Her mother was awake and at the kitchen table when Marian came down the stairs wrapped in her bathrobe at 7:00 for coffee. Lucille, who had been up since six, had had a swim, showered and dressed, and was just finishing her second cup of coffee, said to her daughter, “As you may remember, Marian, I want you out of this house by June 30th.”

“Good morning to you, too, Mother. How did you sleep? I slept quite well. Thank you so much for asking.” Marian took a mug from the cupboard, carried it to the coffeemaker, poured herself a cup, then sat at the kitchen table across from her mother.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Lucille brushed the crumbs from her toast off the table and onto her plate. She wiped her hands on her napkin. “I’m offering you a reprieve. I’m prepared to extend that deadline two months, until the end of August in exchange for your participation as a volunteer at the Six County Senior Olympics. If you put in two full weeks at the games, you get two extra months.”

Marian glared at her. “Hardly volunteering if you’re telling me I have to be there. Will I actually be doing something at the games like checking people in? Or will I be acting as your personal dogsbody, following you around, schlepping your bottles of Propel, providing towels for you to dry your face?”

“Do you want the extra two months or not?”

****
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When Lucille arrived at the Senior Center the following day, she asked at the receptionist’s window where she could find Teresa. Gloria told her to follow Bert who was wheeling a large stack of brown cartons into the Ceramics Room. Lucille entered and saw several boxes already open on the table. Bert tipped the dolly, leaving his cargo against the wall and said to Teresa, “Only four more boxes. That’ll be your five hundred.”

Ceci read a number off her clipboard then waited while Teresa counted out shirts. They both looked up when Lucille came into the room. The director finished wrapping the shirts with a piece of string, handed them to Ceci who attached a slip of paper with the number of shirts, the venue, the event, along with the registration and reporting forms.

“So what do you think?” Teresa held a lime green shirt under her chin and preened for Lucille.

“Garish is the first word that comes to mind. But with your coloring you could probably pull it off. Am I interrupting?”

Teresa ignored the obvious answer and said, “You both must be at a bit of a loss with the writing group on summer hiatus. How’s the book of short stories coming?”

Lucille bristled and gestured at Ceci with her chin. “Some people apparently felt they didn’t need to participate.”

Ceci leaned forward, hands on the table. “Some people would feel more inclined, if … .”

“Some people …”

“I told you once to watch your back and look what happened.”

“Are you threatening me again? I should have followed through and called the police the last time.”

Teresa spoke sharply. “That’s enough. From both of you. Lucille, why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk with you about the donation which I’ve promised to the Center.”

“Okay, then. We’ll go to my office. Ceci, I’ll send Gloria back to take my place. We’ve got to finish bundling these shirts and forms before five.”

When they arrived at Teresa’s office, Lucille waited for the director to clear a path, then unload the visitor’s chair. “I was reminded last night about ‘promised money.’ I have yet to contact my lawyer about the money I wish to donate to the senior center as a memorial to my husband, but I have not changed my mind. I want you to use the money for something visionary, like the name of Richard’s company. Perhaps an addition to the building or the conversion of one of the existing classrooms for a computer lab. And, of course, a salary for the first year’s worth of classes by a qualified instructor. It doesn’t have to be computer-related. If you can come up with something else that’s suitable, let me know at your earliest convenience.

“On a more personal note, I’ve seen that ridiculous cowboy detective hanging around a lot lately. It was understandable while he was working, investigating those unfortunate murders. But I’ve been told that he takes you out to lunch and has been seen waiting for you after work.”

Teresa’s eyes narrowed. You’ve been told?

“In my opinion, and I say this as a friend, he’s simply not good enough for you, Teresa. You need to consider appearances if you want to get ahead.”

The automatic double-door at the entrance had opened and closed several times while Lucille had been talking. Teresa had kept a lookout just over her visitor’s shoulder. When Stan halted just outside the office, Lucille couldn’t see him. He mouthed the words and pointed, asking if he should wait somewhere else. Teresa gave the tiniest shake of her head to say no. Then she said, “Sorry?” and asked Lucille to repeat what she had just said.

“I said that in my opinion, that detective is not good enough for you. You can do better, much better.”

Teresa sucked in her lower lip to keep from laughing at the look of shock on Stan’s face. “In his defense, he does have a bachelor’s and a master’s degree in Criminal Justice.” Lucille snorted. “And in December, he’ll have his Ph.D. in Sociology.”

Behind Lucille where he couldn’t be seen, Stan tucked his thumbs into imaginary suspenders and strutted.

“If the man has a mind, which it would appear, or he wouldn’t have caught those criminals, then why on earth does he insist on playing dress up in those boots and hat?”

As seriously as she could, Teresa answered, “While I am not aware of any deep psychological reason for him ‘playing dress up,’ I have to tell you, Lucille, I could care less. Detective Nevins looks good to me with and without his clothes.” Take that you old bat!

Stan fanned his face, then wandered around the corner to come in to her office through the receptionist’s door. Stopping at the doorway, he tipped his hat to Lucille who instantly stood to leave.

****
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Two nights later after dinner, Lars took off his pink polo, put on his soft chambray shirt. He changed out of his cargo shorts into a pair of blue slacks, slipped off his sandals, replacing them with socks and shoes. He had decided to try and see Lucille, even though he knew the risk he was taking by going in the evening; she had allotted him Tuesdays and Fridays, daytime only. Even this knowledge now made him angry - she had rationed out her favors, putting him on a schedule.

With Joan’s voice echoing in his memory, Lars pulled his car into Lucille’s driveway. He saw lights on in the living room behind the curtains, but that could mean that Marian was home, not necessarily Lucille.

He rang the doorbell, uncomfortable in the darkness, confused when the porch light snapped on.

Lucille’s daughter opened the inside door. With the light bouncing off his baldhead, the man before her with his navy pants and pale blue shirt open at the neck hardly looked like her mother’s date for the evening.

“Can I help you?”

He swallowed his resentment at having to ring doorbell instead of letting himself in, at having to ask to see Lucille like some suitor. “Is Lucille home? I’m Lars Pedersen.”

“Is she expecting you?”

“No, but I would like to see her. Now.” His jaw clenched and muscles twitched. He remembered his manners but this insignificant troll keeping him out made him furious.

Marian grimaced. “Okay. Come on in.” She stepped back from the doorway to let him enter. Closing the door behind him, she said, “I’m Lucille’s daughter, Marian. My mother’s upstairs getting dressed. She has plans for this evening.” Lars sucked on his upper lip. “Do you want a drink?” She shuffled over to the bar where an opened bottle of wine stood.

“Sure, scotch on the rocks. Thanks.” He crossed the parquet floor, taking a seat on the edge of the couch as Marian went to the kitchen. He looked around the room. She returned with a tray of ice and made his drink.

They sat across from each other in silence. Marian’s long legs were crossed Indian-style under her on the couch. Her breasts made little impression on her faded light blue t-shirt and none on Lars. Her long kinky hair had been pinned back from her face. She stared at him with her small brown eyes, frankly assessing him, wondering at her mother’s taste in men.

Lucille made an entrance down the stairs in a gold satin blouse, honey-colored skirt with a long slit, lots of jewelry, high heels, perfume. Addressing Marian, she said, “I thought I heard the doorbell.” Then she saw Lars. “Lars.”

As she made her way to the bar, she asked, “Marian, will excuse us, please? And change that music before you go.”

Marian stomped up the stairs, traveled down the hall, pulled the door to her room shut, then stealthily crept back to the stairwell.

Lars responded to the appearance of his lover appreciatively. “You look wonderful.” He looked wistfully at her face, then hung his head. “I know the ‘rules’ say that I’m not supposed to be here and it’s obvious that you’re going out, but I wanted to tell you that Joan found out about us, Lucille. She knows about the affair. She knows it was you.” He took a sip of his drink.

“You told her about me?”

“No. I have no idea how she found out.”

“And?”

“I think she’s going to leave me.”

“And if Joan leaves you, you expect me to take you in?”

“Hell, no. We’ve never even been on what could be called a date, like you’re obviously going on tonight. Just lots of sex and trips to casinos, the hot tub. I know you have another life. Maybe several. None of which include me.”

Bile backed up in his throat at the memory. “Listen, could you sit down? I feel like you’re the queen and I’m the flunky with you standing over me like that.”

Lucille took a seat on the couch, straightening a pillow as she sat. He got up from the chair and walked to bar. Draining the glass, he added an ice cube and poured in more scotch. He took another sip and sat down.”She found out about the gambling. I mean, she went through all our financial statements and things. She even talked to my business partner, Marc Janssen.”

Lucille’s chin came up and she lifted an eyebrow. Good for Joan!

“She blames you. She thinks that if I hadn’t had the affair, I might not have started gambling.”

Lucille laughed a bitter laugh. “Honey, we both know that isn’t true.”

He set his drink on a coaster on the end table beside the couch. “She doesn’t know about the money that I owe you. I’m asking you to give me back the IOUs. You have no intention of using them to collect, right? They’re just some sort of trophies to you.”

She left the couch and moved over to the fireplace. “Trophies? You think this has been some kind of game for me, Lars? Do you have any idea how much money I’ve loaned you over the last six months? How much you owe me? The last time I added up those ‘trophies’, it came to just over a quarter of a million dollars.”

“Come on, we both know that I can cover that with a couple of sales commissions.” He smiled his saleman’s smile.

“Then I suggest that’s what you do, Lars. Redeem the IOUs.” Her face went cold, her eyes flat.

