I pull the pack out and point the open end toward her. "You want one for the road, Mrs. Randolph?"
She waves me off and turns her walker back toward her house. "Boy, those things'll kill you if you smoke more than one a day." She's not looking at me while she's talking; she's just creeping down the drive behind her walker. "'Sides, my daughter will be here soon and she'll kill me if she finds out I been sneakin' smokes again." She turns her head back to me and a devilish smile spreads across her full, wrinkled cheeks. "That's our secret, boy. She don't let me have no fun," she adds with a wink before turning to finish the journey home.
"Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph," I call after her.
She doesn't answer.
Thursday, November 23
(Gus)
Every day around noon, I grab my smokes and make my way to the driveway to meet Mrs. Randolph. She's incredibly timely. Exactly at noon she returns our newspaper. And every day I see her, just like today, she asks for a cigarette, and I give it to her. She barks at me to light it, and I do. It's a ritual that I've become pretty fond of. For all her bark, she's got no bite. I knew it from the first time I talked to her, but the more conversations we have, the more I get to see what a cool old chick she is. I ask her a lot of questions, and even though she acts put out to answer me, I know she secretly enjoys it because she stays longer every time.
I've learned that she's eighty-three years old (she ripped me a new asshole for asking her age, which of course took place immediately after she told me how old she is). She was married for fifty-two years to her high school sweetheart, whose name was Fritz. He had a decorated military past and retired from law enforcement. He died thirteen years ago. She doesn't say it, but I see it in her face when she talks about him that she misses him.
Today, she's talking about her daughter, Francine. Francine is a nurse. She works four days a week at a hospital in San Diego. Her shift is usually three in the morning until three in the afternoon. I've never asked her age, but I'm guessing she's in her late-fifties given what I can put together from Mrs. Randolph's other stories. Mrs. Randolph is proud of Francine, not that she admits it outright, but it peeks through in between the other comments.
"Francine working today?" I ask, knowing she is. It's Thursday; she always works on Thursdays.
"Yes. She's always workin'." She somehow doesn't sound happy about that fact.
"But she loves what she does." I met Francine a few days ago and talked to her about her job. She does love it. And I bet she's great at it, because she's so damn nice.
Mrs. Randolph huffs. "I'm glad she loves it, but that don't mean that she should let it kill her. There's no balance. She don't rest like she should. And she damn well don't have fun like she should. She used to take me to bingo every week when she lived in Charlotte, but we ain't done that at all since I been here. I think she done forgot how to have fun."
The mention of bingo has me smiling. I bet this woman is fierce in a bingo hall. Bright Side, Gracie, and I used to go play bingo every once in a while, and the elderly women there were like wolves in sheep's clothing. Dressed in their Sunday best, their hair done up, looking sweet and innocent, they were nothing but sweet old ladies—until the first ball dropped and then they turned into sharks circling in bloodied water. They were rabid. Despite that, I smile at her. "I'll take you to play bingo."
She smiles. It's rare that she smiles and I love seeing it. "Would you, now?"
I nod. "Sure. I'm always down for a little bingo. I know a place. I'll check out the schedule and let you know."
She waves and turns her walker down the drive, smile still in place. "Okay, boy. I'm holdin' you to that."
"Have a good one, Mrs. Randolph." It's become part of our ritual for me to say it when she leaves.
And for her to say nothing in return.
I don't mind. Sometimes you have to listen to the things that people don't say.
Saturday, November 25
(Scout)
I return from my morning run to find Gustov and Paxton sitting on the sofa in front of a blaring TV in the living room. They're watching a soccer game. The commentators have heavy British accents. The whole scene is odd given the volume of the TV and the fact that I don't think either Paxton or Gustov are soccer fans. But the strangest thing is that there's an elderly woman sitting in an armchair that's been moved to a few feet in front of the TV. Her hair is an unnatural shade of pale lavender that shines in the sunlight coming through the window, making it look like it's slightly metallic. She's as absorbed in the game as I've ever seen anyone watching a sporting event. She alternates between a play-by-play of the action in a voice that mimics the British accent on TV, to cursing the players loudly in a gritty southern drawl, to whooping and cheering when something's apparently gone the way she wants it to. I know I'm tired after my run, but this woman is wearing me out just watching her. Still, even though I really need a shower, I walk up to the back of the sofa to get a better look. Paxton catches me out of the corner of his eye. "Morning, Scout," he says as if this is all perfectly normal.
"Morning."
Gustov turns around. Spare Ribs is curled up in his lap sleeping, although I don't know how, considering all the noise.
I nod my head toward the old woman, wordlessly asking what's up. Not that it's any of my business, I suppose, but I'm curious.