She, because Pearly Gates is where her second husband lived for years. Their divorce settlement actually stated they could not reside in the same retirement home. Me, because I would never work somewhere called Pearly Gates. Out of principle.

  “You do know what this means,” I say, trying to sound stern.

  “You’ll be the one to read to me.” From beneath her wrap she pulls a delicate pink envelope heavily scented with Chanel No. 5 perfume and filled with sweet details of her friend Gisele’s life in New York. These two were inseparable from debutante years to their lives as young, affluent, married women. They shared a charmed existence until Tess lost her first and only great love to cancer.

  In the irrational state of grief, Tess married a man who did not deserve or truly have her love. His awareness of this made him all the more eager to remove her from the things she did love.

  This wrong man—she never uses his name—moved Tess from the opera houses, society columns, and Broadway premieres of New York to the rodeos, dusty bars, and jean-clad denizens of Arizona.

  I take the note from its envelope and settle into the velvet-covered chaise. Tess’ single room has the grace and charm of a suite at the Plaza. I know because she tells me this. And despite our rough beginnings, I believe every word she tells me.

  She closes her eyes and prepares to connect with her friend through my voice and her tender memories of a better time. I clear my throat, but the lump remains. Gisele describes snow-covered Central Park, which she can see from her parlor room. She laments how nobody knows how to make a Gibson cocktail anymore, and she states the tragic glut of pathetic and apathetic hired help in Manhattan. She has requested her fourth in-home nurse this month.

  “You two sound like two onions in a martini glass.” I fold the letter and place it in Tess’ jewelry box with all the others.

  Her large collection of precious stones and diamond jewelry is secured at a nearby bank; only a few sentimental pieces from her first love are kept beside her at all times: a gold watch, a pair of modest emerald earrings, and a wedding band. I check to make sure they are there every day.

  “Not so fast.” Tess wants to continue with our routine. Her lids are heavy with sleep, but her hands are still nimble enough to remove her charm bracelet and hold it up by its small, brass key. “Choose something divine.”

  I gave up protesting three years ago when we started this part of the ritual. I open the armoire and take in the gorgeous fabrics, styles, and colors that are mine for the choosing. My fingers return to the silk, the chintz, the satin. It is not difficult to imagine Tess dressed in these garments—young, vibrant, and the envy of every stranger at the jazz club, theater, or reserved tables at the Rainbow Room.

  I pause over a light gray Christian Dior. It is my favorite. Tess knows it. I know it.

  Too many childhood years of sharing…giving up…any item of importance or perceived significance prevent me from believing I deserve something so beautiful—and so meaningful to a person I adore. As my fingers glide forward, I know there is something else behind my unwillingness to remove the piece. I need not explain it to Tess. This item from a part of her life that she misses, that she loved…I want to save it for last.

  I put off such a gift from my friend because I want her to be here forever.

  “Skipping the finale?” She chuckles with understanding.

  My sight lands on a color I have not noticed before. A faded apricot scarf? My hand disappears into the folds of the Burberry coat it hides behind. I can barely feel the silk; it is as smooth as polished glass and as light as air. I reach up for the satin-covered hanger and remove the most breathtaking dress I have ever seen. It is art. It is dance. With one look at Tess’ smile, I know, too, that it is mine.

  “That, my friend, is a fine selection. Rudy Mangione, one of Broadway’s finest musical dancers, brought that back from Paris for me.” She looks off toward the hallway, but I know she is in her Fifth Avenue apartment, folding back silver tissue paper and taking in the first sight of this creation.

  One glance takes in the deep curves, soft folds, and subtle peplum. “I couldn’t wear such a thing. Your life was made for splendor, Tess. But mine…” I look down at my sad uniform and can barely hold back the tears.

  “Mari, you have not yet learned to recognize greatness, beauty, and purpose in your life. Please believe me. You might not prance around in all these pieces or attend a high tea at the Plaza, but there is still a reason you are the one who holds the brass key right now.” Her delight and belief lessen my self-consciousness.

  “Oh, Tess…your gypsy talk is going to me head.”

  Tess howls with one strong laugh. “Gypsy! Oh, Mari.” For a moment her smile turns to teacher-serious contemplation. “We don’t talk about it much, but I know we have the same faith leading us.” She pauses when she sees the apricot draping my shoulders. “Amazing. It is as if Rudy picked it out with you in mind…even if he didn’t know you.”

  I hadn’t identified, or wanted to explore, the sense of loss in my life in recent months, but the hope and purpose behind her words reveal themselves as the missing ingredients.

