The PMS Murder by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page B

excitement that week happened at—of all places—the Shalom Retirement Home. Once a week I teach a class there called
    “Writing Your Life Memoirs.”
    There’s not really much teaching involved. It’s mostly listening. Each week my elderly students come to class with their memories scratched out on lined paper. Some of them are written well. Some of them are stiff and awkward. But all are written 58
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    from the heart, and I consider it a privilege to hear them.
    The only fly in the Shalom ointment is Abe Goldman, the lone man in the group. Mr. Goldman is the kind of student every teacher dreads: loud, yakky, and opinionated. Worst of all, the old fart actually has a crush on me, constantly flashing me his Polygrip grin and asking me to go for moonlight strolls in the parking lot.
    The night after my PMS meeting, I drove over to Shalom, and Mr. Goldman, as he always did, nabbed the seat next to mine at the head of the rec room conference table.
    “Hi, cookie!” he grinned. “Look what I brought you!”
    He reached into his pants pocket and took out a none too clean hanky.
    Just what I wanted. Dried snot.
    “Now where the heck is that thing?” he said, rummaging around his copious pants pocket.
    “Oh, here it is.”
    He pulled out a battered Puddin’ Cup.
    “I’ve been saving this for you all week. It’s double fudge chocolate. I know how much you love chocolate.”
    It’s true, I’m a confirmed chocoholic, but even I—a woman who almost named her cat Mallomar—
    was vaguely nauseated at the thought of eating a Puddin’ Cup that had shared space with Mr. Goldman’s dirty hanky all week.
    “I brought you a spoon, too,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a germ-ridden plastic spoon.
    “Thanks,” I gulped, as he shoved it toward me.
    “So, cookie,” he said. “How about it? You want to be my date for Mambo Mania?” Every couple of months, Shalom hosted an event THE PMS MURDERS
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    they called Mambo Mania. Which consisted mainly of elderly ladies dancing with each other (some of them on walkers) to Steve & Eydie singing Besame Mucho. Mr. Goldman always asked me to be his date for this gala affair, and I always said no.
    “Sorry, Mr. Goldman, you know I don’t dance.”
    “Who cares? We can always sneak out to the parking lot and neck.”
    Are you kidding? I’d rather eat this repulsive Puddin’
    Cup.
    Ignoring his leer, I plastered a bright teachery smile on my face and asked, “Okay, class. Who wants to read first?”
    Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up. He always wanted to read first, one of his endless essays in the continuing saga of his life as a carpet salesman.
    I looked around the room, desperate for another volunteer. I shot an encouraging look at Mrs.
    Pechter, a round powder puff of a woman with bosoms as big as throw pillows. But Mrs. Pechter just smiled benignly and popped a caramel in her mouth. I smiled at birdlike Mrs. Rubin, who quickly averted her gaze to her lap. My ladies were always shy at the beginning of class. It took them a while to warm up. I smiled at Mrs. Zahler and Mrs. Greenberg, but they, too, kept their lips zipped.
    Finally, I could ignore Mr. Goldman’s flapping hand no longer.
    “Go ahead, Mr. Goldman,” I sighed.
    And he was off and running. Droning on about the time he sold four rooms of broadloom to Henry Kissinger (who sprang for extra padding, in case you’re interested).
    Eyelids began to droop as Mr. Goldman rambled on about the astute foreign policy advice he gave his good buddy “Hank.” Some of the ladies 60
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    were nodding off. And oh, how I envied them. I, being the teacher, had to force myself to keep my eyelids propped open.
    But inevitably, as it always did during one of Mr.
    Goldman’s recitations, my mind began to wander.
    I thought about my disastrous meeting at Union National Bank. What a shame. It would’ve been great to land that job. What a welcome break from Ackerman Awnings and Toiletmaster’s Plunge-a-Thon