Bloom shrugged, then picked up his suitcase and carried it, unopened, to the wardrobe locker. Stooping, he set it down inside, then straightened and squared his shoulders. It was time to go.
The sun was already starting to disappear over the horizon beyond the wide picture windows as Bloom entered the recreation room.
Apparently both the football game and the dinner hour were over, because Mrs. Dempsey and Mrs. Weinstein were seated with the three men on the chairs and settee grouped before the television set. On-screen, an elderly gentleman with a shock of curly hair the color of cotton candy was grinning out at his unseen audience.
“Let me run through that again,” his vibrant voice resounded through the room. “Vitamin A for your scalp, vision, and teeth. Vitamin B for hair and healthy mucous membranes. Vitamin C for the teeth and circulatory system. Remember, C will help keep those lips from shrinking.”
Bloom glanced at the men. One was tall and thin, wearing scholarly horn-rims and a most unscholarly bathrobe; Bloom took a quick guess, deciding that he would be Mr. Mute, perhaps because his mouth was so tightly closed as he stared in stoic skepticism at the screen.
The one seated on the settee beside Mrs. Weinstein must be her husband, so the gentleman in the chair next to Mrs. Dempsey had to be Mr. Agee. At first glance he appeared to be quite handsome and well-preserved for his age; evidently he must have taken a good share of every vitamin in alphabetical order.
But Mr. Weinstein seemed to have neglected his ABCs. He was a bald-headed little man in his early eighties, his face shriveled, thin lips pursed in permanent disapproval of everything his long nose sniffed or his melancholy eyes surveyed.
Now those eyes glanced up at the newcomer, and the lips parted as Mr. Weinstein rose, nodding. “You must be Mr. Bloom, right?”
Bloom nodded. “And you are—?”
“Weinstein.” The bald-headed man gestured toward his seated companion. “This is my wife, Mrs. Winston.”
“Winston?” Bloom cast a puzzled glance as the plump woman in the dark wig rose and extended her hand in greeting.
“Weinstein,” she said. “Sadie Weinstein.” She smiled. “Don’t pay any attention to that husband of mine, Mr. Bloom. Our son Murray, he changed his name to Winston and my husband doesn’t approve.”
“What’s to approve?” Mr. Weinstein shook his head. “Just because he goes into politics he thinks he has to change his name to get ahead.”
“And why not?” his wife challenged. “You think maybe people in England would vote for somebody named Weinstein Churchill?”
“Don’t pay any attention to her.” Mr. Weinstein reached out and patted the plump arm of his spouse. “My wife is a closet goy.”
The other members of the group had risen; stepping forward, they introduced themselves in turn.
“Welcome aboard,” Mr. Agee said, his handclasp firm.
“So nice to have you with us.” Mrs. Dempsey fanned his face with a flutter of false eyelashes. “I hope you’ll like it here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bloom.” A look of inquiry flashed from behind Mr. Mute’s horn-rims. “Your first name doesn’t happen to be Leopold, by any chance?”
Bloom smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t lay claim to such distinction,” he said. “I never had the privilege of meeting James Joyce, and I’m not a native of Dublin.”
“You’re from Minneapolis, aren’t you?” Mrs. Weinstein said. “I heard Miss Cox talking with you on the phone the other day—”
“You got big ears.” Her husband frowned his disapproval. “And Miss Cox has a big mouth.” He turned to Bloom and nodded. “Sit down, make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Bloom smiled, glancing toward the picture windows. “I’ll join you in a moment. If you don’t mind, right now I’d rather watch the sunset instead of television.”
“Feel free,” Mr. Mute told him. “Personally, I’d prefer to curl up with a good book—or a bad woman. Unfortunately, both seem to be in short supply around here.”
As he settled back down into his seat, the others followed suit, their eyes automatically returning to focus on the tube. The man with the cotton-candy hair was offering more words of wisdom to the world.
“And let’s not forget E, the miracle vitamin. If you’ve enjoyed a healthy sex life, there’s no reason why you can’t keep on well into your golden years, thanks to a daily intake of Vitamin E . . .”
Golden years. Bloom moved to the nearest window, staring out into the sunset. It too was golden, but now its luster faded into gray gloom.
