Doris Whistles

Imperial Republic: 2 (Doris)

I wrote this piece about Doris after I missed 16 words in the February 13, 2024, NYT Spelling Bee puzzle. All 16 words are included in bold type. The missed words, in alphabetical order, are as follows: Applicable, Bacilli, Bail, Bailee, Biblical, Bilabial, Cabal, Cabala, Cabbie, Cable, Callable, Celeb, Labile, Libel, Libelee, and Pleb.

Doris Rosen was excited to see her twin grandchildren. Michael was in his first year of law school at Georgetown. Amelia was in L.A., studying to become a physical therapist in a city where she could use her Spanish. Both kids were home at the same time on Spring Break. It was Saturday night and Doris’s daughter, Mindy, and her husband, Sam, were attending a performance of Bartok’s three piano concertos that evening. Not surprisingly, plenty of seats for the concert remained available, but Amelia said she’d rather stay at home and listen to a stray cat walk back and forth across the keyboard of the baby grand than accompany her parents. Michael suggested diplomatically that he and his sister might use the evening to spend quality time with their grandparents. So, Doris and Michael were meeting both grandchildren for dinner at Union Pizzeria because that’s where the kids wanted to go.   

Doris and Roger Rosen had been married since they graduated from Berkeley in 1962. Doris had majored in English and Roger got a BS in Chemistry. After graduate school, Roger found a tenure-track job at Northwestern. They had lived in Evanston ever since. It was too cold but otherwise a great town. Three years ago, when Doris turned 80, they moved to Imperial Republic, a pricy senior living facility on beautiful grounds in the center of Evanston. It was an adjustment, but not one they second-guessed. They had a lovely two-bedroom apartment with no maintenance whatsoever, other than to change their own lightbulbs. If things went south, they could move from independent living to assisted. Doris refused to think of things heading further south than that.

When it was close to the time they’d need to leave for the restaurant, Doris reminded Roger that they’d be taking a cab to avoid driving at night. The last time they had tried that, Roger backed over a case of beer in the Binny’s parking lot when a med student set it down next to his trunk so he could open the car door for his girlfriend. The sound of the crunching metal came first and then the cascading fountains of beer. It was not entirely unlike the Bellagio fountains in Vegas, to Doris’s mind, given the glow of the Prius tail lights over the spewing wreckage.  (The med student’s girlfriend videoed the incident so Doris was able to use it as evidence when needed.) As a rule, Roger balked at the new nighttime restriction but tonight he shrugged his shoulders and said, “I guess a cab is cheaper than a replacement case of hipster beer.”

In the elevator down to the lobby, Doris said, “No conspiracy talk tonight, please, Dear?”

“Am I confined to the weather?”

“You know very well what I mean. Do not spoil this dinner. I’d just like to enjoy an evening of pleasant conversation with our grandchildren without you turning beet red with anger over some conspiracy allegedly committed more than 50 years ago by dead people.”

“They weren’t dead when they engaged in treason and conspiracy, Doris.”

The elevator doors opened and their taxi was waiting.

The cabbie that night was a talker. And a proselytizer, an unfortunate combination. When he heard their last name was Rosen, the man proceeded to expound on the subject of cabala, some mystical offshoot of Judaism. Doris nodded her head politely without listening. Roger took out his phone to research the investment advantages of callable bonds.

“A lot of celeb-types practice cabala, you know, like Madonna and Demi Moore and that skinny blonde one, Gwyneth Paltrow.”

“I’m a lowly pleb,” Doris told him. “I don’t need a celebrity religion.”

“Do I look famous?” the driver queried. “Cabala is for everyone. It has Biblical roots in Genesis, in the first book of the Torah.”

“Maybe there is a god,” Doris thought, when she saw out the car window that the restaurant was just ahead on the other side of Chicago Avenue. What she said was, “Thank you for the ride. It was interesting chatting with you.”  

When Doris and Roger walked inside the restaurant, Amelia was waiting by the door. Her hair, just like Doris’s, was flaming red, only Amelia’s was still natural, of course. Her eyes were as blue as the water Doris had seen down in Cozumel and she was completely covered in taut, flawless skin. Amelia smiled and Roger leaned in to give his granddaughter a giant hug. “You’ve had some kind of orthodontia, there, little girl, you know that? You should be in a commercial with those teeth.” “Stop it, Grandpa,” she laughed as she turned to Doris, kissing her grandmother on both cheeks and then hugging her tightly.

