Even though she was getting up in years, she felt young inside, and she kept herself in good shape, cleaning houses all day. She could still walk a mile into the village, buy her groceries, and carry them home again, and not be breathing hard when she plunked the bags down on the kitchen table. Still wore a size 4, even if all she bought was white uniforms in the used-clothing shops. Only when she looked in the mirror at her wrinkles and crow's-feet did she see the truth about her age.
She had no children to look out for her if she got sick. Now that her niece was dead, she had only her brother Greeley, and what good was he? Older than she was, and he'd be all thumbs, trying to care for a person. Irresponsible, too. Living down there in Panama like some foreigner. The last time he flew up to see her, look at the trouble they'd had, him stealing, right there under her nose, robbing from the village stores.
No, she couldn't depend on Greeley. When her time came, she prayed for one massive stroke. Zip. Gone-to whatever lay beyond.
Maybe she'd see Lou again, maybe not. Two old folks wandering hand in hand again. Or maybe they'd be young again. No aches and pains. Wouldn't that be nice.
She hadn't been to church for years, didn't remember how a priest described Heaven. Well, if there wasn't any Heaven, if there was nothing after this life, she wouldn't know it, would she? Might as well think like there was, and enjoy the promise.
Anyway, now she wouldn't be alone if she got decrepit, now she had a new kind of family to depend on, and to depend on her.
She'd balked at first at the idea of the Senior Survival club; it had seemed silly, and she'd never been a joiner. But maybe it would work. They were committed now, the five of them set on making their lives easier by their own efforts, not depending on some agency that they had no control over. Susan said they were reinventing their futures. Well, they weren't planning on nothing fancy, no grand cruises or flights to Europe. Just a way to grow old with more security, by helping each other, using the money they were making right now as they picked over the McLearys' cast-off junk, plus the money they'd all make selling their houses.
Mavity had to smile. This all sounded like a confidence scheme. Except there was no outsider to rip them off. It had been their own idea, the five of them, all friends for years. Four of them widowed, and Wilma divorced, all alone now and tossing out ideas for their futures. She paused a moment, looking across the garden at her friends, at Gabrielle, and at Cora Lee. And for a moment, she couldn't help it; she felt a nudge of envy.
Mavity's daydreaming again," Dulcie said. "Woolgathering." She watched Mavity, who was watching Gabrielle and Cora Lee, and she could almost guess what Mavity was thinking- a little of Mavity's indulgent daydreaming. Across the McLeary garden, Gabrielle was inspecting a tableful of silverware, her tall slim figure handsome in her pale blazer, her short, soft blond hair catching the sunlight. Beyond her, Cora Lee French sorted through some boxes of books, her cafe-au-lait coloring and long white sundress making her look about seventeen, despite the salt and pepper in her black hair.
"What are you grinning about?" Joe asked, cutting her a look.
"About Mavity-at what she's thinking."
"What? You're psychic suddenly?"
"She's thinking, In my next life, I'll be tall and willowy like Gabrielle and Cora Lee."
"Come on, Dulcie…"
"She is. I've heard her say it often enough, rambling on while she's helping Charlie clean someone's house. It's Mavity's one discontent, that she isn't tall. If I was born again tall and slim and beautiful, and with a little cash, I'd know I was in heaven."
"You're making fun of her."
"Not at all. I love Mavity," Dulcie said, her green eyes widening, her tail lashing. "But that is what she's thinking. And probably thinking, too, Well you can't have everything… And maybe, I'm healthy and independent. I can outwork most women half my age." And the cats looked down fondly on little Mavity Flowers, hoping she'd be tall in the next life, the way she wanted to be.
They watched her select a pearl-beaded bag and tuck it with five other evening bags into her two-wheeled, wire mesh cart, laying half a dozen hand-embroidered hankies on top so they wouldn't wrinkle. All would bring a nice profit on eBay. Amazing, the things people would buy on the Web. They'd listened to the ladies tell how they'd cleaned out their own mother's attics years before, and sent to charity items they wished they had back. Old Sandwich glass, Dulcie remembered, that Gabrielle had once thought was so tacky. And the old brass binoculars that Wilma said would now bring eighty or ninety dollars.
Water under the bridge, Mavity would say, and that made Dulcie purr. What's gone is gone. She could just hear her. Look at what's right here under your nose, don't be crying for what's lost, that you can't bring back.
"You are making fun of her," Joe said. "You're smirking like the Cheshire cat."
"I'm not. Anyway, Mavity doesn't care what anyone thinks- she wouldn't care what a cat thinks. Look, she's going to buy those used uniforms, too, like she always does."
Joe didn't reply. He was watching an old man try out a set of golf clubs. Old guy had a real hook. He ought to take up checkers.
Dulcie smiled as Mavity held a white uniform against herself for size. Mavity bought the generic uniforms that would do for any trade, beautician, waitress, or her own job of housecleaning. The little, spry woman was proud of her work. Her square, blunt hands were rough from scrubbing, but gentle when they petted a cat. Her face was brown and lined from the California sun and from the sea wind that blew down the bay into her small house when she left the windows open. Fishing shack, Mavity would say, if the truth be told.
But now Mavity's house was called a bayside cottage, and worth half a million. Mavity said that she and Lou had paid thirty thousand for it, forty years ago when they were first married. Just a little house on stilts, at the muddy edge where the marsh met Molena Point Bay. Amazing, everyone said, what had happened to the Molena Point economy-to the whole country's economy. Mavity was, through no effort of her own, a well-to-do property owner.
Except that soon the house wouldn't be hers. The home she'd kept dear since her husband died was, the ladies said, about to be gobbled up in the all-powerful sweep of village politics. About to be condemned, as was the whole row of bayside houses.
"Well, Mavity has a good job," Dulcie said. Working for Charlie's Fix-It, Clean-It, she couldn't have a better boss. Tall, redheaded Charlie Getz was such a no-nonsense person. And now since Charlie had bought that old rundown duplex, she and Mavity were working on it, painting and sanding the floors. Mavity liked working in an empty place more than she liked cleaning while someone was in the house. She always said she didn't like anyone looking over her shoulder, and Dulcie understood that.
Vivi Traynor was still picking and poking, now among some stacked boxes. When Charlie cleaned for them, she'd told Wilma, she had to be really quiet. She said Elliott was the temperamental kind of writer, couldn't stand noise. She said less complimentary things about Vivi. One thing was sure, Vivi Traynor was young enough to be the novelist's granddaughter.
Snippy, too, Dulcie thought. With a giggle like a freight train whistle. And Dulcie had seen Vivi flirting with the village men. Though if her famous husband was too busy with his writing to care, why should anyone else? He stayed at home in the afternoons and in the evening, shut up in his study, but most mornings when Charlie did up the place, the Traynors were at the little theater.