“A year?” I echo. “Do I look like someone who has a year to wait?” I point to my jowls. She doesn’t budge. I point to the black up-to-my-knee boot I’ve been wearing since I fell after a bicyclist sideswiped me in the street.
Her dark eyes peruse my body. Unfazed, she replies, “You will have to wait as long as you have to wait.” Nice.
Undaunted, I forge on. “But look, I have slides, awards, reviews, newspaper and magazine articles about my work. I was the sole artist whose work was displayed at Lincoln Center’s twentieth anniversary.” I expect her eyes to light up.
“When was that?” she asks, disinterested, taking a bite out of her sandwich.
“Nineteen seventy-nine,” I reply.
She takes another bite. “Anything since then?”
I can’t decide whether she’s being sarcastic, snide, or is just plain dumb. And I’m having a difficult time taking my eyes off the lettuce dangling from the side of her mouth that seems stuck in the silver hoop on her lip.
It seems clear that we are not communicating well. But I am persistent, a benefit of age.
“I have work, but I haven’t written a résumé in a long time,” I say in a more conciliatory tone.
“Well then, I’m afraid you will have to write one, won’t you?”
Definitely snide.
“I’ve been involved with other things.” Oh, my God, I’m apologizing! “I have four beautiful grandsons. Would you like to see their pictures?”
No reply. She’s examining the myriad of tattoos on her right arm.
“And by the way, we no longer accept slides; it’s been years and years. We only accept digital.” She rolls her eyes.
“Digital what?” I ask.
She sighs, flips her crimson-and-orange hair and points a black fingernail at the computer. “Digital pictures can be sent through the internet; put them all on a disc.”
“A disc? How do I do that?” I’m now in a panic.
“Don’t you own a computer?” she asks, aghast, as if I’d just told her I was twenty-five and an alien.
“Yes, I have a computer, an old one, but I’m not too technologically adept.” I was hoping for some compassion. There was none.
“Well, it seems you will have to find someone to help you do these things.”
I didn’t get the feeling that she was planning to offer herself.
I thought about my grown children, their busy schedules—and the last phone call, during which I heard in the distance, “Oh God, not my mother, again, with the computer.”
I had to find a better plan. I turned to “Dracuella,” the receptionist, who was now asking, “Madam, do you have any other questions, because I really have to get back to work.”
What work? And “Madam?” It wasn’t that long ago that I was referred to as Mademoiselle. Or was it?
I reply, “It’s wonderful to be young, isn’t it? . . .Just wait.” I leave, chin up: this doyenne has left the building.
The game has changed. Even though I’ve had a successful art career, now, in my “golden years,” I must proceed with renewed vigor, reinvent myself, or get left behind.
That afternoon, I went to the Apple store and bought a brand new, updated, silver shining computer (something I had postponed doing for months) and signed up for Apple Help, which enabled me to receive unlimited instruction. I started that day, feeling invigorated, fresh, new.
I am now able to send photos to galleries, keep in touch with the happenings in the art world, order supplies, and transfer digital information; I feel rejuvenated. I have taken control of my work and my life.
Who knows, maybe I will be the new Grandma Moses! I think the golden years for me can be more accurately called “The Platinum Years,” precious and polished.
Author's Comment
Honestly, my ten-year-old grandson still helps me navigate the computer world. But I never give up trying!
It’s 1998 in Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn, where the close-knit Italian-American community clings to its traditions. The week of Halloween a shocking discovery shatters the festivities, when the body of an unpopular neighbor is found on her balcony, disguised as a holiday witch.
Helper, a beloved local handyman, becomes a suspect in the ensuing investigation. When his own nephew becomes one of the detectives on the case, long-held secrets and buried traumas are revealed.
The complexities of justice and family loyalty are explored from three perspectives in this captivating story, while this special neighborhood is depicted with warmth and wit.
“The beating heart of Carroll Gardens Story is its wonderful depiction of the Brooklyn neighbourhood, which Frances brings to vivid life through her authentic, quirky and complex characters… a powerful journey about the importance of acknowledging and speaking the truth before real healing can begin. May this be only the first of many more Sally Frances books to come!”
— Ann Lambert, author of the Russell and Leduc Murder Mystery Series
“Sally Frances writes with clarity and emotion, and each character has a distinctive voice. Readers who enjoy The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold will find Carroll Gardens Story similar in its exploration of trauma, healing, and the ripple effects of a mysterious death on a community, told through deeply personal perspectives.”
— Carol Thompson for Readers’ Favorite
Available from Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, and your local independent bookstore.
Linda Rathkopf has been a cabaret performer, an award winning artist, an illustrator, and a playwright whose plays have been produced in New York, Vermont, Kentucky, California, Florida, and Colorado. Her writing has been published in numerous anthologies. She's a member of the Dramatists Guild.
Love it. Congrats. Love the photo too!