Free Getting Old Is Criminal by Rita Lakin Page B

doing.”
    They look to Mary for some advice from a professional. She thinks for a moment. “I’ve got an idea. We form a group and take care of one another. For example, how many of you can still see pretty good?”
    A smattering of hands go up. “Okay. I do, too.
    So we now are the medications group. Especially call me and I’ll help anyone who has trouble figur-ing out their pills.”
    “Good idea,” adds Evvie, one of the well-sighted ones. “We can make charts in very big letters and with black felt pens so you know when to take what, and also write the names of each prescription in very large black letters on the bottles so you know which is which.”
    There is applause at that.
    “You can call yourself the Pill Poppers,” suggests Sophie, who always has to name everything.
    I find myself thinking about Philip Smythe and Esther Ferguson again. Were they taking any pills?
    Is it really possible she was overdosed? I remind myself to look into this later.
    “Where do we sign up?” asks Jean Davis. “I can barely see the writing on those little bottles. Every morning I pray that I take the right ones.”
    “I’m always scared I took them already, so sometimes I don’t take them at all. I need help,”
    Chris Willems adds.
    “We can work out a system where you keep all G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 1
    the bottles in one basket or on one shelf and after you take one, you move the bottle into another basket or shelf and that way you can keep them straight,” Mary suggests.
    Ida instructs them, “Call me. I’ll keep a list of who’s available. And send someone up to help.”
    “And what about picking doctors? How do we know we’re not getting a quack?” Chris asks.
    Evvie answers excitedly. “We ask Barbi and Casey. They know how to find out anything on their computers. They can do a search for us and get recommendations. And also find out the doctors who get sued a lot.”
    “Who’s Barbi and Casey?” asks Flo. “I never met them.”
    “They’re the young ones who live in our building,” Bella answers shyly.
    I hold my breath waiting to hear one of my girls say more. But they don’t. My eyelids are beginning to close. I am so tired. As they continue their plans I find myself dozing off. The stress has exhausted me.
    *
    *
    *
    I feel a hand shaking me. It’s Evvie. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty. The sewing bee has ended. All medical problems have been solved and the rain has stopped. Care to go home?”

    THIRTEEN
    WILMINGTON HOUSE
    As usual, Evvie is my copilot. Her lap is filled with maps and whatever else she thought necessary to bring with us on the hour drive up north to Palm Beach, home of the posh Wilmington House. We’ve dressed up as best we could this morning with our limited “better” wardrobe. Torn between pantsuits and skirts, we ended up wearing dresses. The ones we usually save for weddings.
    Though we hated to have to wear stockings.
    I’ve even had my old Chevy wagon washed for the occasion.
    Evvie reads to me. “ ‘Palm Beach is twelve miles long and three quarters of a mile wide, home to some of the richest families in America and their biggest dirty secrets. The famous Rush Limbaugh G e t t i n g O l d I s C r i m i n a l • 9 3
    drug arrest. William Kennedy Smith’s rape case . . .’ ”
    “What are you reading?”
    “An old gossip magazine I found in the laundry room.” She flips through the pictures. “Juicy stuff.
    Everybody who’s anybody’s been here. Even John Lennon once was, and the Trumps still go there.”
    “You know, sister? Maybe this isn’t going to be as easy as I expect. The rich are not so easy to deal with.”
    “Nonsense. When we explain why we’re here, no problema. ”
    As we drive down the area’s main artery, the lavish Worth Avenue, Evvie continues her trave-logue. “Wow, look at the stores: Tiffany and Cartier, Armani. Look at the cars—Ferraris, Bentleys, Rolls-Royces. Look at those wardrobes, double wow! And look