Mistaken for the Mob. Ginny Aiken
a fondness she returned. Soon, however, petite Mitzi Steinbrom tottered on her stiletto heels to the podium.
“Yikes!” Maryanne leaned closer to Stan. “Has Mrs. Steinbrom ever fallen from those spikes?”
“Alls I know is that she says they give her a regal bearing. I guess if you translate from Mitzish to English, that means she feels a need to make up for her lack of height.”
Maryanne glanced forward again, but the plucky widow had disappeared. “Where—”
“Watch,” her father answered. “She had maintenance build her a set of steps. Otherwise, we’d never see her over that dumb stand she insists she needs to run these goofy gatherings. She likes to follow Roberts’ Rules, but no one else here’s willing to waste time on those kinds of things.”
Sure enough, the tangerine curls popped up over the lectern and Mrs. Steinbrom tapped the microphone. The woodpecker beat self-destructed into a wicked screech. From the control room at the back of the hall, a man hollered, “Sorry about that.”
Mrs. Steinbrom smiled magnanimously. “We’re used to it, Reggie. We’ll wait until you’ve fixed it.”
“Hey, Mitzi!” A bald gentleman waved a cane from the far right bank of chairs. “We heard Reggie, so it’s fixed. Get on with your dog-and-pony show. I want to catch my before-dinner nap.”
An eleven-type fold appeared between Mitzi’s penciled-in brown brows. She smiled, clearly comfortable with the noblesse oblige she felt the position of chairwoman required.
“Very well, Roger. We’ll bring this meeting to order.”
“Ah…give it a rest, will ya, Mitz?” another man called out, this one seated near the back door and garbed in a blue polo and pants. “Just get on with the stuff you wanna talk about and forget all this other junk. We’re all too old to sit around and wait.”
Mitzi pursed her orange-coated lips. “It’s best if we do things properly, Charlie. Have some patience.”
“It’s best,” Maryanne’s father offered, “if we’re efficient, Mitzi, so why don’t you start with number one?”
The chairwoman’s cheeks blazed red. “Fine,” she said in a curt voice. “What do we think about cats?”
“Litterbox stink!” a lady Maryanne didn’t know yelped.
That one’s neighbor to the left added, “They yowl.”
“Are you going to pick up my garbage when they go dig for stuff?” the impatient Charlie asked, his jaw in a pugnacious jut.
Someone up front offered, “I’m allergic….”
“Those claws…they scratch everything,” came from the right.
A frail wisp of a woman stood with difficulty, aided by her aluminum walker. “They’re a great comfort when one’s all alone.”
The room silenced at the dignified tone.
“Eloise has a point,” Maryanne’s dad said. “None of us has too much company at night. It’s worth giving that some thought.”
Eloise nodded, and abundant waves of white hair rippled at her temples. “I think we can tolerate some inconvenience if a pet helps another of us during a time of need. I vote for the cats.”
“But no dogs!” Charlie bellowed, arms crossed.
Mitzi smiled in what looked like relief. “Let’s discuss the canines, then.”
Roger stood. “See this cane?”
Everyone nodded.
“It means,” he went on, “that I can’t walk so good anymore. How’m I gonna stay on my feet when a mutt jumps all over me?”
“Obedience classes,” suggested a woman who didn’t look old enough to meet the community’s fifty-five-year minimum-age requirement. “Those are fun. My late husband and I had a wonderful time training our dogs.”
Charlie snorted. “More work. I retired for a reason—I’m tired and old.”
The young-looking senior arched a brow. “No one says you have to own or train a dog, Charlie.”
An uncomfortable silence descended. Then Mitzi gave a smart crack of the gavel against the lectern. “I think we’ve reached an agreement. Cats will be allowed, but dogs won’t. Sorry, Connie.”
The woman who’d suggested the obedience classes stood. “I don’t think anyone’s agreed to anything about the dogs—at least not yet. We need to discuss it some more.”
“Okay,” Charlie ventured. “Let’s talk. I don’t want to step on any when I go for my walks every morning.”
A portly blonde in the front row turned to glare at Charlie. “Everyone must clean up for him or herself,” she said. “It’s only reasonable that those who want dogs take care of it.”
“What’s your plan?” Charlie asked. “Have management hand out official pooper-scoopers with our lease agreements?”
Maryanne swallowed a laugh. She could just envision the scene…a battalion of geriatrics armed with long-handled double shovels and baggies, all leashed to members of a motley crew of canines.
“That would work,” the blonde said.
“Baloney,” Charlie countered.
Mitzi banged again. Her compatriots ignored her and clamored over each other’s comments.
“They shed all over, and then there’s the drool.”
“Petting one’s been proven to reduce blood pressure….”
“They can be rambunctious. That’s dangerous—”
“Seizure dogs are true lifesavers.”
“Leashes can cause accidents….”
“They’d have puppies—”
“They bite!”
“Fleas—”
“When are we going to get to the liver?” Charlie demanded.
Eloise smashed her walker against the metal chair in front of her. The residents turned toward the source of the din, and when they spotted her, fell into a stunned stupor.
“I didn’t think when I moved here my address would be the Tower of Babel,” the slight woman said, her voice distinct and determined. “But this bickering certainly sounds like it.”
Maryanne noticed more than one red face in the group.
“It also strikes me,” Eloise went on, “that a fair amount of selfishness has taken root among us. I want no part of that. The Lord created animals and left them in our trust. He also urged us to do unto others as we would others do unto us. So I’d like to see us show some forbearance in our small community.”
A chair squealed in the back of the room. Clothes rustled to Maryanne’s left. Someone cleared his throat to her far right.
No one ventured a remark.
Eloise stepped her walker forward. “We can determine a safe size for dogs—say about twenty pounds and under. Of course, we’ll enact leash laws. And Connie’s right. The owner must be responsible for the pet’s…ah…production.”
A nervous chuckle began near the side door and soon gathered strength. Before long, everyone was laughing, even Roger and Charlie. Everyone but Mitzi.
Her elevenses deepened and furrows lined her lily-white forehead. She pursed her bright lips and looked ready to stomp and cry at her loss of control—and her lost battle against dogs.
“Silence!” the diminutive chairwoman yelled.
No one listened.