“We got to talk.”
Lorraine hesitated. “Yes, I know, but I need a shower first.” The television clicked back on. When she returned to the living room, wrapped in just a towel, off went the television. “Just let me get a drink.” Lorraine slammed the fridge shut. It was empty. “Thanks! Thanks a fuckin’ bundle!”
Rosie smirked. “Now you know what it feels like!”
“So you did it on purpose? You big fat pig, I bought enough to last days—”
“Oh, yeah!” Rosie sniggered. “Well, who the hell do you think has been filling up that fucking fridge since you arrived?”
Lorraine turned on her. “Jesus Christ, I’ve given you money!”
Rosie pulled herself up. “An’ I gave you a roof over your head, and my bed when you were sick. I fed you, washed you—and not once did you have the decency to say thank you!”
“So now you want me out of here, is that it?” Lorraine sighed.
“Why don’t you get off your high horse and be real?” Rosie retaliated. “I’m honest with you, when are you going to level with me?” Her fat body quivered, her pudgy hands rammed onto her hips.
“Level with you about what?”
“Who you are for starters!” Rosie shouted.
Lorraine lifted her arms in exasperation. “You know who I am! I’ve fucking told you who I am! I am Lorraine Page!”
“That’s not enough. I knew your name at the hospital. It’s like I live with somebody I don’t know, and I can’t take it.”
Lorraine lit a cigarette and closed her eyes. She sat on the edge of the easy chair. “Rosie, I can’t tell you much because I don’t know who I am. I am trying to find out who the fuck I am, so if I don’t know, how am I supposed to tell you?” She got up and paced the room, taking long drags on her cigarette. “I look in the mirror and I don’t know if this is the way I always looked. I see scars all over my body, and I don’t know who put them there. I don’t even know how I got this!” She pulled her hair away from the jagged scar on her face. “I got marks all over my body. I can see them, you can see them—but what about the ones inside my brain? There are whole years of my life missing, and sometimes I just don’t know if I want to find out everything.”
Rosie nodded, suddenly concerned. “How about tonight? You seemed pretty shook up.” Rosie waited but there was no reply. “That man this evening, the fat guy, he said your name three times. Do you know who he was?”
“Yeah.”
“So why don’t you start telling me? No? Okay, I’ll make it easier. He’s a cop, Jake knew him. Now if you’ve been in prison, it doesn’t worry me—just tell me, ’cos I’d like to know.”
Lorraine gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You see, you didn’t believe me. I told you back at the hospital, Rosie. I told you what I was.”
Rosie stared as Lorraine sat down, rested her head against the chair, and closed her eyes. “I was a cop, Rosie. In fact, I was a lieutenant, and that fat man you saw tonight used to be my sergeant. His name is William—Bill—Rooney. He looked surprised, huh? Seeing me? Maybe because he thought I was dead, probably hoped I was …”
“Why did you leave?” Rosie asked.
“I was kicked out—because I was a drunk.” In a low, expressionless voice she began to tell Rosie about her husband, her two daughters, the divorce, her husband’s remarriage, his custody of the girls whom she had not seen for almost six years. “After the divorce I went on a binge. It kind of lasted until you found me. I sold everything—apartment, furniture. The car was taken because I was caught drunk-driving. I got off with a fine. I got away with a lot of things, I guess, for the next few years. I don’t remember much of it, just that eventually all the money ran out and when I had nothing left to sell …” She coughed, a smoker’s cough that made her body shake and her eyes run.
Rosie waited, watching as Lorraine lit another cigarette from the stub. “So, go on, when you had nothing else to sell, then what?”
Lorraine gave her that odd, tilted, squint look. “I sold myself, Rosie—to anyone, anything, anyplace, just so long as I got a drink. I worked for the pimps I’d arrested, and got drunk with the whores I’d booked. I ended up in shit holes, bars, and flophouses. And I hardly remember a day of it. I got arrested for whoring, I got picked up for vagrancy. By the time I was hit by the truck—when I was taken to the hospital—I think I had reached a sort of dead-end hell. That’s it. That’s who I am, Rosie. Now you’re as up-to-date as I am.”
