The television show is just ending when the phone rings. To my relief, it’s Jackie.
“I’m so glad to hear that you’re out,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Old.” I force a laugh. “But that’s not news, is it.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Beverly Hilton.”
“Nice…”
“The reason I called is because I’d like to go over my financial affairs with you today.”
“Oh, today is pretty busy, Claudette.”
“Please. I need to know where I stand. I need to plan for my future.”
“I really am booked, pretty much for the whole week. But I can let Cindy talk to you. I’m sure she can schedule you in for something next week.”
“Next week is not going to work, Jackie.” I use my no-nonsense business voice now. “I must get an accounting of my finances as soon as possible. Do you understand me?”
“How about if I have my secretary print something out for you? I worked out some things on paper while you were in the hospital. A budget of sorts. I can have Cindy fax it to your hotel, if you like. Did you say the Beverly Hilton?”
Good grief, it’s not as if I haven’t been a good client for Jackie. I most certainly have. He’s handled my finances ever since Gavin died, shortly after I discovered Gavin’s other accountant wasn’t trustworthy, and I’ve paid Jackie well and regularly. He can’t shove me aside simply because of this recent fiasco with the IRS, can he? “Is that the best you can do?”
“It is for today.”
“Fine,” I snap at him. “When do you think it’ll be here?”
“Depends on Cindy. But I’ll have her get on it ASAP.”
“Thank you.”
“Uh, Claudette?”
“Yes?” I drum my fingertips on the desktop. I have absolutely no tolerance for this type of shabby behavior. Jackie is a somewhat tacky individual, and to think that I overlooked the fact that he wears unfashionable polyester suits and smells of cheap cologne.
“Well, I don’t know how to put this gently…but you might want to brace yourself. I mean, the IRS was pretty brutal. And that estate sale didn’t bring in nearly what you had hoped…”
“What exactly are you saying, Jackie?”
“I’m saying it’s time to tighten up that old belt.” He chuckles.
I sink back into the chair as the light of realization begins to glimmer. “What do you mean?”
“Your finances are pretty much tapped.”
I’m finding it difficult to breathe. “I am broke?” I manage to gasp.
“Not broke exactly…but you’re down to the bare bones. And you sure can’t keep spending like you were accustomed to. You’ll need to live on a budget from now on. I’ve tried to make some suggestions. But no more buying fancy clothes or expensive meals, if you get my drift.”
“Yes…,” I say slowly, trying to catch my breath. “I think I understand.”
“For starters,” he continues, although I’m finished with this conversation, “you probably won’t want to stay too long at that hotel.”
“I see…” My head is throbbing now. Am I having a stroke? A heart attack perhaps? The doctor assured me that my heart is in good shape, but he couldn’t know everything.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Claudette. But you know me; I always give it to you straight.”
“Right.” I take in a quick breath. “I appreciate that.”
“Take care now.”
“Thank you.”
A chilling numbness permeates my being as I hang up the phone. Does this mean I’m out of money? What does “tightening up the old belt” really mean? Or that my finances are “pretty much tapped”—isn’t that how he put it? That does not sound good to me. But what about our IRAs, Social Security, stocks and bonds? Just how much did the IRS really tap us for?
I lean my head back and close my eyes. Gavin made a fortune in his time. And other than hiring that shiftless accountant who cheated the IRS, Gavin was careful with our finances. He invested and reinvested. Our home was paid for. Our bank account was well padded. How could it come to this?
Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps I won’t stick around to see the fallout. It is one thing to be old and to lose your looks. But to be poor as well? That is more than I can bear. I’ve been poor before, certainly…but it was long ago. I am determined never to go back there again.
If, as Michael says, growing old is not for the faint of heart, then growing old and impoverished must be far, far worse.
Good morning, sunshine,” Michael says when I open the door to my room to see him standing in the hallway. His hair is wet; he has on white linen pants, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt. Just right for lounging around the pool.
“It isn’t morning. And I am not sunshine.”
“But you look lovely, darling.” He nods to my suit. “Are we going somewhere special?”
I shake my head, walk across the room, and sit back down in the chair by the window, the same place I’ve been sitting for the past couple of hours. I feel as if I am stuck. I have no idea where to turn, which way to go.
“Something is wrong.” Michael pulls the straight-back chair out from the desk, arranges it directly in front of me, then sits down, leaning forward with an expression of compassion in his eyes. “Tell Mikie everything.”
“I am broke!” I burst out, clutching the linen handkerchief I’ve twisted into a tight wad. “My accountant just called, and he said I—I am broke.” Now I actually do begin to sob, with real tears.
“Oh my…”
We both just sit there, the only sound is of me sobbing, sniffling, and finally blowing my nose. “I don’t know what to do, Michael. I feel utterly lost.”
“You’re completely broke?” He frowns.
“Well, Jackie didn’t use those terms.”
“Your accountant has a lot of nerve, breaking that kind of news to you on the phone.”
