“She is neighbor I have. She was engineer in Georgia. Now she live here. We play Sudoku puzzles.”
“Sudoku? Isn’t that supposed to be a solitary game?”
“Solitaire is only for jail,devushka. Any game is better with a friend.”
“I see,” I say, even though the idea of sharing a Sudoku puzzle with someone else seems maddening.
Mrs. A holds out her hand to help me up off the ground. “You are sick again,” she says.
“What makes you say that?” I ask innocently.
“Mela put picture on Instagram. You are looking…” She pauses, thinking. “Drunk as skunk, kids are saying.”
I laugh. “The kids don’t really say that.”
“Well, they should. I show you.” She pulls a bedazzled gold cell phone out of her pocket and opens her Instagram account. I consider asking Mrs. A why she needs an Instagram account at her advanced age,but far be it for me to judge. “You see?” She taps her long red fingernail on the screen. “You are look very sick. Big mistake. I see only drinks in picture. No bread. Where is bread?”
I shrug, knowing there’s no use in trying to argue. “You’re right,” I say. “I should’ve ordered extra bread.”
We arrive at a green bench overlooking the swings at the playground. There sits an elderly woman decked out in a Juicy Couture sweatshirt and sweatpants whose coiffed, fluffy, platinum blond hair reminds me of cotton candy, only it is wrapped loosely in a scarf. She is wearing black sunglasses, and the combination bears a vague resemblance to what Susan Sarandon might have looked like inThelma and Louiseif she was about a thousand years old.
“I am Olga,” the lady says to me matter-of-factly.
“Nice to meet you,” I smile.
“This is Gracie,” Mrs. A announces proudly. “She is sick from alcohol.”
“You need bread?” Olga asks, fishing through her oversized purse.
“No, no. I’m fine, thank you,” I say.
“I have breadstick from diner,” she says, holding out a crumpled package wrapped in clear cellophane containing a single, four-inch breadstick covered in sesame seeds. “You eat.”
I nod, accepting the offer, ignoring the fact that it was stuck to what appeared to be a used tissue in her purse. I know how to behave amongst these ladies. No need to start a thing here on the playground.
“Gracie and Mela are very best friends from college. Gracie live in Babushka’s old house.”
“Ahh,” Olga says, pointing her finger up. “Is haunted,” she declares.
“Olga!” Mrs. A says. Then, she rattles off something in Russian, and Olga smiles a pitiful-looking smile at me. “No listen to her,” Mrs. A admonishes me. “Tell us, now. What makes you drink to sickness for second time in row?” she asks.
“Just had a bad day,” I say.
“You have broken chin?” Mrs. A asks.
“Right,” I remember. “Not broken,” I say. “I tripped and fell on the corner of Ocean and Avenue Z. Dropped my cell phone in the sewer.”
“Poor littleporosenok,” Mrs. A says.
I raise my eyebrows.
“Meanspiglet,” Olga says.
Terrific, I think.
“So, you get new cell phone. This is easy fix. What else happened?” Mrs. A asks.
“Well, you remember that guy I told you about?”
