“I think Mr. Bloom is a very friendly person! Which is more than I can say for some people around here.”
Bloom smiled at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Dempsey. If you could go out there with those children tonight, what would you want to play?”
Mrs. Dempsey stroked her cat. “I used to love all kinds of games. Especially jacks. I was the jacks champion in elementary school,” she announced proudly.
“Those were the good old days,” said Mr. Mute. “Kids don’t play jacks anymore. Now they’re only interested in jocks.”
Mrs. Dempsey uttered a surprisingly girlish giggle. “But you know, if I could still tell my body what to do, I would dance.”
Mr. Agee rose and crossed to her, extending his hand. “I would be honored to have this dance, Mrs. Dempsey.”
Mrs. Dempsey giggled again and started to rise, then winced in sudden pain and slumped back again.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Agee bent over her solicitously.
“Just a shooting pain.” Mrs. Dempsey shook her head, embarrassed. “I think it’s my arthuritis.”
“Arthritis,” Mr. Weinstein corrected. “Since when do you go around calling diseases by their first name?”
Everyone laughed—everyone except Mr. Conroy. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “When you’ve got as many aches and pains as I have, you get to know them personally.”
“Don’t remind me.” Mrs. Weinstein glanced at Bloom. “I would like to run again. What I wouldn’t give to play jump rope once more.”
Mr. Agee nodded. “What I wouldn’t give to just be hitting puberty again!”
“Sex!” Mr. Conroy muttered. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“So what’s wrong with thinking?” Mrs. Weinstein reached out and took her husband’s hand. “Maybe that’s one game I can’t play anymore, but believe me, I’ve got some beautiful memories.”
“Stop already.” Mr. Weinstein squeezed her hand. “You’ve had a full life, sweetheart. Don’t get sloppy on me now.” Glancing down, he noticed his wife’s shoes resting beside the settee and pointed at them. “Put those back on. A good Jew only goes barefoot when someone has died.”
Mrs. Weinstein shrugged. “I’m not that orthodox.”
“I am,” Mr. Weinstein said firmly. “Put ’em on before you catch cold.”
Bloom leaned forward to address him. “What were you like as a boy, Mr. Weinstein?”
“Me?” Mr. Weinstein smiled. “I loved to climb—anything you can name, I climbed it. Like a cat I could climb.”
Mr. Agee chimed in, nodding. “I always wanted to be Douglas Fairbanks.”
“You still do, Mr. Agee.” Mrs. Dempsey giggled again.
“Did you know Douglas Fairbanks was half Jewish?” Mr. Weinstein said. “His real name was Ullman.”
Mr. Agee ignored him, lost in the depth of fond recollection. “I broke more bedsprings by leaping from my dresser to the bed and out the window.”
Again there was laughter from the group and again Mr. Conroy abstained. It was obvious he had no intention of joining them in this stroll down Memory Lane.
“Have it your way,” he said. “Me, I like being old.” He stared at the group defiantly. “And when I go, my son promised to have me frozen.”
“You already are frozen, popsicle-head!” Mr. Weinstein declared. He started to laugh at his own joke, then began to cough. Mrs. Weinstein slapped him on the back.
“Watch it, Harry,” she chided. “Remember your emphysema.”
“She’s right.” Mr. Conroy nodded grimly. “Face the facts. We’d all be better off if we remember what we are today, instead of what happened sixty—seventy years ago.”
But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. As the coughing spell ended, she glanced at Bloom. “What about you?” she asked. “What did you play?”
Bloom smiled. “Kick-the-can was my game.”
“That was mostly for boys,” Mrs. Dempsey said. “My late husband, Jack Dempsey—not the fighter, Mr. Bloom—Jack Dempsey was the most gentle man who ever walked this earth—he loved that
Bloom smiled at her. “Tell me, Mrs. Dempsey. If you could go out there with those children tonight, what would you want to play?”
Mrs. Dempsey stroked her cat. “I used to love all kinds of games. Especially jacks. I was the jacks champion in elementary school,” she announced proudly.
“Those were the good old days,” said Mr. Mute. “Kids don’t play jacks anymore. Now they’re only interested in jocks.”
Mrs. Dempsey uttered a surprisingly girlish giggle. “But you know, if I could still tell my body what to do, I would dance.”
Mr. Agee rose and crossed to her, extending his hand. “I would be honored to have this dance, Mrs. Dempsey.”
Mrs. Dempsey giggled again and started to rise, then winced in sudden pain and slumped back again.
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Agee bent over her solicitously.
“Just a shooting pain.” Mrs. Dempsey shook her head, embarrassed. “I think it’s my arthuritis.”
“Arthritis,” Mr. Weinstein corrected. “Since when do you go around calling diseases by their first name?”
Everyone laughed—everyone except Mr. Conroy. “Speak for yourself,” he said. “When you’ve got as many aches and pains as I have, you get to know them personally.”
“Don’t remind me.” Mrs. Weinstein glanced at Bloom. “I would like to run again. What I wouldn’t give to play jump rope once more.”
Mr. Agee nodded. “What I wouldn’t give to just be hitting puberty again!”
“Sex!” Mr. Conroy muttered. “Is that all you ever think about?”
“So what’s wrong with thinking?” Mrs. Weinstein reached out and took her husband’s hand. “Maybe that’s one game I can’t play anymore, but believe me, I’ve got some beautiful memories.”
“Stop already.” Mr. Weinstein squeezed her hand. “You’ve had a full life, sweetheart. Don’t get sloppy on me now.” Glancing down, he noticed his wife’s shoes resting beside the settee and pointed at them. “Put those back on. A good Jew only goes barefoot when someone has died.”
Mrs. Weinstein shrugged. “I’m not that orthodox.”
“I am,” Mr. Weinstein said firmly. “Put ’em on before you catch cold.”
Bloom leaned forward to address him. “What were you like as a boy, Mr. Weinstein?”
“Me?” Mr. Weinstein smiled. “I loved to climb—anything you can name, I climbed it. Like a cat I could climb.”
Mr. Agee chimed in, nodding. “I always wanted to be Douglas Fairbanks.”
“You still do, Mr. Agee.” Mrs. Dempsey giggled again.
“Did you know Douglas Fairbanks was half Jewish?” Mr. Weinstein said. “His real name was Ullman.”
Mr. Agee ignored him, lost in the depth of fond recollection. “I broke more bedsprings by leaping from my dresser to the bed and out the window.”
Again there was laughter from the group and again Mr. Conroy abstained. It was obvious he had no intention of joining them in this stroll down Memory Lane.
“Have it your way,” he said. “Me, I like being old.” He stared at the group defiantly. “And when I go, my son promised to have me frozen.”
“You already are frozen, popsicle-head!” Mr. Weinstein declared. He started to laugh at his own joke, then began to cough. Mrs. Weinstein slapped him on the back.
“Watch it, Harry,” she chided. “Remember your emphysema.”
“She’s right.” Mr. Conroy nodded grimly. “Face the facts. We’d all be better off if we remember what we are today, instead of what happened sixty—seventy years ago.”
But Mrs. Dempsey ignored him. As the coughing spell ended, she glanced at Bloom. “What about you?” she asked. “What did you play?”
Bloom smiled. “Kick-the-can was my game.”
“That was mostly for boys,” Mrs. Dempsey said. “My late husband, Jack Dempsey—not the fighter, Mr. Bloom—Jack Dempsey was the most gentle man who ever walked this earth—he loved that
Similar Books
