undressing during the sisters’ conversation. She had always slept naked, Jenny remembered. Flesh-pink naked now, she walked from bureau to closet, dressing again, in a long nightshirt, socks, a scarf at her throat, and a little crocheted hat for her head. “I get very cold sleeping lately.” She pulled down the dark purple blinds against the sun blazing off the sea and opened one of the windows slightly, letting in a warm whistling wind.
“Isn’t that breeze delicious?” she said.
Actually, it was smelly, but Jenny couldn’t tell of what. A faintly garbagy odor, mixed with barbecuing meat and sea mist.
Flora said, pulling back the bedcover, “Could you turn off the air conditioning on your way out? I put it on just for you. I know you like it cold. And slam the door, it locks automatically Thanks.” She closed her eyes and turned her back, snuggling under the fluffy lilac blanket.
At the apartment door Jenny stopped when Flora called out, “Listen, I forgot. I have a date tonight. Fascinating man. Used to own a very smart jewelry store on Lincoln Road, when Lincoln Road was Lincoln Road. Picked me up there, actually, a couple of days ago. He’s desperately in love with me. I only hope he can get it up. Anyway, I’m busy tonight, and I figured you’d have supper with Naomi. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jenny said. “Have fun. And be careful.”
“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t be careful,” Flora yelled as Jenny closed the door. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be careful. Be careful, be careful, be careful. The hell with that. That’s all I ever hear from you. Be careful, be good, be careful. The hell with it.”
In the hushed, carpeted corridor, a young Latina with a sleeping child in a collapsible stroller was letting herself into the apartment opposite Flora’s. She smiled, shrugged, gestured in a marvelously eloquent statement of understanding, and disappeared behind her own door. But what the whole pantomime meant was hard for Jenny to decipher. Flora was a nut? She, Jenny, was the nut, to be placated with smiles, shrugs, and hand motions? The performance had nothing to do with content but was an expression of Latino delicacy, a bonding, an acceptance of yelling as a natural part of family life? Whatever it all meant, it was soothing.
Outside, walking rapidly in the direction of her drab room, she tried to think through the whole mess. First, she had been wrong about Flora’s motive in changing the accounts. There wasn’t any motive, just Flora being officious and know-it-all, trying to save a buck. Handling Naomi’s money wisely, saving Naomi’s money. To what end?
What did Naomi want? Peace, quiet. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She didn’t want to go to the hospital for another operation, she didn’t want to move to a convalescent center where she would never get any better, only worse, and end up in a pissy nursing-home dying ward in a pissy Medicaid bed. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted to stay in her 1920s run-down residence and pretend she was a guest in an elegant hotel, dressing in her charming outfits, graciously tipping the help, picking up her mail at the desk, calling for a taxi, sitting in the lobby, dining at her reserved table, taking the air on the terrace, gently aloof and superior to all the other guests, pulling her cotton print hat down to shade her hazel eyes, drawing her flowered shawl around her shoulders, keeping intact her idea of herself. Naomi Rybinski, woman of the world.
She wanted to die smiling.
Naomi had given Flora twenty thousand dollars. Jenny had learned that much from Naomi’s bankbook and her frightened explanations. She had responded to a kind of blackmail on Flora’s part: Do as I say or I won’t have anything more to do with you. She paid the money to keep Flora near her. She put Flora on her accounts to keep Flora at her side. She gave Flora twenty thousand dollars as insurance against being left to die alone. Jenny hadn’t been on the
“Isn’t that breeze delicious?” she said.
Actually, it was smelly, but Jenny couldn’t tell of what. A faintly garbagy odor, mixed with barbecuing meat and sea mist.
Flora said, pulling back the bedcover, “Could you turn off the air conditioning on your way out? I put it on just for you. I know you like it cold. And slam the door, it locks automatically Thanks.” She closed her eyes and turned her back, snuggling under the fluffy lilac blanket.
At the apartment door Jenny stopped when Flora called out, “Listen, I forgot. I have a date tonight. Fascinating man. Used to own a very smart jewelry store on Lincoln Road, when Lincoln Road was Lincoln Road. Picked me up there, actually, a couple of days ago. He’s desperately in love with me. I only hope he can get it up. Anyway, I’m busy tonight, and I figured you’d have supper with Naomi. Okay?”
“Okay,” Jenny said. “Have fun. And be careful.”
“I won’t, I won’t, I won’t be careful,” Flora yelled as Jenny closed the door. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be careful. Be careful, be careful, be careful. The hell with that. That’s all I ever hear from you. Be careful, be good, be careful. The hell with it.”
In the hushed, carpeted corridor, a young Latina with a sleeping child in a collapsible stroller was letting herself into the apartment opposite Flora’s. She smiled, shrugged, gestured in a marvelously eloquent statement of understanding, and disappeared behind her own door. But what the whole pantomime meant was hard for Jenny to decipher. Flora was a nut? She, Jenny, was the nut, to be placated with smiles, shrugs, and hand motions? The performance had nothing to do with content but was an expression of Latino delicacy, a bonding, an acceptance of yelling as a natural part of family life? Whatever it all meant, it was soothing.
Outside, walking rapidly in the direction of her drab room, she tried to think through the whole mess. First, she had been wrong about Flora’s motive in changing the accounts. There wasn’t any motive, just Flora being officious and know-it-all, trying to save a buck. Handling Naomi’s money wisely, saving Naomi’s money. To what end?
What did Naomi want? Peace, quiet. She didn’t want to go anywhere. She didn’t want to go to the hospital for another operation, she didn’t want to move to a convalescent center where she would never get any better, only worse, and end up in a pissy nursing-home dying ward in a pissy Medicaid bed. She wanted to be left alone. She wanted to stay in her 1920s run-down residence and pretend she was a guest in an elegant hotel, dressing in her charming outfits, graciously tipping the help, picking up her mail at the desk, calling for a taxi, sitting in the lobby, dining at her reserved table, taking the air on the terrace, gently aloof and superior to all the other guests, pulling her cotton print hat down to shade her hazel eyes, drawing her flowered shawl around her shoulders, keeping intact her idea of herself. Naomi Rybinski, woman of the world.
She wanted to die smiling.
Naomi had given Flora twenty thousand dollars. Jenny had learned that much from Naomi’s bankbook and her frightened explanations. She had responded to a kind of blackmail on Flora’s part: Do as I say or I won’t have anything more to do with you. She paid the money to keep Flora near her. She put Flora on her accounts to keep Flora at her side. She gave Flora twenty thousand dollars as insurance against being left to die alone. Jenny hadn’t been on the
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