"So now BJ Fradkin has the brilliant idea to start an over-
fifty singles night? Of all people!"
Oh yes, BJ knew what they'd say. This would be Sarah
Kline, nosy and nasal.
"Why not? David died six, seven years ago. Maybe she wants
companionship." This would be — who? Amy Friedman, head of
the bereavement committee?
"Maybe she needs money," Amy would whisper.
"Pfft. David left her plenty, and what BJ makes from that
advertiser rag she runs, she has more money than she knows
what to do with." Sarah would tug at a skirt far too short
for a woman of sixty — a fact she might have known if
she'd shut up long enough to listen.
"And that house! If BJ minded rattling around so much,
she'd have found a companion years ago. Or sold it."
Amy would consider this. "She's not looking for sex,
either," Sarah would continue. "She once said her interest
in sex was over, kaput, done with, thirty years ago after
Janelle was born."
This was an out-and-out lie.
Would Sarah actually say such a thing?
Get a grip, what difference did it make? At the Temple of
Israel there was always plenty of gossip. You ignored it
and did what you had to. At the moment, an over-fifty
singles night was the best idea BJ had.
She mentioned it first to Rabbi Seidman, who said, "An
over-fifty singles night? Sure. Why not? Just clear it
with the board."
BJ wrote a little proposal. She'd served three terms on
the board, back when she'd been building her business. She
knew what to emphasize. The more activities the temple
offered, the better the chance of signing up new members,
who helped fill the treasury. There was never enough
money. Tactfully, BJ noted that over-fifties were
generally richer and more likely to make donations than,
say, new families with pre-schoolers and an expensive
sitter.
Kay, the temple's longtime secretary, had an untreated
cataract no one ever mentioned, even when her notices went
out rife with errors. But when Kay nearly sent out an e-
mail announcing an Over-Fifty Singles Club, BJ couldn't
remain silent. "Singles night, not singles club. Call it a
club and people will think they're making another
commitment, the last thing anyone wants."
BJ didn't want another commitment, herself. What she
wanted was a new husband for her sister Iris, who had been
widowed nearly a year and a half ago. To BJ it seemed like
forever. Iris had spent the past two months sleeping in
BJ's guest room and showing no inclination to leave. Iris
walked BJ's dog, Randolph. Iris exhausted whole bottles of
Windex wiping streaks and paw prints from sliding-glass
doors that had been dirty for years. Iris shopped for
groceries and wouldn't let BJ pay. After work BJ's den
smelled like Lemon Pledge and her kitchen smelled like the
stuffed cabbage their mother used to make. It was pleasant
enough, but BJ was worried. Iris was only fifty-five,
seven years younger than BJ, and BJ had always looked out
for her. Much as she loved Iris, she knew her sister did
not need another woman, even a sibling, to cook and clean
for. Iris needed a man.
"I know what you're doing," Iris said on the afternoon
before the first Singles Night Out. She had wrapped ice in
a towel and was applying it to her left temple, claiming a
headache. "You're trying to cheer me up, get me out of the
house."
"I'm trying to provide a nice social environment for
people who enjoy a weekday evening out that isn't a
business meeting," BJ replied. "But in the event that my
motive was to cheer you up, why would that be so terrible?"
"Because I'm not depressed." With dramatic nonchalance,
Iris sank into the oversize cushions of the couch,
practicing the artful, slow-motion collapse she had
perfected in second grade. "I'm not lonely. I don't need
companionship. I just have a headache." She hunkered
deeper into the cushions. "But if you need me so
desperately to make your project a success, I'll make
every effort to recover."
BJ studied her sister. In her purple Ralph Lauren
sweatpants and matching sweatshirt, Iris looked stylish
and not the least bit sick. Slender except for her big
bust, long limbed for a woman who stood only five-three,
Iris could have risen from the couch and gone to the
dinner without changing clothes or touching up her makeup,
and still have been the most put-together person at the
table. Even her hair, held back from the top and sides
with combs and left to its natural curl in the back,
looked presentable except for the dye job that always left
it far too patent-leather-black.
At fifty-five, Iris also had a firm, taut jawline with no
trace of a double chin. She had no bags under her eyes and
no sagging above them. If BJ had once been critical of
Iris for responding with cosmetic surgery to each of her
husband Sheldon's dalliances, now she thought her sister
had had the right idea. The new man, whoever he turned out
to be, would appreciate Iris's youthful face. Except,
possibly, for her nose. Iris's nose, reshaped more than
once, sloped to a short, perky point that in other
circumstances might have been lovely. But in combination
with the black hair and luminous, almond-shaped black eyes
and smooth olive skin, it gave Iris more than a passing
facial resemblance to Michael Jackson. The likeness was
eerie. BJ was always amazed how many people thought Iris
reminded them of someone but never made the
connection. "Why are you staring at me?" Iris opened her
eyes and struggled to sit up among the bulky cushions that
engulfed her. "You think I look older, don't you?"
