Age Before Beauty
Mary Ann Savage

 

"Come on, Mom," Deirdre said " What's going on with Blanche? She's actually flirting with him!"

Marsha did not answer her daughter at once. Every female at the condo complex felt attracted in one degree or another to the new maintenance assistant, and that included herself. Fred was the son of the Mr. Pangoulis, who owned the building, couldn't have more than twenty, and was defined by a distinctive masculinity which asserted itself in every movement, every word. It was all he had to offer -- virility -- and he offered it everywhere, rather innocently. It was impossible for any of the women to keep eyes off him, not to appreciate the casual grace as he shouldered a broom, lifted a trash bag, walked away. He was not unaware of his power over the women at Belleview Terrace -- the level brown eyes under hair just too long for the haircut signaled awareness -- but he stayed polite and amiable, except with Blanche, one of the oldest women in the complex. He and Blanche had become friendly, and he had recently begun to have lunch with her.

Marsha looked at Deirdre, home from her college dorm to do laundry, and shrugged. She was not going to admit, across the generations, the tingle she felt when she encountered Fred. She could guess her daughter's actual puzzlement. Why hadn't Fred ever given Deirdre that look of speculation, of admiration and intention which seemed to pass between him and Blanche more and more frequently nowadays? Surely Deidre was the more appropriate recipiant of such a glance, and she was not used to seeing it go to others.

"Blanche invited him in for lunch one day, and now he goes over a lot."

Marsha, who ran a secretarial service out of her condo, had watched from her front window as Blanche seduced Fred with cookies and lemonade. Marsha had greeted Fred in passing, found out his name, and suggested "anything but more marigolds" for the inner border, but Blanche had gone out of her way to make friends. "Well, do you think . . ." Deirdre was folding clothes. She looked across the patio toward's Blanche's door, where a rake leaned casually against the wall where Fred had left it. "What do you think . . . ?"

"What do you think, Deirdre?" Her mother shrugged. "He has lunch there every day he's here. Blanche told me they watch Days of Our Lives."

Marsha did not tell Deirdre how hard it was for her to get anything done when Fred was in her line of vision at the window. She found herself gazing out at the patio on Monday and Thursday, when he was working, not thinking of anythihg, just enjoying.

"There are hardly any men around here," she told her daughter lightly. "It's just that we hardly see any men."

She did not say that she had resolved to take care of other chores, chores that did not keep her at the window, when Fred was around. She did not say that she had been unable to keep her resolve.

"He's so-o sharp. Too cute for his own good." Deirdre pronounced, and the two women watched as Fred emerged from the door opposite. Blanche, following in a split second, touched his retreating shoulder, very casually, then pressed something into his hand as he turned. A brownie. Fred munched, apparently unaware of Blanche lingering at her door to watch his departure with the rake, unaware of speculative eyes from other units.

He did see Marsha and Deirdre, standing in Marsha's window, and saluted in greeting. Marsha returned a smile, hoping it signaled nothing but friendliness, but Deirdre was watching Blanche. "She's really flirting, Mom," she pronounced. "The way she's looking at him, they could be having an affair."

Blanche was certainly close to seventy. Her hair had been silver for a long time, but was thick, and she kept it short and casual. She still swam and sunbathed, wearing shorts and a halter, and she had avoided the pouchy fat or the bony thinness many women are prone to as they age. She was a pretty woman, slim, and cheerful, with violet eyes that needed only reading glasses.

Blanche was retired and apparently pretty well off. She and Marsha had become friends when Marsha volunteered to feed the cat, Perkins, and water the plants when Blanche left home for days or weeks, "to see grandchildren," or "visiting old friends," and once "finally taking a cruise." Blanche had always rewarded her with a plant, or a box of candy, and in the case of the cruise, with a really lovely silver pin from Mexico.

Marsha decided to tell Blanche what Deirdre thought about the flirting. Blanche's behavior had always seemed was grandmotherly to her; the new gardener was a point of interest in a vacationless summer. Still, if Deirdre saw seductiveness, well, Blanche could become the subject of ridicule. Marsha liked the older woman; maybe she could hint a warning, help Blanche avoid that.

The next day, when Blanche came out to relax by the pool, Marsha fixed up a pitcher of iced tea and joined her.

Blanche sipped gratefully. "Love your tea," she said, "but I'm not going to be out much longer. When the Bellamy kids get home from summer school, I'm out of here."

"I can't take the heat of the day," Marsha told her, "or I'd join you more often. Aren't you afraid for your skin?"

"Number thirty sunblock," said Blanche, holding it up. "I slather it on before I get out here, then again, after I swim. I can handle an occasional liver spot, but melanoma would kill me." She chuckled. "I still tan, a little, but ve-ery slowly."

"How's your summer? Any vacation in view."

"I'm staying home this summer. The old wanderlust just isn't hitting me this season."

Marsha looked at Blanche, and caught a grin on the older woman's face. She knows I'm curious, she thought. She knows I've been watching.

