whimpers. "Maybe you'll make the killer mad and
he'll come after us."
"God forbid," Evvie says.
"I'm more worried we'll scare a lot of people, but it has
to be done," I reply. More silence.
"Everybody in?" I ask.
I get a chorus of "in's."
"Then, hopefully, we'll get real information, so the cops
will believe us and take over."
The girls get up and start clearing the cards off the
table. We always help the hostess clean up.
"You should have told me about the crumbs," Evvie says
accusingly.
"I know," I tell her. "I know."
"I
would have remembered!"
"I know! Don't keep rubbing it in!"
Suddenly we hear sirens very close. Ida runs and flings
open the door. "Police cars! Coming in here!"
"Murder! Another murder!" Sophie screams.
And Bella faints.
I feel very guilty. What have I unleashed?
----
18
Old-Timer's Disease
W e don't even wait for the
elevator. In spite of our age, and the possible damage we can do to our
bodies, we are running down the three flights of stairs and across the
parking area to where two policemen, and a small group of our neighbors
in a varied assortment of sleepwear, are gathering. The flashing lights
from the police car zigzag across the watchers like strobe lights at a
"happening." Something is happening all right and we are terrified.
All the activity is centered at Millie and Irving's
apartment. The police are pounding at their door. Thoughts crowd my
head. Making assessments. It's after nine P.M. They must be asleep. It's not an ambulance, thank God, so Irving didn't
call the paramedics. So, why are the police here? Please, God, don't
let anyone be hurt. The officers keep hammering. No one is answering.
We arrive at the door, hearts throbbing with fear and
overexertion. Throwing questions at them, although we are so out of
breath we can barely speak.
"What is it?"
"Why are you here?"
"What's wrong?"
"Please talk to us. We're their friends."
The taller policeman with an orange mustache tells us
they got a 911 call.
The short, stubby one says, "The woman was screaming that
she was being raped and someone was trying to kill her."
The girls breathe a collective sigh of relief. "Boy, have
you got the wrong address," Evvie informs them.
By now the group is beginning to look like a crowd. Hy
and Lola, in matching robes, peer over the balcony right above our
heads. Peripherally, I am aware of Harriet, tying her robe, as she
hurries across the parking area. Tessie is not far behind her.
On this side of the building, Denny pokes his head out of
his apartment. He looks disheveled, wild-eyed. . . . When he sees me
looking at him, he turns and scurries back in. The expression on his
face is pure fright. Poor thing. After having discovered both Selma's
and Francie's bodies, I don't blame him for not wanting to be witness
to yet another fearful situation.
All eyes turn as the door squeaks open to just the barest
sliver. "Who is it?" Irving whispers.
"Open up. Police." Orange mustache is very forceful.
The door opens slightly farther. Irving is in his
pajamas, his eyes sleep-encrusted and barely open, still not really
awake. I sigh in relief. He looks at his visiting assemblage with
alarm. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"We're here on a nine-one-one. Did you phone the police?"
"No," he says, still befuddled.
"I did," says a raspy voice behind him. The door is flung
wide open.
How can I describe what Millie looks like? We all stare
in awe. She can hardly move because she is wearing so many layers of
clothes. I would guess she tried to put on everything in her closet and
finally stopped when no more would fit. After the eye has absorbed
that, the real horror seeps in. Millie has a huge pair of scissors in
her hand which then makes you notice that most of her clothes have been
mutilated. I hear someone moaning behind me.
Then there is the makeup. Millie's face is layered with
cosmetics. And her hair! There are ribbons wildly tied to every
possible strand. As I wonder where she got ribbons
he'll come after us."
"God forbid," Evvie says.
"I'm more worried we'll scare a lot of people, but it has
to be done," I reply. More silence.
"Everybody in?" I ask.
I get a chorus of "in's."
"Then, hopefully, we'll get real information, so the cops
will believe us and take over."
The girls get up and start clearing the cards off the
table. We always help the hostess clean up.
"You should have told me about the crumbs," Evvie says
accusingly.
"I know," I tell her. "I know."
"I
would have remembered!"
"I know! Don't keep rubbing it in!"
Suddenly we hear sirens very close. Ida runs and flings
open the door. "Police cars! Coming in here!"
"Murder! Another murder!" Sophie screams.
And Bella faints.
I feel very guilty. What have I unleashed?
----
18
Old-Timer's Disease
W e don't even wait for the
elevator. In spite of our age, and the possible damage we can do to our
bodies, we are running down the three flights of stairs and across the
parking area to where two policemen, and a small group of our neighbors
in a varied assortment of sleepwear, are gathering. The flashing lights
from the police car zigzag across the watchers like strobe lights at a
"happening." Something is happening all right and we are terrified.
All the activity is centered at Millie and Irving's
apartment. The police are pounding at their door. Thoughts crowd my
head. Making assessments. It's after nine P.M. They must be asleep. It's not an ambulance, thank God, so Irving didn't
call the paramedics. So, why are the police here? Please, God, don't
let anyone be hurt. The officers keep hammering. No one is answering.
We arrive at the door, hearts throbbing with fear and
overexertion. Throwing questions at them, although we are so out of
breath we can barely speak.
"What is it?"
"Why are you here?"
"What's wrong?"
"Please talk to us. We're their friends."
The taller policeman with an orange mustache tells us
they got a 911 call.
The short, stubby one says, "The woman was screaming that
she was being raped and someone was trying to kill her."
The girls breathe a collective sigh of relief. "Boy, have
you got the wrong address," Evvie informs them.
By now the group is beginning to look like a crowd. Hy
and Lola, in matching robes, peer over the balcony right above our
heads. Peripherally, I am aware of Harriet, tying her robe, as she
hurries across the parking area. Tessie is not far behind her.
On this side of the building, Denny pokes his head out of
his apartment. He looks disheveled, wild-eyed. . . . When he sees me
looking at him, he turns and scurries back in. The expression on his
face is pure fright. Poor thing. After having discovered both Selma's
and Francie's bodies, I don't blame him for not wanting to be witness
to yet another fearful situation.
All eyes turn as the door squeaks open to just the barest
sliver. "Who is it?" Irving whispers.
"Open up. Police." Orange mustache is very forceful.
The door opens slightly farther. Irving is in his
pajamas, his eyes sleep-encrusted and barely open, still not really
awake. I sigh in relief. He looks at his visiting assemblage with
alarm. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"We're here on a nine-one-one. Did you phone the police?"
"No," he says, still befuddled.
"I did," says a raspy voice behind him. The door is flung
wide open.
How can I describe what Millie looks like? We all stare
in awe. She can hardly move because she is wearing so many layers of
clothes. I would guess she tried to put on everything in her closet and
finally stopped when no more would fit. After the eye has absorbed
that, the real horror seeps in. Millie has a huge pair of scissors in
her hand which then makes you notice that most of her clothes have been
mutilated. I hear someone moaning behind me.
Then there is the makeup. Millie's face is layered with
cosmetics. And her hair! There are ribbons wildly tied to every
possible strand. As I wonder where she got ribbons
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