“I urged him on. He was too busy to see me, and I was, well, rather unhappy about that.” I remember something. “And, oh yes, his secretary was going to fax me a statement…so I’ll know exactly where I stand.”
“Fax it?” His brows shoot up with horror. “You mean to this hotel?”
“Yes.”
“For heaven’s sake, Claudette, do you want the whole world to know about your financial crisis? Don’t you understand that a fax is an open document that anyone can read—?” But Michael is already on his feet and nearly to the door. “I’ll run down to the office to see if it’s arrived yet. If it hasn’t, I’ll make sure it’s handled with utmost discretion.” Then he swears as he closes the door. And I feel like I’m not only old and poor, but stupid as well. What was I thinking?
Michael returns after about twenty minutes, and he has the dreaded papers in his hand. He is just shaking his head as he hands them to me. “Sorry. I couldn’t help but take a peek on the way back up. I’m sure others have seen it too. The stupid clerk didn’t even bother to put it in an envelope. I’ve a mind to complain to the management.”
I attempt to study the columns of numbers, to force them to add up and make sense, but it’s as if my eyes won’t focus. Finally I hand the pages back to Michael. “Please, just give me the lowdown. Make it as quick and painless as possible.”
So he tells me some figures, but they seem to just float somewhere over my head. I’ve never been terribly adept with numbers. “Exactly how much do I have to live on? Jackie mentioned I would have a budget. He said he’d made some suggestions.”
Michael tosses out another number.
“Is that what I’m supposed to live on for a month?” I feel a tiny bit hopeful since it doesn’t seem totally impossible.
“That’s for a whole year, Claudette.”
I blink and take in a sharp breath. “Is that even possible?”
He frowns and sets the papers aside. “I don’t know…”
My vision grows blurry. Perhaps I really am having a stroke.
One can only hope.
“I’m calling that no-account accountant of yours,” Michael says suddenly. “This just doesn’t sound right to me.”
I simply nod, eyes closed, body limp, unable to speak. Perhaps paralysis is setting in. I can barely hear Michael as he demands to speak to Jackie. The words seem to tumble about and mix together until I feel certain he’s speaking in a foreign language. No matter. I do not even care to listen. It’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.
Michael swears loudly, calling Jackie a bad name, which brings me back to my senses. I sit up and blink at the light. Michael slams down the phone and swears again.
“What?”
He holds up his hands in a helpless gesture. “The man is a moron, but it sounds like he stands by those figures. That business with the IRS was nasty, Claudette. I had no idea.”
“Nor did I.” I lean back, closing my eyes again.
“I wish I were in a better position to help you. But I’m stretched fairly tight myself. If Richard wasn’t still working, we wouldn’t be able to afford the place we have.”
I just sigh.
“I don’t know where you can possibly live on that amount of money per month. Do you have any family who could possibly—?”
I sit up straight, like a woman waking from the dead, eyes wide open. “No! I most certainly do not.”
“Excuse me,” he says in a wounded tone. “I’m only trying to help.”
“I’m sorry…” I press my cool hands against my hot cheeks, willing for this all to be over, once and for all. I wonder if Michael would have any qualms about helping me get some Valium or something that could assist me in bringing my troubles to a grand finale.
“Even if we sell everything that’s in storage,” he says sadly, “I don’t imagine it would last you for terribly long… It wouldn’t get you into a nice retirement home.”
“I’m not going to a retirement home,” I say with a new resolve.
“No?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I need your help, Michael.”
“That’s why I came, darling.” He comes over and takes both my hands. “Tell me, what shall we do?”
So I quickly spill out my plan to end my life—this time successfully. “Do you have anything I can use? Valium perhaps? Any tranquilizers or sedatives?”
“No…” He moans softly. “You don’t want to do that.”
“Oh, but I do. I am ready to check out, and I want you to help me.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?” I frown at him. “I thought you believed in assisted suicide.”
“Perhaps in some cases I do. For instance if someone is suffering with an incurable illness—”
“I do have an incurable illness.”
“What?”
“Old age and poverty.”
“Oh, Claudette, please don’t involve me in this. I want to help you, darling, but not like this. I can’t.”
“Fine! I’ll do it myself.” I walk over and look out the window. “I’ve never been a brave woman, but if I can’t get drugs, perhaps I can find something to jump from, or I’ll get my car out of storage and find a garage somewhere that I can park it in and asphyxiate myself. Would that be better?”
“Oh, Claudette.” He comes from behind me and places his hands on my shoulders. “I hate seeing you like this.”
I turn and face him. “Then help me.”
“I know you’re going to find this hard to believe, especially coming from someone like me, but I’ve begun to reconsider the possibility of an afterlife.”
“An afterlife?”
“Yes…”
“What are you talking about?”
“Richard and I have started going to a little church that meets on the beach.”
I blink in astonishment. “What? You and Richard in a church? You must be kidding. Are you making this up?”
