Skinnybones and the Wrinkle Queen (2 page)

She hands me a couple of hideous lavender-colored wooly things with pink bows on them.

“Lovely,” I say.

“And here's a gift bag and some tissue paper. You could write her a little note to go with them.”

The gift bag looks like it's been used a few times. It has pictures of fishing rods and fish hooks and dead fish splattered all over it. The tissue paper is orange. I try not to throw up.

“You'll have to hurry,” Miss Whipple chirps. “We're just about ready to head out.”

If I happen to live long enough, please shoot me before putting me in the Sierra Sunset Seniors' Lodge. It looks a bit like one of Shirl's overcooked waffles. Just magnify that a few times in your mind and stick a tiny window in each little square. All the windows have the same curtains and blinds.

Inside there are old people in wheelchairs who look at you from odd angles, like they're trying to see the world through those little peepholes they put in apartment doors.

In the lounge, there are more wheelchairs and more old people. Some are sitting on plastic chairs at tables or moving around with walkers. There is a smell that is a mixture of many things. Disinfectant, meatloaf, dueling colognes, talcum powder, unflushed bathroom.

I'm not the only one in my grade nine class looking like I could bring up my lunch at any minute.

Miss Whipple is having a little chat with someone from the lodge staff, a woman in a mint-green pantsuit and the kind of shoes people use for creeping around hospitals. She is beckoning us all toward the center of the lounge.

“Welcome again,” she says in that kind of loud voice people use when they forget that not everyone in the
world is hard of hearing. Even though I'm at the back of our group, I can see she should have some serious electrolysis work done on a dark eyebrow that caterpillars from one side of her forehead to the other.

“Most of you will recognize your senior buddies from your first visit, but if you can't locate the person you were with, check with me or one of the other staff members.” She looks at her clipboard. “Now, let's see. Oh, yes, is Tamara Tierney here? Tamara?” Eyes beneath the endless eyebrow searching. I wiggle some fingers at her. Everyone begins drifting away to find their senior buddies.

“Now, I've matched you up with Miss Barclay,” she says, patting me on the shoulder, “but you need to know, dear, that she can be a bit difficult at times, and she may not be too friendly right to start with.”

Great. Match me up with the house crank.

I follow Mrs. Golinowski to a far corner of the lounge. I wonder if she knows what her double-knit pantsuit looks like from the rear?

There is an old woman (surprise!) sitting in an armchair against the lounge wall. She is wearing a dress the color of overripe tomatoes with a big, sparkly brooch pinned to it. She has dyed black hair and the meanest eyes I've ever seen in a human being not on
TV
.

And about a million wrinkles.

Nothing is longer than a day at the Triple S ranch. Unless it's a Triple S night. If you do manage to get to sleep, that's when half the population of the lodge decides it's time to decongest and visit the washroom. Coughing and flushing is loud in the land.

Sometimes reading helps me get back to sleep. Charles Dickens can be as effective, at times, as a sleeping pill, although I have to say
A Tale of Two Cities
isn't quite as sleep-inducing as
Bleak House
, the one that got me through April.

Of course, as soon as I turn my light on, the Triple S patrol's poking its nose in.

“You all right, dearie?” That'd be Latoya. Latoya thinks a light in the night means you want to talk. I ignore her.

“Did I show you this picture of my boy?” Latoya
wears some sort of lab coat with pockets big enough to hold a collection of photographs and cards and jokes her husband prints off from his computer.

“George,” she grins proudly, poking the snapshot in front of my nose. A dark-haired boy with a self-conscious grin and bad skin.

“When he outgrows that acne,” I tell her, “he'll be better-looking.”

“Oh, he's good-looking now. The girls...” She waves the snap as if she were warding off a swarm of gnats. “Would you like a little something to help you sleep, Jean...er...Miss Barclay?”

Good, she's remembering that I don't consider myself on a first-name basis with any of the help.

“No,” I say. “I think I'll just read for a while. That generally does the trick, providing I'm not interrupted.”