He picked up his glass and drained it. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He had never anticipated not being able to do what she had just said he had to do - pay the money back. He wiped his hand on his pants. “I can’t. Not right now.”

He ran his hand over his head, then down his face. “I want them back! Now. I’ll do anything so Joan doesn’t find out. I don’t want Joan to know. I’ll pay you back. You have my word.”

“Please, Lars. How stupid do you think I am? I give you the pieces of paper and I have nothing except your word, the word of a …”

She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to. His gut wrenched. He straightened in the chair. “You’d better reconsider. Somebody might get hurt.”

“Are you threatening me, or warning me?”

“This isn’t over between us. So, yeah, maybe this is a threat. But here’s a warning to go with it. Don’t underestimate Joan. You’ve made another genuine enemy. She says I’m just a man following my dick - what else could she expect? But you, you’ve taken something from her. Even if she doesn’t want me back, she’ll find a way to make you pay for what happened. If she finds out about the IOUs, that you’re holding them over my head, she’ll lose it, she really will.”

“I’m not afraid of your wife, Lars. If we’re done here, I have a date this evening. With a gentleman. Let yourself out.” She crossed the room and headed into the study. When she heard the front door close, she squared her shoulders, playing with the pearls at her neck.

At the top of the stairs, Marian shook her head slowly. So Lars owes Mother a quarter of a million dollars! Wonder what’s it worth to him to keep his secret?

****
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The night that Joan confronted him, Lars slept in his clothes on the couch with just an afghan and a throw pillow.

He stumbled into the kitchen when he heard that she was up. As he poured his cup of coffee, she said, “I want you to move your things out of our bedroom.”

“Where do you want me to put them?”

She looked at him as if she was considering saying, Where the sun don’t shine.

“Give me a couple of days, will you? I’ll find some place.”

“That’s it, Lars. I’ll give you a couple of days.”

He drank his coffee and she left for a walk. While she was gone, he showered, dressed, and left so that he wouldn’t be home when she returned.

On her way back to the house, Joan resolved to visit Sen Realty, the partnership that Lars co-owned on Northwest Highway, in the Village Green Shopping Center. Why? Because Marc Janssen, Lars’ partner, was an old friend and if Lars had told anyone about the affair, it would have been Marc.

In her bedroom she wiggled into black bike shorts and a yellow jersey. She carried her cleated shoes down to the kitchen where she put them on. Once in the garage, she strapped on her helmet and headed her bike toward the office. As she approached the strip mall, her stomach turned over at the thought of facing Lars. It hadn’t crossed her mind that he might be in the office instead of out showing a house. Well, too late to go home. She parked her bike at the rack and locked it.

In recent years she hadn’t bothered to stop and look at the photos and descriptions in the window, but she remembered doing that when they were young and first starting out, each new listing holding out hope for the fledgling business. She took off her helmet and fluffed her short hair, then dangling the helmet walked in. The receptionist looked at her without recognition, perhaps, even with dismay at Joan’s clothes.

“I’d like to see Mr. Pedersen, please.” She realized with a start that she didn’t recognize the young woman seated at the receptionist’s desk. How long has it been since I’ve been here?

The woman said kindly, “Mr. Pedersen isn’t in at the moment. Maybe someone else could help you?”

Several of the desks were empty but here and there one of the ten associates spoke into a phone or typed at his computer. A phone rang. Someone answered. The woman in front of her repeated, “Excuse, I asked if you would like someone else to help you?”

Joan’s eyes finally found a familiar face. Marc saw her, too, and waved, walking quickly over. “Joan! Great to see you! Check you out - spandex, helmet.” He gave her a friendly hug, then taking her by the arm, said to the receptionist, “Cindy, I don’t think you’ve ever met Mrs. Pedersen, Lars’ wife.” The women shook hands. “I’m going to take her back to my office.”

As they walked to the back of the room, she couldn’t help but notice Lars’ office opposite Marc’s. Peering into the darkened room, she noted that Lars had evidently gone for a minimalist look - no photos on the desk or walls, no plants tucked into corners, no paintings on the wall. Just a nameplate on the closed door, his realtor’s license beside it. She settled herself across the desk from Marc. A ceiling-high ficus filled one corner. From its perch on a wrought iron plant stand a healthy schefflera dominated another. Wonderful watercolor landscapes in rich tones were tastefully arranged on the wall behind the desk. “Are those Mary’s?”

“From our trip to England last year.” He swiveled his chair to look at them. “Aren’t they incredible?” As he turned back he wondered at the slump of Joan’s shoulders, the smudges of gray under her eyes.

Her lips struggled to make words. “Do you know where Lars is?” Knowing that he was probably with that woman. She wanted to know if Marc knew and if Marc would tell her.

He hesitated, chewing on a corner of his mustache. She doesn’t know. He reached up and smoothed the hair on his lip, brushed his tie. Lars and Joan had been his friends for years, but Lars was his partner - so he lied. “Probably out showing one of our listings. Why? Is something wrong? Maybe he just turned his phone off.”

The image of Lars’ darkened office behind her forced Joan to ask, “Our listings? Not one of his listings?”

Here it comes. Marc shrugged. “You know how it is. Lars doesn’t have anything at the moment. It happens. Was he expecting you? How about I get us some coffee?”

“Thank you, no. Marc, I need you to tell me the truth. He isn’t here. His office looks deserted, like he doesn’t even work here any more. Even that big peace lily in the huge purple ceramic pot is gone.”

Marc apologized. “Cindy tried to keep it watered but … . When it died, we threw it out.”

“That was his pride and joy. Lars always bragged that it was one of two things he really knew how to grow - his peace lily and crabgrass.” She felt herself tearing up over crabgrass and realized how ridiculous that must make her look. She took a deep breath, pressing her hands together.

“I seriously doubt that he’s showing a listing. I want to know where he is.”

Marc sighed and came clean. Lars had been coming in less and less. No, he hadn’t brought in a new listing for almost six months. “At one point,” Marc said, “I offered to buy him out. I’ve got a nephew with a realtor’s license.” But Lars couldn’t seem to let go. No, he didn’t know where Lars was or how he was spending his time.

“I know that he is, or was, having an affair.”

“Oh God, Joan! I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“None?”

“None. I swear.” In spite of Joan’s revelation, Marc looked relieved.

Joan noticed the change and challenged him. “There’s something else. Oh God! You’re hiding something. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Are you going to stay with him?”

“If I am or not, what difference does it make?”

“You’re right. It makes no difference. We’ve been friends a long time, the four of us, you, me, Mary and Lars. Remember when we … .”

“Marc, just tell me.”

“Lars owes me money.”

“How much does he owe you?”

“$50,000. In IOUs. You should know that I loaned him probably $20,000 before he started signing IOUs. If you want them, you can have them. I’ve got them here in my drawer.”

“What excuse did Lars give you for why he needed the loans?”

“He always told me that old friends shouldn’t need to give reasons.”

When Joan returned to their brick bungalow on their shady suburban street, she headed into office. Kicking off her cleated shoes, she jerked open the top right-hand drawer of the desk where she found the joint checkbook. She noted that other than the deposits from his share of the business, made on the first of the month, the last deposit was in December. Six months! Since he hadn’t been working that would make sense. And while it’s a significant drop in income, she reassured herself that times have been difficult before, then picked up.

She began searching for other financial information. By God, if she was going to divorce him, then she needed to know where she stood.

She burrowed through the rest of the drawer. What she couldn’t find were the bank statements from their savings accounts or the CDs. She finally located them in the wooden filing cabinet near the door. To her dismay she learned that the CDs, all of them, had been cashed in. The savings accounts closed. All the stock had been sold, all the bonds. The rental property in New Buffalo, Michigan, sold. She sat shaking her head. Essentially all they still owned were the two cars and the house.

From the second drawer of the desk, she pulled credit card statements which showed that the three cards were maxed out, only the minimum payments were being made. She’d already seen on the web that he’d been to gambling sites. Is that what he’d spending the money on?

Joan’s style is not confrontational. But when Lars came home around suppertime, Joan was ready to grill. He warily helped her carry the food out to the patio, but seemed to relax once he had begun cooking. Joan brought out a pitcher of Long Island iced tea. When they had finished, they sat on the patio drinking.

“I saw an old friend of ours this week.”

“Oh yeah? Who was that?”

“Marc Janssen. We never see him and Mary any more. Do we?”

Lars knew that he should say that he saw Marc everyday at work. He looked at Joan’s face in the dusk but couldn’t read her mood. Lars didn’t ask where she saw Marc. She knows about the affair and maybe by now she knows that he hasn’t been going in to work. Maybe she doesn’t know about the money that he owes Marc, not yet.

He opted for another tack. “Did he tell you about their trip to England?”

“Yes. He showed me the lovely paintings hanging in his office that Mary did while they were there.”

Okay, so she had been to the office. Maybe she even knows that he’s in a slump. He can still brazen this out.

Joan went on, “Marc said that they had hoped to rent our condo in Michigan for a few weeks this summer but was disappointed to learn that we had sold it.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees and looked directly at Lars. “I didn’t tell him that - WE - hadn’t sold it. You had.” When he recoiled, she leaned back pleased with herself.

“I can explain.”

She picked up her drink and stepped into the shadows of the yard beyond the soft patio lights. He followed her reluctantly. As he approached, he said again, “I can explain.”