  I start an Ella Fitzgerald record and leave Tess to her afternoon nap. Out in the hallway I pause for a moment, lifting lush layers of silk to my face. And in front of the bulletin board listing “101 Things You Can Make with Jello,” I make the one thing I have been afraid of…a prayer request directly related to my own future.

  I pray to be made worthy—not of the fine clothes—but of the kindness and the belief in my futur
e. Because right now, I don’t feel it.

  Taxation with Representation

  Strange girl stands by the mailboxes. Today she is wearing a leopard-print T-shirt with a cursive Y and red pants with green stripes. She reminds me of a leftover Christmas decoration gone very wrong. Her shiny black hair splays against her shoulders in chunks that are not chic, just indifferent. Odd neighbor pretends to read her mail. Behind old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses her eyes are moving too fast to really be taking in words. She is practically in the REM stage. The lingerie catalog she is looking at belongs to the woman in 12C. I know this because I got it by mistake yesterday and placed it in the mail-swap box this morning…along with a note asking 12C to please notify all her favorite exotic clothing distributors to correct her address on file.

  I sense I am supposed to speak to basement-dwelling neighbor, but I am dragging; I just want to walk on by. My vow, as of late, has been to not ignore these tugs at my heart. I’m hoping they will eventually lead to something life changing rather than just polite mailbox encounters.

  “Hi…” I say this with the pause where her name should go. How does one forget a name that begins with Y?

  “Oh. Hey. Do you have cable?” She looks up from a display of garter belts to ask me this most important question.

  “Yes. And you?” I regret the conversation already.

  “No. But I’m thinking about it. Have you traveled to Asia?”

  “Not yet.” But it sounds good about now.

  “What do you do for fun?” She surprises me with a normal get-acquainted question. My mouth opens to introduce the long list, but my mind spins trying to pick up on anything that I do outside of work, let alone “do for fun.” Little does she know she has brought up a touchy subject for me. I must wear my lack of frivolity on my sensible sleeve.

  She offers some assistance. “I’ll bet you do fascinating things like rock climb and go to art exhibits.” Her activity pairing is as compatible as her top and pants.

  “Well, not lately.” Now I am disgusted with myself that I have no plans to scale the wall of the Tucson gallery.

  “Do you spend a lot of time online?”

  This exercise in chitchat is not making me feel better about my life. “No, hardly ever. Though I did just get email at work.”

  “I had you pegged for a real active type. Like dating a lot and going out. Having friends…” her voice trails off as she starts to walk away, leaving me dazed and confused.

  “Good to see you,” I say to her small backside with a bit of sarcasm. How do I go from following a tug of the heart to being sarcastic?

  I gather my mail and quickly survey the bills vs. correspondence ratio. All bills except for one Golden Horizons envelope, which must be my W-2 forms. For some people, this is a momentous occasion, even a welcomed event in the cycle of their year. I have never found it to be such.

  Elmo, my cat, is waiting for me in the entryway. I rush past him to the bathroom. “Sorry, guy,” I offer as he follows me and waits for me to appreciate him. On my way to the kitchen, I scoop up this blob of gray-and-white fur and kiss his tummy. He hates this and regrets greeting me at all. I feed him his usual half can of nondescript mush and deprive myself of any people morsels until I have made a call to my new accountant.

  A brusque, nasal voice answers the phone. “No One Lewis’ Accounting, can I assist you?” He says this with great reluctance and without a hint of the humor (albeit terrible humor) the business name suggests.

  “Yes, you sure can, Lewis. This is Mari…Mari Hamilton…Sadie’s friend?” I wait for recognition and get zilch. “You said to call when I got my W-2s.”

  More silence. I can hear the tap-tap-tapping of a laptop computer on his end. He is busy helping people who have assets worth assessing.

  “Well, I got ’em. The forms. Those forms you mentioned. Got ’em.” I say this over and over until he interrupts.

  “Can you meet after hours?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about eight. And bring that other paperwork I told you to round up.”

  “Tonight?” I feel rushed. I am one who likes to gently enter the arena of financial details.

  The fingernail to chalkboard sound of an inkjet printer reminds me that Lewis awaits my response. “Tonight is great. So your office will be open?”

  “I don’t meet here. Too many banker boxes. I like to do business at LuLu’s. There is a booth I practically rent there.” He snickers at this. I knew his sad sense of humor had to surface eventually. Great. My accountant works his numbers like a bookie from a back booth at the most archaic restaurant chain in America. I believe this location is one of its last links.

