29 Page 12

  “No, she complained to me about the mouse. She just asked if you were feeling okay.”

  “Oh, that’s right. My mistake.”

  “Look, she probably just went out somewhere. Chances are she’s back by now,” Officer Fairholm told them. “Why don’t we try phoning her?”

  “We know she’s not there. That’s why we came here,” Barbara told her. “Look, what kind of a place are you running here? We know that my mother is missing, and we need you to find her.”

  “Yes, and if we could have a cup of coffee while we’re waiting, that would be lovely,” Frida said and Barbara shot her a livid look.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what. On your way out, please feel free to grab a cup of coffee in our break room. If your mother isn’t back in twenty-four hours, I’ll be happy to help you, but I’m sorry, there’s nothing I can do about it until then.”

  “Nothing?” Barbara was seething.

  “Nothing,” the officer answered. “Let me just get your name, Miss . . .” Officer Fairholm started to write.

  “It’s Sustamorn, Barbara Sustamorn.”

  Officer Fairholm stopped writing and looked at Barbara. “Barbara Jerome?” she asked.

  “That’s right,” Barbara said, eyeing the officer a little closer.

  “Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” She smirked.

  “I thinking I’m talking to someone who isn’t going to help me one iota while God knows where my mother is,” Barbara fumed.

  “Close!” Officer Fairholm answered, as if this were a game they were playing. “It’s Bea Lonagin, from Harriton High School.”

  “Barbara went to Harriton High School!” Frida said, excited.

  “Oh,” Barbara uttered. Memories of torturing Bea Lonagin flooded back. There were all the times she’d called the cutest boys in her class, saying she was Bea, and the many times she’d tripped Bea in the hallway, and that time Bea failed home economics because Barbara switched Bea’s oven to broil during the corn cake final exam. Still, popular girls never liked Barbara.

  “Yeah, hi, Barbara,” Bea said, giving Barbara the once-over.

  “Hello, Bea.” Barbara smiled feebly.

  “Do you ever see the old gang from high school? I’m still close with all of my friends.”

  “Sometimes,” Barbara muttered. In truth, Barbara had no friends from high school, and she knew that Bea knew that. Bea looked like she was enjoying this little taste of revenge after all these years. Sadly, Barbara was not.

  “Well, it’s good to see you,” Bea said through gritted teeth.

  “You, too,” Barbara gritted back.

  “Now, like I said, of course I’d like to help such an old friend, and I remember your mother—nice lady—but rules are rules.” Bea stood up.

  “Oh, that’s okay, then. I understand rules. We’ll be back in twenty-four hours. So we’ll see you then,” Barbara said, taking Frida’s arm.

  “I hope it won’t come to that.” Bea grinned.

  “Come on, Frida,” Barbara said.

  “What about the coffee?” Frida asked.

  “We’ll get some later,” Barbara answered as Bea continued to stare her down.

  They walked out of the police station.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t put up more of a fuss,” Frida said, trying to keep up with Barbara as she rushed down the street.

  “Shut up, Frida,” Barbara answered, pained.

  “Were you friendly with that woman?” Frida asked.

  “No. She went to my high school, that’s all.”

  “She really seemed to know you, though,” Frida said, not getting it.

  “Yeah, we went through school together, but I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You would have thought that an old friend like that would have helped us,” Frida mused. “You’d think she would have just bent the rules a little for us.”

  “Yeah, you would have thought,” Barbara answered as she kept walking.

  “I think we should have at least taken the coffee she offered,” Frida said, still trying to keep up.

  “Yeah, well, we’ll find some someplace else, okay?” Barbara was still in her own mind, thinking.

  “Barbara, do you think you could just slow down a little bit?”

  “Jesus, Frida! How are we going to find Mom if we walk so slowly?” Barbara barked.

  “Well, where to now?” Frida said and threw her hands in the air. “Because I’m getting tired, and I’m out of ideas.” Frida was starting to get perturbed, which was very un-Frida.

