Chapter Five

FIVE

SEPTEMBER 1987

Retirement was every bit as awful as Augusta knew it would be. Without her work to fill up the hours, Augusta was purposeless. Adrift. She had been in Florida for less than a week, and already she was losing track of the days. She missed having a place to go every morning. She missed the intellectual stimulation. She missed being the first to know about new medications before they hit the market.

It didn’t help that her eightieth birthday loomed on the horizon like a sinking ship.

“It will get easier,” her niece Jackie told her when she called from New York. “I’m sure you’ll make plenty of new friends soon. You’ll probably meet a bunch of transplanted New Yorkers. Isn’t half the population of Florida from Brooklyn?”

“I don’t know about that,” Augusta responded. She hadn’t mentioned Irving to her niece yet, and she didn’t feel like relaying the whole sordid story. Jackie was a detail-oriented person. She wouldn’t be satisfied with a passing reference or a brief description of her old… acquaintance. Jackie would want to know the specifics. She would have questions and she would want answers.

“Is the pool as nice as the pictures, at least? And the condo? How is the space?”

“The pool is nice,” Augusta told her. “And the condo is even bigger than the pictures. There’s plenty of room for when you come.”

“I can’t wait,” Jackie told her. “Believe me, I’ve already started packing.”

“I know I’ve told you this before, but you can bring the whole family, you know. Philip, the kids. The couch pulls out…”

“Trust me, Phil’s completely on board with me taking a weekend for myself to celebrate my favorite aunt’s eightieth birthday!”

“I’m glad you’re coming,” said Augusta. “It will be nice to see a familiar face.”

“See you in three weeks,” said Jackie.

Augusta ended the call without mentioning the other familiar face she had seen. The face that popped up, unsolicited, wherever she seemed to turn.

On her second morning at Rallentando Springs, Irving waited by the swimming pool steps as Augusta emerged from the water. In his hands, he held up a towel like some kind of geriatric matador. Did he honestly think she was going to stand there and allow him to wrap the towel around her? Did he think she was going to encourage this intimate and wildly presumptuous gesture? “No thank you,” she said as she breezed right past him, in a voice loud enough so that not only Irving but everyone at the pool would hear.

“New suit?” asked Irving. “Looks nice on you, by the way.”

She’d put on one of her best bathing suits that morning. I’m not wearing it for him, she told herself when she checked the straps in the mirror. It was only that she didn’t want the canasta-playing biddies to think she didn’t own anything decent. She had promised Jackie that she’d try to make friends, and she wanted to make a good impression.

“I don’t appreciate comments on my appearance,” said Augusta, reaching for the towel she’d left on her chair.

“No problem,” said Irving, not the least bit offended. “I feel the same way myself, of course, but I didn’t want to say anything to you yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“Uh-huh. When you called me fat, I said to myself, Forgive her, Irving. She doesn’t mean it. You’ve known each other too long to hold a grudge. ”

It took a moment for Augusta to recover from the shock of Irving’s verbal agility, but eventually she managed to speak. “I apologize,” she said. “It won’t happen again.”

Augusta was determined not to let Irving’s presence interfere with her exercise routine. She would not allow his lurking to get in the way of her cardiovascular wellness. The third morning at the pool passed without incident. Irving waved to her from his lounge chair, but he did not attempt to get any closer.

On the fourth morning, when Augusta got out of the pool, Irving was nowhere in sight. Delighted, she swam a few extra laps. Even after she toweled off, there was still no sign of the menace from her past. Leaning back against her lounge chair, she allowed herself to enjoy the stillness. She closed her eyes and felt the sunshine warming her clammy skin. Soon two Rallentando employees unlocked the charming little snack shack and opened the takeout window for business. At twelve o’clock, she wandered over and read the list of lunchtime specials. A veggie burger might be nice for a change. Or maybe a chef’s salad.

What had Irving told her again? They got a nice turkey club. But whatever you do, don’t get the tuna. Augusta never ate anything with mayonnaise unless she was certain about the refrigeration. Leave it out a minute too long and… well, she didn’t like to think about it. She was choosing between the turkey club and the veggie burger special when she remembered the rest of what Irving had said. I hope life hasn’t been too rough on you, kid. The nerve of him, saying such a thing. As if the path her life had taken had nothing whatsoever to do with him. As if he didn’t remember what had happened all those years ago in Brooklyn. Despite the sunshine and the idyllic setting, rage bubbled up in Augusta’s chest. She would be damned if Irving Rivkin was going to dictate her life choices.