She turned to him, holding the glass chest high with both hands. “I’m sure you can, Lars. Just as you can somehow explain why you sold our CDs, all our stocks and bonds, and cleaned out our savings accounts.” He hung his head. The only sound came from the occasional car passing on Prospect Avenue and the rustling of the bushes in a small breeze.

“You’ve gambled it away, didn’t you? You risked it all: our life together, your job, your friendship with Marc. For Lucille Murray? Oh, yes. I found out who your ‘friend’ was. That slut! How could even you be that stupid?”

****
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[June]

Joan had married at a time when the smarter women recognized that marriage didn’t always last forever. She had insisted on continuing to work to the amazement of her mother. But the women’s movement had made its mark. Besides, what would she have done with her days if she had stayed home?

Whether the risk of the affair triggered Lars’ need to gamble in other areas of his life as well, who knows? All Lars was sure of was that he began to feel that life itself was a gamble with the stakes getting higher all the time. Risky behavior became reckless. Which is why he had placed those stolen black silk and lace panties in his own underwear drawer.

On a subconscious level he knew that Joan would find them. He had to have known. Did he want her to know? What did he think she would say or do? Was he hoping for intervention? For punishment? Something, anything that would assure him that the game of life wasn’t a game?

Of course she found the panties. How not? She did the laundry, not him. She gathered it, washed it, dried it, and folded it. She hung his shirts in the closet, folded his t-shirts and put them in a drawer. As she was placing his boxers and briefs in two neat piles, she had caught a glimpse of something black toward the back of the drawer. Thinking it was a stray sock, she had pulled the panties loose.

What do other women do when they find foreign underwear in their husband’s dresser? Joan had no idea. She could tell that he hadn’t simply bought them as a fetish because they weren’t new. The frilly piece of black lingerie was evidence of betrayal.

Oh Lars! How could you? Why would you? All the questions the talk shows asked came unbidden. Then the question women have forever asked - who is she?

She ran through a list of possibilities but did she really have any idea any more? Lars had wandered freely for so long, friends of his were no longer friends of hers. Was this the first time? Have there been others? Maybe someone at the office. That could be why he hadn’t wanted her to have a party.

She couldn’t just put them back and pretend she hadn’t seen them. Instead she tucked them in the front pocket of her jeans. Then she finished putting away the clean clothes. Returning to kitchen, she tossed the empty laundry basket down into the basement and carefully closed the door. She put on a kettle of water, got a chamomile teabag and a packet of sweetener and put them on the table. Got out a cup, saucer and spoon. When the kettle whistled, she turned off the burner, poured the boiling water over the teabag and sat down. Then she began to cry.

An hour later the tea was cold. So was she.

As a former emergency room head nurse, she was comfortable with decisions that often involved life and death. And Lars’ betrayal was a catastrophe of sorts. What she needed was a plan; her marriage needed triage. With the same thoroughness and care that she had managed the Emergency Room, with the same attention to detail while aware of the risks, she had decided to confront him.

When he came home that evening, she was seated in an armchair in the living room. She said in a calm clear voice, “Lars, I want to talk with you.”

Her hulk of a husband, vice-president of the Park Ridge Chamber of Commerce, decaying pillar of the community, said, “Sure. Just let me wash up.” He left, and when he returned had a drink in his hand. He sat heavily in the recliner, placed the drink on the table beside him, and propped up the footrest. He casually picked up the TV remote, turned it on, pressed mute and started surfing. Without looking at his wife, he asked, “What did you want to talk about?”

She fishes the underwear from her pocket and holds it up. “This.”

He gave her a quick glance but didn’t see, and returned his attention to the television. “Yeah? So?”

She pushed the garment back into her pocket, stood, and crossed the room. She snatched the remote from his hand and powered off the TV. She walked deliberately through the kitchen, down to the basement. Laying the remote on Lars’ workbench, she put on safety glasses and began to methodically smash the outside edges of the molded plastic with a hammer. Slam! Slam! Turn the remote a quarter turn. Slam!

At the first whack of the hammer, Lars had followed her. Amazed when he saw what she was doing, he had stopped near the bottom of the stairs. When the buttons were flattened and the last pieces had skittered to rest, Joan took off the goggles and laid the hammer down.

His face wrinkled in concern. “Do you know how much that cost? What the hell was all that all about?”

She turned to face him and pulled the panties from her pocket, “This!” She flung the panties at him. They fell to the floor halfway between them.

She watched him, standing on the next to last step, clinging to the handrail. When he finally realized what she had thrown at him he sat down, running his hand over his eyes.

She took a seat on the stool, listening the gurgle of the water heater, the hum of fan on the central air. Her questions came slowly at first, in low tones: how long had the affair been going on, whether it was still going on, what his intentions were. She never once asked who the woman was.

The basement is chilly - not that either of them noticed at first. When he had finished answering her in monotones, made his apology, she became aware of the chill. She rubbed her bare arms. “Six months? I’m sorry, too, Lars.” She moved to the steps and for a moment he thought that she would lean into his arms and it would be over. But she pushed his hand away as he reached for her, stepped past him and went upstairs.

Sitting on the basement stairs, he couldn’t take in what had just happened. She hadn’t yelled, hadn’t accused, hadn’t ask, “How could you?”

This was bad.

Then suddenly he was full of ideas on how to win her back, to convince her that the affair had been an aberration, a mistake that wouldn’t happen again. Her affection was something he felt confident about. She’ll get over it.

But the longer he sat, the more convinced he became that he had to get the IOUs back from Lucille. Joan wouldn’t leave him over his affair but if she found out about the money, well, that was a chance he was not willing to take. He had to get back those IOUs.

****
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[May]

Right after the Mini Games in mid-April, Teresa goaded Ceci into establishing some sort of a training schedule for members of the Center to follow.

She began with the Walking Club. For those who wanted to, she created charts on which they could begin to record the time it took them to complete their normal circuit of 8 suburban blocks, roughly one mile. The charts remained on display as an enticement to others as well as a record of achievement. She had to confess that there were those who resented her intrusion, the emphasis on speed. She encountered resistance to goal-setting. The oldsters spouted, “Exercise of any sort was good. We don’t want to discourage anyone just because they don’t want to compete.” There were enough dissenters that a small group broke off from the bigger pack and a new course was created. When the pace had picked up sufficiently, she added distance incrementally until they could do three miles in the same time period. Ceci arranged for talks and demonstrations by the Exercise Leader on stretches, cool downs, etc.

Inspired by the change in the Walking Club’s program, several folks who jogged or ran on their own came to Teresa asking if Ceci would do the same thing for them, create a sort of informal running group. Ceci did - except she made the commitment to run with them, inspiring Stella to join as well. Through her contacts with CARA, the Chicago Area Runners Association, Ceci obtained information on age-appropriate local 5Ks. During the drive to and from these events, the two women became close friends.

Ceci even organized some bike rides and passed on brochures, newsletters, web addresses of area races. She liaised with John Whitney from the Park Ridge Penguins Masters Swim Club to get more people swimming competitively. Between them they knew lots of people in water aerobics classes and tried to convert them.

Ironically, with this sudden escalation of participation, Teresa saw Ceci assuming the part-time, unpaid position of recreational director, the thing that Teresa had most wanted to do when she first graduated with her degree in Parks and Recreation. When the chance to focus on seniors came, she had taken it and never regretted it. But sometimes she envied Ceci who had become the unofficial liaison with the Park District and other venues to cross-train, recruit, etc.

While Ceci had agreed to do posters, to set up classes, even lead some classes, the one thing she had absolutely refused to do was give speeches. Teresa, for her part, was born chattering. She specialized in being available, in and out of gatherings. Helping members focus on the summer games seemed especially important since the recent murders. As the Women’s Club ladies settled in after lunch, the Center Director began her spiel. “The Six County Senior Olympics is only one of six regional games in the state. The Western Illinois Games are the first in the state, held the last week of April near Macomb and Quincy. The Heart of Illinois plays well in Peoria the first week in May.

“I confess, I think there’s something to be said for having them early when the weather is cooler. We’ve always had ours the third week in July and as you all know, Chicagoland summers can be rugged.

“The Heart of Illinois Games also have a fine arts competition with four categories: Literary Arts: Visual Arts; Folk Arts; and Performing Arts such as Music: instrumental or vocal; Drama: readings, storytelling, skits; and dance: ballroom, country, folk, etc. Which sounds like something that our Center could do a bang up job at.

“By the way, our very own Joan Pedersen, many of you know her as the writing instructor, has been working on an anniversary brochure for the Games. Can you believe we’ve been at this fifteen years? Well, anyway, Joan discovered that the first year the State of Illinois Senior Olympics had competitive board games. Sounds a little bit like our Dominoes, bridge and pinochle tournaments!” She waited while the ladies cheered. Many of them were avid card players.

“We, the Six County Senior Olympics, that is, have never done anything like that and I don’t anticipate doing it in the future, but who knows? We’ve always focused on the athletic events that are featured at the state and national games.

“A month after the games in Peoria, the Rend Lake College Senior Games take place. Also in June but later in the month are the Quad Cities Senior Olympics at Augustana College. Like the games in the Heartland, the Quad Cities Olympics also feature non-athletic events such as cribbage, the Mary Hymes Memorial Spelling Bee, and Senior Trivia. Can you imagine?”

A hand went up and began waving at the director. Teresa acknowledged her, “Yes, Virginia?”

“I think those sound like great ideas. Why won’t you folks try something like that for us?”

