Rules for Life Read Online Free PDF Page A

up?
    â€œSsssst!”
    So much for this being the Quiet Room at the Seniors Center. I twisted in my chair to mouth “quiet” at whoever was at the door. It was Mrs. Mac. She beckoned to me.
    I held up one finger. She nodded and the door closed. I waited for Mrs. Patterson, sitting across from me, to finally take a breath and then I pressed the pause button. Rule #19: Treat your elders with respect. Someday you’ll be old and annoying too.
    â€œMrs. Patterson, this is, uh, fascinating,” I said, thinking that her soft little voice had most likely been drowned out by Mrs. Mac’s hissing. Mrs. Patterson could talk for two paragraphs without taking a breath because she didn’t waste any energy on volume. “I just need to check on something.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” she said. She patted her hair. “I’ll go to the ladies and check my hair.”
    Check her hair? Her hair never changed. Like Mrs. Mac’s, it wouldn’t move in a tornado. Mrs. Patterson had a head full of lavender-tinged curls so stiff they could have doubled as a bike helmet.
    Mrs. Mac was waiting in the hall. “I’m sorry for interrupting, dear,” she said, “but the bus will be leaving soon.”
    â€œThat’s okay,” I said. “What is it?”
    â€œI need to borrow a screwdriver—a Phillips head. It’s the one with a cross, not the one with the little square—that’s a Robertson.”
    â€œWhat do you need a screwdriver for?” I asked.
    She looked around, leaned forward and whispered, “My toaster oven is on the fritz.”
    â€œBut doesn’t Oak Manor have some kind of maintenance person to fix things?”
    â€œJerry.” Mrs. Mac snorted. “A secret goes in his ear and right out his mouth. And even if it didn’t, it would take him at least a week to get around to me, and I only have enough muffins for two days.”
    She looked at me as though that had all made perfect sense. I’d been hanging around the Seniors Center long enough to know that old people’s brains make leaps in logic the rest of us can’t follow. I held up both hands. “First of all, you can buy muffins here. And second, what secret?”
    Mrs. Mac was already shaking her head. “No, no, no, dear. The ones they sell here are made with wheat bran. It’s too hard on Edgar’s colon. I use oat bran.”
    Edgar?
    â€œWho’s Edgar?” I rubbed the space between my eyebrows and wondered what it felt like when all the blood vessels in your brain popped.
    Mrs. Mac reached for one of my hands and folded her two around it. There were brown liver spots on the backs of her hands and the veins bulged through the skin, but her fingers were strong holding on to mine. “Try to pay attention, dear,” she said. “Edgar Jamer. You know. He uses a walking stick instead of a cane and he wears a hairpiece that looks like the backside of a cat.” She lowered her voice. “He’s not fooling anyone with it.”
    I let out a slow breath. “And why are you making muffins for him?”
    â€œThat’s what he has for breakfast. Plus a bowl of fruit and a glass of hot water with lemon.” Her voice went to a whisper again. “He has a problem staying regular.”
    â€œWhy isn’t he eating breakfast in the dining room with everyone else?” Mrs. Mac and a lot of the other seniors at the center lived in an assisted living complex. They each had their own small apartments, but all the meals were served in a big dining room.
    â€œWell, having him join us for breakfast wasn’t my idea. Sarah showed up with him in tow one morning. She calls him her boyfriend. Isn’t that a ridiculous word to use when you’re talking about an eighty-four-year-old man?”
    I glanced back through the half-open door. Mrs. Patterson, a.k.a. Sarah, was still in the bathroom with her hairspray, enlarging