But Marsha was cagy. She didn't want to appear critical, or prying. She had carefully planned what to say. "I can understand that," she commented neutrally. Then she leaned toward her neighbor and let her voice become playful. "Tell me about Fred, then," she said. "You've gotten to know him better than anyone else around here."

Blanche could interpret that any way she chose.

She chose to laugh, and lowered her own voice conspiratorily. "I'm really enjoying Fred," she said. "I told you we watch his soap."

Marsha gave Blanche a look.

"I make lemonade and give him tuna sandwiches. He entertains me."

"He entertains you?"

"Mmm-hmm."

Marsha decided to try being a little vulnerable herself. "He's so attractive," she confided. "I mean, I really like to look at him. You know. Kind of a primitive feeling." Marsha squirmed, and repeated. "He's very attractive."

"Right," said Blanche, smiling. "Have you dreamed about him?"

Marsha was getting uncomfortable, but she wanted this conversation. She sipped tea, and looked across the pool. "Not at night," she said finally.

"But looking out your window?"

Marsha nodded. The two women were lounging on pool chairs, Marsha in the sleeveless house dress she usually wore when she didn't have a customer to see, and Blanche in her yellow shorts and halter. Marsha, hair just turning gray, looked older than her fifty-one years; Blanche seemed younger than the sixty-eight she admitted.

"I watched you go after him," Marsha said. "Cookies, drinks, the works. You adopted him."

Blanche gave a wicked grin. "I did go after him," she admitted. "But I didn't adopt him." She paused. "You might say I seduced him."

"Seduced?" Marsha sat up.

"Well, you know, he is like a boy -- all men are." They exchanged a look of complicity. "So I always had cookies in my hand, and while he was thinking of me as grandma, I started to flirt."

"What?"

"You know. Not like the little girls who chase him around, but playing up to him, teasing him about how cute he is, really listening and flattering his opinions. He isn't very experienced with women, for all he knows a lot of girls.

"And that soap opera of his. I learned what turned him on by watching that."

"What?" Marsha repeated, openly staring at Blanche. She couldn't think of any other response.

Blanche was warming up to her topic. "He's so . . . so innocent," she said. "While he watched tv, I watched him. I soon learned what arouses him."

"From the soap opera?"

"Yes. He would sort of shiver, and I'd know he was thinking how he's feel if whatever was happening on screen happened to him. Pretty soon I was making him squirm, and it was so easy. He didn't even know what was going on, didn't think I was doing anything." Blanche laughed.

She looked off into space for a minute. "I know people are beginning to notice."

"Well, yes," Marsha returned. "That was why I brought it up. . . "

Blanche giggled. "The first time he kissed me, he shocked himself, but I just moved right in. I said, 'No, try it this way,' and by then I knew just what to do to make him really hot.

Marsha was blushing. "How you dared!" she breathed. "How did you dare to do that?"

"Well, I wanted to."

"I'd have been embarrassed. I'd have been . . ." Ashamed of my middle-aged body, thought Marsha, afraid he'd laugh. I'd have worried about what people thought.

"Well, what do I have to lose?" Blanche asked. "Really? If he doesn't want to be there, he doesnn't have to be."

"But he's only just about Deirdre's age! What kind of a relationship is that?"

"Oh, I'm not looking for a relationship, Marsha. I'm looking for someone to touch me. Bradley King, over at the senior center, he wanted a relationship. He wanted me to cook dinner. He wanted to bring his laundry over.

"All Fred gives me is that wonderful masculinity -- he's a bright-feathered rooster. He's fun, he only stays an hour or so, and it's enough."

Blanche's expression changed slightly. "He'll probably start avoiding me as soon as he gets involved with someone his own age. By the end of the month, by the end of the summer for sure, it'll all be over. If I let go at the right time, we'll both have a great memory and no regrets."

Marsha digested this. "Blanche, I'm amazed," she said. "I don't know how I feel, just amazed."

"I know how you feel, but you'll not admit it -- you're envious."

"Oh, no," said Marsha. "Not me. It could never be me. I just can't imagine . . ."

"Oh yes, you can!" Blanche put her hand over Marsha's. " You've been sitting at your window, imagining, all month. Well, one of these days, when you're a little older, you'll have nothing left to lose. . . maybe Mr. Pangoulis has another son."

Marsha backed off. "It's enough to just watch Fred through my window. I'm not as brave as you, Blanche."

Blanche began to put her sunglasses away and folded her towel. "Well, I'll pay a price," she said, getting ready to go back into her home. "It'll be lonely , I'm sure."

She smiled. "That's when I'll need a vacation. I was gone for almost a month after Johnny Priziak stopped delivering my groceries, you know. You might have to watch Perkins and the houseplants again for quite a while after Fred cools down."

 

 

Copyright © 1999 Mary Ann Savage
Published on the World Wide Web by "www.storymania.com"