Teresa smiled. “I think they’re great, too. But, you know, places like the Quad Cities not only get great support from their sponsors but they get loads of volunteers, too. We can barely get enough people to cover what we do now. In fact, I can give you an example. Lots of the Park Districts in the area have special softball leagues for the over-fifties. We’ve wanted to add a softball tournament for years but no one has stepped forward to oversee it.” She thought the matter resolved, but Virginia stood up again.

“So if we could find someone to take charge of it, we could have a spelling bee or trivia or cards?”

Gotta love these seniors! “I’m saying that if you could find someone, I would be willing to propose it to the committee. How’s that?” The audience nodded and several began side conversations. Teresa tapped the mike. “As I was saying, the other games also have Bullseye Pistol (22 cal.) in addition to trap and skeet shooting. Thanks again to Joan’s research, I just learned that Maine East High School has a firing range in the basement. How many of you knew that?” Several hands in the audience went up.

“If you think our games are warm because they take place in July, consider the Southland Senior Games the second week of August! Talk about hot competition!” She waited while they groaned at her pun.

“The Illinois Senior Olympics, the big, state games, are held annually the last complete weekend of September at Springfield. Men and women age 50 and older may compete in more than 18 sports and 58 events including swimming, track and field, bowling, golf, archery, bridge, cycling, and team sports. Medals are awarded, and qualified competitors are invited to go on to the national competition, which is held in odd numbered years. In 2007 an anticipated 12,000 seniors will take part in the National Senior Olympics in Louisville, Kentucky.

“Many of you have read the Six County Want Ads for volunteers in “The Spectator.” You may not be aware that the entire Six County Games is planned, directed and put on by volunteers. I am not paid by the Park District to work on the games, nor does the Illinois Parks and Recreation association which oversees the games reimburse me for the time I put in. The ten folks of the central committee and the fifteen or so event chairmen are all volunteers. In addition, volunteers help with registration, scorekeeping, timing, etc. Each year almost seventy people help us in this way.

“Registration fees cover our nifty t-shirts and medals. They do not cover the cost of mailings, rental of the refreshment tent, greens’ fees, and miscellaneous expenses, which is why we need corporate sponsors.” When she was finished, several ladies approached her about specific ways in which they could volunteer. And to ask about the cowboy boots.

****
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[May]

When Gloria, the receptionist, came into Teresa’s office and said that a young man from GeezerJock wanted to see her, Teresa simply stared. “A man from where?” She followed Gloria into the outer office. A young man with tight blond curls, lopsided smile and a ruby earring in his ear, stuck out his hand. Words rushed from his mouth. “I’m Brian Johnson from GeezerJock, you know, the Masters Sports and Fitness Magazine? I’m a reporter. Well, an intern-reporter. I probably should have called first but I was checking out Maine East High School, that’s where you’re having the Six Country Senior Olympics, right? And anyway, I was in the area so I thought I’d swing by.” He paused just long enough to get a breath. “You are Teresa Cusentino, aren’t you? I’ve got a proposal for you.”

Teresa had taken his hand when he offered it, checking out his white baseball cap with “Geezer” in black butted against “Jock” in Gold. He wore a t-shirt with the same logo only in white and gold on black. She laughed at the word “proposal” and assured him that as a single woman she would consider any serious offer. He blanked while Gloria snickered at her desk.

Teresa followed him into her office noting that the back of his shirt and cap both read “Can you keep up?” She doubted it but was determined to try. “What can I do for you, Brian Johnson, intern-reporter?” She gave him her sexiest smile.

His blush started at the neck of his t-shirt, worked its way up until his face flamed. “Well, I’m not sure if you know our magazine.” He rooted in his backpack for a copy, handing it to her. “These two guys, Sean Callahan and Steve Bomman, used to cover seniors’ sporting events for Chicago’s Daily Southtown newspaper. They got this bright idea for a magazine for jocks over forty - that’s the Master’s age. Anyway we’ve got about 50,000 subscribers to the magazine - which at the moment is free - and we’ve got a website - GeezerJock.com.”

Teresa waited for him to continue, having no clue as to where he was headed. Did he want to hand out the magazine at the Center? “Hmm, like I said, I’m a reporter, intern, intern-reporter. I saw the news release from the, you know, Illinois Parks and Recreation Association about the Six County Senior Olympics, you know, and thought maybe it would make a good story. My editor told me to do some research and get back to him. That’s when I found the newspaper interview you did last year with the Pioneer Press.”

“And you want to do an interview with me for your magazine?” She couldn’t bring herself to say the name GeezerJock.

“No. Well, maybe, I mean we could, but that wasn’t my idea, not the one I pitched my editor at least. I told him about the celebrities in the article. You know, like the fact that… .” He reached into his backpack and pulled out a folder with a xerox of the article. “One of the Event Chairmen was ‘Steve Isaacson, a resident of Highland Park and past national champion, recently named as the president of the United States Table Tennis Association.’ And ‘Mike Conti, who runs the bocce tournament, a past president of the World Bocce Association.’ The whole thing about the woman from ‘A League of Their Own’, you know, the movie with Madonna, Tom Hanks, Geena Davis?”

Teresa asked if he meant Terry Uselmann. “You do know she wasn’t in the movie? She did play in the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League, though, which is what the movie is about.” “Yeah. How cool is it that she lives in Park Ridge and competes in the Senior Olympics?”

Teresa hmm’d to herself. Evidently ‘way cool.’

“Gee, I can’t remember if I told you my editor thought it was a great idea. He’s assigned me and a photographer - I never had a photographer go with me before - he’s another intern, his name is Tim Parker - anyway we’re yours for the full week. Sorry, two weeks. We’ll do the golf competition the week before as well as the track and field stuff. Any questions?”

Only a few! “When you say you and the photographer are ‘mine for the week,’ what does that mean?”

“Oh. Sorry again.” He rubbed his hands on his pants. “Um, I’ll be doing mini-interviews - hopefully one at each event. I’ll be sure to get the names of all the winners and I’ll probably talk to some of them. But the big thing for the interviews will be the octa, octa, hmm, oc-to-ge-nar-ians,” he stumbled on the word, “and the, you know, the ones over ninety?”

“Nonagenarians.”

“I think of them as the octas and nonas, it’s easier, don’t you think?”

Teresa fought back a giggle as the phrase “octas and nonas” rolled around in her head.

He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Don’t tell my boss, but I think I can re-purpose the information and sell it somewhere else as freelance work.”

Ah, ‘re-purpose.’ “Who do you think would buy it?”

“Oh, maybe AARP or SeniorJournal.com - they have a special area for senior sports stuff.”

She reminded him that not every competition would take place at Maine East. In fact, if he was going to cover everything, he’d have to travel to Northbrook, Niles, Bensenville, Schaumburg, Norridge, Des Plaines, Mount Prospect, and the Ned Brown Forest Preserve out in Arlington Heights, and that wasn’t all of the places.

Brian nodded seriously. “Gotcha.”

She rooted through the folders on her desk, then looked in the top drawer of the filing cabinet. When she found a draft of Joan’s brochure, she gave it to him. “This isn’t quite finished yet, it’s only the second draft of an anniversary brochure we’re doing this year. One of the ladies here at the Senior Center wrote it. You might find things you’ll want to use. Let me just write her phone number on it in case you want to call Joan.”

As he flipped through the pages, she went on, “I think that what you’ve proposed would be fine, Brian, Mr. Intern-Reporter. If you need anything, let me know.” She stood to indicate he should go.

Brian squirmed in his chair. “Um, there’s sort of more. If you’ve got the time?” He reached for his earring and gave it a twist.

Teresa sat back down while he pulled two copies of a list from his folder. He handed one to her. “As you can see, well, we know you probably have your sponsors already lined up, but we’re willing to, that is we’d like to take part in your Mini Expo. You are having one? All the other local sporting events do, you know, so I just assumed you would, you know, the day before the games.”

She bit her lip to keep from laughing at him. “You’re right that we’re having a Mini Expo and talks by fitness experts, but we’re calling it the Breakfast of Champions at the Cardinal Clubhouse of Sedgebrook in Lincolnshire.” She watched as he scribbled this on a piece of paper that he squirreled out of his pocket. “At 9:30 a.m.”

She scanned Brian’s list for GeezerJock’s participation in the Mini Expo. It included: 1) a proposal to enlarge photographs taken the week before at the golfing events and convert them into a free-standing table display; 2) of course, they would be giving away free copies of their magazine; and 3) have hats and shirts for sale in black or white, $24.95. She laid it on her desk as he said, “Of course, anything else you can think of that we could do… .”

“This is fine. How much space do you think you’ll need? One table be enough?” He nodded yes. “Good, then once again, thank you for your offer of publicity. See you at the Games.”

****
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[May]

On Thursday when the last patient of the day had left Dr. Roger Murray’s office, he reluctantly dialed Marian’s cellphone. As the phone continued to ring he stared out the window. Parkside Pavilion at Lutheran General had turned out to be a good choice for him. Impatient at not getting an answer, he hung up the phone. God! Sometimes he wondered how he and his younger sister could even be related.

He was an orthopedic surgeon in a successful practice, she was … what was Marian? She’d gotten the tall gene from his father, while he stood barely three inches taller than his mother. He was neat and punctual; she was … . Well, there again, how does one describe his sister? Her hair hung dark, his was blond and scruffy. Her eyes brown, his blue. Since she’d returned from Italy, Marian had wanted nothing to do with him. Until now. She’d adamantly refused to join him and her mother for Sunday brunch. He didn’t know what to make of the nearly hysterical message she had left on his voice mail, begging him to see her, tonight if at all possible.