Rosie began to make Lorraine’s bed. It was a sickening story, but not one that she hadn’t heard before: everyone she knew at the meetings, including herself, had a similar story of loss and desperation. What was different about Lorraine, however, was her complete lack of emotion when relating it.
Lorraine slipped into the freshly made-up sofa and sighed contentedly, laying her head on her arm. “I’m thinking …” she said softly.
“What about?” asked Rosie.
“Well, I’m not sure about bothering to get myself back together. Who am I doing it for? Be okay if I felt good, or if I felt I was doing it for a reason. But there’s no reason.”
Rosie stood, elephantine, in the bedroom doorway. “Maybe because it’s your life. Or perhaps it’s those two little girls.” Lorraine said nothing, so Rosie continued: “My mother died when I was ten and there’s a hell of a lot I would have liked to ask her—like who the fuck in my family did I inherit this fat from? My dad was skin and bone. And I’d like to know if she loved me. She took an overdose, you see, killed herself.”
Lorraine propped herself up on her elbow. “You know, Rosie, sometimes I sort of loathe you, especially in the mornings, but if I forget to say thank you, then I’m sorry. I’ve got no one else who gives a shit about me, no other place to go. So thank you for being my friend.”
Rosie blushed. “Good night, Lorraine.”
Lorraine heard her move heavily into the bedroom, and then lay back staring up at the ceiling. Her daughters had had a new mother for five years, and they probably weren’t even little anymore. They probably wouldn’t want to see her. She didn’t even know where they lived.
It hurt to remember, physically hurt, as if each memory was so tightly stored away she had to squeeze it out. It was strange, because instead of being able to conjure up her own daughters’ faces, she saw only the little girl she had once been assigned to trace. Laura Bradley, six years old, who had last been seen waiting outside school for her mother. Lorraine, the officer in charge of searching the school outbuildings and cellars, had found Laura’s naked body stuffed into one of the big air-conditioning pipes. Like a rag doll, so tiny, so helpless, yet her body had felt warm and Lorraine had tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. But nothing brought her back to life; even when she had felt the small rib cage lifting, it was not Laura breathing, it was Lorraine’s own breath.
Lorraine got out of bed and began to pace the room. Why? Why was she suddenly remembering this child? Laura Bradley had been brutally sexually abused, her injuries so horrific that all the officers on the case were sickened; Lorraine recalled seeing even the big, blustering Bill Rooney weeping. Obsessed with catching the killer, she worked day and night and had no time to spare for her own daughters. She had shouted at her husband that the girls were never to be left alone for an instant, and made sure the baby-sitter was always waiting to pick them up from their nursery school.
She poured herself a glass of water. She remembered yelling in fury at Mike, “I’m trying to find Laura Bradley’s killer. You may not think that is important, but you didn’t hold her dead body in your arms. I did. And I will not sleep until I have that bastard locked away so my daughters and every kid in this neighborhood can be safe.”
Mike had tried to make her rest, but Lorraine had kept up one hell of an investigation and she wouldn’t let it go. From day one she had been suspicious of the school janitor and she kept up the pressure. Intuition told her she had the right man. Even her chief hinted that perhaps she should back off, but she refus
ed, returning time and again to the scene of the crime and to the janitor’s home, until, in yet another confrontation when she had shown him Laura Bradley’s clothes, all her photographs, when she had interrogated him for more than six hours, she finally broke him. He admitted his guilt. She had been so proud, and she had been promoted. Laura Bradley could at last rest in peace.
Lorraine felt chilled now, remembering the visit of the young uniformed officer to Rosie’s apartment, asking about the night she had returned after the attack in the parking lot, how she had substituted the dead child’s name for her own. She had uttered it without a moment’s thought. Now she realized just how often in that long-distant past she had placed her work above the needs of her own children and husband. Mike had been right. She had become obsessive. She had also become addicted to the adrenaline, the excitement, the tension, and the pressure—until she had found it impossible to relax.
