After our yogurts, Melanie begins setting up the new resident profile in the system, but now that she’s working, I kind of wish we were still chatting. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Through the open office door, I can see the neat path leading to the residents’ accommodations. There’s perfect hedges, emerald grass, and a tiny sliver of blue sky. “I like Sylvia’s view from this chair.”
Melanie replies, still typing, “Are you angling to get her job?”
I nod. “If nothing disastrous happens, she says she can retire with confidence.” I think she means, she’ll retire before things get serious.
Prescott Development Corporation (PDC) acquired Providence eighteen months ago. They have a reputation for giving their acquisitions a glamorous, repurposing makeover. Would Providence become a wellness center? A boutique hotel? A set for a reality TV show? Time passed and nothing happened. There was no visit, no call, no bulldozers, but eventually a decree was issued on PDC letterhead: All tenancy agreements have been altered to have the same end date of December 31 next year.
“That’s fine,” Mrs. Whittaker (she of the legendary three boyfriends) told me when I dropped off the paperwork explaining the tenancy amendment. “I’ll be dead by then, honey. Got a pen?” The attitude of residents has either been cheerful don’t-careness or gossipy conspiracy theories. The calls from their families were stressed-out questions we still can’t answer. By next Christmas we could be packing up this office.
We keep trying to impress PDC with the perfect investment they’ve made, by sending through regular financial reports and cute newspaper clippings about our contributions to the community. But our corporate daddy’s too busy to notice our A+ report cards and flawless ballet recitals. We are the forgotten achievers. And I’m really okay with that.
Melanie’s head turns. “Oh, I hear a scooter. Tag, you’re it.”
“Part of your duties is assisting the residents. Probably your top duty.”
“They’re all so old with see-through skin. I can’t handle it.” Melanie gets up and goes into the bathroom, phone in hand. I walk outside to create a drive-through service.
A sharp voice shouts, “You’d think for the price we pay, they’d do something about the turtles.” Steaming down the hill toward me are the Parloni sisters. The older sister taking the lead is Renata. She’s just turned ninety-one. I put a birthday card in her mailbox and it was returned to me, torn into pieces. It’s okay— I knew she’d do that.
“Be more careful, they’re endangered” is what Agatha (Aggie) replies. She is younger at eighty-nine years old and she is correct: They’re endangered tortoises and they’re everywhere. Providence has the highest concentration of golden bonnet tortoises of anywhere on the planet. They swerve their scooters around the slow-motion lumps dotting the path and my heart is in my throat.
Renata bellows back, “I’m the one who’s endangered around here. I want to turn them into hair combs.” When they reach me, they brake to a stop. Britney Spears blares from a portable radio in Aggie’s front basket.
Renata was once a fashion editor. The devil wears brands you’ve never even heard of. YouTube has footage of a fashion show in 1991 when she called Karl Lagerfeld “Weekend at Bernie’s” to his face. He called her something far worse in French, but she considers it a triumph. He had no creative reply.
HOT OR NOT magazine is long gone, but Renata is not exactly retired. I can pick out brand logos all over her.
Her sister, Aggie Parloni, is my style goal. Gray suit, white blouse, and black loafers. She has fine white hair cropped close to her head and is smart, neat, and reasonable. I get along with her great. Aggie is a quiet person, but she’s noisy because of her radio. The local station has a competition: Win $10,000 if they repeat the same song in a day. Aggie doesn’t need the money, or any of the random prizes she’s always trying to win. It’s the what-if feeling between entering and the prize draw that she is addicted to.
I ask her loudly, “Any luck?”
Aggie turns down the volume a touch and holds out some envelopes to me. They’re prestamped and ready for the afternoon’s mail run. They’ll be twenty-five-word-or-less entries. Collect-ten-coupons. Name This Yacht for a Chance to Win. “I did have a small windfall,” she says carefully, like she knows she’s about to be teased.
“She won a Frisbee,” Renata cackles. “Let’s ask the neighbors to toss it around, shall we? Break a few hips.”
The mental image almost pixelates my vision. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” The fact that their assistant isn’t in tow is a very bad sign.
Renata smiles, and it’s pure evil. “We need a new one.”