He dialed again. When she finally picked up, she pleaded with him. He, in turn, tried to beg off. “I’ve got surgery in the morning. Early.”

Ignoring him, she said, “You have to eat, don’t you? I’ll bring take out. You want Thai or Mexican? Good. I’ll be there at 6:30.”

When she first walked in the door, she gave herself a tour, peeking into all the rooms, commenting on the color-coordinated bathroom, the lack of a ring around the tub. “Quite the little homemaker, aren’t you?” She plopped the foam containers on the kitchen table along with two bottles of wine. “Where’s the corkscrew?”

Roger crossed to a drawer, fished it out. She struggled to open a bottle until he finally took it from her and opened it. “How in the hell did you manage in Italy if you can’t open a bottle of wine?”

“I had Guido.”

“Some day I’ll have to hear all about the infamous Guido.”

“I suppose Mother told you that he had to move back in with his parents. He hates it and can’t wait for me to come back to him.”

Roger busied himself with plates and silverware while Marian downed a glass and a half of Merlot. He sat down and ate, encouraging her to do the same, but she only paced. From the living room doorway to the sink, around the table, a pause by the door to the balcony, then back to the living room, periodically refilling her glass, hugging herself.

“So what’s so important that you had to see me tonight? You’ve been avoiding me for months. Exactly what is it you want, Marian?”

“I’m running out of time, Roger. Mother gave me an ultimatum, and you and I both know she means it. She’ll just kick me at the end of June. That’s what, like eight weeks?”

“You just woke up this morning and realized that? They do have calendars in Italy, right? You haven’t forgotten how to use one?”

“You jerk! You know full well what I mean. What am I going to do?”

“For the love of Pete, Marian, what do you do all day? Mother says you leave at eight o’clock every morning. Where do you go? Have you even tried looking for a job?”

“It’s none of your business what I do. And what would you know about looking for a job? Mr. My-mother-bought-me-into-a-partnership?”

“At least I could get a job on my own. I’ve trained for one. I didn’t run away to Italy.” Roger took several deep breaths. This wasn’t helping. “Mother said she was going to arrange interviews for you. What happened with them?”

“They were dopey old men who had no idea why they were seeing me at all. They all wanted to know what they could do for me, what kind of work I wanted to do.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That anything would be okay. They would ask me for my resume, pick up their reading glasses, say ‘hmm.’ Then tell me that they would pass it on to the appropriate person, assuring me that if they had an opening, someone would call. They knew and I knew that nobody would be calling and no one did. It was big waste of time.”

“Well, if you don’t care what you do, why not look for some sort of receptionist job where all you have to do is greet people and answer the telephone?”

“Because, you cretin, it wouldn’t pay enough.”

“After four months I can’t believe you can say that with a straight face.” He scooped up his plate and silverware and took them to the sink to wash. Over his shoulder he said, “What about asking your friends for help?”

“I don’t have any friends here. Before you ask, no, I don’t have any friends from RISD.”

“No big surprise there. If you hadn’t been so strange at college, your roommates wouldn’t have moved out.” His sister protested. “Look, Marian. They moved out together on you - at the same time.”

She responded, “They probably got another apartment together. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were gay.”

“I don’t believe you! Rather than think that maybe it was you they were running away from, you think they were lesbians?”

“Shut up.” She emptied the bottle into her glass. Handing him the second bottle, she said, “Uncork this will you?”

“Marian, I think you’ve had enough.” He wiped his hands on the dishtowel.

“Don’t go all big brother on me. I’m twenty-eight-years old and don’t need you to baby-sit.”

He made a face and handed her the open bottle. “Speaking of baby-sitting, you’re not coming to live with me when your time’s up. I hope you know that. I certainly have no intention of supporting you.”

“As if I’d want to stay with you. It’s humiliating enough to be living with Mother.”

“Then why do it? Find a job, move out. For God’s sake, Marian.” He gave her a gentle push into the living room and turned off the kitchen light.

When she was seated on the couch, she somehow found the previous thread of their conversation. “Once my roommates moved out, I really didn’t have any friends. All the kids in my classes were so boring or juvenile. The guys each thought they were going to be the next Picasso or Renoir. The girls wanted to be the next Frida Kahlo or Mary Cassatt.”

“So I guess you won’t be going to Rhode Island to renew acquaintances?”

She went on, ignoring him. “Nobody was like Guido. Guido is a real painter, not just some dumb kid pretending to be one.” She poured another glass of wine and set the bottle on the coffee table. Crossing her legs, she began talking about Lucille’s affair with Lars. “I told you about the man Mother was seeing in Italy. I think the guy’s name was Damiano. Now there’s another man.”

“Since when do you care what Mother does?”

“Oh please. I think she’s serious about this one. It was going on before I came home at Christmas. What if he decides to leave his wife and asks Mother to marry him? Where would that leave us?”

“It wouldn’t bother me one way or the other.”

“You fool! I’m not talking about gaining a stepfather. I’m talking about what happens to the money. Daddy’s money, the money that you and I should inherit. You ever think about that?”

“No, but then I have a career and a home and a car that Mommy didn’t buy me.” Laughing at her he said, “You, on the other hand, you should worry.” He went on more gently, “Knowing Mother, she’d make the guy sign a pre-nuptial agreement. But then again, even if she didn’t do that, I think it unlikely that Mother’s going to pop off any time soon, so maybe you shouldn’t worry either.”

“Trust me, if she dies, I’m out of here on the next Alitalia flight. Goodbye, Mommy; Hello, Guido. But it’s not just this guy Lars. I don’t know if he thinks he’s the only man she’s seeing but he’s not. She goes out almost every night for dinner. Different men show up, they have a drink, leave and come home after midnight. I hear them in her bedroom, Daddy’s bedroom. The laughing, the thumping, the shower running.”

“Since when do you care about Daddy? Or his bedroom?”

“Damn you, Roger. I did care. Daddy knew I cared about him.”

“You could hardly bear to come home for his funeral. Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” Roger left his chair and stood staring out the window.

“Marian, did you ever ask yourself why Mother does this? Or are you really so self-centered you never asked the question?”

She dribbled the last of the second bottle into her glass. Roger knew he shouldn’t let her drive home, that he’d have to call a cab.

“What I know is that the nights she stays home are awful. She’s desperate for the company of a man, any man. If Lars catches her at the right moment, who knows if she’ll agree to marry him?”

Roger took out the phone book and called Community Cab, giving his address. “Fifteen minutes? Okay.”

As he helped Marian into her coat, she said, “And did you hear the latest? She’s promised the Senior Center Director two million dollars as a bequest for a Richard Murray memorial. So you can kiss that two million goodbye, Brother.”

“Come on, Marian. I’ll walk you down.”

****
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Maybe if she had never met Richard Murray, Lucy Scott might have simply continued her employment as a secretary, might have eventually married, after all she was only thirty-two at the time. But everyone who knew her would have bet money on Lucy ending up alone. Not that Lucy Scott wasn’t attractive. But she had an intensity, a directness, that put most men off. Perhaps if she had married someone nearer her own age, with the same sort of income or slightly better, they might still have bought a house in pricey Park Ridge. Maybe she and her pedestrian, conventional husband would have worked at their pedestrian, conventional jobs, then retired. And yes, after retirement, they might have joined the Senior Center to play pinochle or go on trips.

But young Lucy Scott from the Irish southside of Chicago had married the wealthy Richard Murray who had traveled in much different social circles than she was even aware of. Perhaps that’s why Richard’s fascination with the Senior Center seemed so old-fashioned of him, so out of character. After his death the center director had personally telephoned to invite Richard’s widow to various activities at the Center. Lucille was certain this was in deference to Richard’s affluence. But having actually attended some events, she quickly realized that Richard wasn’t remembered for having money, but just a gentle, fun-loving man. That was the man she had married.

She was caught in a peculiar trap: she adamantly did not want to belong to the “old people’s center,” nor was she willing to give up the only remaining connection to her husband and his memory. She forced her way through “The Spectator,” the monthly Center newsletter, looking for anything that she thought she could stand to be involved in. She refused to sit and play cards, not that she couldn’t have more than held her own at bridge, but because she wanted no other partner than Richard. Trips she could book herself, although for one brief moment she did consider going to a Cub’s game, as they had as a family when her son Roger was young. Computer classes she could take at Oakton Community College. The Science Club did nothing but watch videos; she wasn’t desperate enough to crochet potholders.

What Lucille couldn’t see, that Richard had recognized, was the vibrant sense of community the center offered. The options to book their own trips and to take classes at the college were also available to most folks at the Center, but they chose instead to help create their own classes, follow their own interests, within a community of like-minded people. In doing so they built a real “center,” a “heart,” if you will, at the Senior Center.

After discounting the Book Discussion Group and discarding Genealogy, Lucille eventually considered the Writing Group. But she passed over the four-week class on “How To Write and Read Poetry.” She emphatically wasn’t interested in the next class, “Writing about Nature.” Spending six weeks at “Mini Mysteries,” crafting whodunits seemed pointless. But then she saw the advertisement for inexperienced writers to join an eight-week “Write Your Memoirs” class. The thought of creating a memorial to Richard intrigued her, so she registered and paid for the class.

