Page 7 of Life, Love and the Pursuit of Happiness

Grandma Moses, she was not . . .

“Hey, Gram.” Delilah had her cell phone on speaker as she prepared her third cup of coffee for the day. And it was only nine o’clock! Although she’d been up and working since five a.m., she’d waited to call her grandmother in Atlantic City until she returned from her usual seven-thirty Sunday mass at Our Lady Star of the Sea Church.

As if to emphasize that point, the two Bell Cove churches—the similarly named Our Lady by the Sea Catholic, and St. Andrew’s Presbyterian—rang out the hour, followed by the town hall tower clock, all with their beautiful, distinctive tones, thanks to the Bell Forge Factory, on which this community was originally founded. In fact, everywhere a person went in this region, bells or chimes could be heard, including the one on her diner door, one of the few things still operational in the vintage Heartbreak Motel and Rock Around the Clock Diner she’d had the fortune, or misfortune, to inherit from her great-uncle Clyde, who had obviously been a huge Elvis Presley and rock and roll fan.

“Lilah! I swear, you’re enough to give a girl palpitations. I’ve been sitting here in my living room with the shades pulled down since Friday night waiting for your call,” said Salome Jones, best known as Sal by her pals around the casino circuit, the Slot Machine Fruitcakes, as in “Three cherries, anyone?” Yes, her grandmother was addicted to the one-armed bandits, as well as having a fifty-year, chain-smoking nicotine habit, which she’d kicked, partly, a few years back by satisfying her cravings with secondhand smoke in the casinos and puffing away herself on those annoying e-cigarettes. And, yes, she still considered herself a girl at a self-proclaimed “youthful sixty-four.”

“You mean, you missed church?” This was alarming. Her grandmother never missed church, even when she’d been on an all-night slot bender.

“For the first time in fifteen years,” her grandmother said with disgust. “Didn’t want to chance Jimmy the Goon breaking my legs on the way home. And you know how important my legs are.”

Delilah rolled her eyes. At one time, her grandmother had been an exotic dancer. Not to be confused with a stripper, she was always quick to add. In fact, she’d been a Las Vegas showgirl, before returning back in the 70s to Atlantic City and the family home. The vintage row house, with wide, steep steps rising to a front porch and a brick two-story dwelling, was located on one of the side streets leading to the famous boardwalk. Once a desirable neighborhood. Now borderline skid row.

Her grandmother probably exaggerated the danger she was in. At least, Delilah hoped the situation hadn’t progressed in the past few days from serious to life threatening. James Goodson, aka Jimmy the Goon, was eighty-five if he was a day.

“I told you I’d call as soon as I had news,” Delilah said.

“And do you?” Delilah heard the sound of puffing as her grandmother vaped between words. In the background she could also hear the song “It’s a Hard-Knock Life,” and knew that her almost five-year-old daughter, Magdalene Jones, was probably eating breakfast on a TV tray, watching that old Annie DVD, the original, not the remake. Maggie adored the songs and knew them all by heart. It had been Delilah’s favorite movie as a child, too. She wasn’t sure why. Maybe because being raised by a single grandparent as she had herself been and being raised by a single great-grandparent as Maggie was, felt a little bit like being an orphan.

Which about broke Delilah’s heart.

It was no kind of life for a kid to be glued to a TV, instead of running around the neighborhood. But Atlantic City was no Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood these days, and hadn’t been for a long, long time. Better TV brain freeze than playgrounds marked by drug dealers or stray bullets.

And better Annie than her grandmother’s third addiction, reality TV shows. There was Real Housewives of New York City, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Real Housewives of Atlanta. With a sigh, Delilah assured her grandmother, “I’ll be wiring you the money tomorrow.” I hope.

“All of it? Ten thousand dollars?”

“Yes.” I hope.

“Thank you, Jesus!”

No, thank the guy who’s advancing me the money and for which I will be indebted for months. But, yes, thank Jesus, too, because He probably influenced Merrill Good’s decision to help me. Delilah sighed again. She could berate her grandmother for getting in so deep with a loan shark to the point where she was three months behind in rent and utilities and her gambling debt was rising by leaps and bounds at 33 percent interest per week, but the old “girl” already felt bad enough. Besides, Delilah owed her grandmother too much, not just for raising her after her mother died in a drunk driver hit-and-run when Delilah was only six but for taking custody of Maggie when she was born two months into Delilah’s five-year incarceration in the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women in Clinton, New Jersey.

Five months out, and Delilah still shuddered over the mere thought of that place.

“Promise me, Gram. This money pays off your damn debts.”

“I thought you gave up cussin’.”

Delilah had developed quite a potty mouth in prison, which she was trying to clean up, for the sake of her daughter if nothing else. “Damn isn’t a swear word.”

“You sure about that? I should ask Father Sylvester.”

“Aaarrgh! Stop changing the damn subject. None of this money goes into the casino for a quick double-or-nothing. Promise?”

“Absolutely. Cross my heart and hope to die. I’ve learned my lesson.”

In the old days prior to her clean language vow, Delilah would have gone on a tirade, chastising her grandmother, “When have I heard that before? For cripe’s sake, Gram, grow up and get your ass in shape. Stop wasting your money in the fucking casinos.” Instead, she said, “It’s time to make some changes in your life, Gram.”

More puffing and more “Hard-Knock Life” could be heard before her grandmother continued in an obvious attempt to avoid a commitment to change. “How’s the diner renovation going?”

In one ear and out the other! It was useless trying to change her grandmother at this stage, Delilah realized. All she could do was try to curb her impulses. So, she answered her question. “Endless! I spent all morning outside, cleaning and reconditioning the red vinyl covering on the stools. All twelve of them! A bitch of a job! I have no fingernails left, and the skin on my hands looks like red, wrinkled prunes. Next I’ll have to work on the booths.”

“Whatcha been usin’?” Puff, puff, puff.

“GOOP. That waterless hand cleaner. I saw it on YouTube. Rub it in real good, hose it off, and let it dry in the sun. Even the cracked vinyl comes back to life.”

“Delilah Jones! You know what you gotta use, don’t you?”