“Where’s Michael?” Roger asked just as his grandson made his way over from the bar. “Grandpa!” Michael smiled, hugging Roger and patting his arm at the same time. “I was saying hello to my friend Ethan from high school. He’s at Northwestern, tending bar here on weekends. Grandma, it’s so great to see you,” Michael said, giving Doris a hug. “You look beautiful!” “And you,” said Doris, smiling, “are a charmer.”  

When they were seated at the table in the very back corner, Doris’s favorite because it was the quietest, the server brought IPAs for Roger and Michael and glasses of Sangiovese for Doris and Amelia. As they all toasted to good health and good grades, Doris felt her heart expand to fill her entire chest cavity with pure love for her two grandchildren. “Just look at Amelia,” Doris thought. She had been Amelia’s go-to adult during her teen years. Amelia’s father, Sam, a psychiatrist, had described her then as emotionally unstable and “labile,” which as far as Doris could tell, meant Amelia was a normal teenager going through adolescence. Granted, Doris didn’t have to live with Amelia. Perhaps she had been a tad moody. She did climb out her bedroom window that time. But Amelia was so clever and full of verve, Doris was disinclined to notice any faults in the girl, should any, in fact, exist.

Of course, she loved Michael too. Michael was trouble-free. Of course – the boy was handsome, smart, and athletic – the trifecta. Still, Doris felt that Mindy and Sam had always shown an unwarranted preference for Michael. She understood it when the twins were young. They were born prematurely and little Michael spent five weeks in ICU while Amelia was able to come home. Awful. But should Amelia live forever in her brother’s shadow? Roger, of course, said Doris was wrong. He never noticed any preference. No matter, she was here to enjoy both her grandchildren and she would do precisely that.

The food arrived. Amelia was having the kale and cauliflower small plate. Michael always ordered the Margherita pizza. Doris and Roger decided to split the potato and broccoli pizza and half a chopped salad. It was refreshing to see young faces, Doris thought, looking around the restaurant. The pizza was delicious. Could she have a second slice, she wondered? It would mean no dessert.

“Tell us what you’re learning in law school, Michael,” said Roger. “What’s your favorite class?”

“Definitely Torts right now,” Michael enthused.

“And he’s off,” thought Amelia, discreetly sliding her phone out of her purse into her lap to scroll through her texts.

“And he’s off,” thought Doris, remembering her daughter, Mindy’s, painfully detailed explanations when she was in law school of the subtleties of constitutional law, back when Rehnquist led the Court. Doris could never decide which was more tedious – that, or her husband’s discourses on the pH concentration of aqueous solutions, or some such. Then it hit her what family dinners would be like with two lawyers at the table. She cringed at the thought of both of them saying things like, “two-pronged, doubly-flawed argument.”  

“We’re studying defamation in Torts class now,” Michael was saying when Doris swam back to the conversation. “Just last week, the professor used the Trump defamation case in New York as an example. When Trump calls Jean Carroll a liar to his golf caddy, that’s slander. But when he writes that she’s a liar and a wacko in 40 social media posts in one day, that’s libel.”

“And tell us, future counselor, “said Amelia, “may we attach arcane legal terms to the people of whom you speak, so I don’t have to say aloud the name of Orange?”

“Ame! What are you talking about?”

“Well, yesterday when we went to pick up Rover, you explained that the dog groomer is technically a bailee and Mom was the bailor, since Rover is Mom’s personal property and the groomer had to return him in good condition. So I was wondering if we could call Orange the libelor and Jean Carroll the libelee?”

“Okay, that’s logical, but not applicable. “Libelee” is actually a super arcane term that I think they use only in admiralty law. It doesn’t have anything to do with defamation. Besides, what’s wrong with Orange?”

“I concur,” said Roger. “Think how confusing it would be to refer to the man based on his position in pending litigation. Defendant, Appellant, Petitioner, Loser? One simply cannot keep track. ‘Orange’ is by far the preferable sobriquet.”