It was during this period that she discovered how skewed by bitterness her memories had become. Her first project attempted to capture their trip to Europe celebrating his retirement. She worked painstakingly to paint with words Richard’s sense of wonderment as together they explored museums and castles, his carefree attitude toward the children’s late return from spring break. She was excited as she recorded his smiles of pleasure, his insatiable curiosity, then troubled as she thought uncharitably of his indifference to school rules which she was convinced had led to Marian’s rebellious behavior. In the end she had settled for a strictly chronological accounting of the places they’d been. If Joan Pedersen had been less sensitive when she read that first assignment, Lucille might have left the class, never to return. Other writing attempts also failed. She would begin with the happiness and end with the hollowness. But when the class was over, she continued.

Although Joan was kind, Lucille’s lifeline at the Center was Teresa Cusentino, the Director. Teresa and Richard had been, as Teresa put it, “best buds.” It was she who had encouraged Richard to take up woodworking and to read for a part in a small amateur play. She had listened to him sing in her office, assuring him that the Center Songsters had room for him and that he should try out. The night he performed a solo in the Variety Show, the three of them had gone out to celebrate.

Insecure about being accepted for herself, Lucille sought to trade on who Richard had been. For instance, she kept up the $1000 a year donation to the Six County Senior Olympics because Richard had won a gold medal in Table Tennis. When the memories of Richard had faded (to Lucille’s way of thinking), she began to buy her way with contributions to this and that. Eventually she promised Teresa a donation of two million dollars to create an appropriate memorial to Richard.

As tenuous as her relationship with the thirty-seven-year old director was, it was the only close-to-real relationship Lucille had with anyone. All she had to do was drop in to the Center and Teresa made time for her. Several frustrating months after Marian returned to Park Ridge from Naples, Lucille called the office and asked Teresa to come visit her at home, “Perhaps, some evening.” Marian’s resume sucked; the interviews that Lucille had begged for her daughter had resulted in humiliation. She protested that she had done everything in her power to help the girl. Teresa assured her that they could have the conversation at the office during working hours, carefully guarding her personal time as well as her privacy.

Having, for once, been forewarned of Lucille’s invasion, Teresa made a desperate effort to clear off her desk. She had begged Gloria, the receptionist, to actually file the folders which had lived on the seat of the visitor’s chair for longer than she could remember.

At 11:00 Lucille swept into the director’s office in a powder blue pantsuit, hair freshly styled. She declined the offer of a 25-cent cup of decaffeinated coffee and got right to the reason for the conference. “I wanted to discuss with you the possibility of your employing my daughter, Marian, here at the Senior Center.”

Teresa cringed. She was used to hearing about the seniors’ children and their adventures, even their grandchildren, but she’d never been asked to give one a job before.

Lucille took no notice. “She’s somewhat younger than you, you’re what forty?”

Teresa straightened. “Thirty-seven.”

“And still not married? Well. I’m sure that Marian would benefit from your direction. Anyway.”

The director wiggled in her chair. “What sort of position did you have in mind? Did you mean that you want me to hire her as my assistant? Or secretary? Receptionist?”

“Clearly, Gloria is adequate as your receptionist. And although I’ve no doubt that you could make good use of a secretary, I was thinking assistant director, or perhaps, as a concession, program assistant. She could start this Monday.”

Teresa considered explaining to the older woman that while the Senior Center did, in fact, need a program assistant, there was no budget for one, and she was pretty sure that Marian had no qualifications for the job. She settled for saying, “But we’re not looking to hire anyone right now, Lucille.”

Undeterred, Lucille continued, “Ah. Well, Marian is artistically inclined. You do know that she lived in Italy for eight years? All those famous painters and sculptors! All those museums! Perhaps, she could do some murals for the walls.”

“I’m sorry?” Teresa had a momentarily terrifying vision of an elongated version of Michelangelo’s ceiling at the Sistine chapel covering her hallways and lining the Recreation Area.

“I would go so far as to provide a salary for her, and, of course, materials - paint, scaffolding, whatever - for the duration of the project. The only stipulation that I would make is that the Senior Center issue her a check, or checks plural, if you pay by the week.”

Oh my god! Take a breath. Teresa leaned back in her chair, took a quick look out the window, then rocked forward again. She looked Lucille in the eye. “First, although it is certainly interesting to contemplate, we do not need murals for our walls. Thank you for the offer. Second, as I’m sure you know, the Park District, which oversees the Center, issues all our paychecks. The money would need to go through them and I can only assume that they wouldn’t think too highly of the subterfuge.” Ouch! That’s gonna come back and bite me. Oh well. She leaned back again. “I take it that Marian is having trouble finding a job.”

Lucille stared into those Sophia Loren-like eyes across the desk. The self-assured woman she saw radiated confidence. So unlike Marian. She had to hand it to the director, the young woman had a backbone. There had been no hesitation to say that there were no openings. Teresa hadn’t even waffled about the murals, knowing full well that Lucille could make things extremely unpleasant. Nodding her head, she reluctantly gave the girl-director credit for calling her scheme a “subterfuge.” Anxious to salvage something from her visit, Lucille admitted, “Yes, Marian is having some difficulty in securing employment.”

Teresa knew that to ask what sort of work Marian was looking for would be foolish. Marian obviously wasn’t looking - her Mother was. “Would you like me to speak with her?”

Visibly relieved, Lucille spoke quickly, “Excellent! Tomorrow? I could let her know at dinner tonight.”

Teresa made a show of turning the pages of her calendar and considering activities and times. Lord, I do not want to do this! “How about 2:30?”

A thin woman with close-set brown eyes, frizzy hair and over-plucked eyebrows, dressed in a soft pink linen suit and wearing high-heeled shoes, knocked on Teresa’s door the next day. As she listened to someone on phone, Teresa mouthed the name, “Marian?” The young woman nodded and Teresa waved her in.

When she had hung up, she stood and introduced herself. “I’m Teresa Cusentino, the director here. I want to tell you how much I still really miss your dad. He was a great guy. And, of course, I know your mom.”

They sized each other up in a matter of moments. “All that’s missing is the pillbox hat in pink, of course, and maybe short white gloves,” Teresa thought. Marian’s wild hair had been captured and barely contained in some sort of knot at the back of her head. Her eyes moved restlessly in a narrow, almost bony face. Her nails were bitten to nubs.

For Marian’s part, she decided that Teresa was one of those women Guido referred to as having “brass ovaries.” But he would appreciate the package they came in, she knew. Silky, sleek dark hair swayed around the director’s face as she shuffled papers. The bright red blouse was unbuttoned to the top of her bra. She wore large gold earrings and a bulky gold necklace. She had long painted nails, an expensive-looking black leather mini-skirt.

Teresa smiled. “Your mother thought I might be able to help you find a job.”

Marian crossed her legs and said belligerently, “She told me you were going to give me a job.”

Taken aback, Teresa retorted, “Well, I’m not. So where does that leave us?”

Marian reached up and unknotted her hair. She pulled at the buttons on her jacket and whipped it off. The pale camisole revealed bony shoulders and long thin arms. “Beats me. I have to have something to tell her when I come home.”

Which led to Teresa listening for the next half-hour to Marian’s complaints about her mother, then multiple stories of abortive interviews with her mother’s friends. They talked quietly, the thirty-seven-year old woman of the world, who had never been beyond U.S. borders, and the inexperienced, hostile twenty-eight-year old recently of Naples, Italy.

Ceci Cantrell, former advertising company employee, had taken Teresa’s request for help in publicizing the Six County Senior Olympics. Soon colorful posters decorated the bulletin boards and doors, even bathroom mirrors. Ever since the Mini Games in April, the seniors at the Center had been chatting about forming teams and partnerships for the doubles and team events like tennis, bowling, bocce, and volleyball. When Lucille considered her choices of tennis partner for the Six Country Senior Olympics, less than two months away, she didn’t have many to consider. The women at the exclusive club where she played weren’t the kind to be interested in something as pedestrian as a competition of senior citizens!

As far as she knew, the only women at the Park Ridge Senior Center in her age bracket, 60-64, were Ceci Cantrell, Joan Pedersen, and Stella Nevins. The saucy Cantrell would make for a formidable opponent on the court. Her athleticism was evident; her passion unchecked. But having Cecelia, the heroine/villain of the Legend of the Closet, as a partner was impossible.

Joan Pedersen, the leader of the Writing Group, moved her tall body easily. Did she play tennis? Lucille couldn’t remember. She knew that Joan played golf and swam. It was hard not to know that after months of writing classes. Would Joan be willing to partner with her? “If she doesn’t know about my affair with her husband,” she thought. She sensed Joan’s annoyance in class, particularly with reference to Lucille’s criticism of Ceci’s work. Maybe she could make an effort to back off if it meant Joan would consent to play doubles.

Lucille considered the third woman on her list - Stella Nevins. Stella with her long wavy white hair, called “Stunning Stella” by the men at the Center. Stella’s hair always made Lucille self-conscious of her closely cropped artificially blonde curls. Her husband had teased her when her hair had started coming in gray, calling her his “little mouse.” Shortly after that she began to color it. John Whitney had acted as she were still a “little mouse,” making clear his preference of Stella over Lucille. Lucille would make sure that he regretted that, but not yet.

Lucille knew that Stella, like Joan, also golfed. She remembered the pathetically sappy story Stella had written about making a hole in one. Of course, that was on the 18-hole, par-3 course at Lake Opeka in Des Plaines, not a real course. But did Stella Nevins play tennis? Lucille remembered being beaten in the finals of table tennis by Stella and Ceci. Like teenagers the two had high-fived, done some obscene form of dance and bumped hips, knocked fists and in general had been obnoxious about winning. She would have to find out about Stella and “regular” tennis.