In the street beyond, a group of children were playing a game of kick-the-can, laughing and shouting in the gathering twilight. Bloom smiled appreciatively at the sight. The childhood years—these were truly golden.
Now his attention shifted to the driveway before the rest home’s entrance. Here another group stood before a parked car—a stout, bearded man in his middle thirties, a blond woman around the same age, and an elderly gentleman who clutched a cardboard suitcase in one hand. Remembering what Miss Cox had told him, Bloom guessed the identities of the trio—Mr. Conroy, his son, and his daughter-in-law. He couldn’t hear their conversation through the window but pantomime and body language offered an eloquence of their own. One picture is worth a thousand words—
The bulk of those words issued from Mr. Conroy’s contorted mouth; words that pleaded, words that begged; and the suitcase told its own story.
“Take me home with you,” the mouth implored. “Let me come just for the weekend” was the message of the small suitcase. “I promise I won’t be in your way—”
The frown on the bearded face and the repeated shaking of the head adorned with brassy blond curls also translated easily into words: “Sorry, Pop. Not this time. We’re all tied up for tonight and tomorrow we promised to take the kids to the beach.”
The daughter-in-law glanced at her watch, then looked up with a frown. It didn’t require any talent in lip-reading to know what she was saying. “Look at the time, Joe! We really have to leave now.”
Mr. Conroy stepped back, shoulders sagging in surrender as his son and daughter-in-law settled themselves comfortably in the bucket seats of the shiny new Cadillac and closed the door with a big-car bang. His son started the engine, then pressed a button to roll down the automatic window and flash a smile of surpassing warmth and phoniness at his father. Again Bloom put words into the moving mouth: “Maybe next week, Pop. Okay?”
The car glided down the driveway, turned left, then vanished from view. Mr. Conroy stood motionless for a moment, his eyes following its progress until he could see it no longer. The shadows gathering around the driveway were gray; second childhood has no golden years.
“Poor Leo!” Bloom started at the sound of the voice behind him. Turning, he saw Mr. Agee standing at his elbow, shaking his head.
“Every Saturday, Leo carries that suitcase out to his kid’s car and every Saturday he carries it back again and unpacks.”
“Don’t they ever let him come to visit?”
“Maybe once or twice a year, over the holidays. They do a lot of partying and entertaining—mostly for business, you know. His son’s in real estate.”
Mr. Bloom nodded. “I guessed as much when I saw him smile.”
Mr. Agee chuckled. “You’ve got quite a sense of humor, Mr. Bloom.”
Bloom didn’t reply; he was still staring out of the window, watching as the old man with a suitcase turned and started back up the driveway. As he did so, his shuffling feet encountered the tin can that the children were using in their game. For some reason it had been placed at the edge of the drive and now a small girl was running toward it hastily, ready to kick the can and be “safe” according to the rules of the game.
Either Mr. Conroy didn’t see her coming or else he didn’t give a damn. Noticing the can before him, he lashed out with his foot and sent it sailing across the lawn. Then he resumed his plodding progress up the drive.
Behind him the little g
irl grimaced in exasperation, then turned and ran toward the rolling can as a boy—obviously “it” in the game—emerged from the street to follow her in hot pursuit.
Reaching the rolling can, the girl kicked it with all her might, her mouth opening in a silent shout, which Bloom promptly mimicked.
“Alley-alley-oxen-free!”
All eyes turned from the television screen now and Bloom greeted their stares with a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt your program. I was just watching the kids outside—guess I must have let myself get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Mr. Weinstein. “The kind of programs they got on tonight we can do without, believe me. ‘Saturday Night Live,’ ‘Saturday Night Dead’—who needs it?”
Now there was another interruption in the form—two forms, really—of Mr. Conroy and Miss Cox, as they entered the room together, halting just inside the doorway.
Seeing the latest arrival standing at the window, Miss Cox called out to him. “Having fun, Mr. Bloom? Why don’t you come over here for a moment. I’d like to introduce you to one of your roommates.”
