Rules for Aging and Larceny

One

Frances Deluca was kicked out of the Pecan Springs Pickleball Club league the week before the championships, which she considered a direct assault on her unbeaten record.

She would not apologize for winning. She was very sporty for her seventy-four years; she still ran six slow miles every week, and every Tuesday and Thursday, for half an hour, she put on a leotard and leg warmers, plugged in her VHS player, and worked out with Jane Fonda.

But the day Sue Landis, the club director, walked into the bar wearing her polka-dot tennis dress, new sneakers, and a jaunty scarf around her neck, Frances knew there was trouble. She’d heard rumblings that some members were dissatisfied with her style of play.

Frances swiveled around on her stool and planted her elbows on the bar behind her as Sue approached. “Did Teresa Clark send you? She really hates losing.”

“Isn’t that ironic, coming from you,” Sue said, eyes narrowed accusingly. She gripped her ever-present clipboard to her chest. “I warned you, Fran. You’re too aggressive on the court.”

“You mean I win too much.” She’d beaten Sue quite handily only that morning.

She liked to move her opponents around and make them sweat.

Given her opponents’ advanced years, that appeared to be a sore spot for a lot of them.

Particularly New Boobs Sue—she considered time on court to be more social than active and always showed up with a full face of makeup, her hair done, earrings dangling, bracelet charming, and designer togs that showcased her recently repositioned rack. Loser.

“It’s not just that you always win, Fran. It’s that you’re so cutthroat about it. We’ve had complaints that you hit too hard. You struck Rob Martinez in his hernia!”

“How was I supposed to know he had a hernia? And anyway, it’s basically a plastic wiffle ball,” Frances complained.

Although she had put a little English on the shot into Rob’s groin.

“Maybe if Rob allowed Inez to play and stopped covering her half of the court, he could have saved himself. If you think about it, he dove in front of my shot, so he’s at least as much to blame. ”

Sue tilted her coiffed head to one side. “Seriously?”

Frances threw up her hands in defeat. “What can I say? I’m competitive. And correct me if I’m wrong, but there was a time in this country when the competitive spirit was how things got done.”

“Frances? It’s not tennis. It’s not a sport. It’s just a game. Our decision is final—you’ve been put on suspension for the championships.”

Frances had huffed and she’d puffed, but privately, she was not surprised. It wasn’t the first time she’d been kicked out of a club. She stood to go. “Thank you. I had a lovely time dominating the Pecan Springs Pickleball Club like a boss.”

“Have you thought about golf?” Sue suggested as Frances picked up her purse and sashayed for the door. “Since you like hitting the ball so hard.”

“I like everything hard, Sue!” Frances called over her shoulder.

She was too athletic to play in a baby league anyway.

She’d learned the importance of tip-top physical fitness in her twenties, and she’d been a badass then.

She’d kept up with her training all these years, because one never knew when one might fall, and one didn’t want to break a hip.

But she’d never thought to join a club—that had been her friend Marjorie’s idea.

After her beloved husband Nick died three years ago, Frances realized that she’d been so busy for so long that she’d never had to look for things to do.

She didn’t know how to look for things to do.

She’d had a career, she’d been a wife and mother, and then a caretaker to her terminally ill husband.

For well into her late sixties, she’d watched Nick waste away, his body so gaunt that in the end she could hardly recognize her once robust husband.

As heartbreakingly difficult as it was, she hadn’t minded any of it.

She’d been so grateful to be in good health and of pretty good mind so that she could be there for the love of her life.

And she was, every moment. In the middle of the night when he couldn’t sleep.

In the mornings when he was sick. In the evenings when he was in pain.

But when he was gone, and her son moved farther away, and her old dog died, and her tasks became fewer, and the days began to creep by, Frances realized there wasn’t a whole lot to occupy her.

She was not prepared for this stage of her life.

This long, empty, boring, tedious stretch of the rest of her life.

But she wasn’t ready to give up, either. She felt so … undone.

With too much time on her hands, her imagination tended to run wild.

She’d been having a bit of trouble with headaches and dizziness, sleeplessness, and some fatigue.