If all else failed, she could probably locate the bungling woman, Angela Kaslugas, who had played table tennis with her, providing of course that the woman played “real” tennis. Unknown to Lucille, Angela had deeply regretted her decision to partner with Lucille. She had made it clear to her friends, which didn’t include the arrogant Lucille Murray, that she would never make the same mistake again.

Hoping to expand her list, Lucille approached the center director for the names of other women in her age bracket that played tennis.

Having not forgotten the crack about being forty, Teresa responded, “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten how old you are? 63? Ah, 64! Well, there’s Ceci Cantrell, Stella Nevins, Joan Pedersen, hmm, Angela Kaslugas. You played table tennis with her at the Mini Olympics, didn’t you? I’m sure they are all in their early sixties. I even think that the first three play tennis. Oh! Suzanne Bishop might be the right age. I’m not sure. You can check with Gloria. You’d have to ask if she plays tennis, though, because I have no idea.”

Lucille tapped a painted nail on her notebook. “This Bishop woman? Where can I find her?”

“Suzanne comes for painting classes on Tuesdays. Wonderful watercolors. I’m sure you’d love them. You know, if Marian is interested, Suzanne teaches for the Park District.”

Lucille did love the paintings which were delicate like Japanese prints but she knew on sight that the plump, smiley woman, Suzanne Bishop, would only be a hindrance on the court, even if she did play tennis.

Since Ceci and Stella had played as a team to a gold-medal finish in table tennis, the two had agreed to try playing as a team in “regular” tennis. When Lucille heard them talking about it in class, she took the next opportunity to speak with Joan, asking the Writing Instructor to be her partner.

For once, Joan found the courage to say, “No.” She did not follow it with “I’m sorry” or include a “thank you for asking.”

Thinking that Joan might have already made plans, she asked, “Do you have a partner?”

“No.”

“But you don’t want me for your partner. Is that it? I’ll have you know that tennis is one of the things that I excel at, even if I don’t brag like everyone else. Your loss.”

Lucille was unwilling to accept the possibility that she would have no partner and be excluded from the doubles’ competition. She marched, from the Ceramics Room where the Writing Group met, into Teresa’s office and insisted that the director come up with a suitable partner.

“Joan Pedersen just refused to play with me.”

“I’m sure she had her reasons.”

Lucille snorted inelegantly.

“Have you asked any of the members of your tennis club?”

Lucille responded emphatically, “No!”

Teresa thought, “Why am I not surprised?” She resisted the urge to ask why not. She also didn’t mention that if Lucille wanted to play that much that she should consider playing singles. Reaching back to their last conversation on the subject, she asked, “What about Suzanne Bishop?”

“Never.”

The director sighed. “So what do you want me to do?” Seniors really are like children sometimes. “Mommy, the other kids won’t let me play with them!”

“Whatever you feel might be appropriate.” Lucille smacked the back of the visitor’s chair still piled high, but with props for the Variety Show. She smirked at the director. “I’ve heard that Cecelia Cantrell and Stella Nevins are going to be partners.” She followed this with a meaningful glance that said “that was a hint,” but gave Teresa no chance to answer, plunging on to a different topic. “What would it take to create a Richard Murray Sportsmanship Award for the Six County Senior Olympics?”

Ah, a bribe! Teresa explained that there was no closing ceremony for the games. She couldn’t imagine how the nominating might be done or who would do the judging. “Sportsmanship is very subjective, you know.”

“Well, then, how about a trophy for the most medals won or something?” “Come to think of it, Joan Pedersen mentioned that in researching a piece that she’s writing about the State Senior Games, that they have an Alfred Kamm award for highest overall points for men. You get so many points for each different kind of medal. We could do something like that. You do realize that we’d have to send the winner the trophy after the games were over.”

Lucille thought that that would be best anyway, then the trophy could be engraved with the recipient’s name.

“Just the one trophy? For men?” Teresa reasoned that upping the bribe to two trophies would provide more incentive for her to call Joan. She wondered as she watched Lucille warily. Would Joan reconsider? And even if Joan agreed, how desperate was Lucille? Enough to forgive - at least long enough to compete?

“You’re right, Teresa, of course, there should be two trophies. Named for my husband, of course.”

As Lucille had planned, the discussion of the trophies resonated with her promise to donate two million dollars to the Senior Center. So when Teresa had asked again what Lucille expected her to do about a tennis partner, and Lucille had responded, “I’m sure you’ll think of something. Soon,” Teresa felt obligated. She picked up the phone and called Joan.

But Joan refused to budge. Which meant that Teresa needed to try and split Ceci and Stella up, after all, that was the real hint, right? That’s what the smack on the chair had meant. When Teresa next saw Stella, she tried as diplomatically as possible to suggest a trade of partners, but she ended up pleading. “I was thinking that if you and Lucille made a team, that Ceci and Joan could make another.”

Stella responded, “Do you even know if Joan wants to play?”

“Yes, she does, but not bad enough to have Lucille as a partner. There’s something going on between them but I don’t know what it is. It would be just for the one event, Stella, I swear!”

****
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[Last summer]

Lucille had timed the tour so that she would be with Marian for her sixty-third birthday, expecting gratitude. Hah!

After landing at Fiumicino Airport, she cabbed to the Hotel Diana. Because she’d slept on the evening flight from O’Hare, she had planned a full day for acclimating herself to the sound of Italian being spoken, the constant honking of horns, and the ever-present pigeons.

That evening after miscellaneous shopping, she dined alone in the roof garden, L’Uliveto, enjoying the panoramic views of the city. As she sat at a small table near the parapet, a silver-haired man in a gray linen suit, navy blue shirt open at the throat, flirted with her from the bar by sending first a drink, then a nosegay of flowers. She waved her thanks each time, and he nodded. Drawn by his resemblance to Richard, his height, the way he wore his hair, she was bewildered when he made no attempt to join her.

In the morning, however, Damiano Giannonatti, the masterful, elegant, ever-patient Italian, was waiting for her when she arrived in the lobby. Together they shopped, drank espresso, threw coins in fountains. They talked about the tour that she had booked, which would begin the following day with Sienna. They lingered over dinner together at a restaurant near to the Hotel Diana, stayed for more drinks, but no, Lucille did not invite Damiano back to her room.

Simmering Sienna seemed much the same as she had remembered when she, Richard, and the children had visited so long before, but Lucille’s efforts to recapture the joy of that time proved futile. Then the tour advanced to Florence. When she entered the lobby of the hotel, Damiano rose from a chair and came to greet her. “I had to see you again, Bella. I will talk to the guide and, perhaps, persuade him to let me accompany you while you are in Florence.” She slept with him the second night. The third day she was wistful, wanting him to stay, to continue on with her to Pisa, on to Padua, all the while knowing that she should send him away. She had come to break her pattern of desperate encounters.

Pacing her room, missing Richard more than ever, she waffled, but eventually sent Damiano away; he returned to Rome. But as if playing an elaborate game, he joined her again in Venice for four days. The world shone for Lucille - she was desired, pursued, both hunter and prey. Again, like the insistent back and forth of a dance, she pushed him away. The tour moved on to Verona. At Lake Garda the persistent Damiano pulled her close and gestured, “The largest lake in Italy.” They had three days in Milan, then he suddenly deserted her at Assisi.

The rules of the game dictated that he be waiting at Rome when she returned. But instead of him, she found only flowers, beautiful flowers but no Damiano. He kept her wondering until her birthday the following day. Damiano phoned to wish her the best of days, “How could I forget?” and to invite her to dinner. He presented her with a silver filigree necklace with a blue star sapphire pendant which Lucille treasured. “To match your eyes.”

She had deliberately postponed visiting Marian in Naples until the tour was over. Dreading the encounter, Lucille gratefully accepted Damiano’s offer to accompany her to Naples. They took the two-hour train ride and immediately on arrival checked into a hotel at Lucille’s expense and resolutely set off for Marian’s. Relying on him to navigate, she took Marian’s address from her purse. They found the apartment on the Via Tribunali one block west of the Via Duomo. A woman seated on the steps told her that Signorina Murray was on the third floor.

When Lucille knocked on the bright blue door, a modishly unshaven young man with shaggy black hair answered. He blocked the doorway, leaning against the jamb and leered at her. Lucille asked to see Marian. He, in turn, asked in broken English who wanted to know. Damiano stepped beside her and said, “We do.” The boy checked him out and nodded, inviting them in.

Damiano formally introduced Lucille as Marian’s mother. The young man gave his name as Guido Cerasoli, identified himself as Marian’s fiance, and offered his hand to Lucille. She touched it briefly. He cleared the newspaper from the couch and invited them to sit.

Damiano spoke with Guido in Italian for several minutes while Lucille wandered from room to room, checking out her daughter’s living conditions. The bed was made, windows were clean, the floor swept. When Lucille returned to the living area, Damiano told her, “Guido says that she is at the market and asks if you would like some wine while you wait.”

Before Lucille could answer, Marian returned. Her shock was evident as was the contrast between them: Marian in raggedy jeans, one of Guido’s shirt tossed over a tank top; Lucille in a flowered skirt, scoop-necked summer weight sweater, Damiano’s present at her neck. “Oh my god!” exclaimed Marian. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s good to see you, too, Marian. I decided to give myself a birthday treat.”

