Karmic Incontinence

Margie drove sullenly, feeling like a nincompoop.

She was a smart classy woman. How she had ever been talked into this nonsense was beyond her. Maybe it’s just old-lady romanticism, she thought. Too much time sitting around reading those god-awful Nicholas Sparks books from the library. But at this moment none of that mattered… She was going to kill that old, wrinkly bastard for embarrassing her like this.

She really should have known better from the start. She never gave any thought to the nursing home crowd that would show up at the YMCA every Tuesday and Thursday at 7am, until he walked in. Dapper in that way that she’s sure Montgomery Cliff would have been in his eighties, Frederick worked on charming her from the time the water aerobics class was over until she finally headed to the dressing room. She was a little ashamed of the flutter she felt in her chest when he smiled, even though she could tell from a mile away those straight white teeth had to have been store-bought.

At the next class, Frederick worked his way through the crowd of old ladies in their modest flowered swim dresses to occupy the space next to her in the pool. He made small talk until the workout got to intense to waste the breath, and then flashed that damn Polident smile at her whenever he could catch her eye.  They swam slow dogpaddle laps together until the last second, when he waved to her as he boarded the bus back to the nursing home. She thought for a moment she might have to find her nitroglycerin pills.

Margie thought he might have been the classiest man she had met in 20 years. She loved that he went by Frederick, instead of Fred or the vulgar, childish “Freddie” (The name still made her shudder after catching ten minutes of that terrible “Nightmare on Elm Street” movie late one night when she was up with her acid-reflux).  He wasn’t doughy and soft like most of the men his age, and was the only one of that pack to still get in the pool without a t-shirt. He liked showing off the scar on his remarkably toned bicep, where a bullet had been dug out of his arm during the Korean War. His hair was silver but plentiful. By the third class he was bold enough lay his hand lightly on the small of her back as they struggled out of the pool.

By this time Margie decided that she was just being foolish. Old men flirt, it’s a fact you learn at her age. But part of her wanted to enjoy it just a little longer. There was no harm in it really. So she made the mistake of letting the attention cloud her judgment until the day he finally asked her out on a date.

Margie lived alone and still drove very well, despite what her sons all said. She knew it was important for them to feel like she needed them, but in the 15 years since her husband passed away in his sleep, she had gotten along happily on her own. It was a small pleasure after raising four strapping boys into semi-productive men, to finally have a house full of peace and quiet. She and her skinny black cat Bootsy had settled into a routine and she was comfortable. So this nonsense about dating completely threw her off guard. But after a little push from her Crazy Friend Dolores, she decided “What the Hell”.

Their first outing would be casual; A breakfast at Hardee’s. They were awake before dawn anyway, so breakfast seemed the most logical. Margie was a little put off by the prying eyes of the dozen-or-so old men who frequented the place that early, but she appreciated the no-nonsense aspect of it. They weren’t teenagers, and she hadn’t been able to sit comfortably through dinner and a movie since her hip replacement 2 years ago. If this went well she might submit to a dining room with tablecloths and cutlery, but for now Hardee’s didn’t come with any “expectations”.

Margie picked Frederick up at the nursing home at 6am. He showed no embarrassment at being chauffeured by his “lady friend” as she heard him refer to her as they said goodbye to the night nurse. They listened to the news and made small talk on the way. He remarked about how well her 20-year-old Buick ran, and seemed amazed at the fact it had fewer than fifty thousand miles on the odometer. They commiserated over the sorry state of the economy but held back from discussing politics. It was all very polite.

When they ordered their jelly biscuits and senior coffees, Margie had to snicker. When the tired-looking teenager behind the counter handed them their three-quarter-full cups of coffee, Frederick gently slid them back across the counter and said quietly, “I paid for a full cup of coffee young lady.”  He paid fifteen cents for those cups of coffee. She filled them until they were close to brimming and he seemed satisfied. Depression babies never change.

They got to know each other over breakfast. Frederick told her about the war, then his brief marriage, and the subsequent life of bachelorhood that left him with no one to care for him when he found himself needing a little help. He liked the nursing home, or assisted living facility as he called it (Margie had always felt there really wasn’t much difference). But he did admit to missing having the freedom to make his own decisions about what he wanted to eat and when he wanted to eat it. He told her about the sadness he felt when he looked in his wallet one day and realized his driver’s license had expired—four years prior. But since he didn’t have a car anyway and the assisted living facility van would take him pretty much anywhere he wanted to go, there didn’t seem to be much point in renewing it. He still held on to it for identification purposes. She noticed that he looked 25 years younger in the picture.

Margie filled him in on the highlights of her life, as it was. She told him she had been to college to study art history, but ended up earning her “Mrs. Degree” instead. She had been a housewife and stay-at-home mother to her four stair-step sons, as had been expected of women in her generation. Her husband had managed to complete his military duty during the painfully brief time between the Korean and Vietnam wars. He returned home from his tour in Europe and settled into a comfortable job as a department store manager. Her sons still lived in town, but she didn’t see them as much as she should; the noise their children made just got to be too much for her sometimes.  She shared the pictures of her six tow headed grandchildren, and the one of Bootsy she had made with Santa at the Petsmart last winter. Poor Bootsy was getting so skinny these days.

