Florence is refusing to do much but lie in bed.
I say, “Fine. You don’t want to get out of bed, then go lay down and die.”
I say, “You can’t get out of bed, but you can still correct my grammar?”
She yells, “Lie down! Lie down!”
She yells, “Yes! It matters!”
I yell, “THEN GET OUT OF BED!”
The Jonathan Schwartz show starts.
We settle in to listen.
I look at her butchered hair. That’s because the week before I took the household scissors and chopped off big chunks of it. I did that because it was a huge halo of wildness, so thick and silver sparkling. Now it was a huge halo of wildness that got caught in a buzz saw.
Sinatra comes on. She sings along.
“My mama done told me… a woman is two faced… cry in the night…”
Knowing something of her dating history, I ask her if that’s true.
She says, “I didn’t make it up. That’s what’s written.”
I start laughing. She asks why.
“You’re singing with heart.”
Shrugs, “I’m just trying to get the words.”
And then she – who broke many hearts of many old girls and garnered many angry love letters and hurtful looks across crowded dances put on by the local gay senior citizen group – she looks up and asks, “Is it true? A woman is two faced?”