Page 1 of Too Old for This
CHAPTER 1
The remains of my dinner start to congeal. I bring the plate into the kitchen, rinse it off, and return to my recliner. Pull up my compression socks. Unpause the TV.
The knock at the door is a surprise. It’s too late for salespeople or pollsters or children raising money for soccer uniforms. Too late for anything good. I mute the TV and wait for them to go away.
Another knock.
Sit still,I tell myself. God knows, it took me long enough to learn that sometimes the best thing you can do is sit still.
“Mrs.Jones?”
A female voice, one I don’t recognize. It’s young and a bit whiny, and I wonder if she is selling Girl Scout cookies.
I heave myself up and out of the recliner. My joints do not appreciate this, and show their displeasure with creaks and pops.
“Who’s there?” I yell.
“Mrs.Jones, my name is Plum Dixon.”
Hard to forget a name like that, even for me. “You’re the one who left a message earlier.”
“Yes, I’m from—”
“I have nothing to say.”
Plum Dixon called twice today. I did not answer either call, and now she is at my front door. I see her for the first timethrough the peephole. Mid-twenties. Tan skin, blond hair, perky ponytail. A big, annoying smile.
“Please, Mrs.Jones. I just want to talk to you.”
She’s got the persistence. Too much of that and it becomes a disease.
I am hardly ready for company. My loungewear is faded and old, fraying at the cuffs, and my house shoes are shabby and worn. As for my hair and face, there’s not much room for improvement at this point.
I unhook the chain, twist the dead bolt, open the door.
Plum’s eyes light up.
“I’m sorry for showing up unannounced like this,” she says. “I wasn’t sure what else to do.”
“You could’ve left me alone.”
“I’m sorry. Please, let me explain so you understand what I’m trying to do.”
“Come inside already. The cold air is getting in.”
She hops in like a little bunny and looks around. Formal sitting room on the left, living room on the right, grand staircase in the middle. The floor has seen better days. So has the paint on the walls. But the bones are good. That’s what people always say.
The house is much bigger than I need and requires too much maintenance. It’s old and more than I can handle, which is why it looks the way it does. We match, me and this house, though it’s important to note that I’m the younger one.
Plum runs her hand along the carved banister. “So beautiful.”
“This way.”
I lead her down the hall and into the kitchen, which was last updated sometime in the ’50s. Black-and-white tile floor,built-in breakfast bar, pull-down ironing board. The chipped and worn cabinets are a faded seafoam green.
Plum takes a seat before I can offer her one.
“Thank you so much for inviting me in.”
