Skinnybones and the Wrinkle Queen Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Stanley Merkin! I shake my head sadly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Tamara!” I say.

  Skinnybones.

  3

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

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

  Her hawk eyes are focused on the recycled wrapping paper.

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

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

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

  “My God,” Miss Barclay says, her voice raspy but a strong whisper. “What on earth...?”

  “Slippers,” I say, and try to keep from laughing.

  “They’re the ugliest things I’ve ever seen,” Miss Barclay says and then looks at me. “No offense.”

  I try to be quiet, but it doesn’t work. I burst out laughing.

  “I was forced to bring them,” I manage to say, finally catching my breath. “They look like purple hairballs some cat threw up.”

  For the first time, I see Miss Barclay smile. Wrinkles rearrange themselves around her eyes and the edges of her lips.

  “Forced?”

  “I didn’t have a buddy gift. This was a spare one Miss Whipple had.”

  “Miss Whipple?”

  “Our L.A. teacher.”

  “That one in the navy skirt? With the stomach?” Miss Barclay arches a painted eyebrow.

 
; “That’s her,” I say. “Miss Whipple.”

  “That’s what I taught. Language arts. English, we called it, before they decided to rename everything.” Miss Barclay holds up one of the deformed purple slippers like it’s a rotten fish. “Forty-one years.”

  “You’re a teacher?”

  “Was.” Miss Barclay’s voice is suddenly clipped. Sharp. “Past tense.”

  “What do you want to do with this stuff?” I point at the mess of fishing-tackle paper, crumpled tissue and the lumps of purple wool.

  “Maybe we could take them into the courtyard and bury them,” Miss Barclay says.

  “Good idea.”

  “Or I could save them for Latoya.” She looks slyly at me. “Latoya would like these.”

  “Latoya?”

  “Night staff.” Miss Barclay shudders, sending a ripple through her tomato-colored dress.

  Mrs. Golinowski has been going around the room from one buddy set to the next, and now she is in front of us.

  “What have we here!” She scoops up the purple slippers. “Aren’t these cozy! Why, I could just steal them. You’d better keep a close eye on these, Miss Barclay.”

  “I’ll post a guard.” Miss Barclay’s voice is thin and dry as chalk dust. I look at my watch. Still a whole half hour to go.

  “Miss Barclay,” Mrs. Golinowski leans towards the old woman and announces loudly, “why don’t you take Tamara on a little tour of the lodge.” She turns to me. “I’m sure you’d like to see the cafeteria and the craft room and the multi-denominational worship center.”

  I smile.

  The eyebrow leaves us and makes its way to another group.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” I say.

  “I would like to get out of this bedlam.” Miss Barclay waves a claw at all the kids and old people in the lounge. “Can you set up that contraption for me?” She nods towards the walker leaning against the wall.

  Walkers, I know, are for old people to hang onto so they don’t lose their balance. Kind of a folding cage on wheels. Miss Barclay looks fierce as she struggles down the hall. I follow half a step behind with the crumpled gift wrap and slippers.

  At the end of the hall there is a T-intersection.

  “You don’t really want a tour, do you?” Miss Barclay’s walker has come to a stop.

  “Whatever.” I shrug my shoulders.

  “Here’s the reading room.” She points at a door in the middle of the T. “Let’s just hole up in here for a while. You can tell me about what they’re teaching in so-called Language Arts these days.”

  I hold the door open for her. The room looks a little bit like a library. At least there are shelves with books on them. But the books look like the kind left over from garage sales.

  “Mostly trash.” Miss Barclay waves a hand towards the shelves. She eases herself into a vinyl-covered chair. The chair is faded orange and has been patched with silver duct tape. You can imagine what the Wrinkle Queen looks like in the middle of it with her bright red dress.

  “I think there are a few copies of Dickens and Austen. I have my own books in my room though.” She points at another vinyl-covered chair. “Sit down.”

  I nudge the slippers and crumpled paper under the chair.

  “Is that what young ladies are wearing today?” She’s giving me the once over. Once and back again and then again.

  “Is that what old ladies are wearing?” She can see I’m staring at her nosebleed-red polyester, and this fancy brooch flopping on her skinny chest.

  “Touché,” she cackles.

  “Actually, I’m going to be a model,” I tell her. “If you think what I’ve got on today is crazy, you should watch Fashion Forecast. This is nothing.”

  “I see.” She fishes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse. Long brown cigarettes like thin cigars. Maybe they’re made special for witches.

  “Are you allowed to smoke in here?”

  “Do we care?” She flashes her false teeth at me, lights a match, gets the brown coffin nail going, and then, for a second or two, stares at the fire burning down the matchstick. When it reaches her fingers, she drops it into a piece of ceramic sculpture on an end table.

  “Such rules are a transgression against our civil liberties,” she says. “Did you know that in Götterdämmerung, the last of the great operas in Wagner’s Ring Cycle, the whole stage is filled with smoke and fire? So wonderful. Exhilarating. I suppose that’s the next thing they’ll be banning.”

  “Gotter what?”

