Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All by Allan Gurganus

as much to keep quiet as they do for the rinse job—and Jerome, trustworthy, lets it get no further. Than me. Don’t beg me for their names, please, sugar. My lips are sealed. Just use your eyeballs. One fellow, three doors down—on the left—he’s as orange as I-Love-Lucy’s.)
    Jerome is saving up for his theater-seeing trip to London, England, next year or the one after. Him and Leonardo, his roommate, are going. Jerome’s been salting cash away for it since he turned sixteen, quit high school, and found this jack-of-all-trades job. Born dirt-poor, the gentleman is touched by the wand of ambition and talent. It ain’t no respecter of neighborhoods, child. Genius is a Democrat.—Our Jerome has Ideas. These are the people I like being near: the ones most
wanting
something.
    Jerome is proudest of two virtues: his speaking voice, which is like black satin sheets that you worry will feel icky but onct you’re under couldn’t a crowbar get you out again. And his hands. “Zee golden digits,” he says, imitating a German accent copied off some war-movie late show as he kisses his own knuckles. Have you ever seen so many gold signet rings on such dark perfect hands?
    For a fee (750¢–$4.50 depending on how deep into it you really want him to go) Jerome will offer his so-called Swede massage. Some folks in here just about live for Jerome’s weekly rub. Personally, makes me nervous to guess what a body (behind closed doors) gets for the full $4.50 (prior to tips). All I know is what I see and some of that, I tell. I
will
mention the scent of liniment and wintergreen alcohol trailing certain people’s wheelchairs for days—plus crooked smiles that can last up to a week. Women
and
men! I won’t say no more.
    He did do my neck onct—a free sample. Had me yelling most unladylike. I give off more snap, crackle, and pops than the Kellogg’s Tap Dance Academy. By the end I couldn’t budge, just lay here groaning. Afterwards, I didn’t know should I feel proud or guilty. Minnie Lytton admits that Jerome gets right up onto the bed with her “for better leverage.”
    “‘Onto’ or ‘into’?” asks our former physics professor, ever precise.
    “You’re the scientist.” Min winks. “What have I got to do for you, a diagram?”
    Jerome titles them Swede massages, I reckon he read that in some paperback. If our orderly, born in Falls’ own Baby Africa, is a Swede—then I am Haile Selassie, Lion of Ethiopia, but let that go.
    And finally, always looking out for geriatric cash, Jerome gives speech therapy for your stroke victims, those who can still explain about their having a little pin money to spare. The famous Talking Lessons were invented by Jerome after his auditing every drama course at Nash Tech. I hear he is their all-time Night School Star. If he signs up for a course, others flock to be in it. Jerome can do whole Shakespeare speeches like a perfect Englishman. (He memorizes off of gramophone records from the Public Library. Has hopes of getting known for it in New York.) Some folks along this hall doubt just how famous he’s ever going to be beyond this hall. But his diction is a dream and his hands remain, for some, the one reason to go on.
    Finally, about his speech lessons, I’ll just say: Didn’t Jerome get the Williston twins back to where they’re able to do the Pledge of Allegiance straight through without stopping? The Williston girls were a year behind me at Falls Lower Normal. Here recent, both had strokes in the same week, both lost partial speech, seemed the same partial parts faltered in each. Nobody could believe things worked out so tidy—but, look, them girls’ve been dressing alike since 18 and something, eating the same foods, and sleeping in one bed (they still do, though the nurses don’t like it one littlebit, I hear). I reckon it follows that Williston illnesses would come on in a matched set too.
    Well, them sisters now do that Pledge like nobody’s business. Sad part,