LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  “Did you have other family living there?” Michael persists. “Grandparents, perhaps?”

  I sigh. Maybe it’s time to tell my story with a bit more honesty. When I told that Lindy character about my childhood back at Laurel Hills, it felt almost therapeutic. Oh, I was probably painting it a little brighter and merrier than it actually was, but it felt good to be open and candid for a change. “No, I didn’t have grandparents in Silverton. No other relatives either. Just my parents, Violet, and me.”

  “So what made your parents move there? Was your father involved in the timber industry?”

  I laugh, although it sounds rather pathetic. “Hardly. My father felt that logging and millwork were beneath him. He did not like to get his hands dirty.”

  “What did he do?”

  I pause, trying to think of a nice way to say this. There is none. “He didn’t do much of anything, Michael. Well, besides drink.”

  “So your parents were independently wealthy?” Michael glances at me curiously, and I suspect he knows this is not the case.

  “No. If the truth must be known, they were independently poor.”

  “Tell me, Claudette,” he pleads like a child asking for candy. “Tell me everything. You know how I do love a good story.”

  “Perhaps you can develop this one into a screenplay, dear. But I must get a percentage.”

  “Of course. Now begin at the beginning, darling. What brought your parents to Silverton?”

  “My mother’s family actually lived in the Bay Area.” I glance out toward the west where San Francisco looms, although with these thick clouds, you would never know. “Perhaps not far from here. But my mother never liked to talk about them, and we didn’t go to visit them, and they never came to see us. But I do know, from having peeked at old photos and letters and mementos—I was a bit of a snoop as a teenager—that Mother’s family had been fairly well off.”

  “Aha! That explains your fine taste.”

  “I asked my mother about them, and she tried to brush me off, but I persisted until I wore her down.”

  “I can imagine you as a teenager, Claudette, becoming a beauty and probably dreaming of being an actress.”

  I nod. “Yes, that’s about right. And I could be very persuasive when needed. So I begged my mother to tell me the truth—who were her parents and why did we not have anything to do with them.”

  “And?”

  “She told me the truth.”

  “And?”

  Now I can tell that I have a captive audience in Michael, so I go with it, play up the drama. Who knows? Perhaps this story would make a good screenplay…although I have no idea how it would end. “It seemed that my mother’s family owned a rather large business in San Francisco, and they were quite wealthy.”

  “What’s their name? Do you know?”

  “I think it was Lawson, but I’m not positive. Mother was secretive about such things. I think she worried that I would try to look them up.”

  “Hit them up for money?”

  I sort of laugh. “I’m sure she thought something like that. I always wanted more…even as a small child. I had caviar taste on a tuna fish budget.”

  Michael chuckles. “Continue your tale, darling. This will make the trip go by so much faster.”

  “Oddly enough, Mother was only two years older than Gavin,” I say as I run their birth dates through my head.

  “Interesting…that would make her even younger than my mother.”

  “Younger than Gala?” I try to process this impossible fact. Could it be? “Yes, of course, you’re right. Although my mother seemed much, much older. But then poverty does that to a person, makes one old before one’s time. Anyway, when mother was a young woman, it seemed her parents had high hopes for her. I think she was their oldest daughter, a debutante, and an heiress. And, yes, she was quite attractive too. I remember being so surprised when I found a photo of her one day.

  “It was summertime, and I was sixteen and bored. I’d been poking around the house when I made my discovery. Perhaps she’d been looking at it herself, since it was lying on her dresser with an old handkerchief over it. The photo was good quality, obviously from a studio, and my mother had been about my age when it was shot. I don’t recall a date, but I could tell by her dress, which was an exquisite number in some sort of gauzy fabric trimmed in lace, and by her hairstyle, a sweet little bob, that it was taken in the twenties. I remember just staring at that image in wonder. She was so pretty and young, and her eyes sparkled.”

  “I’ll bet she looked like you, Claudette. I mean, when you were young.”

  “I thought that too when I saw the photo. That’s probably the only reason I realized it was her. When I flipped the photo over, it said, ‘Emma’s Sixteenth Birthday’ in delicate penmanship, and then I was certain. Even so, it seemed inconceivable that the girl in the photo was actually my mother. The same woman who wore her prematurely gray hair pinned up in a tight little bun and old-fashioned shoes that I wouldn’t be caught dead in. And the same woman who camouflaged her bony frame and sagging breasts beneath the horrible ‘day’ dresses she wore every day. She had two or three pitiful rags that she rotated, not that anyone would notice. How could that fresh-looking girl in the photo be the same worn-out woman whose hands were cracked and dry from taking in laundry? I knew it was true, but it just seemed unbelievable.”

  “Unbelievably sad for her…”

  “Yes…” I don’t admit to Michael that it was also personally disappointing to me as well. Or that, not for the first time, I secretly blamed my mother for the state of her marriage and for the way my father treated her. I’d been nagging her to take better care of herself, to use some cream on her hands, to fix her hair and get a new dress, try a bit of lipstick on those pale, tired lips. But she never listened to me. I felt that she was the reason my father strayed. He was an attractive man who kept up his appearance. Who could blame him for looking elsewhere? Why couldn’t she understand that?

  By the time I became a teenager, I would go far out of my way not to be seen or associated with her. I even denied that she was my mother on occasion. Not that it did much good since Silverton was such a small town. But I did my best to distance myself from her.

  “You’re not talking, darling.” Michael glances at me. “Please, dear, continue the story.”

  “Where was I?”

