LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  “Moi?” He links his arm in mine as he leads me out the door. “And now the adventure begins.” As we wait for the elevator, he merrily hums the tune to “We’re Off to See the Wizard.”

  But I feel fairly certain that at the end of the journey, our wizard, not unlike the one in the movie, will be nothing more than an insecure little man with a receding hairline, hiding behind a heavy velvet curtain and pretending to be something he is not.

  Isn’t it unseasonably warm for November?” Michael asks. After a light lunch, we are now at the storage unit place, somewhere outside of Beverly Hills, and Michael is trying to unlock the door to the unit where my belongings are supposedly safely stashed away.

  “I suppose.” I’m impatient for him to get the stubborn lock open, worried that this large unit will be empty.

  “There,” he says as the key finally turns. He opens the door, turns on the light, and to my relief, my things are there.

  I rush over to a marble-top table that once occupied a prominent place in my foyer. It looks sadly out of place next to the cardboard box marked Small Kitchen Appliances. I run my hand over the cool surface and sigh.

  “Wow,” says Michael. “There’s a lot here.”

  I nod, looking around helplessly. “Whatever will I do with all of it?”

  “How big is your family home?”

  “Family home?” I wonder at his choice of words. He obviously doesn’t understand this situation at all. But then, how could he? I always kept my roots, both in my hair and in my past, carefully concealed. “It’s not exactly what I’d call the family home, Michael. It’s a small wooden house with a screen door.”

  “Sounds charming.”

  I look at the lovely furnishings I saved, items that would enhance the appearance of most homes…but not for the life of me can I imagine them situated in my mother’s house. It would be a pathetic joke.

  “How large is the house, darling?”

  “The square footage?” I shrug. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  “How many bedrooms, baths, that sort of thing?”

  I force myself to remember the house. “Two bedrooms. One bath. A living room and kitchen. That’s it.”

  His brows fly up. “Really?”

  “Yes. I told you it was small.”

  “So…we’ll just have to scale down a bit. You’ll pick out a few things you know will fit, items that you’ll need—beds, tables, chairs, perhaps a sofa. Not the Casino sectional, of course, since I suspect that won’t fit in a home that size. How big would you say the living room is?”

  “Not big.” I remove my jacket, carefully fold it, and set it on the marble-top table. “It’s awfully warm in here, isn’t it?”

  “No air conditioning.”

  I look around the unit again. “I have no idea where to begin, Michael.”

  His forehead creases as he gives this some thought. “For starters, I think we need to get some movers over here to help. We’ll point out which boxes and pieces you want to take to Silverton, get them loaded on the truck, and—”

  “Do you really think I’ll stay in Silverton?”

  “What other options do you have, darling?”

  I can’t think of an intelligent answer. I can barely think at all. So I pull out an armchair from the formal dining room set and sit my weary bones down on it. I vaguely listen as Michael calls Information on his cell phone and inquires about a specific moving company, which is apparently still in business since he’s soon talking to someone. It seems he has some sort of personal connection with this place, because he mentions a man’s name and then chats for a few minutes.

  I close my eyes and lean back into the Mackintosh chair. What possessed Gavin to pick out this design, since it’s never been comfortable? Although it is striking to behold with its modern lines and hard shellac finish. Even so, I’m certain this set is not something I’ll take to Silverton. If I really am going to Silverton, which seems rather implausible, despite the phone conversation I overhear from Michael’s end.

  “I know this is terribly short notice, darling, but we’d love to have them come out here today, if possible.” He pauses. “You can do that? That’s wonderful. Please tell Peter I am eternally grateful and give him my best, will you?” He tells them the address of the storage place and then turns to me. “What is the address of your Silverton house, dear?”

  “It’s 258 Sequoia Street.”

  He repeats this into the phone, says “Thank you!” again, then closes his phone with an ear-to-ear grin. “They’ll be here in about an hour.”

  “However did you manage that?”

  “Friends helping friends…” He glances around the unit. “You start looking around, and I’ll go see if I can get some tools.”