"No, of course not. I wasn't staring. I was thinking."
"I do look older. After the death of a spouse, people
age." She ran a manicured hand across her cheek.
"You're thinking I should probably have a little more work
done."
"Don't be ridiculous. What work could possibly be left?
You look fine."
"You think I ought to go for another consultation."
"I don't think any such thing. When did you get to be such
an expert on what I'm thinking? Besides, I thought you
gave it up." Shortly before Sheldon's untimely demise,
Iris had read that deep general anesthesia could leave
patients cognitively impaired. Frightened more by the
prospect of early dementia than by wrinkles, she declared
a moratorium on any procedure too painful to be numbed by
a shot of lidocaine. As far as BJ knew, her sister had
limited herself thereafter to Botox and dermabrasion and
the occasional blue peel.
"Well, think whatever you want to, but I'm finished with
surgery even if I turn into a hag," Iris said.
"Honey, your face is gorgeous. Your bosom is high. Your
stomach is flat. How many other women over fifty can say
that?"
"Thank you, but the key term here is 'over fifty'," Iris
said. "I know when I'm being referred to as old."
"Iris, listen to me. I've been looking at you since the
day you were born, and even now, fifty-five years later,
the sight doesn't make me gag or throw up."
"Very comforting. Very reassuring." Iris tried in earnest
to release herself from the clutch of the pillows. She
looked like someone treading water.
"Anyway, you can fix yourself all you want to, but someday
the backs of your hands will break out in age spots or
you'll get arthritis that makes you walk with a limp."
Horrified, Iris catapulted herself off the couch into a
standing position. She examined a flawless hand and flexed
an arthritis-free knee. "I wish you wouldn't say those
things," she said.
"Come on, Iris. Come to the dinner with me. How could it
hurt you?"
"It could make me fat," Iris asserted, and headed in the
direction of her room.
This turned out to be just as well. The Over-Fifty Singles
Night was still a work in progress. Although BJ had chosen
Pepper's Restaurant and Sports Bar because it was a
favorite with local men, five females showed up, all of
them closer to seventy than fifty, and only one male, Fred
Shulman, who was gay.
"So why are you here, Fred?" BJ asked over a glass of
merlot. "You still miss Tommy?"
"Well, sure. I'll always miss Tommy. You don't miss
David?"
"After six years, not so much."
"Mainly, I came because I get tired of eating alone," Fred
said.
"Not me," piped the reedy voice of Molly Gerber, age
eighty-seven, a resident at Manorhouse Retirement
Home. "You're never alone in the dining room over there.
But the food! Don't ask."
One of the two other women she'd brought nodded in
vigorous agreement. "No salt. No nothing." She waved
dismissively. "Pap."
They had just given the waiter their orders when another
man approached the table. He was BJ's age, early sixties.
Pleasant face, deep tan, really terrible toupee.
"Oh, good. You came," Fred said. "Everybody, this is
Arnold Lieberman."
"You belong to the temple?" Molly Gerber asked.
"No. Unaffiliated." Arnold sat down next to Fred.
"Gay?" BJ had never been one to mince words.
"Straight," Arnold growled.
She thought, lose the rug and he's not bad for an old
geezer.
Arnold was probably thinking, what a bitch. It was not an
auspicious beginning.
Iris's husband, Sheldon Meyerhoff, hadn't died
immediately. BJ believed it would have been better if he
had. After collapsing onto the plushly carpeted floor of
the restaurant where he was lunching with thirty-something
Dee Dee Adams, Sheldon had responded to CPR administered
by the bartender, and spent a week in cardiac care before
succumbing to a second massive heart attack. During that
week, he had apologized to Iris repeatedly, in a pathetic
thin voice that had no doubt won her heart. At the
funeral, Iris's daughter, Diane, and Diane's husband, Wes,
walked on either side of Iris to hold her up. In BJ's
view, Iris displayed a grief Sheldon didn't deserve.
Despite the standard admonition to do nothing the first
year, Iris had put her house up for sale almost at once.
Both Diane and BJ tried to talk her out of it. "What's the
hurry? Why not wait? You don't need the cash." Sheldon,
who at various times had been a salesman of everything
from automobiles to vinyl siding, had never been well-off,
but he had provided handsomely for his widow. During a
brief stint with a life-insurance company, he had been his
own best customer. Iris would not have to work another day
in her life.
"It's not just about the money," Iris said. "I can barely
live in this house another minute, never mind another
year."
"Okay, but I want to be clear on this," BJ said. "Are you
moving because of what the neighbors might be thinking? Or
because you don't want to spend any more time than you
have to where that stinking, womanizing piece of slime
sometimes slept?"
Iris averted her eyes and said nothing, unable even now to
acknowledge the fitness of BJ's candid descriptions.