Cutting Scenes - The Fine Line

certainly done the so-called responsible thing. He was an
educational administrator—had worked hard for his pension and
counted on Social Security to tide him over during the “golden
years”. What he had not counted on in all his careful planning
was inflation and the high cost of minimally covered healthrelated
expenses. Back in his day you bought a house on property
that would accrue in value, so that you could turn it over in
latter life for more inexpensive digs and a financial cushion.
Sure, Dad could sell the family house now, but then where would
he live? Certainly not with me, and there really are few
affordable alternatives for aging adults of modest means.
I understood all this, yet was unable to tolerate poor old
Dad’s going for the love in his twilight years. This Cynthia, I
calculated, is only thirteen years older than me: what could she
possibly want from my 81-year-old father? Probably, I surmised,
the house and what’s left of the funds my parents had set aside
to sustain themselves in their old age.
I telephoned my father right after I got a second letter
announcing that he had invited Cynthia to move in with him. At
the time, I was vaguely uneasy, but tried to be supportive. In a
subsequent letter, however, when he mentioned the possibly of
getting married, I quickly made plans to visit and throw
interference. Dad described Cynthia as “charming, energetic, and
well-spoken”. Of course (I shrewdly concluded), just the
qualities required of a grifter to hustle an old man. You read
about it in the papers all the time: there’s always a son or
lover skulking in the shadows, coaching the shill and waiting to
swoop down on the elderly person’s possessions and bank account.
My father, no doubt, was one of numerous geriatric victims
ensnared in this evil scheme. Thinking about it now, there was
also the Bingo connection, further evidence of Cynthia’s moral
lapses. Dad had reported that he met Cynthia at the weekly Bingo
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