Read Online Getting Old Is Criminal by Rita Lakin - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rita Lakin
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Women Detectives, Florida, Gold; Gladdy (Fictitious Character), Older People, Fort Lauderdale (Fla.), Retirees
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looking like the happy kids they were. Jack and Faye’s wedding photo. How young and lovely they looked. How adoringly they gaze at each other.
Jack serves me the coffee just as I like it, one sugar and very little milk.
I thank him and he says, “You’re welcome.”
And here we are. I’m balanced on the very edge of the peach floral couch. He’s perched on the rim of the matching armchair that faces it.
“So . . .” I’m the first to break the silence.
“So, what?”
G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 8 1
Oy, enough already. “Sew buttons.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what my mother used to say when we kept saying ‘so.’ ” At Jack’s puzzled look I bat my hand at him. “Don’t bother trying to get it. It’s a non sequitur.”
“Oh. So. Sew buttons. I get it.”
I’m running out of repartee. “Jack. Where are we?”
“In my apartment.”
“Funny.”
He finally smiles. I do, too.
“I’ve missed you,” I admit.
He doesn’t comment. I want to reach out and touch his hands, which are folded on his lap. They are only inches away. If I touch them, he’ll touch me and we’ll be all right again. I can’t do it and he won’t. His hands might as well be back in Pago Pago. The chasm between us is too deep.
As if reading my mind, he moves his hands to the arm of the chair. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking . . .”
I don’t like the way that sounds. Come on, let’s kiss and make up. I want to say it, but first I need to know how he feels about me.
“And . . . ?”
“I think we need to separate for a while.”
Separate? I feel my body stiffen and my eyes widen in shock. “Why?” I blurt.
“Because you’re not ready for me.”
I stand and pace around the room. “Just because I told Bella where we’d be? I was committed 8 2 • R i t a L a k i n
to you. Didn’t I fly for sixteen uncomfortable hours to run away with you? I was as upset as you were that we were . . . interrupted.”
He stands, too, looking eager. “All right. I already have a packed suitcase. I’ll just grab my passport. Let’s go back to your apartment and you pack a quick bag and leave a note. We’ll go to the airport and hop onto the first flight going anywhere.”
I automatically take a step away from him. “Wait.
What’s the hurry? We don’t have to rush off.”
“Why not? What if I say, we’ll find the first judge, or a rabbi, if you insist, and get married.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t we tell our families and friends first?”
“We can inform them afterward, when we get back, and then we’ll have a big party.”
I don’t know how to respond. My mind is running in a dozen directions.
“Glad. Do you see what you’re doing? You keep stepping backward. Not forward. Not to me.”
I stop in my tracks. I suddenly realize that I’ve moved halfway across the living room away from him. “You’re confusing me. First you’re angry and you are ready to leave without telling me where you’re going. You don’t call. I worry myself sick wondering where you are. Or if you’ll ever talk to me again. Now I accidentally run into you, and you’re racing me out the door to the nearest altar.”
“And what’s so bad about that?
“I need to think.”
G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 8 3
“About what?”
“I don’t know. This is too fast.”
“What are you waiting for? When we get to be ninety?”
I find myself shouting. “I don’t know!”
He’s shouting, too. “Gladdy. What will it take for you to be ready? What will it take to make you sure? What do I have to do?”
I keep shaking my head as if to clear the cob-webs. Why can’t he understand?
Now his voice gets lower. And he is shaking his head, too. “I’m sorry. I can’t make us work. To paraphrase the poet, ‘she who hesitates is lost.’ ”
He strides out the door and leaves me standing there.
A moment later, he sheepishly walks back in. “I forgot. I live here.”
With that
Jack serves me the coffee just as I like it, one sugar and very little milk.
I thank him and he says, “You’re welcome.”
And here we are. I’m balanced on the very edge of the peach floral couch. He’s perched on the rim of the matching armchair that faces it.
“So . . .” I’m the first to break the silence.
“So, what?”
G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 8 1
Oy, enough already. “Sew buttons.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what my mother used to say when we kept saying ‘so.’ ” At Jack’s puzzled look I bat my hand at him. “Don’t bother trying to get it. It’s a non sequitur.”
“Oh. So. Sew buttons. I get it.”
I’m running out of repartee. “Jack. Where are we?”
“In my apartment.”
“Funny.”
He finally smiles. I do, too.
“I’ve missed you,” I admit.
He doesn’t comment. I want to reach out and touch his hands, which are folded on his lap. They are only inches away. If I touch them, he’ll touch me and we’ll be all right again. I can’t do it and he won’t. His hands might as well be back in Pago Pago. The chasm between us is too deep.
As if reading my mind, he moves his hands to the arm of the chair. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking . . .”
I don’t like the way that sounds. Come on, let’s kiss and make up. I want to say it, but first I need to know how he feels about me.
“And . . . ?”
“I think we need to separate for a while.”
Separate? I feel my body stiffen and my eyes widen in shock. “Why?” I blurt.
“Because you’re not ready for me.”
I stand and pace around the room. “Just because I told Bella where we’d be? I was committed 8 2 • R i t a L a k i n
to you. Didn’t I fly for sixteen uncomfortable hours to run away with you? I was as upset as you were that we were . . . interrupted.”
He stands, too, looking eager. “All right. I already have a packed suitcase. I’ll just grab my passport. Let’s go back to your apartment and you pack a quick bag and leave a note. We’ll go to the airport and hop onto the first flight going anywhere.”
I automatically take a step away from him. “Wait.
What’s the hurry? We don’t have to rush off.”
“Why not? What if I say, we’ll find the first judge, or a rabbi, if you insist, and get married.”
“I don’t understand. Why can’t we tell our families and friends first?”
“We can inform them afterward, when we get back, and then we’ll have a big party.”
I don’t know how to respond. My mind is running in a dozen directions.
“Glad. Do you see what you’re doing? You keep stepping backward. Not forward. Not to me.”
I stop in my tracks. I suddenly realize that I’ve moved halfway across the living room away from him. “You’re confusing me. First you’re angry and you are ready to leave without telling me where you’re going. You don’t call. I worry myself sick wondering where you are. Or if you’ll ever talk to me again. Now I accidentally run into you, and you’re racing me out the door to the nearest altar.”
“And what’s so bad about that?
“I need to think.”
G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 8 3
“About what?”
“I don’t know. This is too fast.”
“What are you waiting for? When we get to be ninety?”
I find myself shouting. “I don’t know!”
He’s shouting, too. “Gladdy. What will it take for you to be ready? What will it take to make you sure? What do I have to do?”
I keep shaking my head as if to clear the cob-webs. Why can’t he understand?
Now his voice gets lower. And he is shaking his head, too. “I’m sorry. I can’t make us work. To paraphrase the poet, ‘she who hesitates is lost.’ ”
He strides out the door and leaves me standing there.
A moment later, he sheepishly walks back in. “I forgot. I live here.”
With that
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