I thought of Flapjack, my Uncle Vertis’s old mule, stretching his neck and pulling his lips back to show his teeth.
“Oh, he was full of hat jokes, just full of them,” Aunt Lila said.
“Tell some more,” I pleaded.
“Just one more,” she said, making her sourpuss face. “I’m sick and tired of hat jokes. What did the hat say to the tie?”
“I don’t know,” I said, eager to get to the funny part.
“You hang around, and I’ll go on a head.”
I threw my head back and laughed, trying to sound like Flapjack.
Aunt Lila rolled her eyes.
I guessed I’d have to practice.
“There were a bunch more jokes,” she said, “each sillier than the last. After every one he made that gosh-awful braying sound. By the time he’d told half a dozen, his face started to take on the look of a mule. His teeth turned long and yellow, and an unruly hank of hair fell across his eyes like a forelock.”
Aunt Lila told the man she felt a spell of her malaria coming on. Too bad she had to run out on him like this, but she needed to get home to take some of those horse pills that kept her from throwing up all over kingdom come. She hoped she could make it. Heaving convincingly, she’d grabbed her pocketbook and headed out of the Tip-Top at a trot, turning toward the bus stop on Main Street.
Disheartened after her visits from Romeos One and Two, she came close to giving up. And she did for a while, but not because of them.
Grandma had heard on the radio about a Lonely Hearts Club killer.
The next day the story was on front pages everywhere. A man and woman who met through a Lonely Hearts Club, but not the Romeo one, had been arrested for killing a whole bunch of people.
Grandma said the details of what those two did were too awful to speak of. Maybe so, but I’d overheard the neighbor women chattering about it like a bunch of magpies. “Little pitchers have big ears,” they’d say, and stop talking when I came around. But I had heard enough to have a good idea what they were gossiping about. Grandma, who always gave folks the benefit of the doubt, said she expected it was just idle talk.
I had my own opinion about that.
Then another letter came.
When Aunt Lila noticed that his number was the same as our house number at 211 Bibb Avenue, she took it as a sign to give Romeo Lonely Hearts one more try. After all, the killers were both locked away in jail.
Dear Miss 109,
I am a retired New York City cop seeking friendship leading to possible marriage with a good-looking woman of wholesome background who is willing to relocate if need be.
Respectfully, 211
So Aunt Lila began to write to 211, and he to answer back, each letter deepening their interest. Before too long, 211 became Charles Landwehr. And then Charles Landwehr was coming all the way from Newark, New Jersey, for a visit. He was Romeo Three.
The house, of course, had to be deep cleaned. Grandma was in charge, but she recruited me and Vonnie and Grandpa as reluctant helpers. Since it was time for fall cleaning anyway, I was prepared for the scrubbing and beating and dusting and polishing we always did.
But this time Grandma went a step further.
She decided to take down the beds so she could clean under and around and behind them. I blamed my friend Peggy Blevins for this. One day she mentioned taking down the beds to do deep cleaning, and I made the mistake of telling Grandma, who soon decided she needed to take our beds down too. Mattresses were stripped bare and vacuumed then turned head to foot and top to bottom before being placed back on the newly hosed off bedsprings. All the bed covers were washed and hung to dry in the sun. Grandma wouldn’t take a backseat to anybody when it came to cleaning.
Uncle Vertis, Grandma’s only son and my mother’s big brother, had come to borrow Mother’s electric drill from her Rosie the Riveter days but got dragged into helping take down beds. Mother said it was the least he could do—always borrowing her stuff then not returning it—and he better have that drill back to her come Saturday or it would be the last he’d ever see of it. Uncle Vertis pretended to look scared.
Charles Landwehr asked Aunt Lila to find a room for him at a nearby tourist home. Mother took Aunt Lila and me to check out the Morning Glory establishment over on the By-Pass to see if it was suitable. Although the room was full of curlicues and knick-knacks, it was both clean and close by. It would do fine.
Finally, the day arrived.
Aunt Lila had given herself a permanent wave a few weeks before. To make sure the smell was gone, she poured water mixed with lemon juice over her head. She pushed finger waves into her damp hair, using metal clamps to pinch them in place, then pin-curled the rest, securing each curl with two crossed bobby pins. After she sat under the hairdryer, she finger combed through the tight ringlets until she had a soft halo of curls around her head.
When Grandma finished cleaning, the house reeked of floor wax and vinegar. She put a pan of water on to boil, adding a sprinkling of cloves and cinnamon and vanilla. Satisfied, she turned her attention to the kitchen and began fixing supper for Charles Landwehr’s arrival. She hoped he wasn’t Jewish because she’d baked a ham. Landwehr didn’t sound Jewish, but you couldn’t always be sure. To be on the safe side, she put a fat hen in the oven. There was dressing and gravy to go along with the ham and chicken, potato salad, pickled green beans, baked candied apples, and corn on the cob. Mother made strawberry shortcake and whipped up some cream. It
