Dinner with the Old Belle

Joyce was sixty-eight. She looked like a bag lady we were treating to a decent meal. Her head shook and so did her voice. Her hands were gnarled from arthritis, and big purple blotches mis-colored the skin on her arms. Some sort of blood problem she said. Her husband, her parents, and her God had all deserted her

She sat across the restaurant table from us, chewing on her hamburger steak, then spitting it into her napkin, which she emptied discreetly beneath the table. I knew from past experience that when she finished her meal, she would wrap the leftover rolls in a tissue to take home. Sometime it was hard to stomach eating with her, but she was family, and we knew our obligation.

Joyce had once been beautiful, a debutante, the belle of the ball. Now she dyed her hair red in the bathtub and tried to pass it off as natural. She dressed in bargains from the thrift store, although she could afford better. Around her neck this evening was a cameo she had attached to a chain by a large safety pin, which winked at us every time the cameo turned.

She asked us for ideas on where she could meet older men. All we could think of was antique car shows.

As we left the restaurant, a flurry of white-haired women came in--plump, laughing, well-groomed and vibrant women enjoying each other's company. They recognized Joyce as an age-mate, called her by name, smiled and reached out to her. She shrank back from them in horror, not even allowing their outstretched hands to touch her.

She was too young to be so old.