“I like to read myself.” Latoya begins fussing with my pillows. This close, I can see that she has skin blemishes that look like they've been with her since her own adolescence. Maybe George is doomed.

“When I'm getting my groceries at Safeway, I like to pick up a magazine.
Star
is good.
National Enquirer
. Some people think those stories are, well, you know, made up. But it's funny how many turn out to be true. Just yesterday I was reading about that there Jennifer what's-her-name...”

Finally she retreats, her shoes making little squelchy noises on the tile.

I am awake for two hours. It may be necessary to find the bottle of brandy Eddie got for me, if there's any left. It's been a week full of restless nights.

In the process of looking for it, I knock over a pitcher on my bureau. It makes as much noise as the fall of the Bastille. And, of course, Latoya comes squelching back in. Lord, help us!

It seems like I no sooner get to sleep than the woman who does the cleaning is clattering around my room, pulling the drapes, fiddling with the Venetian blinds, running water in the bathroom, slopping mops around.

A mass of energy this one, always rushing about. What's her name? Betty?

“What are you doing?” I am surprised that my voice emerges wispy and a little cracked. I meant it to be strong and forceful.

“Just finishing up, Miss Barclay.” She flits around the room, picking up anything that's not nailed down. Betty likes to see all the fake-woodgrain surfaces shiny and clutter-free.

“They brought you a breakfast tray,” she says. “Latoya left a note that you had a restless night.”

“Don't touch that book!” The cleaning dervish has
A Tale of Two Cities
and is trying to find a place for it on
my bookshelf. My voice sounds more like the schoolteacher voice that never failed me whenever I was in front of a herd of teenagers.

Reluctantly, Betty replaces it on the pristine surface of my night stand.

“You need any help getting up?” she says.

I don't know why she always asks. When you've had one hip replaced and the knee on the other leg reconstructed, one thing you can always use is help getting out of bed.

“Where's Eddie?” I say as she exposes the atrocities on my breakfast tray and pours coffee out of a little thermos jug. Eddie, one of the custodians, is my source for cigarillos and brandy, and I think my stock of both is getting dangerously low.

“Friday's his day off. Friday and Saturday,” Betty says, propelling her cleaning cart out the door.

Wonderful invention, the thermos. What amazes me is that it never works here to keep coffee hot. Not that one would really want to call whatever they serve here coffee. Worse than the stuff in school staff rooms.

As I drink the lukewarm liquid and nibble on the toast — good dollops of marmalade can help one forgive the lack of heat — the director pokes her nose in. Mrs. Golly-something. Mrs. Golly-woggle?

“Good morning, Jean,” she says, managing to keep
her Cheshire cat grin even when she's talking. “How are we feeling today?”

We, indeed! “I'm not sure how
we
might come to a consensus,” I say.

She has run-together eyebrows that take on a little puzzled wrinkle in the middle, but the Cheshire grin doesn't disappear.

“Today's the day the grade nines from Stanley Merkin are coming over. And they have little surprises for everyone!”

I can think of nothing to say to this escapee from Wonderland. Stanley Merkin! So they finally named a school after one of the most pathetic trustees to ever sit in a public school boardroom. Couldn't manage to get an intelligible sentence out of his mouth if his life depended on it.

“You might want to dress up a bit, and I'll send Rita in to do your hair if you like.” Mrs. Golly-whatever looks like she could use Rita's services herself. Red hair with gray roots sticking out in odd snatches here and there,

Stanley Merkin! I shake my head sadly.

Rita isn't the sharpest cookie-cutter in a baker's kitchen, but she's pretty good at setting hair, and she's never stingy with the hairspray. She can spray your set so that it lasts the better part of a week.

“Do you ever think of going to something a bit lighter than jet black?” Rita asks me. “A lot of seniors, you know, go for something a little closer to...”

“I have always had black hair,” I tell her, “and I plan on going to my grave with that shade, thank you very much.” Long ago, I made the decision to never have gray hair or wear the color purple.

Rita helps me get dressed for the afternoon. I've decided on a red outfit I bought three years ago when I was on an opera tour in New York. BHR. Before Hip Replacement.

