Chapter Twenty-Two
The next morning, Lola texted a crying emoji and an apple emoji.
Me: Fruit makes you sad?
Lola: Sorry about NYC
Then: Wanna hear a joke about Flatbush?
Me: Always!
Lola: What do Brooklyn and people in tight yoga pants have in common?
They say if you have to explain a joke, it isn’t funny anymore, and my father would definitely have needed some explanation before he got this one, but once he did, he would have laughed until he cried.
For the next few weeks, I was mostly happy to hide at home except there were no milkshakes there.
It was almost Thanksgiving, which meant the weather was perfect, cool enough to walk without overheating, warm enough to still want frozen treats.
When Moth and I went out to get them though, we discovered that the horde of paparazzi had spawned, and the new members definitely didn’t have press credentials.
Now, in addition to reporters’ pleas for comments, the newcomers called:
Pepper! Over here! I’m the PR director of a fertility clinic. Are you interested in being a spokeswoman?
I’m a Hollywood agent. Have you thought about selling story rights?
Do you need a ghostwriter for your memoir?
What can I do to talk you into an endorsement deal for adult diapers?
(No. No. I could write my own memoir if I wished to, thank you very much. And literally absolutely nothing.)
Deanna reported from the front desk that the horde worked mostly business hours.
At first I was surprised, but when I thought about it, I realized even ambulance-chasing photographers and unscrupulous opportunists get hungry at dinnertime; they have kids who need help with their homework and little ones to put to bed.
Or maybe they were just guessing that, like most mammals, especially older ones, I was less active after dark.
Or perhaps they knew that the only ice cream shop within walking distance closed at five.
In any case, I stopped going out during the day. It wasn’t even hard. You can have anything you like delivered these days. Even milkshakes!
But I started noticing whispers in the hallways, eyes cast in my direction, hands leaping up to cover mouths whenever I walked by.
I understood this. I would have been irritated with me too.
Whenever anyone tried to go out, the horde of paparazzi swarmed like bees.
Maybe Vista View’s tinted doors did us all a disservice by keeping their users anonymous, and therefore possibly me, until they were already on the sidewalk.
Or maybe to the horde, all old people looked alike.
But soon I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t go outside. This wasn’t great for winning friends.
And then one night it got worse because of a plate of chicken. I could smell it. I couldn’t stop smelling it, that ropy, gummy, meal-masquerading sweet-and-sour monstrosity being doled out all around the room. But when the server arrived at our table, he wasn’t a server at all.
“I hear mazel tovs are in order,” said a voice over my shoulder.
I turned. “Father Frank!”
“Or is it mazels tov? They don’t teach this in seminary.”
“What are you doing here? Did your truck get muddy again?”
“Filthy as my mouth,” he said, “but that’s not why. I came to bring you dinner.”
He set down the tray he was carrying and laid before us four plates of real food.
The chicken was juicy, steaming, with a crackling skin kissed with some kind of actual herb, and meat so tender it was falling off the bone.
It wasn’t swimming in sauce but rather wading in a lemony, buttery puddle.
Cradled alongside were crispy-on-the-outside, melting-on-the-inside new potatoes, and broccoli that still crunched, cooked only until it shone green as summer.
“What the …” The smell alone tied my tongue. “How did you …?”
“Know the food here was shit? Lucky guess.” He winked. “And since I hear you’re eating for two now, I figured my services were required.”
“Interfaith services?”
“Culinary services.”
“You’re a priest and a gardener and a chef?”
“I’m blessed with talent.” He reached over and swapped the centerpiece—fooling-no-one fake flowers—with a platter of real live New York deli cookies. Rainbows, black-and-whites, butter cookies, rugelach.
Moth, Maisie, and Dot were speechless, but I narrowed my eyes at Father Frank. “Are you trying to ruin me?”
“Me? No! I’m trying to thank you for washing my truck. And do something nice to offset all the assholes out front.”
“He’s trying to fatten you up,” Dot said. “Me too.” She sounded delighted, but I had noticed—we had all noticed—Dot was losing weight. So Father Frank was a godsend (which I supposed made sense), except for one problem.
“Everyone hates me,” I said. “Vista View’s spending a fortune on security. The employees can barely get into the building. The other residents resent me.”
“Did you wreck their cars too?” said Father Frank.
