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last.” He smiled. “Besides, Suga, you got balls.”
    I leaned back on the pillow while Goldie sat up with his silky golden legs over the side of the bed. “Last? I was nearly killed—”
    A shriek of horror filled the room. Startled, I jumped up, then quickly fell back when I realized it had only been Goldie’s cry of anguish at reliving the horror of my nearly being shot. He took my arm and started tickling more.
    â€œYep. You need to infiltrate the SS center and spend more time at the clinic. Maybe you could—Oh . . . my . . . God. Goldie Perlman, you are a genius. Suga, you are going to have to . . . Yeah, that’s it! ”
    Famous last words.
    Goldie had more wigs than the wonderful country singer, Dolly Parton.
    I found this out after he’d sent me to Biniker’s Drugstore, the local old-fashioned kind with a real soda fountain, to buy chemicals. Not just any chemicals, but hair products. Despite his throat ailment and maybe because of the whopping dose of Motrin he’d taken, he perked up enough to embroil me in a plan.
    So here I stood in his bedroom, looking in the mirror—and seeing my mother in ten years.
    Oh . . . my . . . God.
    The wig he lent me was a short bob that he styled with a curling iron, but not until he’d bleached it and recolored it a lovely shade of white. I’m glad he didn’t go with the purple tint that Helen wore. At least I didn’t look like I was trying to emulate the elderly flirt.
    However, I did look something like my late grandmother in a shirtwaist housedress that fell inches below my knees. Goldie had left his sickbed to raid the closet of his neighbor, Mrs. Honeysuckle. I hadn’t met the woman before, but could see she too had a fondness for Goldie. Being in her late seventies—I guessed by the wrinkled complexion and natural (I assumed) gray hair—she had several outfits to borrow.
    Although I looked like my mother in the future, I couldn’t picture her in the polyester dress. The base color was yellow with tiny birds, darker yellow birds, flocking about the bodice and skirt. Tiny buttons went down to my waist and took nearly an hour to fasten. But the part that made me hesitate, okay, make that argue with Goldie, was the nylons. They were opaque tan, with built-in wrinkles. Goldie insisted they made me look more authentic. And who would have guessed that I’d fit in Mrs. Honeysuckle’s black shoes with the one-inch, thick, square heels? Okay, they were very comfortable and a “senior” fashion statement.
    Goldie was a cosmetics whiz, as evidenced by his looks. I’d tried to learn from him in the past how to brighten my ever-so-pale complexion and make my gray eyes stand out. I often thought I looked too Polish. But now, leaning near for a few seconds, I had to blink past the wire-rimmed glasses he’d stuck on my nose.
    â€œI look ancient.” My heart thudded at the thought that this was how I was going to look in fifty years. Not even a computer could have enhanced this kind of image. All I could think of was, I better get married before all this happens. In the meantime, though, I’d decided to become a career woman. Still, I’d tuck this image of myself in the back of my mind in case the marriage thing became a desire.
    Goldie turned to give me a high five. “Perfect.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can go through with this.” I stepped closer. “Don’t you think someone will recognize me?”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œRecognize myself or think someone else—”
    â€œYeah, recognize yourself.” He leaned back, tugged at the belt of his gold and black paisley robe and tapped a finger to his lips. “I wouldn’t.”
    After copious nudges from Goldie to leave and a half glass of chardonnay followed by a Budweiser, I found myself standing in the doorway of the Hope Valley Senior Citizens Center,