to be Ping-Pong paddles.
“What I can’t stand about them is how noisy they are—Cubans, or whatever they are.” Flora, in loud voice. “And they never discipline their kids. No matter what their kids are up to, they let them get away with murder. Then they wonder why they turn out the way they do.”
“Sh!” Jenny said, too late.
Without turning her head or looking in Flora’s direction, a middle-aged woman said in Spanish to the young woman next to her, “Listen to Big Nose over there. That Jew is calling us noisy? Did she ever listen to herself? Do they hear themselves? Never. The Chosen People. Perfection incarnate. But please notice the way she’s dressed. Beautiful, no? Right out of the garbage, the whole wrinkled mess. She ought to be ashamed of herself. Old lady dressed like a sloppy teenager.” She said “mess” and “sloppy teenager” in an almost unaccented English. “Look who dares to speak badly of our children. The way they’ve raised theirs, raised them to squeeze the life out of others. Hitler should have finished …”
“No,” the young woman interrupted, also in Spanish. “That kind of talk isn’t right. Don’t talk that talk.”
“You defend them?” the first woman said.
“I defend decency. That kind of talk is bad. There are plenty of fine Jews, and we know it. We all know it. I work for a very fine Jewish lady—”
“Sure. Who buys you with worthless little—”
“Off, off the bus!” The driver, directing the teenage group. “Your stop, and thank God for that.”
“I’ll say one thing for them,” Flora continued blithely. “They’re hard workers, they know how to work. They’ll do anything. Pay them and they work. And always smiling. Nobody works harder than the Cubans. They put the blacks to shame. But the noise level! God help us.”
“Shhh!” Jenny said. “They speak English, you know.”
“Oh, very few do. Anyway, I’m complimenting them.” Flora put her head back. “I’m exhausted. Could we not talk for a while? I can’t stand any more talk right now, if you don’t mind.” And closed her eyes, pulling the peaked cap down over her face. “If I fall asleep, keep an eye on my bag. You never know.” She was gripping the clasp of her carryall with both hands.
They stopped at one of the old street malls. The bus almost emptied, and refilled with similar people, more of these white. Hospital and nursing home workers—nurse’s aides, cleaning women, maintenance men, shleppers, drivers, kitchen help—cogs in Florida’s billion-dollar industry.
Flora said, without opening her eyes, “I told the bus driver to let us know when we reached Villa Rosa. Listen for it, Jenny, or we’ll get lost. You can get terribly lost in Miami.”
“It’s okay,” Jenny said. “I know the cross street, I’ll watch for it.”
“No, listen for the bus driver. If we go past the stop we’ll get terribly lost.”
“Yes, I will, I will. Don’t worry, go back to sleep.”
“Who can sleep with all this noise?” Flora said.
Jenny looked at her sister. Eighty-five, strangling in unfulfillment, dying not to die before accomplishing some vague greatness for which she would be remembered forever, venting prejudices so she could feel herself larger, more vividly significant. Scared. Scared of getting lost in Miami. As if cabs didn’t exist. Scared of spending the money she had in good enough quantity to live out her days in comfort. Scared she would catch a cold. Scared her bag would be snatched out of her lap. Scared she’d fall. Scared she’d break a hip. Scared she’d die. Scared she wouldn’t, but would live on and on through a cycle of horrors: cane, walker, wheelchair, bed, pain and doctors, indignity after indignity, alert and resistant all the way to the coffin.
Jenny reached over to tuck the orange scarf more securely around Flora’s neck.
Flora snuggled in. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Take a nap too. Put your head on my shoulder.” Then
“What I can’t stand about them is how noisy they are—Cubans, or whatever they are.” Flora, in loud voice. “And they never discipline their kids. No matter what their kids are up to, they let them get away with murder. Then they wonder why they turn out the way they do.”
“Sh!” Jenny said, too late.
Without turning her head or looking in Flora’s direction, a middle-aged woman said in Spanish to the young woman next to her, “Listen to Big Nose over there. That Jew is calling us noisy? Did she ever listen to herself? Do they hear themselves? Never. The Chosen People. Perfection incarnate. But please notice the way she’s dressed. Beautiful, no? Right out of the garbage, the whole wrinkled mess. She ought to be ashamed of herself. Old lady dressed like a sloppy teenager.” She said “mess” and “sloppy teenager” in an almost unaccented English. “Look who dares to speak badly of our children. The way they’ve raised theirs, raised them to squeeze the life out of others. Hitler should have finished …”
“No,” the young woman interrupted, also in Spanish. “That kind of talk isn’t right. Don’t talk that talk.”
“You defend them?” the first woman said.
“I defend decency. That kind of talk is bad. There are plenty of fine Jews, and we know it. We all know it. I work for a very fine Jewish lady—”
“Sure. Who buys you with worthless little—”
“Off, off the bus!” The driver, directing the teenage group. “Your stop, and thank God for that.”
“I’ll say one thing for them,” Flora continued blithely. “They’re hard workers, they know how to work. They’ll do anything. Pay them and they work. And always smiling. Nobody works harder than the Cubans. They put the blacks to shame. But the noise level! God help us.”
“Shhh!” Jenny said. “They speak English, you know.”
“Oh, very few do. Anyway, I’m complimenting them.” Flora put her head back. “I’m exhausted. Could we not talk for a while? I can’t stand any more talk right now, if you don’t mind.” And closed her eyes, pulling the peaked cap down over her face. “If I fall asleep, keep an eye on my bag. You never know.” She was gripping the clasp of her carryall with both hands.
They stopped at one of the old street malls. The bus almost emptied, and refilled with similar people, more of these white. Hospital and nursing home workers—nurse’s aides, cleaning women, maintenance men, shleppers, drivers, kitchen help—cogs in Florida’s billion-dollar industry.
Flora said, without opening her eyes, “I told the bus driver to let us know when we reached Villa Rosa. Listen for it, Jenny, or we’ll get lost. You can get terribly lost in Miami.”
“It’s okay,” Jenny said. “I know the cross street, I’ll watch for it.”
“No, listen for the bus driver. If we go past the stop we’ll get terribly lost.”
“Yes, I will, I will. Don’t worry, go back to sleep.”
“Who can sleep with all this noise?” Flora said.
Jenny looked at her sister. Eighty-five, strangling in unfulfillment, dying not to die before accomplishing some vague greatness for which she would be remembered forever, venting prejudices so she could feel herself larger, more vividly significant. Scared. Scared of getting lost in Miami. As if cabs didn’t exist. Scared of spending the money she had in good enough quantity to live out her days in comfort. Scared she would catch a cold. Scared her bag would be snatched out of her lap. Scared she’d fall. Scared she’d break a hip. Scared she’d die. Scared she wouldn’t, but would live on and on through a cycle of horrors: cane, walker, wheelchair, bed, pain and doctors, indignity after indignity, alert and resistant all the way to the coffin.
Jenny reached over to tuck the orange scarf more securely around Flora’s neck.
Flora snuggled in. “Thanks,” she whispered. “Take a nap too. Put your head on my shoulder.” Then
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