She returned to bed and sat for a moment staring at the wall. Maybe Rosie was right, maybe she should try to contact them again. She would like to explain things to Sally and Julia, perhaps even ask for their forgiveness. Yes, her life was worth bothering about, even if it was just to make peace with her children and Mike. Feeling calmer, she turned off the lamp, snuggled down, and was asleep within moments.
This was the first time she had dealt with a part of her past without getting the shakes. She had gone over it in her mind and remained calm. Forced herself to hold on, remain distant from it. It was another step forward in her rehabilitation.
But to Rosie she had spoken about her past as if she was talking about another person, another Lorraine. She hadn’t cried or, to Rosie, appeared to feel remorse or guilt. Instead, there was a cold confidence, a control that seemed to be getting stronger, as if she were divorcing herself from the past. What she was not doing, which Rosie had surmised, was facing the full reality.
Rosie knew how harsh that reality was. Unlike Lorraine, she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she was mulling over what she had been told. At some stage in her own recovery, Rosie, like Lorraine, had asked herself if remaining sober, facing what she was and what she had lost, was worth all the trouble and the pain. Sober, she felt, she had nothing to live for. It had been Jake who had said her life was worth fighting for, for the sake of her son. She had tried to contact Joey, and she had felt really positive, but it had been a disaster. Rosie had been, and was still, unable to cope with the emotional strain of seeing her son, of knowing there was another woman he called mother. She could not cope with talking to her ex-husband, or seeing the new home he had made for himself and their boy. As it all swept over her once more, she began to feel guilty about opening up the same terrible emotional road for Lorraine.
She crept out of bed. If Lorraine was awake she would tell her that she should take more time before she tried to confront her lost family. She was wrong to push her, she wasn’t experienced enough, and maybe this wall of control Lorraine was building around herself was good, and safer for her than allowing anybody like Rosie or Jake to break it down. But Lorraine was sleeping, one hand tucked under her chin, only the strange, jagged scar running from her eye to her cheek marring her look of innocence. She seemed peaceful, a half smile on her lips.
Rosie made a vow. She would not ask Lorraine to leave the apartment: it was important for her to have a sense of security. Lorraine was her friend. That settled, Rosie went back to bed, swiped at her pillow, and, within seconds, passed into a deep sleep.
5
Lorraine tried again to find work, but it was not until the first week of July that she managed to get a job in a florist’s shop. It was only short-term, replacing a sales clerk who was on vacation. She also did four nights at Art’s gallery, since he stayed open until ten in the evening. He was rarely there, and she was often alone waiting for the odd customer. A number of paintings had been sold, but business was not exactly flourishing. Art was mostly out looking for new pictures, but whenever he saw her, he greeted her with affection.
The week was good because she was occupied, and with the little money she earned she bought two more outfits at a garage sale. Nula and Didi dropped in for chats, and always brought some homemade banana bread with them. Didi was no longer wearing dark glasses, but she was still limping, yet she refused to see a doctor. The two transsexuals admired Lorraine’s taste in clothes and discussed secondhand bargains they’d bought. Because of their size they often found it difficult to get really stylish clothes, especially shoes. Lorraine was looking better and feeling stronger every day. Her sweats were less frequent and she had put on weight.
Rosie had rented a computer and printer and started doing clerical work at home. They began a routine of sharing the cleaning and laundry. Lorraine contributed toward the rent and groceries. It meant that at the end of the week, after she had bought her cigarettes and clothes, she had little left. But what was left, she saved.
When the florist job ended, Lorraine asked Art if he could use her for a few more hours. Since more paintings had been sold, and he had discovered a new artist, he took her on for two full days a week, plus the four evenings. There were so few customers she didn’t know how the gallery paid for itself let alone paid her salary. On her way to and from work she had to pass Fit as a Fiddle, now called Fit ’N’ Fast, and decided to join one of their classes. She only managed the first ten minutes of the step class before she felt her energy give way. However, she began to practice in the empty gallery with a stack of telephone books and slowly built up her strength, stepping up and down until her legs felt like jelly.