After breakfast they went to Wal-Mart to wander the aisles, complaining about the Chinese junk, but leaving with a cart full of it. They stopped by the farmer’s market for fresh tomatoes (Margie’s plants were just starting to bloom. She should’ve gotten some of that Miracle Grow at the Wal-mart, she thought to herself) and then headed back to the nursing home. Frederick asked her to come in but she declined, feeling that going up to see his room after only one date would have been tacky. She got out to open the trunk so Frederick could retrieve his purchases and he surprised her by giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. She turned dark crimson under her Mary Kay, and wasn’t sure if she should slap him or burst out laughing at the silliness of it. She chose somewhere in between—a light slap on the arm and a shamefully girlish giggle. He winked at her and then shuffled into the building.

These little Saturday outings soon became a habit. They’d bounce around to different breakfast venues, run a few errands, and end up back at the assisted living facility by lunchtime. After the first month or so, Margie agreed to come in and see where Frederick lived. It still smelled like a nursing home, but she now understood the difference. There were fewer wheelchairs, more walkers, and the rooms were less hospital and more geriatric dormitory. Most of the residents could get around on their own and seemed to enjoy having the company of others who shared their memories and gripes. Women well out-numbered the old men and she may have imagined it, but they all seemed to regard her with catty suspicion. Or maybe it was just jealousy. Frederick really was the prize amongst these old geezers.

He introduced her to his friends, Jack and Max, and the four of them began spending Saturday afternoon playing Euchre or Gin Rummy. The three men constantly competed for her attention, happy to have someone new to impress with the stories of their misspent youth. But sometimes, when the cards were being dealt or they had to stop for one of umpteen bathroom breaks, Frederick would gently take her hand under the table. There would be no mistaking it; she was his girl.

Weeks became months, and they grew closer. Frederick was much more romantic and impractical than her husband had been. He sent her flowers for no reason. They weren’t thoughtless monstrosities of red roses either, but beautiful vases of iris and tulips—her favorites.  A few times, when unpacking her Saturday purchases at home, she’d find a card or a little handwritten note he had slipped in the bags without her noticing. Margie started going to the beauty shop on Friday instead of Wednesday so she’d look her freshest Saturday morning. She dug around in her bathroom drawer and found her long forgotten bottle of White Shoulders perfume. She let her Crazy Friend Dolores talk her into buying a blouse that showed a little more cleavage than she was used to. Margie worried less about Bootsy losing weight and more about gaining weight herself.

One sunny fall morning, Frederick suggested that they skip the errands and ride downtown to sit on a bench by the river. They soaked up the warm sunrise and watched the squirrels play in the bright autumn leaves. Frederick cleared his throat a dozen times before reaching in his pocket and pulling out a small box. It held ring with one dainty pearl surrounded by two small diamonds. His voice cracked like a teenagers when he asked her to be his bride. Margie forgot herself and planted a giant kiss on his lips, crying and laughing and breathless all at once.

They agreed they were too old for all the wedding foolishness and decided they would get married at the courthouse with just a handful of witnesses. Frederick suggested that they could be wed at the assisted living facility’s chapel, but Margie couldn’t stand the thought of being gawked at by those jealous old bitties. They thought it best if they got married soon, before the stress of the holidays set in.

She invited all her sons and their broods over for lunch the next day and broke the news to them. The boys were properly outraged, but all her daughters-in-law swooned at the giddy romanticism of it. Margie knew her children were just worried about her being taken advantage of, but she reminded them that Frederick was several years older than her and she’d most probably outlive him, so the inheritance they assumed she would leave them was safe. Someone mentioned some nonsense about a pre-nuptial agreement, but she shot that down with a cold glare. All four of her sons left in a huff, and she couldn’t have cared less.  She was thankful to have her peaceful house back. Bootsy didn’t come out of hiding for days.

Margie took a little money out of her savings to buy a new mattress. She debated the absurdity of sharing her bed again for the first time in fifteen years. She even wondered if it would be more practical to buy matching twin beds, Ozzie and Harriet style, but it didn’t seem right. Frederick was going to be her husband, not a roommate, so by god they were going to sleep in the same bed. She was thankful that he hadn’t been sleeping in one of those adjustable hospital beds all these years, and decided a firm queen pillow-top would do the trick. She tried her best to not even think about the question of sex; she had heard horror stories from her Crazy Friend Dolores about those little blue pills…they would just cross that bridge when they came to it.

Margie drove to the courthouse alone. Frederick had called her the night before and said one of the nurses would bring him to the wedding. They may have been breaking a few “rules” but he would not bring them a lifetime of bad luck by seeing the bride before the wedding. Besides, Jack and Max would be coming as his witnesses and there was no point in them all riding separately. Margie’s Crazy Friend Dolores was delighted when she asked her to be her Matron of Honor. Her sons and their wives had agreed to come, but she encouraged them to leave the kids with a sitter as to not disrupt the business of local government. She was thankful that her daughters-in-law had managed to smooth over her boys’ hot tempers. They still weren’t happy about the whole thing but at least their open hostility had subsided. They didn’t have to welcome Frederick with open arms, but she had raised them to be polite and she expected nothing less.

