Southern Legitimacy Statement Anne Anthony lives in North Carolina though when she engages you in conversation it’s clear she was born above the Mason-Dixon Line. Still, if she’s reading you her stories, sometimes her voice slides into the gentle sway of her legitimate Southern neighbors. Her characters take her down that path. Their voices louder the further south she travels and she’ll swear to you that some part of herself lived here a lifetime or two ago.
The Bingo Ladies
The women gather in the sunlit room of the assisted living facility to try their luck at bingo. The slow procession—women propelling themselves in wheelchairs or shuffling behind walkers—clogs the hallway for twenty minutes. Mary Pat stuck in the hallway, waits as they settle themselves. What a parade of high-rollers, she thinks.
Miss Mildred, whose hearing hasn’t outlasted her love of the game, needs to sit at the head of the table, but Mrs. Reynolds, new to the fold, tries rolling her wheelchair into the older woman’s space. Miss Emily, protecting her friend’s spot like folks in cities place lawn chairs in shoveled-out parking spaces after a snowstorm, drags her walker against the table.
“That’s Miss Mildred’s place.” Ms. Emily informs the woman.
Mrs. Reynolds, a lawyer by profession, though retired these past twenty years, grabs the woman’s walker and slings it onto its side. Mr. Goodwin, the only man invited by the ladies, grabs the handles of the woman’s wheelchair, pulls her away from the spot reserved for Miss Mildred, and wheels her to the other side. He uprights the walker and returns it to Miss Emily, who thanks him for the rescue.
“I have the right to sit wherever I want. The director will hear about this!” the woman screeches before gripping her wheels, thrusting them forward to leave.
The ladies titter like schoolgirls in the cafeteria.
How delightful, Mary Pat thinks before hobbling over to the empty seat across from Miss Mildred.
“Mind if I join in?”
* * *
Over dinner, Miss Mildred talks about her winnings from the week. Nearly ten dollars in coins are stuffed inside her coin purse, hidden in a snow boot at the back of her closet. She can reach it with her grabber, a stick with two claws at the end that fold together to pick up anything.
“That’s in one week?” Mary Pat asks.
The woman nods and shifts in her chair for a better view of the newcomer.
“Did you enjoy playing, Miss O’Reilly?”
“Mary Pat, please. And yes, I did. Lost a couple dollars, but it passed the time.”
Conversation stops when an aide sidles up to table. Mary Pat notices no one talks unless to answer a question or ask for something extra. They’re tight-lipped when it comes to staff. When the woman walks to the next table, she leans closer to the woman nearest her.
“Something wrong with that one, or don’t we trust any staff?” Mary Pat asks.
Miss Ruth bows her head as if praying over her food and whispers. “None of them. They find out a bit of information and use it against you. That’s all I’m saying.”
She crosses herself, looks up, and smiles. “Shall we eat, ladies?”
* * *
At breakfast the following day, Mary Pat clears her throat before speaking.
“We need entertainment. Something more exciting than daily bingo.” She pauses and checks if she’s holding their attention before continuing. “Something on a Saturday night. When staff leaves the building. To get dinner.”
The women lean forward.
“I know a woman who knows a woman who runs a male entertainment agency. She owes me a favor.”
Miss Emily whispers, “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
A murmur rolls around the table until it stalls at Miss Mildred. Her eyes are squeezed together, trying to make sense of what’s been said, and she finally asks, “Male entertainment? Like…”
Miss Emily, sitting to her left, pats the woman’s hand lightly. “Strippers, Mildred. Male strippers.”
The uproar of laughter draws staff over. “What’s so funny? Everything alright?”
“All good, Princess. All good,” Mary Pat says, looking down at the mystery meat her plate. “Is this chicken?”
* * *
The Bingo Ladies dump their pooled winnings into an unused plastic wastebasket liner. They argue over whether to share their plan with Mr. Goodwin, but Miss Emily reasons with everyone that asking his daughter for a favor won’t draw as much suspicion since she visits daily.
Mr. Goodwin asks his daughter to drive the weighted bundle to the bank.
“Ask for stiff one-dollar bills, honey,” he tells her.
They choose Miss Mildred’s private suite, the only space large enough to hold Mr. Goodwin, all five women, plus wheelchairs and walkers. Mary Pat gives each a different ‘go time’ to arrive at the room. By ten o’clock, everyone is gathered except for Mary Pat who waits by the front door. At 10:05 pm, a man dressed as a paramedic taps softly on the glass door and waves. She punches in the code she memorized after watching staff for weeks; it never changes. They walk together down the hall; he with a supportive arm around her waist, she with her hand across his butt, and for the first time since her arrival, she’s happy.