  “Götterdämmerung. The twilight of the gods. If I guess correctly, you’ve never seen an opera.”

  “No,” I say. “And it’s not high on my list.”

  Miss Barclay sucks on her mini-cigar and then exhales a few dragon puffs of smoke.

  “This is the year,” she sighs. “The year they’re doing the whole cycle in Seattle. Das Rheingold, Die Walküre, Siegfried and Götterdämmerung. And I’m stuck here. I might as well be six feet under.”

  “Couldn’t you just go? You’re not locked up, are you?”

  “Next thing to it.”

  “I’d go,” I say. “If I really wanted to. If I had the money. Nobody would stop me.”

  She takes another long drag on her weird cigarette. It gives her a small fit of coughing and, still hacking, she whispers, “I believe you would.”

  4

  She’s tough, Skinnybones. A fledgling walküre. No one will stop her from flying.

  The gollything comes flip-flopping by the reading room door just as I’ve finished my cigarillo, thank the Viking gods of smoke and fire. She wrinkles her nose and looks accusingly at me.

  “Something stuck on the radiator, I think,” I say. “Maybe Tamara wouldn’t mind helping me back to my room.”

  “I think you’d just have time.” Gollywog beams her my-I’m-glad-you’re-bonding smile, and Tamara smiles back at her.

  “Someone should help her,” she whispers as we round a corner and head down the stretch of hall to my room.

  “Mrs. Gollywatchit?”

  “She could use an extreme makeover.”

  “Extreme is the signature word,” I agree.

  “Are you expecting company? There’s a man waving at you,” Tamara says.

  She’s right. It’s my nephew, Byron. And to think the day had been going so well for a change.

  “I’m okay from here,” I say. “Thank you again for my lovely gift.”

  Tamara pats the hideous package she’s tied to the side of the walker.

  “You’re so very welcome,” she says with mock seriousness. “See you next time.”

  I watch her for a minute heading back down the hall, moving like some exotic zoo animal.

  “Hi, Auntie.” Byron has strolled down to meet me. So attentive, Byron Barclay, ever since that day when I was sure death waited for me and I signed a paper giving him power of attorney. Is it possible to sue a doctor who suggests an eighty-nine-year-old heart might not make it through surgery? Any mind would have to be morphine-addled to put her affairs in the hands of a high-school dropout who has worked most of his life servicing soda-pop dispensing machines.

  Six months ago, when the pain was so bad it made me dizzy, I was sure my boat was headed out to sea, all primed with tar, ready for the torch. I said things; I signed things. But the funeral barge wasn’t set afire. And, God, it’s hard to have to hobble back to shore and find Byron waiting for you.

  In fact, he always seems to be lurking these days. Like a turkey vulture.

  “Alberich,” I say.

  “Alberich?” He shakes his head, puzzled, and then smiles. I can tell he thinks I’ve gone off into loony land. I don’t bother telling him that Alberich is the ugly dwarf guarding the gold of the Rhine maidens in Das Rheingold. That he’s Alberich and the gold is mine.

  “Have you given any more thought to selling your house, Auntie?” He’s followed me into my room and drops into the visitor’s chair.

  Poor Byron, he’s lost pretty well all of his hai
r like my brother did, and he’s red in the face, as if the very business of living embarrasses him. He mops at the perspiration on his forehead.

  “I can’t think why I’d sell it,” I say. “I expect I’ll be back there soon. Once this hip is working.”

  He doesn’t look at me. He stares, instead, at the bureau by my bed, as if it were a heap of Rhine gold.

  Minnie, an afternoon worker, comes in and helps me into bed. She sends Byron out into the hall while she gets me out of my dress and into a wrap.

  “You’re tired, aren’t you, Miss Barclay?” she says.

  I like Minnie. There’s no nonsense about her. She does up the last couple of buttons on my housecoat and tucks a quilt around me. “You want me to send him away?”

  “No. I can do that.”

  She smiles. “I’m sure you can.”

  “Think of it,” Byron says when he comes back in. “It’s a seller’s market right now. You’d really come out on top.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. I am tired and, more than anything, I’d like Byron to go. I close my eyes.

  “And your car,” he says. “I’d like to put an ad in the paper. I just had it tuned up and it’s running like a charm. Anyone who test-drives that Buick —”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think about it,” Byron echoes, tiptoeing to the door.

  The last trip I took with the Buick was to drive to Seattle to see Die Walküre. Gladys Enright went with me. It would have been better to have gone by myself. Gladys dithering and twittering around. The type that would say sorry to a coffee table if she stubbed her toe on it. Never learned how to drive. Always had a husband who did it for her until he died. Once he was gone, Gladys would declare, “Too late to teach an old dog new tricks.”

  It was at the end of that trip that I began to notice the hip pain, and by the time I got home, it was agony to work the pedals. But it was Gladys, an old dog with no new tricks, who had the heart attack and died three weeks later.

  Will I ever drive again? The doctor says no. “It’s not just your legs. You have lapses, times when your mind just shuts down for brief periods. It’s really not safe for you to drive.”