Margie and her family waited in the lobby of the courthouse for the groom to arrive. Her Crazy Friend Dolores had splurged on small bouquets for the two of them and a boutonniere for Frederick. Her sons looked uncomfortable in their suits and ties, but she was happy to see they all made the effort. The four of them still moved as a pack, and decided together that they should all go out for a smoke before Frederick got there. She was relieved to have a few minutes with her thoughts.

They had been there about 10 minutes when she saw the assisted living facility van turn into the parking lot. Margie wanted to keep up the silly ritual for Frederick’s sake, so she took off to hide in the restroom until the judge called them in for the ceremony. After a minute or two, the restroom door opened and the sweet night nurse Stephanie came in, looking crestfallen. Margie immediately felt panicked when she saw the look on Stephanie’s face. The nurse realized her assumption, and quickly calmed her, assuring her that—mostly– everything was fine. She held out an envelope with Margie’s name on it, apologized, and quickly left the room.

Margie turned the envelope over and over in her hands, confused. She finally opened it and read:

My Dearest Margie,

Let me start by saying this was never my intention. I’ve loved you from the day we met in the pool, and these last few months have been the happiest I can remember. I think all these unfamiliar emotions have clouded my judgment in the last few days. I can’t say any of the decisions I’ve made recently have been sound, but please don’t question my love for you even though I’ve put you in this awkward situation.

A few days ago, I was talking to that sweet little nurse Stephanie about what I should get you as a wedding gift. She suggested that I try to get my license renewed. She pointed out that sometimes ladies like to be chauffeured around by their men… it makes them feel more feminine. I tried to dismiss it as ridiculous, but she persisted and finally talked me into it. I let her carry me to the DMV after work yesterday for my driving test and to my astonishment (and that of the the examiner, I’m sure) I passed! I was overjoyed, and on the way back to the assisted living facility I spied a used car lot with a giant white ’59 Ford in the front row. I asked Stephanie to pull over, and after testing it’s roadworthiness I whipped out a credit card and bought it on the spot.

I know it was silly and impulsive, but all I could think of was the look on your face when I drove myself up to the courthouse today in that ridiculous car! I felt masculine and alive for the first time in ages. I had forgotten how exciting it is to drive yourself around. How freeing it is.

I went back to the assisted living facility to finish packing up my things, and got to thinking. I always get myself in trouble when I get to thinking too much. Maybe this was a sign from God. What if this is the big guy’s way of telling me that this may be my last chance for real freedom? I wrestled all night with this nagging idea.

Deep down, I’m an alley cat Margie… always have been. The thought of turning into a skinny old housecat at this point in my life scares the hell out of me. I thought my bag of wild oats was emptied a long time ago, but now that I look there are a few oats left at the bottom of the bag that need to be sown. I know you’ll hate me, but I have to take this chance. Jack, Max and I got up early this morning and took off for the city of lights. By the time you read this, I’ll be halfway to Branson, Missouri.

After your anger and hurt subsides, I hope that you’ll think of the last few months as a gift, as I do. I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble. Again, it was never my intention. Please sell the ring to pay for the new mattress you bought. If that won’t cover it, let Stephanie know. I took the cash in my pocket and left her everything else I had, with instructions to be sure you were taken care of. It’s the least I could do.  I am so very, very sorry for being such a coward.

All my Love,

Frederick

Margie read the letter again, stunned. Seventy-four years old, and stood up at the altar. If she weren’t so angry it would be hilarious. She stuffed the letter and the bouquet in the trashcan, checked her make-up in the mirror, and stepped out into the lobby. She held her head high as she confronted the confused stares of her family and friend. Margie told them simply, “It’s off. He’s not coming” and walked out the door as the shouting began.

She saw her car across the parking lot. In a fit of misguided good will, her sons had used that mysterious “smoke break” to go outside and give her Buick a proper nuptial decoration. She ripped the soda cans off the bumper and the balloons off the antennae, and left them littering the parking space as she drove away. Halfway home, Margie realized how ridiculous she must have looked to the traffic surrounding her; an old lady in an old car, driving around by herself on a Wednesday afternoon with “JUST MARRIED” emblazoned across the back window in white shoe polish. She decided a trip through the carwash was in order before she headed home. She dared the attendant to say a word.

Dolores was more annoyed than angry as she whipped the gaudy little car into the handicapped spot in front of the grocery store. She cursed herself for forgetting the handicapped placard, but really didn’t care if she got a ticket at this point. It wasn’t her car anyway. She hadn’t been able to stand the thought of having to ask her daughter-in-law to drive her to the wedding, so she traded her grandson some of her medical marijuana for the afternoon’s use of his car. It was a silly little Japanese thing; bright teal green, with those shiny plastic spinning hubcaps he got from the Wal-mart. But ever since she hit those people at the curb market her son had hidden the keys to her car, so beggars can’t be choosers. She checked her purse to make sure she had the receipt and steeled herself with a few deep breaths. She hated to have to play the Crazy Old Lady card, but she would if she had to. One way or another, she was getting her money back for this stupid cake.