Chapter Four
By the time I pull into Wanda’s and Grandma Helen’s driveway, I’m thoroughly drained of energy and in need of bleach for my eyeballs and brain.
It took the entire afternoon and a little into the evening, but I pored through every headline and story, compiling notes and to-dos, along with ideas on how to spin the community’s image.
I cut the engine of my car and just sit there in a daze, struggling to conquer the lump of anxiety that seems to be getting bigger, not smaller, now that I’m here.
For up to ninety days, as that’s the allotted yearly amount for guests below the minimum age requirement.
It’s how they—and I quote—“keep the riffraff out.”
After what I’ve learned today, I’m pretty sure most of the riffraff is coming from inside the village.
Golf cart incidents are at an all-time high, as are calls to police, and contrary to what one might think, the two are completely unrelated.
A portion of Lakeview’s residents thought the city’s law enforcement officers should cater to their every grievance and whim, and boy did they have a lot of both.
An ongoing dispute resulted in the arrest of a seventy-eight-year-old woman for the unwanted trimming of her neighbor’s hedges.
When an uncooperative patient in his sixties was discharged from the clinic for being abusive to the staff, he stole a medical transport van.
Police later found him three miles down the road in the parking lot of a Publix, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette he bummed off a customer.
There were also multiple instances of public indecency, and…drunken orgies.
No wonder they need all those loofahs.
I shudder and slam my eyes shut, but it doesn’t make the connotations behind the colors go away.
Same goes for the ticking clock Jan hung above my head, when she told me she would have no choice but to sell if she couldn’t turn things around.
Her voice had cracked at the end. “This property is the only piece of Ed I have left.”
Naturally, I asked what occupancy rate we’d need to hit to cover baseline expenses.
After hemming and hawing, she admitted she didn’t precisely know and brought me several spreadsheets with numbers that didn’t match or add up.
“Ed handled the financials and the majority of the business side,” she confessed as she gnawed on a fingernail.
“I liked tours and signing up residents who became my friends. Now everyone’s upset with me. ”
It reminded me of my mom, how she’d divulge more than was appropriate or land us in a situation beyond her and then look to me to fix it.
From taking care of her infant stepson so she could focus on building a marriage that’d started with her being the other woman; getting out in the snowstorm and pushing the car after she landed us in a snowbank and began to panic; or when I came home every afternoon from school with a backpack full of assignments I had to put off so I could do laundry or handle dinner or put the siblings she continued to have with good old Larry to bed.
Again and again, I’ve rolled up my sleeves and figured it out, pay no attention to the woman behind the curtain.
Ninety-six percent occupancy’s the industry sweet spot; Lakeview Retirement Village requires eighty-five to stay afloat; and residency’s currently sitting at a dismal sixty-two percent.
But it’s not like sitting in my car will change a job that’s more property manager than publicist, so I climb out and snag my large roller suitcase, a duffel, and my laptop bag—the rest can wait.
Weighed down and wearing heels that pinch my toes, I wobble to the front door with an impressive cacophony of swears and grunts.
I test the knob, find it unlocked, and shove inside, practically tripping over the threshold. Or perhaps it’s the folded rug locking up the wheels on my suitcase.
Oof. At the dig of the handle in my gut, I stumble inside, as graceful as a giraffe on skates and twice as loud.
I pause and strain my ears, tuning in to the rhythm of the house.
Glasses clink, swirling into happy chatter and laughter, the sounds of a wine or margarita night drifting from the kitchen. Wanda’s laugh always gives away her level of inebriation, as she goes from loud and giggly to boisterous and cackling.
And what I heard was definitely a cackle, even louder than the ticking of the vintage clock on the mantel that occasionally chimes and scares the shit out of me.
A feline face peeks from around the corner, reluctant, and I hold my breath. With Fifi, you only get so many chances.
Keeping my movements slow, I drop all but my laptop bag, which gets nestled on the second shelf of a console table that holds an assortment of knickknacks.
Essential-oil-infused-steam billows from a moon goddess diffuser I’d recognize as a gift from Wanda even if I hadn’t watched Grandma Helen unwrap it at her eightieth birthday bash three summers ago.
With a sigh of relief, I kick off my shoes, then crouch next to my stuff and extend my hand to the longhaired kitty with a smoky face and one bright blue eye.
