SUNSET ROMANCE: 8) REBELLION
My Saturday Evening Post
10.
At 6:36 p.m., after sharing an extra generous portion of bread pudding, Miles and Elsa rise from their table. Slowly, they make their way from the cafeteria to reception, where John Mulberry impatiently taps his feet, checking and rechecking his wristwatch. Outside, a minivan waits.
But before Mulberry can announce Mr. Stewart’s departure, Elsa preempts him. “Mr. Mulberry, may I have a word with you?” She eyes Carol-Ann. “In private.”
Mulberry offers a smarmy smile. “First we must say goodnight to Mr. Stewart.”
“That is precisely what I wish to speak with you about.”
“Oh?” Mulberry glances at Miles and back at Elsa. “Very well. Carol-Ann, please leave us for a moment. Tell the driver he’s coming.”
“We need more than a moment,” says Elsa. “In the privacy of your office.”
Mulberry harrumphs. Why did he suddenly not feel in control on his own turf? Wordlessly, he turns on his heel and marches huffily toward his office, turns around at the doorway and expresses surprise to see Miles following behind Elsa. “I thought you wanted a word in private?”
“It concerns Mr. Stewart,” says Elsa.
Mulberry says nothing more as the two nonagenarians mosey past him. He closes the door behind them and sits behind his desk, a costive expression on his face.
Miles helps Elsa into an armchair, which faces Mulberry, and takes the chair beside her.
“I’ll get right to the point,” says Elsa. “Mr. Stewart and I want to live together.”
Mulberry grips both arms of his swivel chair to stop himself from falling off. “L-live together?” he splutters.
“Cohabit,” says Elsa. “As a couple.”
Miles clutches one of Elsa’s hands with his own.
“You apparently told Miles there is no room for him in this location,” continues Elsa. “Well, he can share my room.”
“B-b-but… do your sons know about this?”
“Not yet,” replies Elsa.
“Don’t you think you should consult with them before talking to me?”
“I could consult with my sons. But there is no reason for you to say I should.”
“You don’t think they should consent to this?”
“Mr. Mulberry, I reached the age of consent before my children were born. And, believe me, they never consulted me about their choices once they reached the age of consent. Or even before that.”
“Sunset Assisted Living has a policy on this matter,” says Mulberry, thinking fast. “We do not encourage unmarried couples to romance or reside together on our premises.” He plucks a rulebook from his desk drawer and lamely thumbs through it.
“We are doing this without your encouragement,” says Elsa, whose command of the English language far outpaces Mulberry’s.
“Even if we’re able to cut through the red tape,” says Mulberry, “things like this take time.”
“Time is one thing we don’t have,” says Elsa. “And that’s why we are going to live together in my room, starting tonight.”
“Tonight? But you hardly know one another!”
“Not your business,” Elsa admonishes. “But, in fact, we know enough.” Elsa looks lovingly at Miles. “Don’t we?”
“We do, Elsa.” Miles smiles as their eyes connect. Then he looks at Mulberry. “We’re not asking your permission, just your understanding.”
“No, I don’t understand this!” snaps Mulberry, shaking his head. He turns to Elsa. “Your contract clearly states one room for one person. If you breach our contract…”
“You’ll evict us?” Elsa interjects.
“It’s one of my options,” huffs Mulberry. “Your contract is signed by both your sons. That’s why this matter involves them. I will have to phone them and explain that their 90 year-old mother wants to move in with a man she met only yesterday.”
Elsa rose to her feet. “You do whatever you feel you need to do, Mr. Mulberry. We’re going to bed.” She turns. “Miles?”
Miles rises and escorts Elsa from the office.
Mulberry sits motionless, right hand on his telephone.
As the couple round out of reception, Mulberry stands and snaps his fingers at Carol-Ann. “Where is Ernesto?” he demands.
She studies him quizzically. “He left 20 minutes ago.”
“We’ve got to stop them,” says Mulberry.
“Stop who from what?”
“Sleeping together,” hisses Mulberry.
Carol-Ann giggles. “Is that what they wanted to talk to you about?”
“You think this is funny?”
“Uh, yeah—it sort of is.” She giggles some more. “I think it’s cute.”
“Well, I’m not having it. None of the living dead are going to fornicate on my watch.”
“No?” Carol-Ann struggles to keep a straight face. “How are you going to stop them?”
“I’ll have them evicted.”
“Tonight? It takes time.”
“Not if I call the police.”
“Are they committing a crime?”
“They’re breaking the rules.”
Carol-Ann shakes her head. “That isn’t something you can call the police about. It’s not a crime.”
“Doesn’t matter. If I tell them I’m going to call the police they won’t know the difference, and I’ll buy the time I need to evict them. Yes!” Mulberry slams his right fist into his left palm. Then he cuts around Carol-Ann’s reception counter…
…and comes face-to-face with a barricade of the living dead, their collective gaze focused upon him.
“Excuse me, excuse me.” Mulberry breaks through them.
The seniors follow as Mulberry catches up with Elsa and Miles, walking hand-in-hand toward Elsa’s room.
“Excuse me!” hollers Mulberry.
Elsa and Miles turn to face one another, tenderly kiss on the lips, then fix their gaze on Mulberry.
“This isn’t going to work,” says Mulberry.
“Are you a medical doctor?” asks Sara Barton, who fronted the group of residents behind Mulberry.
Mulberry whips around. “I am the director of this care facility. And this is not your business. Privacy is an important issue.”
“So why are you making a public spectacle of this?” asks Sara, her eyes flaring with defiance.
Mulberry ignores the intrusion and reverts his focus on Elsa and Miles. “You cannot forni… uh, cohabit in my facility. If you persist I will have no choice but to phone the police, and they will remove you from these premises.”
“Bird-crap!” hollers Sara from behind.
Mulberry whirls around. “I’ve warned you, Mrs. Barton—you stay out of this.”
“I’m not scared of you,” says Sara.
Elsa exchanges glances with Miles. And then she looks Mulberry straight in the eye. “Phone whoever you want, my sons, the police…” she waves her arms. “And if the police show up, I will phone K-E-Y-T television news.”
Such a notion hits Mulberry like a smack in the face. He physically recoils, and retreats down the corridor.
“Shame on you,” says Sara. “Senior rights!”
The other residents join in, a few at a time, until 16 members of the living dead are chanting “SENIOR RIGHTS!” with all the breath their tired lungs can muster.
And when Elsa and Miles disappear into Elsa’s room and close the door, they cheer.