I know exactly what she means. “What happened to Phillip?”
She ignores me and lowers her sunglasses, cooler than I’ll ever be, and looks through to Melanie’s vacant chair. “Where’s your pretty Asian minion? Or is that not PC? Inspired by her, I ordered a lovely black wig.”
“You absolutely cannot call her that.” I hold eye contact until I see she understands. “But in regard to the wig, Melanie will be very flattered. She’s busy checking her social media in the bathroom.”
Renata’s cackle always hits my bloodstream like a drug. It’s the Providence equivalent of making the popular girl at school laugh. “The youth of today. On the toilet, right where they belong. I wish I’d had ‘the Instagram.’ ”
“Is it too late for you to try it?” Aggie’s a quiet instigator. Thanks a bunch. Before the day’s out, I’m going to be taking street-style shots of Renata leaning against a brick wall.
Renata narrows her eyes like I’m a magazine cover and I’m Not Hot. “You’re looking very old today, young woman. Where’s the visor I bought you for Christmas? You are asking for LIVER SPOTS,” she booms, loud enough to scare birds. “Look at my spotty OLD HANDS. This song was playing this morning,” Renata says to Aggie abruptly when the radio changes tracks. “Quick, call them.”
Aggie consults her notebook. “It was ‘Billie Jean’ at 9:09 A.M. This is ‘Thriller.’ Tell her what you did to Phillip.”
Renata is triumphant. “I gave him the joke pair of panties and told him to iron them. Who knew such a simple request would be the last straw?”
“He just picked up his keys and walked out,” Aggie says wearily. “Two and a half days. He lasted longer than most.”
For entertainment, some people go on safari. Renata Parloni prefers hunting a very specific type of game. She’s reloading her weapon when she says, “We haven’t had a Goth boy in a while. I want one that’s constantly thinking about his mortality.”
I steel myself. “We had an agreement. We’re putting up a sensible advertisement. I’ll go get it.” Imagine being able to tell Sylvia that I fixed the Parloni situation once and for all.
Renata says when I’m back with my file: “Read the old ad. I want to hear what’s wrong with it.”
“ ‘Position Vacant. Two ancient old women residing at Providence Retirement Villa seek male assistant for casual exploitation and good-natured humiliation.’ ”
Renata interrupts. “What’s wrong with that bit?” Both sisters are jiggling slightly on their scooters now. No one could stay still to “Thriller.” I’m shifting foot to foot, trying to hold the dance in.
I explain, “It’s illegal to discriminate based on gender. This says only males can apply.”
“I have no desire to boss around a female. Read the rest,” Renata bosses me. Aggie gives me a deeply empathetic look.
I continue, “ ‘Duties include boutique shopping, fastfood fetching, and sincerely rendered flattery. Good looks a bonus— but we aren’t picky.’ ” I appeal to Aggie. “I’m not sure that’s legal either. You can see that isn’t going to get anyone who will be any use to you. All you’ve gotten so far are— ”
Renata interrupts again. “Skinny boys with skateboards and dark circles under their eyes. Useless kids who don’t know how to peel an orange or drive a stick shift.”
I pull out my draft advertisement. “ ‘Wanted: Experienced aged-care nurse to provide assistance to two active elderly women residing at Providence Retirement Villa. Domestic duties, outings, and errands. Driver’s license plus police check required.’ ” I try not to cringe under Renata’s poisonous stare. “We had a deal.”
Aggie is on my side. “Ren, I think we need to go with this new ad. It would be nice to have someone who could actually complete tasks. Laundry. Making the bed. I am too old to live in this kind of mess because of your strange hobby.”
Renata fires up. “We agreed that when we were rich and old— ”
“That was fifty-five years ago,” Aggie cuts in. “You’ve gotten your revenge on the male species. Yes, having young people around the place is enjoyable. But I have no clean clothes. I have no clean coffee mug. Let me live comfortably. My hands are no good anymore.” She has peripheral neuropathy, causing numbness in her fingers.
Renata’s expression softens. “One last boy and I’ll retire. I’d better put in a good effort to really break him in. Find him for us, Ruthie.” She adjusts her visor. “I need a strong drink. But I have no boy to make it for me. Drat.”