  “Do you know the place?” He asks this seriously. As if anyone can miss the bright green roof and the purple-coated brick front. Should I inform him that there are days I deliberately drive a different route to work so that I do not have to face this building before 9:00 A.M.?

  “Should I ask for you at the counter?” I jab.

  “Margo will be expecting you,” he reveals, once again, his brilliant lack of humor and hangs up the phone without ending the conversation. Apparently, when numbers are your friends, social niceties are not required. I run through my multiplication tables in case there is a long-buried passion and the excuse for indifference I have been seeking all of my life.

  Nothing. Just bad memories of lining up in fourth grade on Fridays for math flash card competitions.

  Numbers Breakdown

  Right this way.” Margo pulls a worn, laminated menu from the bin at the hostess pulpit. She has several buttons pinned to her striped mock apron. While staring at her uniform’s graffiti, I am informed that LuLu is crazy for the new Hawaiian salad that has coconut, pineapple, and crisp lettuce greens. Another reminds people to not smoke in this establishment. A personal picture shows Margo and her pet Chihuahua playing the piano.

  The maze of turquoise-and-pink booths makes me dizzy as I walk behind her. She nods to each of her favorite customers. It is like being the runner-up and mistakenly following Miss America down the aisle. A child in a high chair tosses pudding at me.

  Margo reaches the very back booth of her service area and motions me toward the man who would be Lewis. He wears braces, which actually add an element of appeal to the boy. He doesn’t look old enough to have established a business with a reputation that Sadie, of all people, could and would vouch for.

  He makes a false effort to stand up as I approach and motions his hand toward the entire other half of the pastel C-shaped booth. A stack of manila folders is on the table by Lewis, who is seated directly in front of a potted palm; his face is framed by strands of green. He resembles a cartoon lion…one that would be the star character in a kid’s show promoting how great it is to wear braces and add numbers for a living.

  “My order is coming, so feel free…” he says, pointing toward Margo, who is still standing at attention. He seems unaware of her affection.

  “I’ll have a malted. Oh, and French fries.” This comes from nowhere and somewhere. There is something that screams “get a malted” in the vinyl-and-chrome chairs placed at smoky-hued glass tables.

  I choose the steak fries over the regular, skinny ones and turn my attention to Lewis, whose head is already buried in a folder with my name on it.

  My folder is recycled. Through the white label I can read a name scribed in thick black permanent marker—“Frankie Valducci.” I imagine his name being crossed out when the feds busted him for running yogurt stores as a front for laundering mob money.

  “What happened to my predecessor?” I ask, pointing to the evidence bleeding through the sticker.

  Lewis shrugs. He won’t talk. Accountant-client privilege.

  By the time Margo makes her way to us with our food choices, he is almost finished inputting my information into his miniature laptop. He scarcely looks at Margo as she places extra ketchup packets next to his grilled cheese.

  It turns out that my big ol’ steak fries an
d malted are fantastic. I’m inhaling my dinner selection and licking my fingers. Lewis bites into his large sourdough sandwich. Strings of American cheese graze his chin and form a large shiny blob on his front teeth. Margo has thought this through; a tiny ceramic basket with toothpicks is at his elbow.

  Disappearing momentarily beneath the table, Lewis fumbles in the box by my feet and emerges with a tabletop printer. As its annoying printing sound overrides the instrumental version of “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers Anymore” on the speakers above our heads, he becomes more animated.

  “How long have you been working with the elderly?” he asks, suddenly aware he is with another person.

  I cringe at this phrasing. It removes me from my area of expertise, which is recreation instruction and therapy. Working with the elderly sounds like a candy striper. I don’t want to discuss my job.

  “Five years. It’s just a detour.” I am compelled to remind myself and everyone I meet that I do have a timeline. That this life is not as limited as it first appears.

  “From what? According to your records this has been your primary career…caregiving.” This pencil pusher is a darn good button pusher.

  “Let’s just say I am trained for more…fashionable settings. And more lucrative,” I add this part to counter my measly income that by now is quite apparent to Lewis.

  “What you do is noble.” He is serious, and this makes me even more depressed. Noble is another phrase for “nobody else’ll do it.” I have a plan for something better.

  “Are we about done?” I ask, brushing off his grand sentiments. Pushing my glass and the red plastic wicker basket to the edge of the table, I make my desire to leave clear.

  Lewis asks me to read through a small stack of forms, mark the appropriate personal information on the page, and sign. I’m cruising through the personal information. Same residence as last year. Yes. Had someone else prepare my taxes. Yes. Want to contribute to political campaigns. No. Want to contribute to any charities. Yes. I indicate several that are connected to some of my favorite residents at Golden Horizons.