Bloom nodded and crossed toward her, wondering as he did so just how much fun Miss Cox imagined he might enjoy just by looking out the window. Perhaps she mistook him for a voyeur. And he hardly regarded the other male residents as roommates; the term would be more appropriate if applied to the youngsters in a boarding school. Unless, of course, Miss Cox was recycling it to do service in his second childhood.
Abruptly he put his thoughts aside to acknowledge her introduction.
“Mr. Conroy, this is Mr. Bloom, our new resident.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Conroy said. His attempt at a smile was not too successful, nor was his effort to shake hands, for as he raised his arm he realized that he was still clutching his suitcase by the handle.
“Here, let me take that.” Miss Cox snatched the suitcase from his grasp. “I’ll put it away for you. Why don’t you just stay here now and get acquainted with our new arrival?”
She nodded at Bloom. “Mr. Conroy’s first name is Leo,” she told him, then paused, frowning slightly. “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to recall yours.”
“Don’t be sorry.” Bloom smiled at her. “I haven’t given you my first name.”
“But I must have—”
Miss Cox broke off as the ring of a phone echoed from the hall. With a frown she hurried out, carrying Mr. Conroy’s suitcase with her.
Bloom found himself surrounded by smiling faces.
“Good on you,” Mr. Weinstein said. “That’s telling her!”
The others nodded approvingly; only Mr. Conroy seemed upset and his scowl of irritation was directed at the picture window facing the street beyond. He moved toward it, peering out into the dusk.
“Darn kids,” he muttered. “They’ve been told not to play around here. Old people need their rest.”
Mrs. Dempsey spoke up. “But we can’t even hear them, Mr. Conroy! Let the youngsters have their fun. I only wish I could go out there and play with them myself.”
Bloom nodded. “Why don’t you, Mrs. Dempsey?” he said softly.
She started to laugh, then broke off as Leo Conroy answered for her. “Because she’s old, Mr. Bloom.”
Bloom shook his head. “I don’t think we’re ever too old to play. When you rest, you rust.”
A fluffy white pillow suddenly uncoiled on the arm of the chair where Mrs. Dempsey had been sitting. Bloom blinked, then recognized her cat.
Mrs. Dempsey went to pick it up. As she cradled it in her arms, the cat began to purr, and so did Mrs. Dempsey. “What’s the matter, Mickey? Don’t you like television?”
“What’s to like?” Mr. Weinstein cast a sour glance at the screen, as a grinning, hyperactive game-show host fired an inane question at an equally inane contestant. “Why don’t we turn it off? All this racket makes it so a fella can’t think. I’d like a chance to get acquainted with Mr. Bloom here.”
“Good idea.” Mrs. Weinstein nodded approvingly at her spouse. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to schmooz with anybody new.”
“Excellent!” said Mr. Mute. “The trouble with all these game-shows is that nobody loses except the viewers.”
He moved to the set and switched it off.
As the tube went blank, the others took their seats again. Bloom followed Mr. Conroy to the far end of the semicircle of chairs and sat down between him and Mrs. Dempsey.
Mr. Conroy turned to him. “Is this your first time in an old-age home, Bloom?”
Bloom shook his head, conscious that everyone was waiting for an answer. “No. Actually, Mr. Conroy, I’ve been in six or eight of them.”
“Six or eight homes?” Mr. Conroy raised his bushy eyebrows. “That’s quite a record, Bloom. What’s your problem—can’t make any friends?”
Mrs. Dempsey produced a sniff of indignation. “I think Mr. Bloom is a very friendly person! Which is more than I can say for some people around here.”
Bloom smiled at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Dempsey. If you could go out there with those children tonight, what would you want to play?”
Mrs. Dempsey stroked her cat. “I used to love all kinds of games. Especially jacks. I was the jacks champion in elementary school,” she announced proudly.
“Those were the good old days,” said Mr. Mute. “Kids don’t play jacks anymore. Now they’re only interested in jocks.”
Mrs. Dempsey uttered a surprisingly girlish giggle. “But you know, if I could still tell my body what to do, I would dance.”
Mr. Agee rose and crossed to her, extending his hand. “I would be honored to have this dance, Mrs. Dempsey.”
Mrs. Dempsey giggled again and started to rise, then winced in sudden pain and slumped back again.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Agee bent over her solicitously.