“Hello, pretty girl,” I coo, and Fifi doesn’t walk, she prances, her fluffy, feather-duster tail flowing majestically in her self-generated breeze.
Her wet, pink nose bumps my hand, and I let her take a good sniff. Not that she’ll be super impressed once she recognizes me, but she loves my grandmother as much as I do, and that’s saying something.
A dog attack left Fifi forever winking, the slight lift of her lip exposing a snaggletooth and fishy breath. She’s this incredible combination of princess and bulldog—much like my grandma, actually—and despite her rough beginning and scars, has never once questioned her worth.
Maybe she can teach me how, because it seems to be all I do these days. The burn in my thighs pops me back to my feet, and I cut across the living room, eager to see everyone.
Fifi races ahead, rounding the open archway of the kitchen. Once I catch a whiff of roasted peppers, garlic, onion, and cumin, I do some hustling myself—and not just because Mexican food means margaritas, but it’s definitely a factor.
I’m greeted with raucous squeals and slurred shouts, confirming my suspicions about the insobriety. Grandma Helen, Wanda, and all three bubbies surge forward in a wave of floral perfume, menthol, and… I don’t think I’ve smelled this much tequila since that misguided frat party in college.
“Did you hear about the hot tub Gertie and I had installed on the veranda?” Vonetta asks, and I pivot toward the voice, catching tawny curls and blue tortoiseshell glasses that highlight intelligent brown eyes and contrast Vonetta’s umber complexion.
Before I can answer, a phone’s shoved in my face without preamble. Between the pallor of skin, beaded bracelets, and a zoomed-in image of a shaggy sheepdog wearing circular glasses and a tie-dye head scarf, I piece it together easily enough.
“His name’s John Lennon,” Gertie confirms in her lilting rasp, announcing the Harris-Wagners have rescued another dog, and I’m so glad the couple down the street is here, too. “Fifi doesn’t like him—”
“Fifi doesn’t like anyone,” I say at the same time as Grandma Helen, and we all burst into laughter.
It’s funny how I can scent them out one by one if I try, although that makes me sound like a hound dog on the trail, so maybe I shouldn’t brag about that.
Still, my brain catalogs the women, along with snippets of memories.
Patchouli oil’s Wanda, anise is Rita and making bizcochitos for Christmas.
Gertie’s coconut lotion and a nostril-stinging whiff of the medical grade dandruff shampoo she insists everyone should use—for real, she’ll throw one of those multi-level-marketing parties and wash everyone’s hair with the goopy blue goo.
But I’d rather buy the gaudy jewelry that tinged your skin green and lipsticks that wouldn’t come off without removing a layer of skin than relive my twenty-first birthday party, when they invited a Passion Party lady.
Face aflame, I asked what they were thinking, only for them to explain they wanted to make it memorable.
Given the passing around of dildos and vibrators, they hit the mark and kept on going—and that was even before Bubbie Bette’s query regarding a position she’d heard about. “They call it the Eiffel Tower.”
Awkward, eternal minutes had passed while I gave a heavily censored and euphemized explanation. With the assistance of the Passion Party lady, I even dropped to all fours and veered into dirty charades range.
It wasn’t until I stood that they burst into laughter and confessed they were “just yanking my chain.” A common saying of their generation, evidently, but given the handcuffs and rhinestone nipple clamps on display, my thoughts split off in all the wrong directions.
That night—and many times since—they’ve accused me of being too uptight. I believe the word repressed was even used. As if I were the peculiar one for not being entirely comfortable discussing sex positions with my grandmother and her friends.
Perhaps that’s why I’m still struggling to accept the headlines and articles. Surely it can’t be as rampant as the media outlets claim, can it?
We’re more afraid of gators than crabs here. Nobody’s at risk of getting pregnant, and even if you wind up with an STD, it’s unlikely to be what kills you.
Shoving that direct quote aside, I inhale the amalgamation of rosewater, Downy, and vanilla musk that evokes nights cuddled up on the couch watching movies, tagging along for errands and appointments, and each time my grandmother acted as a harbor during my mother’s storms. My jaw unclenches, my muscles loosen, and my cares drift away—momentarily, of course but, since my OCD screams them through my head on a loop, I appreciate any reprieve.
Much like her fussy cat, my person has always been Grandma Helen.