“I know it must sound strange. But just because we’re gay doesn’t mean we have been excommunicated from God. According to the Bible, God sent Jesus to the cross for all sinners. This little church loves us for who we are. They know we’re gay, but they still welcome us.”
I am stunned. “And you go to this church, Michael? Willingly?”
He nods. “I’m not claiming to have any answers, Claudette. But I’m not getting any younger either. I remember having a long talk with Gavin, just a month or so before he died. He was thinking a lot about things like God and heaven… I remember him asking me if I was willing to ask the hard questions.”
“The hard questions?”
“You know…about what comes next…does God really exist…is there such a thing as heaven. I’m willing to ask those questions now. This church is helping me find some answers.”
I don’t know what to say. I feel as if I’ve just been blindsided. Michael, of all people, is actually thinking about religion. Has the whole world gone completely mad?
“So, you see, I can’t help you to do this. It would be wrong to help you end your own life when I’m still trying to figure out whether or not there’s an afterlife. I couldn’t live with myself if I did that.”
I sit back down in the chair, lean over, and hold my head in my hands. Everything has been turned upside down, inside out, and I can’t begin to make sense of any of it. I do not know what to do.
“There has to be a way out,” Michael says calmly. “I mean, besides suicide.”
I look up at him, staring blankly.
“Come on, darling. Think this through with me. There must be someone in your family… How about your sister? I remember she used to come down to visit sometimes and—”
“That is impossible.”
“Why? She seemed like a nice woman to me. A little frumpy perhaps, but you two seemed to get along. What came between you two?”
“My mother.”
He frowns. “Your mother?”
“Yes…my mother died, not long after Gavin died.”
“I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t know. But, goodness, she must’ve been very old.”
“She was ninety-four.”
“Good genetics. You probably have at least twenty good years left for you too, Claudette.”
I roll my eyes. “And that’s supposed to be good news?”
“Still, how did your mother come between you and your sister? Explain.”
“When my mother died…she left her house to me. Violet was very hurt. She held it against me.”
“And you let that, a mere house, separate you from your own flesh and blood?”
“I didn’t let it. Violet is the one who held my mother’s choice against me. And I was still getting over Gavin at the time… I just didn’t need that kind of stress back then. For that matter, I don’t need it now.”
Michael’s eyes light up. “So what became of the house?”
I shrug. “It’s still there.”
“Do you still own it?”
“I’ve been paying the taxes.”
He’s on his feet. “Presto! There’s your answer, Claudette. You have a house!”
I frown. “It’s not much of a house. It’s about a hundred years old and probably run-down. Gavin wanted to help my mother with the cost of repairs. I was worried the old house might collapse around her ears and she’d be forced to come down here and live with us permanently. As I recall, she had to get the wiring fixed and the roof replaced. But Gavin was the one who handled these things; he sent her checks sometimes. And she sent him sweet little thank-you notes.”
“So at least the house has electricity and a decent roof.” He chuckles. “That’s a start.”
I shake my head. “This is crazy.”
“Come on, darling. This is your opportunity. Your answer. Can’t you see that?”
“I can’t see much of anything at the moment, Michael.”
“Where is this house?”
“Silverton,” I mumble.
“Where’s that?”
“Northern Californi
a…an old lumber town…where I grew up.”
“It sounds delightful.”
“Delightful?” This man clearly has no idea what he’s talking about.
“You mentioned the Jaguar is in storage?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“How about a road trip?”
“A road trip?”
“To Silverton.”
“You can’t possibly be serious.” I frown up at him. “That’s about an eight-hour drive. At my age and my present state of mind, I doubt I would even survive it.”
“Look, Claudette. You wanted to commit suicide just minutes ago. Why should you fret over an all-day drive? Would you really care if it killed you?”
I consider this, then just shrug.
He glances at his watch. “Let’s go check on the things in storage now.”
“Why?”
“If you’re moving to Silverton, you might want some of your furnishings and personal belongings moved up there.”
“You really are serious about this?”
He reaches for both my hands and gently helps me to stand. “First we’ll get your car out and make sure it’s ready for the road. Is it in good repair?”
“Of course, it’s in good repair. I have that car checked regularly, the oil changed like clockwork, and I just had the tires replaced last winter.”
“Good girl.” He pats me on the back, then reaches for my purse. “And here’s your exquisite bag, my dear.” He holds it before him, examining it closely. “Versace, I presume?”
I nod, suppressing a groan as I recall how much I paid for that pocketbook a few months ago. I discovered it at an exclusive shop on Rodeo Drive; it was a splurge even for me and far more than what I’m allotted on my new monthly budget. How on earth is that meager sum supposed to cover all my living expenses? It hardly seems possible.
He hands the bag to me and smiles. “Very chic, darling, just like you. You really do look lovely today, Claudette.”
I narrow my eyes as the corners of my lips curve into a miniscule smile. “You’re attempting to butter me up, aren’t you?”
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