  “Tools?” I say absently, but he is already gone. I wander around the crowded unit, trying to make heads or tails of all of this—of my life. Finally I sit back down in the uncomfortable Mackintosh chair and convince myself that this is all just a dream. A very bad dream.

  Michael returns with some masking tape, a pad of paper, and some felt pens. And for the next hour, he coaches me through the storage unit, saying yea to some pieces and nay to others. I get a glimpse of what he must’ve been like while working on a film. He seems to have some sort of scheme, perhaps like scene settings, all worked out in his head. And although it’s a mystery to me, I am trying to trust him with these decisions.

  I watch as he writes down various instructions, taping notes onto boxes and pieces of furniture in a way that reassures me that he really does know what he’s doing. I feel as if I am a robot and he is controlling all the buttons. But by the time the movers arrive, there seems to have been a method to his madness. He gives them some directions, then turns to me.

  “Our work here is done. Let’s go get the Jaguar.”

  “Am I to drive it?” I ask in a weary voice.

  “I can’t very well drive two cars,” he points out. “All you need to do is follow me to the closest rental car place. I’m sure it’s not more than ten minutes from here. Then I’ll return this dog of a car, and I’ll drive your lovely Jag back to the hotel.”

  “Where I can take a nap?”

  “Of course, darling. And then we’ll have a nice late dinner and pack our bags and be ready to leave first thing in the morning.”

  I take my time to orient myself to my car. It has been a bit more than six weeks since I’ve driven, but it feels more like six years. I used to pride myself on my ability to drive—so many friends my age had given it up completely. But I still drove out to the country club or to lunch or to shopping. And so far I’ve never even had a fender bender. But suddenly I feel uncertain…about everything.

  “You’ll be fine.” Michael opens the door and hands me my car keys. “Just relax and focus.”

  “Relax and focus,” I tell myself as I start the engine, which purrs happily, as if she is glad to see me again.

  The Jaguar is an XJ6, which means little to me since I know absolutely nothing about engines. I chose this vehicle strictly for looks—lean, elegant, and sexy. I run my fingers over the polished burled wood on the dash. It still gleams like it did the day Gavin brought it home to me more than twenty years ago.

  I put the car into gear, checking the rearview and side mirrors before carefully backing out of the storage garage. As I follow Michael’s car, trying not to get too close but not far enough to be cut off and lose him, I remember back to when Gavin asked me to pick out a new car. It was a couple of weeks before my sixtieth birthday. My Porsche convertible was starting to ping, and he was worried that it was becoming unreliable.

  I’d seen an advertisement, in Vogue as I recall, for a car exactly like this. Even the color was perfect: a scrumptious shade of taupe that still leaves me longing for a latte. I think it was called doeskin. Pleased with myself, I’d torn out the glossy page and left it in the center of Gavin’s desk.

  But straightaway, he tried to talk me out of a Jaguar, and we ended up in a hug
e argument. I accused him of not loving me, which I think was partially true, and he accused me of being “completely superficial,” which was also partially true, although we never could admit to our shortcomings.

  “If I were Gala, you’d get me that car!” I’d yelled at him. This was my usual trump card in any argument. “It wouldn’t be too expensive if you really loved me the way you loved Gala.”

  He got very quiet and attempted to calm me down, explaining that his reservations had nothing to do with the price tag. He said he was concerned that a Jaguar could have a lot of mechanical problems. “You’ll have to make sure that it’s carefully maintained, Claudette. It’ll be up to you.” Naturally, I promised him I would do that, that I could do that. So he conceded to the car.

  I made him swear to no big fanfare about my sixtieth birthday. “And do not tell a soul why you got me this car,” I warned him. I was still passing for late forties at the time and had no intention of being classified as a senior citizen. It was fine for Gavin, since he was in his midseventies by then and didn’t care who knew.

  As I follow Michael onto the freeway, I remember how proud Gavin looked when he pulled the gorgeous Jag into our circular driveway. I remember how he smiled when he saw me sliding into the brand-new car, running my hand over the buttery smooth leather upholstery, lovingly stroking the steering wheel…and I remember the sex we had that night to celebrate.