  Barbara stopped. Frida was sure she was going to get it now, and that made her cower like a little girl. Frida had never raised her voice to Barbara, ever. Who could? Today, however, she could really take Barbara over the edge.

  “Wait, where are we?” Barbara said, turning around and looking at the street.

  Frida stopped and looked around, too. It was far more rundown than her neighborhood, and the street was noticeably dirtier than any block she normally walked down.

  “Didn’t you look at where we were walking?” Barbara asked Frida.

  “I was trying to keep up with you!” Frida answered, getting agitated and, for the first time, not caring about upsetting Barbara. “Oh, wonderful, we’re lost! That’s it. That’s all we needed.” She panicked.

  “How could we get so lost in just a couple of blocks?” Barbara asked her. “Frida, you’ve lived just beyond this neighborhood for over ten years. Don’t you ever walk anywhere?”

  “Do I look like I ever walk anywhere?” Frida angrily placed her hands on her bulging thighs. She turned in a full circle, trying to find something that looked familiar.

  “Even so! In all this time you’ve never looked out the window when you were riding by?”

  “I’m too busy watching my bag when I’m riding the bus. You wouldn’t know about a thing like that, living in the suburbs. And by the way, if you’re so smart, and you’ve lived here all your life, how come you don’t know where we are?”

  “You just said it. I don’t live downtown.” She stuffily raised her head and straightened her gold chains. “I live on the Main Line.”

  “Well, maybe you need to get out a little more,” Frida said angrily.

  “I need to get out more?” Barbara shrieked. “That’s a crock!”

  “Maybe if you didn’t walk so fast I could have watched where I was going. I told you to slow down, Barbara!”

  “I walk too fast?” Barbara shot back. “Frida, you’re so slow we probably missed Mom ten times today.”

  That was it for Frida. Get on Barbara’s worst side. Make Barbara infuriated. Get on Barbara’s last nerve. Make. Barbara. Mad.

  “Look, you!” Frida yelled, pointing in Barbara’s face. “I’ve had just about enough of you! I’ve had fifty-five years’ worth of your hemming and hawing and complaining, and I’m not going to take it anymore! Your mother is probably back home right now having a cup of tea and a cookie, which is where I should be! I’ve had it with you, Barbara. I’m done with this. I’m going home!”

  “Me? What about you?” Barbara shouted back. “Your whole life you’ve been nothing but this fragile little shell who is too afraid to complain about anything. You’re such a miser. God, Frida, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had five million dollars in the bank!”

  It’s only two million, Frida thought to herself. “Well, guess what?” she yelled back. “I’m not going to be that person anymore. From now on I’m going to start saying it how I think it should be, and I’m going to start with you. Barbara, whatever has been bugging you your whole life, get over it!”

  “You better believe I’m over it!” Barbara shouted.

  “Fine!” Frida countered.

  “Fine!” Barbara ended it.

  That’s when Barbara felt the jab in her back.

  “Give me your jewelry,” she heard a voice say.

  Frida froze. She stared at the man who had come up behind Barbara. There was something in his eyes that t
old her immediately he had had a bad childhood and was not to be trifled with.

  “Excuse me?” Barbara answered calmly, as if she had merely misunderstood the instructions. She had never felt a gun in her back before, but it was safe to assume this is what it felt like.

  “Give me your jewelry,” the deep voice repeated.

  “Give the man the jewelry!” Frida rasped, shaking.

  Barbara began to take off her gold chains. She handed them to the person she couldn’t see.

  “And the rings,” he muttered.

  “The rings, Barbara, give the man your rings!” Frida gasped. Frida had watched an episode of Oprah where the guest expert advised viewers to just give a mugger whatever he wanted. Don’t put up a fight. Life is too precious. “Do you want my ring, too?” Frida offered as she began to pull it off.

  The man cast a look at her tarnished ring with its cloudy stone.