“My, that's a lovely brooch!” she says, pinning it in place.

“It belonged to my mother,” I tell her. “She always wore it with her black crepe dress to the opera.”

“The opry,” Rita says. “Fancy that.” She gives my hair one more spray.

“Not the Grand Ole —” I start to set her straight but she's off to set and spray the next person on her list.

Hyperactive Betty gives the walker a little dusting off as she sets it up. Good to have the cage all shiny. When we reach the lounge I make her fold it up and lean it low against the wall beside my armchair. Every time I look at the contraption, it makes me shudder, so I can imagine what it might do to some teenage kid.

It's wise to have your back to the wall. You don't
teach junior high for forty-one years without learning a thing or two about the adolescent homo sapien — one of which is to keep your back covered. Don't let them circle you.

When they arrive and I see them milling around in the lounge, it all comes flooding back. The awkwardness, body parts out of sync, tortured hair, acne, tentative mustaches, boys' voices cracking, girls laughing too loudly. No matter how they dress themselves, teenagers haven't changed all that much since I stood in front of my first class in 1935.

Now, their teacher — that's a different matter. That creature fluttering around, patting kids on the arm, giggling nervously, dressed like some frazzled housewife. When I took my Normal School courses we learned a few things about discipline, decorum and dress. If I were in charge, this lot would be settled down in one hurry, or be answering to me after class.

The old woman with blue-rinsed hair in the armchair next to me is gushing over a gift her — what was it Mrs. Gollywoggle called them? — her “buddy” has brought her.

“Oh, bless your heart!” she's exclaiming before she's even ripped off the recycled — could it be Christmas? — yes, Christmas wrap! Christmas in May.

“Bless your heart!” Little tears are springing to her
eyes. The buddy boy is turning bright from embarrassment. Can't say I blame him.

She's got the gift wrap off now and she's holding up a teapot. Just what we need around here — another teapot. This one is in the shape of a squirrel. The tea spout is actually the squirrel's tail. Think about that for a minute. Blue-rinse is making little squeals.

The boy, shuffling from foot to foot, says, “There's a card, too. I made it on my computer.”

It appears that everybody's been matched up and Mrs. Golly-whatever is padding across the room with what I expect must be the leftover teenager for me. Life is filled with such joys!

“Miss Barclay!” the Cheshire cat exclaims. “I want you to meet Tamara, your Stanley Merkin buddy. Miss Barclay's only been with us since January but she already feels like one of the family. I think the two of you are going to get along, well... like a house on fire.”

The girl is taller than Mrs. Gollywoggle. A lip-glossed smile is frozen onto her face. She's wearing eye makeup that Nefertiti of Egypt would have thought excessive and her hair, a magenta color, has been clamped here and there with little clips — like a permanent curl treatment being caught in mid-session at the beauty parlor.

Although she's as tall and slender as a Zulu princess,
she's wearing a too-tight little jacket and some kind of tank top that looks like it's been fished out of a lost-and-found box. It's difficult to tell if what she has on is a skirt or just a lacy slip. And shoes that a chorus girl might wear. Heaven help us! I can't withhold a chuckle.

“Tamara!” I say.

Skinnybones.

I guess when you're the Wrinkle Queen and you're pushing ninety, you can give up worrying about your fashion presence. No facial in the world is going to make Miss Barclay's skin look younger. She makes me think of a funny old bird with hawk eyes, one claw curled around the arm of her chair, the other clutching a shiny red purse. Her black hair is like some kind of plastic sculpture. It would take a good whack with a hammer to crack it.

“Hello.” I smile my
Vogue
model smile. Just a little tip at the corners of my lips. I hand her my gift.

Her hawk eyes are focused on the recycled wrapping paper.

“Fishing tackle?” she mutters. “Just what I've always wanted.”

I don't say anything but I tip my smile up just a bit more at the ends. Gwyneth Paltrow.

One end of the package opened, the old woman's bony fingers clutch at the orange tissue paper. Suddenly she pulls it all out and the purple slippers are revealed in their full glory.