  Despite my blues about getting older, it had been a fairly good day, as I recall. But it all seems so long ago now. Like someone else’s life, or perhaps just a scene from a movie Gavin directed. And I could laugh, or perhaps I should cry, when I think of how I lamented over turning sixty. Compared to now, that was a walk in the park.

  I am amazed at how well my car has held up. I’ve put less than thirty thousand miles on it, and it’s always been stored in a garage. If I do say so myself, it still looks quite spectacular—almost as good as new. And I’m sure if it were to continue receiving the care and attention I’ve given it, it would remain ageless and lovely forever.

  Truly, it’s a pity that people weren’t designed to last so well.

  It’s fortunate for everyone else on the road that I am not the driver today. I do not remember when I’ve been so utterly exhausted, so completely spent and worn out and discouraged. If I thought I felt elderly yesterday, I feel absolutely ancient now.

  Overly anxious about today’s journey, I’m sure I slept about three hours total last night. I tossed and turned and imagined the worst. Then, when I finally did manage to slumber, I was tormented by horrible dreams, only to be rudely awakened by the jangling of the telephone. To say that my five thirty wake-up call was excruciating is an understatement. Perhaps Michael is right. Perhaps this trip will kill me.

  Michael’s goal was to “be on the road by six o’clock sharp to avoid commuter traffic,” and somehow we made it out of the hotel at that ungodly hour. We’ve been driving for nearly two hours, and I am still a bundle of raw nerves. I’m certain to have a complete breakdown before this day ends.

  I peer hopelessly out the window, gazing blankly at the bleak landscape that surrounds us like a dusty brown carpet badly in need of cleaning. This does not help lift my spirits. The scenery northbound from Los Angeles on I-5 must be among the ugliest in the world.

  Michael’s plan is to drive straight up the freeway, stopping somewhere near San Jose, where we’ll have a late breakfast. I lean my seat back and attempt to sleep, but it feels as if someone has hot-wired my brain—and now there is no controlling it. Most of my thoughts revolve around my hometown, replaying memories I’d thought I left behind when I left that lackluster little town back in 1942. I swore to everyone that I’d never go back. And for the most part, I’ve kept that promise. It’s unbelievable that I’m actually going there now.

  Oh, there’s the possibility that I will die first…not a bad prospect, really.

  I didn’t return to Silverton until 1981, nearly forty years after my exodus. And I only went back because I was pressured into it by my sister. It was my mother’s seventy-fifth birthday, and Violet had planned a “big” party, insisting that, as mother’s only other child, I must attend.

  “You know Mom never had a fancy wedding,” Violet reminded me, “and Dad didn’t live long enough for any special anniversaries. This is our big chance to show our mother that she’s special, that we love her. And if you don’t come, it’ll break her heart.”

  Naturally, it was difficult to argue with this, so Gavin and I both made the trip, arriving in style and bearing beautiful gifts. Also, we footed the bill for this “big” party, which in actuality was only a small gathering of our mother’s small-town friends at the shabby old Elks Lodge, where she and my dad used to go dancing on Saturday nights.

  Embarrassed by the stodgy steam-table food and dime-store decorations, I attempted to keep my chin up throughout the dismal affair. But once I had Violet alone, I had to inquire if that was the best she could do with my money. Naturally, this resulted in another silent spell between my sister and me—one that lasted for several years.

  We didn’t patch that up until Violet’s youngest daughter, my favorite niece, graduated from high school in 1984. And that was only because Abby sent me an invitation herself. She wrote a personal note on it, and her graduation photo was so gorgeous that I just couldn’t help myself. This time I traveled to Silverton alone, driving my brand-new Jag and making a surprise appearance at Abby’s graduation. My plan had been to show up, dressed to the nines of course, and without speaking to my sister, I would present Abby with my gift, which happened to be a pair of absolutely perfect one-carat diamond stud earrings.