“I was just settling in. I was just starting to feel comfortable here. And now there’s a horde of photographers and news cameras and reporters in the driveway all day. Every time the front doors open, you’re blinded by flashbulbs going off.”
“I don’t think there’ve been bulbs on flashes in forty years,” said Maisie, “and everyone here’s at least partially blind anyway.”
“Or cameras in your face,” I continued, “or microphones in your mouth.”
“Beats the chicken,” Moth said between bites. “Usually.”
“Like these people needed me to give their children and grandchildren another reason not to visit.”
“I don’t think lack of people around here is the problem,” Father Frank said. “I had to throw a few elbows to get as far as the front door.”
“And now!” I flung my arms wide.
“You keep saying that.” Dot was finishing her dinner, the first time she had in weeks.
“Now I’m getting preferential treatment,” I said. “Food that’s—”
“Edible?” said Father Frank.
“Going to get me cast out of the village,” I finished.
“Like a witch!” Maisie sounded impressed.
I became aware of rumblings—the whispers at Vista View are all stage whispers—and not-so-furtive peeks snuck in my direction from all over the dining room.
“I can see that.” Father Frank pulled at his clerical collar. Then, loudly, “Well, best of luck. God be with you.”
He power walked out of the dining room. I tried to disappear into the floor. Ivy and Annalisa sidled up, and I braced myself.
“Trade you?” Ivy held out a pudding cup, what everyone else had apparently been offered for dessert. She was smiling.
I was grateful to oblige. “You keep the pudding. Snack for later.” We had only one clean napkin at hand, but I wrapped as many cookies as could fit to stuff in Ivy’s purse.
Gita came next with wide eyes. “I hear you got a real dinner.”
“We ate it all, I’m afraid.” A first. “But you could have some cookies if you have something to put them in. A pocket? A tissue? Your … bra?”
Gita was not interested in stuffing cookies in her bra, even rare authentic ones. “That’s okay. My taste buds are dead after four years in this place. But tell me what it was like.”
I didn’t know what to say, but Moth did. “It was just how you remember.”
“Ahh, lovely.” She closed her eyes for a moment then reached for my hand. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you.”
Because I got a decent meal? Or because I was pregnant?
Birdie was next. “I wanted to invite the four of you to my place for stitch and bitch tomorrow.” She must have been nearly ninety, but she also must have been nearly six feet tall. Still! So I assumed the nickname had been tongue-in-cheek once upon a time then stuck.
“I don’t know how to stitch,” Moth said.
“You can be the bitch,” Maisie suggested.
“Just thought you might need to get away from it all without leaving home,” Birdie said.
She left, and I stared after her in grateful awe. “Everyone’s being so understanding. Everyone’s being so nice.”
“You’ve given them the greatest gift of all,” Maisie said.
“Being trapped in their homes? Risking a heart attack every time the front doors slide open?”
“That was true already,” Maisie said. “You’ve given them intrigue. News to report when their kids call. Good gossip. Plus you’ve worked a miracle.”
“I didn’t work anything.” I waved at my middle. “I had nothing to do with causing this to occur.”
“Not that. More miraculous still.”
I couldn’t think of a single thing.
“You’ve made people pay attention to us. You’ve made us visible for the first time in years.”
Just so I didn’t get a big head about all the unexpected generosity and love beaming my way, when I stopped after dinner to get my mail, the universe contrived to deposit Roger in the lobby.
He was sweaty, toweling off his hair as an excuse to show anyone paying attention (nobody) that it remained lush and full enough to get damp when he exercised (chair yoga).
“Whew, good workout.” He was wearing pajama bottoms and an old Willie T-shirt. (Irony.) “You getting much exercise anymore?”
This was, as Lola would say, a weird flex. Literally, I suppose, in this case. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I bet,” Roger bet. “Still knocked up?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“The hell it’s not. That baby’d be my kids’ half brother or sister. That makes us related.”
This was staggering to consider. Which was absurd given that he actually was very related to my already-children, as related as I was in fact. “It might not even be an issue.”
“You’ve been saying that for weeks now,” Roger observed. “And whatever happens, it’s an issue anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
“The kids are all atwitter. Everyone here is buzzing. My phone rang so much I had to turn it off.”
His phone?
“Every time the front door opens, we’re all blinded by flashbulbs.”
“No one’s used a flashbulb in forty years,” I sniffed. “And I think people are grateful for a little excitement around here.”