“Oh. Happy birthday.” She turned to Guido who stood with his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

“Damiano bought me this beautiful necklace as a birthday present. What do you have for me? Not even a card? And don’t tell me that it’s in the mail and on its way to America.” Lucille took a seat by the window, patting the cushion next to her for Damiano. “I believe I’ll have that wine that Mr. Cerasoli offered us.”

The four of them drank in silence until Lucille spoke. “Guido tells us that you are engaged. Congratulations. How soon had you planned on marrying?”

When neither Guido nor Marian could put a sentence together in response, Lucille cut them both off. “We’re on our way to see Mergellina and the royal palace, as well as some other places. I’d like it, Marian, if you would join us. Guido (not addressing him) may also come.” Guido bristled, rattled off a mouthful of Italian to which Damiano responded in a hiss. Guido backed down, then sulked.

Marian was torn - she wanted to go (Guido never took her anywhere) but she didn’t want to spend time with her mother. Who is that man with her? Then she decided that perhaps she ought to go. Her mother was obviously already pissed about her birthday being forgotten and the secret engagement. She might be even be annoyed enough to yank her financial support. Marian tried placating Guido by saying that in all the time she’d lived in Naples she had never seen The Capodimonte Museum.

In spite of threatening glances from Guido, who refused to accompany them, the three of them headed for the Maschio Angioino.

At the castle Damiano pointed out the great bronze door which still had a cannonball embedded in it and told them the story of the crocodile in the moat. They chattered, with Marian almost civil under Damiano’s charm, while walking along the Bay of Naples, then lunched at an outdoor café. Marian asked her mother anxiously, “How long are you staying?”

“We haven’t decided yet. We thought we might go to Pompeii, Sorrento, head for the Island of Capri. Have you been? Would you like to go with us?”

As expected, Marian refused. “I can’t leave Guido.”

Over their meal Lucille’s suspicions were confirmed: Marian had not been painting, was not painting, had no intention of painting, but had a live-in boyfriend that paints, when inclined, evidently supported by Richard’s money.

In spite of Lucille’s displeasure, the three visited the Capodimonte Museum and Park, “built as King Charles III’s hunting lodge, housing one of Italy’s richest museums with a great picture gallery and collection of majolica and porcelain,” which Marian had wanted to see.

In a mellower mood they stopped by the hotel to change for dinner, then returned to Marian’s to pick up Guido. Taking his cue from Damiano, Guido dressed for the occasion. Lucille noted his expensive necklace and ring and wondered if she had purchased those as well as the obviously hand-tailored suit. Marian tried but could only muster a skirt which had been new five years before and an off-white shirt with sandals. She wore a single piece of jewellery - a ring her father had given her.

After they had eaten, Damiano suggested they take in the light show in the Castel dell’Ovo Plebiscito Square. Guido scoffed that it was a tourist thing. “Marian and I have better things to do.” In retaliation, Lucille demanded Marian’s attendance at the hotel the following morning before she and Damiano left for Rome.

This twist had Marian worried. She knew that Lucille and Damiano had planned to stay a second or third day in Naples, with the side trip to the Isle of Capri, but now, suddenly, her mother had decided to leave the next morning, not even going to Pompeii.

That night as Lucille sat on a bench in the square, Damiano’s arm loose across her shoulders, she oohed with the other tourists when spotlights lit the cross atop the church. The sound Dvorak’s New World Symphony filled the night from small speakers mounted on the lampposts. Slowly the light seemed to slip downwards, illuminating the main dome, two smaller domes, the statues, colonnade and porticos. When the light reached the equestrian statues, the same sequence took place on the Royal Palace, the building gradually lit from clock tower to niches.

As the clock rang the hour, narrow beams of light shot out with each tone. Then the entire square was flooded with colored light: yellow at a quarter past the hour, red at half past, green at quarter to, and blue on the hour.

The next morning Marian reluctantly called on Lucille. Pulling her daughter into an alcove, Lucille warned her, “Either start painting and support yourself with it, or find some other kind of job. Who cares what it is? Or take Guido up on his offer of marriage assuming you really are engaged. Or find another man willing to provide for you. Or come home. If you want to keep Guido, and I mean keep in the financial sense, you can do it from now on with your own money.”

“Is that an ultimatum?”

“Yes, sweet Marian, it is. Either you find a way to support yourself or I want you home for Christmas. Your father was right - in his will he made the allowance only through the end of that first year. I should have held you to it. That was five years ago. Game over! You have three months.”

“You hate me! Why would you want me home?”

“I don’t want you home. I don’t want to keep paying for you to be here.”

There was little force to the words because she kept asking herself what Richard would do, but there’s an anger waking from sleep that won’t be ignored. She was suffering from a guilty conscience over Damiano. The pattern had not been broken. She came home much older than just the birthday might indicate.

Frantic, Marian tried but when all she had left was money for plane fare home, she kissed Guido goodbye and booked her flight to Park Ridge.

She arrived at O’Hare on December 23rd. The next evening her brother Roger joined Marian and their mother for dinner. After they had eaten, they gathered in the living room to exchange presents.

Roger had had a duplicate of Vision Architecture’s portrait of Richard made and framed for Lucille. For Marian he had found an antique cloisonné locket.

Lucille bought Roger a new sweater to wear in Vail on his ski trip. For Marian she had chosen a new dress for dinner out the next day.

Marian reluctantly slipped her presents from under the tree. She handed Roger a small package wrapped in blue foil. It was a bottle of Guido’s favorite aftershave. She handed Lucille a box which contained earrings with a blue stone. Hoping to score points she explained, “I thought that they might go with the necklace that Damiano gave you for your birthday.” Roger immediately asked, “Who’s Damiano?” But Lucille simply waved away his question and glared at Marian for reminding her.

Shortly after New Year’s, it became apparent that Marian is not at all like the prodigal son who returned home repentant!

When Lucille heard Marian’s footsteps on the stairs, she retrieved a brand new laptop from the office. Placing it on the table, she said, “This is an after-Christmas present. Do you type?”

The tone was so confrontational that Marian paused in the kitchen doorway. Warily, she pushed her hair back from her face. “No. What do I have to type for?”

“Because I say you do. Get over it. I want you to enroll in a typing class, somewhere, anywhere. I don’t care if it’s online. You can even buy a CD with a class on it. I don’t care. But you will learn to type. Understood?”

Marian groaned her response. Resigned to a morning from hell, she pushed past her mother to the coffeepot.

To her daughter’s back, Lucille continued, “The next thing I want you to do is write out a resume. Use one of the templates in Word. You do know what Word is? On the computer?” Marian’s head bobbed affirmatively. “If you can’t figure out how to do it, I’ll help you. But I want something printed out and in my hands by the end of the week.”

Marian turned to face Lucille. She stiffened and saluted with her free hand. “Yes, ma’am!”

Lucille glared as her daughter put the coffee mug on the table and sat. “I assume you have nothing suitable as far as work clothes so I’m taking you to buy some things this morning.”

“Oh jeez. Can I at least have breakfast before we talk about this?”

Lucille walked over to the table. “This afternoon I’m taking you to the salon to get something done with your hair.” She reached out a hand which Marian slapped away.

“So I can look like you? Like some blond pickaninny?”

“How dare you!”

“Oh please, Mother. You’ve already ruined my life. You can’t possibly be surprised that I hate you.”

“I’ll ignore that - for now. Tomorrow we will go car shopping. I hope you remember how to drive after running around on Guido’s Vespa for the last eight years. I am willing to purchase you a vehicle. I will even pay for six months of insurance. Then you’re on your own. Got it?”

“Are you done?”

“I want there to be no misunderstanding, Marian. I’m giving you six months to live here. Then out you go.”

“Go where?”

“For the love of God, Marian. How can a child of mine be so stupid? Wherever you want to go. Go back to Italy for all I care.”

“You’ll let me go back to Italy?”

“You can go now if you want.”

“But?”

“But you’ll have to get there on your own and support yourself while you’re there. Or Signore Cerasoli will have to.”

She looked at her daughter’s face. “You’re twenty-eight years old. Start acting like it. You have six months to move out. While you’re here, you have free room and board, a car, and car insurance. I will even give you an allowance which you can use for gas or haircuts, whatever. But at the end of six months, you will leave. The sooner you find yourself a job, the sooner you can start saving money for an apartment.”

“Oh my god! You’re serious.”

“Beginning next week, I expect you to be up and out of the house by eight o’clock, Monday through Friday.”

“If I haven’t got a job, what am I going to be doing at eight o’clock in the morning?”

“That’s your problem. Maybe you can take the laptop to Starbucks and look for jobs on the internet while you drink your coffee. Maybe even post your resume online. When the library opens, you can go there. They’ve got all sorts of information on looking for jobs, etc. I also would expect that you would be going on interviews.”

“At eight o’clock in the morning?” Marian challenged.

“Believe it or not, some people actually are up and about before noon. Once I’ve seen your resume and we’ve fiddled with it, as no doubt we will need to, I will contact some friends, as well as friends of your father’s, that owe me favors. I will ask them to set up interviews for you. I can guarantee that someone will see you but I will put no pressure on him or her to hire you. You need to get the job on your own.”

“You want me to be just like you, is that it? The way you were before Daddy married you, stuck behind a stupid typewriter all day.”

“Just what sort of job do you think you’re qualified for Marian? Certainly not the one I did, no matter how much you disparage it.”

“Couldn’t I at least get a job that has something to do with art? Or design?”

“We’ll see. I’ll have to take a look at the contacts that I have. There’s nothing stopping you from finding your own job.”

****
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