  Abby was nearly speechless over my generous gift, but she pointed out that her ears were not pierced. “Oh, that’s easily taken care of.” I opened my purse and slipped her a fifty. She squealed, hugged me, and proclaimed me her favorite aunt.

  “And you must come down to visit me this summer,” I told her, knowing full well Violet was only a few feet away, wearing a drab little floral dress and bad shoes, and eavesdropping.

  “You haven’t been down since you were sixteen,” I continued, “and I had the whole place redecorated last year.” Of course, Abby was thrilled with this idea and insisted I come out to her house and join the family for her celebration. “Grandma is already there,” she said. “She didn’t feel up to coming to the ceremony, but she would flip out if you didn’t come out and see her, Aunt Claudette.”

  “Yes,” Violet said, joining us. “Please, do come, Claudette. Mother would be so hurt if you didn’t.”

  “You’re sure you have room for one more?” I imagined Violet and Clarence’s small ranch-style house overflowing with guests.

  “Of course, we do.” Clarence came over and put an arm around me. “And we won’t take no for an answer.”

  We were out in front of the school, and my car, which I’d parked in the loading zone because I was late, was being ticketed.

  “What idiot parked his car there?” Violet asked.

  I laughed. “That would be me.” I waved my hand. “No matter, the price of the ticket was worth being here on time to see Abby graduating.”

  “That’s your car?” exclaimed Abby with wide eyes. “The Jaguar?”

  I nodded and grinned, I’m sure, like the Cheshire cat.

  “I’m riding with Aunt Claudette,” Abby informed her parents.

  Clarence just rolled his eyes and laughed. But I could see the irritation in Violet’s eyes. Or maybe it was hurt. It’s odd the way memory works. I suppose I’m not really sure how Violet was feeling in that moment. Probably jealous. Clarence and Violet had both been teachers—he at the high school, she at the grade school.

  Oh, they pretended to be happy enough in their boring little lives, doing boring little things in a boring little town. Their old house was as frumpy as they were, and they drove even frumpier American cars. Clarence died a few years ago, and Violet went to the only retirement home in the town. I was stunned
when I heard that—I couldn’t imagine anyone going to a depressing place like that intentionally. I assumed that meant she had given up completely.

  Why am I troubling my mind with all of this now? Really, what is the point? I close my eyes, lean back, and attempt to drift to sleep.

  “How are you doing?” Michael asks.

  We’re in the car again, after filling up on gas and eating a rather horrible breakfast at a chain restaurant, where the food was so greasy I have already consumed two Tums tablets and am ready for my third. It’s a bit past eleven, and we’re back on the freeway, about fifty miles north of San Jose. Neither of us has spoken a word in the past thirty minutes. And to add to the gloom, it’s beginning to rain.

  “Do you mean am I still alive?”

  He chuckles. “Yes, something like that.”

  “Barely.” I consider complaining once more about our ghastly breakfast, but I think that’s a dead horse we’re both ready to bury.

  “Tell me about this place we’re going to, Claudette. Is Silverton a quaint little town with a brick fire station and a charming drugstore that still serves chocolate malts? Perhaps similar to the old Mayberry R.F.D. show?”

  I can’t help but make a harrumph sound, which I know is unbecoming. I sit up straighter, clearing my throat. “The last time I was in Silverton, it seemed more like a ghost town, what with the decline of the timber industry and the more intelligent people moving away. It’s really rather dismal…the sort of place one might use as a setting for a Stephen King film.”

  “Really?” He nods. “Well, that could be fascinating too. Any interesting murders take place there?”

  “Not that I recall. The truth is that nothing very interesting ever happened there. Truly, they could change the name of the town from Silverton to Boredom, and I doubt anyone would notice or even protest.”

  “What made your parents live there?”

  Usually I find a way to change the subject when someone inquires about my family history and heritage. And that’s not so unusual with the Hollywood crowd. So many of us have family ties we’re not proud of. For the most part, I find that people—I mean contemporaries, not the intrusive media—do not pry.