Every day Lorraine would use Art’s telephone to try and trace her ex-husband. She called a number of Mike Pages, but so far she had been unsuccessful. He had disappeared. Rosie, using the telephone directory for her clerical work, noticed the pages folded down on the name Page. She surmised that Lorraine was trying to trace her husband. One evening as they sat watching TV, Rosie gave Lorraine a sidelong look. “So, you haven’t found him yet?”
Lorraine was about to ask what she was talking about but Rosie nodded at the telephone directory.
“You don’t miss much, do you, Rosie? Well, yeah, I’ve sort of been trying. I was gonna try the Bar Association: if he was still practicing, they would know his address, but I don’t know …”
Rosie nodded, seemingly intent on the TV program. “Yeah, well, you take your time. You’ll need to be strong, you know, and I’d just take it all a day at a time.”
That night, as Rosie slept, Lorraine took out a scrap of paper. She’d lied, she didn’t know why, she just didn’t want Rosie to know she had found Mike. Mike Page was living in Santa Monica. She had not spoken to him directly, but to a secretary, who confirmed that he had two daughters, Julia and Sally. Before the secretary could ask her any questions, Lorraine had hung up.
It was a Friday evening, mid-July, boiling hot outside and just as hot inside, two weeks since Lorraine had found Mike’s office number. She had put off getting in touch, always making the excuse that she didn’t have enough money to get the bus to Santa Monica—and she was still in need of better clothes. She arrived home with a banana bread made by Didi and some fresh fruit. She was flushed from walking. It had been a full day of exercise: she had done a light workout with Hector, the owner of Fit ’N’ Fast, who had put together a beginner’s program for her, starting with small weights to build up the atrophied muscles in her arms and legs.
Rosie peered up from a mountain of brown envelopes and watched as Lorraine removed boxes and boxes of vitamins from her bag. Hector had taken to giving them to her free because most were samples. He had suggested she take vitamins E, C, D, and B12, and, with her past record of alcohol abuse, zinc. They all knew about Lorraine’s drinking problem—Nula had told them—but Lorraine didn’t mind. It was easier that everyone knew, and besides, as none of them drank she was never tempted.
“I see we’ve been to the hairdresser—or did Hector turn his muscular body to that, too?” Rosie smirked.
“No, I had
it done near the gallery.” She still had the short-cropped cut, but she’d had new streaks put in.
Rosie licked a few more envelopes, slapping them down. She didn’t say how good Lorraine looked because she was jealous. Lorraine was changing before her eyes. She was lightly tanned from all her walking back and forth to the gallery, and whereas before she had seemed to shuffle, head bent forward, shoulders rounded, now she was straight-backed and looking fit.
Lorraine counted her money, putting some aside for Rosie. Then she went into the bedroom and opened the crammed closet. She took out her shoes, and stuffed the money inside with the rest of her savings. She sniffed gingerly: Rosie’s clothes stank of body odor. She wished she had her own closet; not that Rosie didn’t shower—she did—but her weight and the heat of the apartment made her sweat profusely.
“You comin’ to a meeting with me tonight?” Rosie asked, lolling at the door. “Only I got to deliver these so I thought I’d maybe go straight from there.”
“I said I’d go over to see the new paintings being hung.”
Rosie pursed her lips. “Hector helping out, too, is he?”
Lorraine sighed. “Hector’s gay, Rosie, okay?”
“Maybe he swings both ways—some of them do, you know …”
“Rosie, don’t start. Go mail your letters, I’ll make some supper.”
Rosie banged out and Lorraine went into the kitchen. She cleaned up, then sat down by the telephone. She knew it was after office hours, but she had the urge to make the call. Mike Page’s answering machine was on. This time she heard his voice, which gave an emergency number where he could be reached. Lorraine jotted it down and waited a moment before she dialed.
“Hello.”
The high-pitched voice was obviously a child’s.
Lorraine hung up. She lit a cigarette and smoked it before dialing again. This time Mike answered. She had to swallow hard before she could speak.
“Mike, it’s Lorraine.”
Cold Shoulder Page 14