“I’ll have the tuna,” she told the young man taking orders at the window. He was in his early twenties—tall, gangly, and quick, with a slightly lopsided smile. His pinned-on name tag read PAUL.

Twenty minutes later, she was finishing her sandwich when she spotted Irving approaching her table. “You got the tuna?” he asked, incredulous. A line of worry stretched across his forehead.

“So what if I did?” Augusta shot back. “Why are you so concerned with my lunch order anyway?”

Irving looked as if she’d struck him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not judging, but Paul has a habit of leaving out the mayonnaise jar. Of course, you should have whatever you like.”

While he stood in line to place his order, Augusta wolfed down the last few bites of her tuna sandwich. She heard Irving ask for a turkey club with no mayo, a side of chips, and a Diet Pepsi before she left the pool and headed home.

An hour later, she began to feel queasy. Her temples throbbed on and off like some kind of defective light bulb. Unable to concentrate, she put down her book, clutched her abdomen, and closed her eyes. No, she told herself. No, no, no. Please don’t let that man be right. But an hour later, she was sick to her stomach. She spent the rest of the day and early evening vomiting until she fell asleep.

The next morning, she was weak and dehydrated. When she opened her front door to pick up her newspaper, someone had left a brown paper bag filled with Pepto-Bismol, a box of saltines, and a small green bottle of Schweppes ginger ale. She carried the paper bag inside and filled a glass with soda and ice. When she removed the groceries, she saw a handwritten note scrawled on the outside of the bag. I hope you don’t need this, but I left it, in case. Irving. As Augusta sipped the sweet, bubbly liquid, she wondered how Irving had figured out which of the condominiums was hers. She took two tablespoons of Pepto-Bismol, ate a few crackers, and got back into bed. Before long, she was asleep again.

The telephone woke her a few hours later. In her dreams, she was back in Brooklyn, and the phone was the night bell from her father’s drugstore. When she finally remembered where she was, the telephone was still ringing. Other than Jackie, she hadn’t given anyone her new number.

“Hello?”

“It’s Irving. Everything okay over there?”

“Irving. How did you get my number?”

“The receptionist over at the clubhouse gave it to me. You’re not in the resident directory yet—they don’t print the new one until December.”

“Oh,” said Augusta, vaguely remembering a booklet or two in her welcome packet.

“When I didn’t see you at the pool today, I figured maybe the tuna didn’t sit so well. If you were somebody else, I might not have worried. But if you don’t mind my saying, you seem a little bit on the obsessive side when it comes to your exercise. The type of person who likes to adhere to a specific routine. If she’s not swimming, I said to myself, something has to be wrong. ”

She was too exhausted to argue with him. Too weak to tell him to mind his own business. “Oh,” she said, “that’s an interesting observation.”

“You need me to bring over anything else? Did you get the Pepto? The saltines?”

“I did, yes. That was very… thoughtful. I’m fine now, though. I’ll be fine.”

“If you think of anything, gimme a call. I’m in the directory. R for Rivkin.”

“Duly noted,” Augusta said.

“You should be all right tomorrow. If you’re not, lemme know and I’ll pick you up some soup. There’s a little deli over on Jog Road that makes the best chicken soup around.” He paused for a moment, his voice turning quiet. “Not as good as your aunt Esther’s, of course. I still dream about her kreplach.”

When Augusta didn’t answer, Irving kept talking. He spoke like someone weaving a spell he desperately didn’t want her to break. “You remember how good that soup was, Goldie?”

For a moment, she could taste it on her tongue—the salt, the schmaltz, the dash of parsley. So rich and flavorful, it was almost otherworldly. A single spoonful could make you swoon; a bowl was as heady as the first day of spring. Esther was happy to give the recipe to anyone who asked, but no one else’s soup ever tasted like hers. She was always tinkering with the broth, always adjusting the ingredients. I never make my soup the same way twice, she used to say. Augusta had buried the memories, but now Irving had brought all of them back.

“I don’t care for soup anymore,” she said brusquely. “I’ve been burned too many times.”