“I want to hear what’s up with you, Amelia,” said Doris. “Are you still ga-ga over Los Angeles? Do you have opportunities to use your Spanish? Do you still think you want to become a physical therapist?”

“Tell her about your roommate, Ame,” Michael interrupted.

“Let me guess,” Doris asked, “Is this the same roommate you had to bail out of jail for chaining herself to her ex-boyfriend’s motorcycle after she saw him riding with a naked young woman on the back?”

“The very same. Charlie. Charlotte.” Amelia laughed. “This time, the trouble is that she got a really bad case of food poisoning after eating some hinky-looking ceviche at a food truck not far from the LACMA. You know where that is.”

Doris nodded.

“Well, now, Charlie’s obsessed with bacilli bacteria. She canceled her Spring Break in Morocco because of the germs. She won’t eat anything that might harbor “bacillus cereus.” No fish, no meat, no dairy, no soups, no veggies.”

“That doesn’t leave much,” said Roger, squeezing his eyebrows together in a unibrow and making his stern face. “What’s she eating?”

“Red licorice and roasted peanuts in the shell. Charlie thinks the peanuts are safer if she shells them herself.”

“What about popcorn?” Doris asked. “You could take her some. Nuts on Clark is still my guilty pleasure. I like the half-cheese and half-caramel. I could go on a diet like that for a week. Maybe with a nice buttery Chardonnay in the evening?”

“I’ll be sure to tell Charlie about your menu pairing suggestion, Grandma. What about you? Tell me what you’re reading. I never have time to read novels anymore.”

“Novels are all your grandmother has time for,” said Roger, blankly.

“That’s not true. I also manage to read the odd short story.” Doris winked at Amelia. “For my book group, I’ve just finished Tom Lake by Ann … . Wait, it will come. I know it’s a bilabial. Barratry? Parrot? Patchett! Ann Patchett. And for myself, I’m reading Shakespeare, the ones I’ve missed. Right now, I’m on Julias Caesar. Lend me your ears, and all. Somehow, I’d never read it.”

“What about you, Grandpa?” Amelia asked.

“Shakespeare? I’m waiting until it comes to cable.”

“Seriously,” Michael prodded.

“I’m reading about Oppenheimer and the cabal of McCarthy-era wingnuts who conspired to take him down,” Roger answered defiantly, as if daring someone to challenge him.

“Not another conspiracy theory, Grandpa,” lamented Amelia.

“Dr. Spa Chemmin blamed your grandfather’s high blood pressure on the last one, when your grandfather practically memorized the Rob Reiner podcast,” Doris joined in, staring pointedly at her husband in warning.

“Isn’t that the doctor from 30 Rock?” asked Michael, hoping to change the subject.

Lifting her hand to her mouth as if she were speaking privately, Doris confided, “I can never remember the doctor’s name, so I call him Spa Chemmin.”

“I love that they spelled it Dr. Spaceman.” Michael laughed. “Did you see the episode with Tracy Jordan and the doctor?”

They turned back to Roger when they heard him start to sputter. He was practically frothing at the mouth, “Look, it’s a matter of historical fact. Everyone who’s ever seen the Zapruder film knows that. But just listen to the Reiner podcast. He spells it all out. There were at least four gunmen, maybe five, and it was the CIA, the Cubans, and the Mafia. I should think people would care to know – especially now – the atrocities of which our government is capable. They killed the president, for Chrissakes, back when few thought such a thing possible. Today, we’ve seen the multitude of deplorables – Hillary was right, you know – storm the bloody capital and threaten to hang the vice president. The whole Congress was cowering…”

All right, that was freaking it. Doris was done. She looked wide-eyed at her husband as her neck elongated and her head began to swell like a giant helium balloon at the county fair, as though at any second it might explode, showering the tables nearby with bright red shards of party balloon. And then, the 83-year-old grandmother did something the twins had never seen her do before. Placing her thumb and index finger in her mouth, Doris taxi-whistled over the din of the restaurant and raised her hand in the air until she had the server’s attention. “Check, please,” mouthed Doris.

If Roger had done it, the server would be swearing like, well, like normal. But instead, she broke out in a broad smile and nodded.

Back at the table, Amelia thought, “Best grandmother ever. Next, she’ll be smoking cigars.”