  “Just this fat lady’s rings,” he said, continuing to hold the gun in the small of Barbara’s back. Barbara’s heart broke a little. Why did the subject of her weight always have to work itself into every situation? Why couldn’t he have said “Just this younger lady’s rings”?

  “Give him the rings!” Frida shouted this time.

  “My hands seem to be a little swollen from the hot day,” Barbara nervously explained.

  Frida grabbed Barbara’s hand and, with all her might, pulled the five-carat diamond ring off her finger and handed it to the assailant.

  As quickly as it had appeared, Barbara felt the pressure of the gun disappear from her back. She heard the thug run off in the opposite direction. Frida and Barbara grabbed each other, relieved to be alive. When they saw their attacker turn the corner and disappear, Barbara peeled Frida off herself. Her eyes narrowed.

  “Give him the rings?” Barbara roared at Frida.

  “What the heck did you want me to say?” Frida said as she wiped her brow. “He looked dangerous. And he had his finger pointed in your back!”

  “His what?”

  “His finger. Why, what did you think it was?”

  “I thought it was a gun!” Barbara hollered.

  “Oh, God forbid it was a gun,” Frida said.

  “Frida! A man demands my jewelry in broad daylight, he’s got no gun, and you just help him take my things? What, are you working with him?”

  “Barbara, he could have killed us!”

  “How? By poking us to death?”

  “Don’t you dare blame me!” Frida was coming to a boil. “I almost lost my ring here, too. I’m hungry and I need something to eat! I’m going back to the police station to get a ride home! I told you, I’m through with your shenanigans!”

  “WE’RE NOT GOING BACK THERE!” Barbara yelled as she watched Frida walk away.

  “Just watch me!” Frida replied. “I don’t care what you did to that police officer when you were young. I’m going back!”

  Barbara watched Frida as she walked down the street, took off her pink sweat jacket, and threw it over her shoulder.

  Just look at the trouble she’d caused. Her mother had probably gone to get her hair done, gone shopping, or done something else that day. So what if her mother didn’t want to spend the day with her? Why did she always have to control everyone? Why couldn’t she just let things be? When would she just stop and let her mother live her life? When would she finally begin to live her own life?

  “Frida!” Barbara called out. Frida stopped and turned around, and Barbara yelled, “Hold on. I’m coming with you!”

  the point of no return

  A moment comes in everyone’s life when they realize they’re old. I’m not talking about the day you see your first gray hair or the day you see the hint of a crow’s foot. What I’m talking about is the day when you realize you’ve grown out of being able to adapt to something new.

  It’s the kind of thing that creeps up on you. Take music, for example. One day you’re listening to the latest tune that comes on the radio, and then the next day you can’t relate. It’s too loud. You can’t keep the beat. You say to the person next to you, “That’s singing?” So you start listening to music that you know, and you stop listening to the new stuff. Pretty soon your kids are talking about bands you’ve never heard of, bands you never knew existed. You should have seen the look on Lucy’s face when I told her I’d seen that Bono on television and that I never heard of the band U2.

  “That’s old-school,” she said.

  “It’s what?” I asked her.

  “It’s not a new band.”

  And it’s not just music I’m talking about. That’s just an example. Look at these phrases the kids are saying today. I never even heard of this phrase old-school until Lucy said it. Where does that derive from? Does it mean that it’s something dating back to when the person went to school, or is the word school abstract, as in the particular school of thought? I don’t know—you tell me. This is just what I’m saying, though. Do you see where I’m going with this?

  One day you realize that you’ve had the same hairstyle for the past fifteen years. It’s not something you’ve thought about. It’s just what looks good on you, so you keep getting it cut that way rather than trying something new. I almost had a heart attack when Lancôme stopped making my favorite lipstick. I was on the phone with Lancôme for three hours, with four different operators, trying to get to the bottom of why they discontinued my color, when the last person finally said, “No one wears that color anymore, ma’am.”

  “I do!” I said.

  That wasn’t even the thing that made me realize I was officially old. The thing with the lipstick happened long after the revelation, but it’s just another example.

