Page 29 of Too Old for This

I walk into church with my back straight, head up. Sometimes you’ve got to play it that way. Like you’re proud even when you aren’t.

Glenda is waiting near the snack table, as always, and her gaze sweeps over me. I’m still using my cane. I’m also wearing my most comfortable lounging clothes: grey fleece pants with a matching shirt and a pair of sneakers. Not my usual evening attire.

I hand her my party tray of vegetables, cheese, crackers, and dip. Her eyes widen. She had been so focused on my clothes that she didn’t notice the food.

“Isn’t this nice,” she says. “And it’s store-bought.”

“Yes, it is.”

I give her a big smile before walking away. Yes, I am ten minutes late. Yes, the tray came straight from the deli section at the grocery store. No, I do not care.

Sheila and Bonnie are deep into the first game of the night. Sheila looks me up and down the same way Glenda did, her expression landing somewhere between horror and disappointment. Bonnie fills up my punch cup with her flask.

“G-52!”

“Are you okay?” Bonnie whispers.

“I’m fine. What did you bring this week?”

“Mini pecan pies.”

“B-10!”

“Crab-stuffed mushrooms,” Sheila says. “You?”

“A party tray from Spend n’ Save.”

“You did not,” Bonnie says.

“Yes, I did.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m too old to make something fancy every week,” I say. “Or to dress up for bingo.”

They exchange a pointed look, not bothering to hide it.

Late this afternoon, as I searched through the refrigerator for ingredients to make a nice dish, I realized how silly it was. If I’m surrendering to my old age and my growing weaknesses, it should apply to all areas of my life. Including trying to impress the people at First Covenant.

That vegetable platter was also cheaper than buying ingredients for some fancy homemade dish. I need to pinch my pennies.

“I toured Oak Manor this week,” I say. “And Serenity Village.”

Bonnie throws down her bingo dauber. “Whatever is happening with you has to end right now.”

“I am exploring my options.”

“Well, stop.”

“N-34!”

Sheila stares down at her bingo cards, pretending not to hear a word. Bonnie glares at me throughout the game. I don’t think she exhales until someone yells bingo.

“I can’t bang around in that old house until I forget my way,” I say.

Sheila side-eyes me.

“You are years away from getting lost in your own house,” Bonnie says.

Maybe she’s right, but maybe not.

The problem is once you reach that point, it’s too late. Someone else has to take control of your life—a child or spouse or maybe the state. If you can’t find your way around your own house, you’re no longer capable of making your own decisions. I’d rather make mine before they’re made for me.

—

I win a game of bingo, my first in years.

My ex-daughter-in-law would say it’s a sign.

Stephanie has always been into that kind of thing.

Like if she burns a piece of toast in the morning, her day isn’t going to go well.

Or if she hits every green light on the way to the store, that must mean her life is headed in the right direction.

I think a win is just a win. And I’ll take it.

At the end of the evening, Glenda asks if I want the remains of my party platter. “Or the tinfoil tray? Do you need that?”

“I’m happy to donate everything that’s left.” I smile as I say that, as if I’m doing her a favor.

She nods, her face tight.

Look at that. One good thing happened today. Anytime I can make Glenda do that with her face, I consider it an accomplishment.

Whenever I find myself feeling particularly down, or desperate, she is the one I imagine killing.

Countless hours have been spent planning her death, and I’ve come up with so many different ways.

One of my favorites is hitting her over the head with a pickleball paddle.

A fancy one with a painted design on it, the kind ridiculous people use.

I’ve never played pickleball, but I imagine it anyway.

I’ve also thought about pushing her off a bridge. Something about that long, dramatic plunge into the water seems so fitting, like she would die the same way she lived: over-the-top.

But I could never do it. Killing Glenda is a daydream that keeps on giving. For years, that fantasy has helped take the edge off.

“Can we talk about what’s going on with you?” Bonnie says.

We’re in the parking lot of the church. Despite the clear, warm night, most people head straight to their cars, which I understand. It’s after nine o’clock and close to my bedtime.

“Do we have to talk now?” I ask.

Bonnie purses her lips. “Sunday, then?”

I nod.

Bonnie walks away, but Sheila does not. She stares at me, her arms crossed, and I swear she is tapping her foot. The aggressiveness surprises me.

“I really don’t want to talk tonight—”

“Who’s Norma?” she says.

“Pardon?”

“Norma. I think that’s her name.”

I have no idea what she is talking about. “Is this a riddle?”

She sighs, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “I stopped by church the other day to speak to Pastor Doug, and he was talking to this woman. She was middle-aged, sounded like both a smoker and a drinker. You know the kind.”

Burke was a drinker and a smoker. He looked and sounded like both. The bloated face, broken capillaries around his nose, and a raspy voice. I know the kind. But I don’t know a woman named Norma.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say.

“Since no one else was around, obviously I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation. This woman said you recommended First Covenant.”

I shake my head, not liking this one bit. “Did she say how she knew me?”

“Not that I heard.”

Which means this Norma woman didn’t say how she knew me.

Sheila has top-tier eavesdropping skills.

She was the one who heard that the church organist was leaving her husband because he had an affair with a parishioner.

And that was during a church picnic when all the kids were screaming and Pastor Hector played the accordion.

If this Norma person had mentioned how she knew me, Sheila would’ve caught it.

“That’s weird,” I say. “The name isn’t familiar. But you know, I talked to so many customers at the bank back when I was working. Maybe this woman has finally decided to go to church.”

“Maybe. I just thought you should know someone was talking about you to the pastor.”

“I appreciate that.”

Sheila says goodbye, wiggling her fingers at me. I drive home with the name Norma throbbing in my head. It still rings no bells. I realize my memory isn’t as sharp as it used to be, but that name is relatively uncommon. It would stand out.

It doesn’t. That’s what worries me.