“Maybe we’ll win the lottery with this last boy,” Aggie says to me with not much optimism. “Got to be in it to win it, I suppose.”
“I’ll go and sort out that ad for you and take your mail. Have a lovely afternoon.” I must have a shred of optimism left in me. I nearly make it back to the door before Renata stops me.
“We need you to put gas in the car. We need snacks. And get us some dinner— Thai, but nothing spicy. No noodles or rice. No soups or coconut. Absolutely no cilantro or mint.”
My pulse bumps at the thought of leaving the grounds this evening, but I can’t exactly leave them up the hill to starve. “I was busy tonight, but … okay.”
Renata snorts. “You? Busy on a Monday night? Puh-lease. Look, keep this good service up and I’ll write you into my will.” (A common tactic. Her sister and I interject with admonishments and she moves on.) “Get us some fresh flowers— some sort of elegant mix. But no lilies. You know I don’t like feeling like I’m at my own funeral.”
I know exactly what sort of flowers will get me yelled at. I turn my face to the sky and send up a request: I can’t take much more. Please send us the One.
Renata revs her scooter and accelerates off. “Then come up and register me for the Instagram. Then fix our DVD player.” Her voice is fading into the distance. “Then stay and watch a DVD with us. And then you can wash all of Aggie’s …” (inaudible).
My only plan for tonight was walking 127 steps from the office to my cottage, to have a hot bath and then watch Heaven Sent. But it sounds like I’m going out instead. Gas is one of the only things that can’t be delivered, unfortunately for me.
“Thank you, Ruthie,” Aggie says to me. She has been struggling to liberate her purse from her smart handbag that I secretly covet. She peels out two hundred-dollar bills from an inch-thick stack. “Is this enough? I wish we could have you as our assistant, but Sylvia would never let us. Girls like you are gold dust.”
If Sylvia gave me to the Parlonis, I’d age ten years in a week, and that would make me 135. “I’ll find someone reliable. You need someone who can run your house for you. Life will be much easier.” For you and me. “I hope when Sylvia comes back— ”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell her you managed the place just fine.” Aggie peels out a third note from her purse. “I apologize for Ren. Here is a thank-you present.” She hands me the most perfect hundred-dollar bill I have ever seen, her eyes on her departing sister.
“Oh thank you, but you don’t need to.” I try to hand the money back, but her purse is in her bag. In the distance, we can hear Renata still shouting. I say, “Aggie, this is too much.”
“It’s not against the rules, you can take it. Go buy yourself something indulgent.” She looks at my plain outfit with kindness rather than critique. All the pieces are clean and in good condition, but they’re all thrifted. “Be twenty-five years old. How nice it must be, to be so young. That’s the only prize I can never win again.” She scoots off.
I put the windfall into my pocket and go back inside. Melanie is back at her desk. A white earbud dangles from her ear and she’s wearing no shoes. I put the job file into her in-tray and Aggie’s envelopes in the mail tub.
“We’re going to put their job ad up for a few days, then we’ll change it to my new version. Could I leave that with you?” The local recruitment agency we got Melanie from won’t deal with the Parlonis any longer. We throw out the net and trawl the internet for fresh boys. I think of my dating aspirations and wince; will I be doing the same?
“Sure thing,” Melanie says. “I’m stuck with this new resident setup. What do I enter here, for tenancy end date?”
“All contracts end December thirty-first next year.”
She looks up at me quizzically. “What happens after then? Their tenancy gets extended?” She thinks of something. “Is this because they’re all … you know? Old?”
“No, it’s our new corporate policy. We actually don’t know what happens after that date.” I reach back behind me and find Sylvia’s file labeled “PDC DEVELOPMENT.” “If you run out of work, you can read through this for some background. I might go for a walk and check in on a few residents.”
Melanie flips open the file, decides it’s boring, and says, “Think about the Sasaki Method. Think about giving a smile to the next cute guy you see.”
I do think about these things for a long time as I walk up the hill, moving tortoises off the path with my hand in a latex glove. I give each one a flirty fake smile. I know that when I circuit back around, they’ll be on the path again.
No one can say I don’t try my best.