  Milestones in your child’s life should also make you feel older but, truthfully, that didn’t happen to me. I was always the youngest mother in Barbara’s school. I was always the prettiest one, too, but that was my own observation. Whenever I went to any of Howard’s class reunions, I was always the youngest bride. Of course the last year we went, for his fortieth reunion, Howard’s old friend Jerry Young (no pun intended) brought his new girlfriend, who could have been his daughter’s daughter. She didn’t make me feel old, though, she just looked ridiculous being with such an old man.

  The latest music and the latest catchphrases didn’t bother me, either. When my hairdresser started using a different dye on my hair to cover up the gray, even that really didn’t get me.

  What finally did it, what finally made me know that I was old, was when I realized I couldn’t wear a miniskirt. It wasn’t that it didn’t look good on me, it was that it wasn’t appropriate for my age. I swear to you, I still shudder when I think of it.

  In the early 1970s, Howard and I were invited to a Christmas party, and I wanted to get something special, as I was always wont to do. I went downtown to Nan Duskin, an upscale department store in Philadelphia that closed in the mid-1990s. I bought most of my dresses and suits there. These days you can’t find anything close to the fabulous collection of designers they had. I’m still mourning the loss. At that point, though, Nan Duskin was in its glory days, and all the saleswomen knew me by name.

  I was looking for something to wear to the party and Barbara was getting something for a formal she was invited to. I’ll never forget the dress I picked out for myself. It was a gorgeous gold George Small minidress with an eyelet lace overlay. How I loved that dress. Meanwhile, poor Barbara didn’t have very good luck. It took three saleswomen to zip up the only long dress that would fit her, but the George Small mini fit me perfectly.

  A few days later Howard and I were heading out to the party and I put the dress on. I thought I looked like something out of a magazine. My hair was just right, my makeup done just so. It started out to be a night like any other.

  And then we got to the party.

  All the other ladies there had on longer dresses—garden dresses is what we called them, but the girls call them maxi dresses now, though today they’re more acceptable for the younger set. I
was the only one in a mini. No one had to say a word to me—I knew. At forty, I was dressed like a teenager. That was the first time I ever felt embarrassed by what I was wearing. I wasn’t dressed appropriately for my age. I thought I heard a few whispers here and there, but that could have been my own paranoia. I don’t think so, though. Frida set me straight when I asked her about it later.

  “Well,” she said gently, “maybe it’s something for one of Barbara’s friends.”

  My days of miniskirts were over. I never wore that dress again.

  That was when I knew there was no turning back. I was officially older.

  Until today, of course.

  “Oh, Lucy.” I stopped her as we approached her studio. “I have to run to the bank before it closes.”

  “What do you need money for?” she asked me.

  “For tonight.” I smiled, batting my eyes. “A girl always needs to bring some cash, just in case. In my day it used to be a dime so you could call your father to come get you if the boy started any funny business. Today, though, I guess you need a lot more than that.”

  “So we’ll just head to the ATM on our way over.”

  “Oh, I don’t go to those,” I told her.

  “What?” She looked perplexed.

  “The ATMs. I don’t trust that sort of thing. I like my girl at the bank. She knows me.”

  “Well, I don’t think she’s going to know you today,” Lucy reminded me.

  “Oh, that’s right. How can I get money?” I was suddenly so worried.

  “I’ll give you money, Gram. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, you know what? I’ve got some cash stashed away in my lingerie drawer. Let’s drop by and pick that up. I don’t want you to be low on cash.”

  So we dropped off Lucy’s dresses at her studio and grabbed our outfits for the night.

  “We forgot the bras and underwear!” I suddenly remembered.

  “I have some here,” Lucy said, going into a drawer. “I always keep some here, just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” I said and winked.

  “Just in case I have a model who needs underwear better suited for what she’s wearing. Jeez, Gram, can you get ahold of your hormones? I’m really hating that.”