“Just a shooting pain.” Mrs. Dempsey shook her head, embarrassed. “I think it’s my arthuritis.”
“Arthritis,” Mr. Weinstein corrected. “Since when do you go around calling diseases by their first name?”
Everyone laughed—everyone except Mr. Conroy. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “When you’ve got as many aches and pains as I have, you get to know them personally.”
“Don’t remind me.” Mrs. Weinstein glanced at Bloom. “I would like to run again. What I wouldn’t give to play jump rope once more.”
Mr. Agee nodded. “What I wouldn’t give to just be hitting puberty again!”
“Sex!” Mr. Conroy muttered. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“So what’s wrong with thinking?” Mrs. Weinstein reached out and took her husband’s hand. “Maybe that’s one game I can’t play anymore, but believe me, I’ve got some beautiful memories.”
“Stop already.” Mr. Weinstein squeezed her hand. “You’ve had a full life, sweetheart. Don’t get sloppy on me now.” Glancing down, he noticed his wife’s shoes resting beside the settee and pointed at them. “Put those back on. A good Jew only goes barefoot when someone has died.”
Mrs. Weinstein shrugged. “I’m not that orthodox.”
“I am,” Mr. Weinstein said firmly. “Put ’em on before you catch cold.”
Bloom leaned forward to address him. “What were you like as a boy, Mr. Weinstein?”
“Me?” Mr. Weinstein smiled. “I loved to climb—anything you can name, I climbed it. Like a cat I could climb.”
Mr. Agee chimed in, nodding. “I always wanted to be Douglas Fairbanks.”
“You still do, Mr. Agee.” Mrs. Dempsey giggled again.
“Did you know Douglas Fairbanks was half Jewish?” Mr. Weinstein said. “His real name was Ullman.”
Mr. Agee ignored him, lost in the depth of fond recollection. “I broke more bedsprings by leaping from my dresser to the bed and out the window.”
Again there was laughter from the group and again Mr. Conroy abstained. It was obvious he had no intention of joining them in this stroll down Memory Lane.
/> “Have it your way,” he said. “Me, I like being old.” He stared at the group defiantly. “And when I go, my son promised to have me frozen.”
“You already are frozen, popsicle-head!” Mr. Weinstein declared. He started to laugh at his own joke, then began to cough. Mrs. Weinstein slapped him on the back.
“Watch it, Harry,” she chided. “Remember your emphysema.”
“She’s right.” Mr. Conroy nodded grimly. “Face the facts. We’d all be better off if we remember what we are today, instead of what happened sixty—seventy years ago.”
But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. As the coughing spell ended, she glanced at Bloom. “What about you?” she asked. “What did you play?”
Bloom smiled. “Kick-the-can was my game.”
“That was mostly for boys,” Mrs. Dempsey said. “My late husband, Jack Dempsey—not the fighter, Mr. Bloom—Jack Dempsey was the most gentle man who ever walked this earth—he loved that game.”
Mr. Conroy fidgeted in his chair. “What’s the point of all this talk? Why are you dredging up the past, Bloom? This isn’t healthy.”
But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. “Like I was saying, Mr. Bloom, he just loved that game. His mother would bean him if she caught him playing. Ruined his shoes, she said.”
“Marbles.” Mr. Weinstein nodded, taking a ride on his own train of recollections. “There was a game for you!”
“Do you still remember what those marbles were called?” Mr. Agee asked.
Mr. Weinstein gestured quickly. “Don’t say it—I’m thinking. Agates. Purees. And laggars—”
Mrs. Dempsey sighed. “It was so nice, being a child. There was nothing to worry about because people always took care of me.”
“They take care of you here.” Mr. Conroy offered a smile dipped in vinegar. “Miss Cox takes great care of you, doesn’t let you do a thing.”
Mrs. Dempsey wasn’t listening. “I had lots of friends and ever so many toys—”
“Toys?” Mr. Conroy’s voice rose, insistent upon her attention. “They’ve got toys here that will last you for the rest of your life. Oxygen tanks, respirators, bedpans, the whole works.” There was vinegar in his voice now. “You want friends? Mr. Bloom here is trying to make friends—trying to stir them all up, aren’t you, Bloom?”