She assumed these were all precursors to something terrible that would take her down.

Every time she opened a Google search bar and began to type What would cause headaches and—it practically shouted CANCER at her before she could finish her question.

She did not have cancer. She was fit (just ask New Boobs Sue), she had a good appetite (too good—her favorite jeans were a smidge tight), and too much time on her hands. When she was busy, she didn’t have time to imagine symptoms. The only thing wrong with her was her.

On the phone during their weekly catch-up, Marjorie agreed she was her own worst enemy.

She said Frances was fine, healthy as a horse.

“You’re dehydrated, Fran. At your age, you need to watch that.

” She further explained that Frances was simply approaching this stage of her life all wrong.

“You’ve got to stop falling down Google rabbit holes.

What you need to do is join a club or find a hobby. Don’t you like knitting?”

“I like running and cocktails, not necessarily in that order, and you know that, Marge. I haven’t knit a single stitch in my life.”

“Everyone eventually retires from running. You should try and knit. You never know, you may love it. And you should come and visit,” Marjorie continued. “What you need is community. Friends your own age. Come see what it’s like in senior living.”

Marjorie was seventy-eight, four years older than Frances.

They’d been the best of friends since Fran and Nick had moved next door to Marjorie and Paul a million years ago.

Paul was an oil executive, and Marjorie was an entertainer.

There were parties and brunches and charity galas, all hosted by the inimitable Marjorie Cohen.

When Paul died last year, she moved to the Silver Oak Towers (worry-free luxury resort retirement living!) with a speed that defied explanation.

Paul died on a Thursday, was buried on a Monday, and Marjorie was packing up their beautiful old home the following Friday.

Marjorie had always given sound advice, even when Frances didn’t want it. So, she joined the pickleball club. When she reported being unceremoniously dumped from said club, Marjorie said, “I was afraid of that. You can be an ass sometimes.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I guess you don’t remember upsetting everyone with your talk of smackdowns in the neighborhood bunco group,” Marjorie said. “All right, so clubs aren’t your thing,” she blithely continued. “How about travel? Go travel. You’ll meet people and make friends.”

Frances did like to travel, so she signed up for a tour to Machu Picchu.

The tour group was made up of twenty-five people, mostly senior couples, one large family, and her, the solo grandma.

She tried to make friends, and while everyone was perfectly polite to her, no one invited her into their circle.

She was glaringly cliqueless. But she was a beast on the hike up, passing most in her tour group with a hearty “You’ve got this!

” and “Age is just a number!” She reached the top of Machu Picchu with her fists raised overhead, victorious.

And no one she cared about was there to see it.

She asked someone from the tour group to take her photo. When she returned home, she slapped it onto the fridge with a magnet, next to a picture of her son, Aaron, and his family. A few days later, she took her photo down. She didn’t like the reminder that she was alone.

“It’s hard to make friends, Frances,” Marjorie informed her when Frances reported in. “That’s why people our age move into senior living. Come and visit. Just don’t, you know, challenge anyone to a duel or anything.”

Frances considered herself far too young to need senior living, but then again, maybe she could use some of that community. “Honestly, Marge. I’m not going to challenge anyone, especially not to something as old school as a duel,” Frances sniffed. “But okay, I’ll come visit.”

The first thing she’d noticed upon entering the luxury retirement resort was the blast of square dance music into the foyer.

She turned right, as Marjorie had instructed, and passed a large gymlike room.

Inside, residents were dressed in square dance clothing, the women with colorful skirts and petticoats that could only be described as hideous, the men in jeans and bolo ties.

On stage, a man held on to his walker with one hand and the mic with his other, calling out the squares.

“Well, hello there!” chirped a voice behind her.

Frances turned to see a young woman with bouncy blond hair dressed in a sparkly pink dance skirt. Her name tag announced she was GLORIA. “Visiting someone?”

One might have thought that was the point of the visitor tag affixed to Frances’s shirt. “My friend.”

“Wonderful! We highly encourage social interactions for our residents. Studies show it’s vital to senior mental health and may help ward off dementia. Is your friend dancing today?”