“LET HER ALONE,” Mr. Levy said. “Look, she's trying to sleep.”
“Let her alone?” Mrs. Levy propped up Miss Trixie on the yellow nylon couch. “Do you realize, Gus, that this is the tragedy of this poor woman's life. She's always been alone. She needs someone. She needs love.”
“Ugh.”
Mrs. Levy was a woman of interests and ideals. Over the years she had given herself freely to bridge, African violets, Susan and Sandra, golf, Miami, Fanny Hurst and Hemingway, correspondence courses, hairdressers, the sun, gourmet foods, ballroom dancing, and, in recent years, Miss Trixie. She had always had to settle for Miss Trixie at a distance, an unsatisfactory arrangement for carrying out the program outlined in the psychology correspondence course, the final examination of which she had failed resoundingly. The correspondence school had even refused to give her an F. But now that Mrs. Levy had played her card correctly in the game dealing with the firing of the young idealist, she had Miss Trixie in the wrinkled flesh, visor, sneakers, and all. Mr. Gonzalez had gladly given the a**istant accountant an indefinite vacation.
“Miss Trixie,” Mrs. Levy said sweetly. “Wake up.”
Miss Trixie opened her eyes and wheezed, “Am I retired?”
“No, darling.”
“What?” Miss Trixie snarled. “I thought I was retired!”
“Miss Trixie, you think that you're old and tired. This is very bad.”
“Who?”
“You.”
“Oh. I am. I am very tired.”
“Don't you see?” Mrs. Levy asked. “It's all in your mind. You have this age psychosis. You're still a very attractive woman. You must say to yourself, ‘I am still attractive. I am a very attractive woman.'”
Miss Trixie exhaled a grunting snore into Mrs. Levy's lacquered hair.
“Will you please let her alone, Dr. Freud?” Mr. Levy said angrily, looking up from a Sports Illustrated. “I almost wish Susan and Sandra were home so you could play with them. Whatever happened to your canasta circle?”
“Don't talk to me, you failure. How can I play canasta when there's a psycho in distress?”
“Psycho? The woman's senile. We had to stop at about thirty gas stations on the way over here. Finally I got tired of getting out of the car and showing her which was the Men's and which was the Women's, so I let her pick them herself. I worked out a system. The law of averages. I laid money on her and she came out about fifty-fifty.”
“Don't tell me any more,” Mrs. Levy cautioned. “Not another word. It's too typical. Permitting this an*l compulsive to flounder like that.”
“Isn't Lawrence Welk on?” Miss Trixie asked suddenly.
“No, dear. Relax.”
“It is Saturday.”
“He'll be on. Don't worry. Now tell me, what do you dream about.”
“I can't remember at the moment.”
“Try,” Mrs. Levy said, making some sort of note on her date book with a rhinestoned automatic pencil. “You must try, Miss Trixie. Darling, your mind is warped. You're like a cripple.”
“I may be old, but I'm not crippled,” Miss Trixie said wildly.
“Look, you're exciting her, Florence Nightingale,” Mr. Levy said. “With all you know about psychoan*lysis, you're going to ruin whatever's left in that head of hers. All she wants is to retire and sleep.”
“You've already wrecked your life. Don't do the same to hers. This case can't be retired. She must be made to feel wanted and needed and loved...”
“Turn on your goddam exercising board and let her take a nap!”
“I thought we agreed to let the board out of this.”
“Let her alone. Let me alone. Go ride your exercycle.”
“Quiet, please!” Miss Trixie croaked and rubbed her eyes..
“We must talk pleasantly in front of her,” Mrs. Levy whispered. “Loud voices, arguing, will only make her more insecure.”
“I'll buy that. Keep quiet. And get that senile bag out of my rumpus room.”
“That's right. Think about yourself as usual. If your father could only see you today.” Mrs. Levy's aqua lids rose in horror. “A motheaten playboy looking for kicks.”
“Kicks?”
“Now you people shut up,” Miss Trixie warned. “I must say it was a dark day when I was brought out here. It was much nicer in there with Gomez. Nice and quiet. If this is some sort of an April Fool, I don't think it's funny.” She looked at Mr. Levy through rheumy eyes. “You're the bird that fired my friend Gloria. Poor Gloria. The kindest
person ever worked in that office.”
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Levy sighed. Then she turned on her husband. “So you only fired one person, is that right? What about this Gloria? One person treats Miss Trixie like a human being. One person is her friend. Do you know this? Do you care? Oh, no. Levy Pants might as well be on Mars for all you care. You walk in from the track one day and kick Gloria out.”
“Gloria?” Mr. Levy asked. “I didn't fire any Gloria!”
“Yes, you did!” Miss Trixie piped. “I saw it with my very own eyes. Poor Gloria was the soul of kindness. I remember Gloria gave me socks and luncheon meat.”
“Socks and luncheon meat?” Mr. Levy whistled through his teeth. “Oh, boy.”
“That's right,” Mrs. Levy shouted. “Make fun of this neglected creature. Just don't tell me whatever else you did at Levy Pants. I couldn't bear it. I won't tell the girls about Gloria. They wouldn't understand a heart like yours. They're too innocent.”
“No, you'd better not try to tell them about Gloria,” Mr. Levy said angrily. “Any more of this foolishness and you'll be down on the beach in San Juan with your mother, laughing, and swimming and dancing.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Now quiet!” Miss Trixie snarled more loudly. “I want to go back to Levy Pants right this very minute.”
“You see that?” Mrs. Levy asked her husband. “You hear that desire to work. And you want to crush her by retiring her. Gus, please. Get help. You're going to end badly.”
Miss Trixie was reaching for the bag of scraps that she had brought as luggage.
“Okay, Miss Trixie,” Mr. Levy said as if he were summoning a pet cat. “Let's go get in the car.”
“Thank goodness,” Miss Trixie sighed.
“Take your hands off her!” Mrs. Levy screamed.
“I haven't even gotten up from my chair,” her husband answered.
Mrs. Levy shoved Miss Trixie down on the couch again and said, “Now stay there. You need help.”
“Not from you people,” Miss Trixie wheezed. “Let me up.”
“Let her up.”
“Please.” Mrs. Levy held up a warning hand, plump and ringed. “Don't worry about this neglected creature I've taken under my wing. Don't worry about me either. Forget your little daughters. Get in your sports car and ride. There's a regatta this afternoon. Look. You can see the sails from the picture window I had installed with your father's hard-earned money.”
“I'll get even with you people,” Miss Trixie was snarling on the couch. “Don't worry. You'll find out.”
She tried to rise; but Mrs. Levy had pinned her to the yellow nylon.