  “The photo of your mother when she was sixteen.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, I took that photo to my mother. As usual for that time of day, she was outside hanging up another family’s linens on our clothesline. I stood there and demanded that she tell me the truth. At first she seemed peeved at me for snooping, but then I shook the photo in front of her face and told her that I wanted to know what happened to that girl. And if she didn’t tell me, I’d do everything I could to find out on my own.”

  “And she believed you?”

  “She did. Fortunately, Violet wasn’t around that day. She was probably off with Father on one of his silly nature walks. He thought he was an expert on botany. So Mom gave in to my demands, making a deal with me. If I would continue hanging up the wash, and if I could be trusted to utmost secrecy, she would tell me her story.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “Of course. As I stood in the sun, hanging up lace-trimmed sheets and pillowcases that were far grander than anything I’d ever slept upon, Mother sat in the shade in an old metal chair and told me what had happened.”

  “Yes?”

  “Her father had hired a handsome young man to work in his business, a man named Claude Porter. My mother had gone to the city for something, stopped in to say hello to her father, and met this young man. Claude was handsome and charming and complimentary, and my mother was instantly smitten.”

  “I think I see where this is going.”

  “Naturally, her parents were completely opposed to their relationship. Claude was a nice enough fellow, but certainly not in their class, and not the sort of man they had imag
ined for their daughter.”

  “A bit of a cad, perhaps?”

  “Exactly. But Claude and my mother began to secretly meet. It was summertime, and Mother was seventeen, and she thought she was in love. By the end of summer, she was pregnant.”

  “And her parents hit the roof?”

  “Can you blame them? I know such things aren’t nearly as scandalous in this day and age. But back in the twenties, it was a serious situation. Her father was enraged at Claude.”

  “So, there was a shotgun wedding?”

  “No, that was just the problem. Both Claude and my mother desperately wanted to marry, but her father was completely opposed. Apparently he had his own suspicions about his wayward employee. He believed that Claude Porter was a drinker and a womanizer, and he didn’t want him for a son-in-law.”

  “Oh no…”

  “Oh yes. In fact, he fired Claude straightaway. And then he informed my mother that she was never to see him again, and if she did, he would disown her. The plan was to send my mother away so she could have her baby and give it up for adoption. They would say she’d “gone abroad to finish her schooling.” Then after a year or so, she would return to her family home and hopefully make amends with everyone.”

  “But she didn’t do this…”

  “No. She was stubborn. She and Claude got married anyway. My mother actually thought this would force her family to accept him…and her…and their child.”

  “But that’s not how it worked out?”

  “No, of course not. My grandfather must’ve been more stubborn than she. He stuck to his guns, banishing them both from the family home, the business. My mother said her father told her that as far as he was concerned, she was dead.”

  “So very sad.”

  I nod.

  “But what brought them to Silverton?”

  “My grandmother. She was brokenhearted over the whole thing and felt sorry for my mother. So behind her husband’s back, she purchased a house in Silverton and gave it to my mother as a wedding gift. But she swore my mother to secrecy. And, other than me and my father, my mother never told a soul.”

  “And you were the love child, darling.”

  “The reason they married.”

  “Thus the name.” He sighs, as if this is romantic somehow. “And I always assumed you’d adopted Claudette as your stage name simply because of the lovely Claudette Colbert.”

  “Gavin thought the same thing when we first met. I still remember that day… I was an extra in Meet Me in St. Louis, you know with Judy Garland and little Margaret O’Brien. I think it was Hugh Marlowe who introduced me to Gavin. I was still in that star-struck era, when everyone I met was wonderful and amazing.”

  “And Gavin Fioré was still a very big name in the business.”

  “Yes. I was so impressed. And I did all I could to impress him. And when I told him my name and he mentioned his fondness of Claudette Colbert and how I resembled her and how he’d just come from the set of Since You Went Away, well, I’m sure I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. But, of course, I didn’t show it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “But I was terribly flattered.”

  “Dad was such a fan of Claudette Colbert, and Mother had been gone a few years by then. I know he was lonely. It’s no doubt that you caught his eye. And you did look a bit like Claudette back then. That high brow line, those expressive eyes. Although I think of her coloring as a bit darker than yours.”

  “The first time I actually remember seeing Claudette on the screen was in It Happened One Night. I was about ten at the time and highly impressionable, and I liked that we shared the same name, but that movie just completely stole my heart. I couldn’t bear to leave the theater. After the lights came on, I slumped down in my chair and then sat through the movie twice.”

  “That was a sweet little Capra film and I think she won an Oscar for that performance,” says Michael. “Clark Gable was so delightful, and Claudette was gorgeously funny.”

  “Yes. To be pretty and funny and talented…”

  “Well, at least you were pretty, darling. One out of three’s not bad.” Michael tosses me a sly grin.

  I bristle slightly, but I don’t mention that most people thought I was much more beautiful than Claudette Colbert. Including Gavin. But I suppose that’s where the comparison ended. No one ever suggested I could hold a candle to her acting abilities.

  “Don’t feel bad. Very few had that kind of talent. To think she starred in dozens of films and even did television for a while. I believe I heard that her career spanned at least six decades. Incredible.”

  “At least I figured out my shortcomings early in the game,” I admit. “I knew when it was time to make other plans.”

  “When life throws you lemons…”

  I give him the pretense of a laugh. “Yes, dear, I suppose my acting skills were a bit like lemons.” But I don’t add that those same skills certainly served me well off the screen.

  I’m surprised to see familiar terrain now. The towering evergreens loom menacingly over the road. It’s a scene some might call beautiful, and yet it fills me with anxiety and fear. What am I doing? Why did I allow Michael to talk me into this crazy trip?

  Perhaps I should demand that we stop this nonsense, turn my car around, and go back to Los Angeles, where I’ll bet it’s not raining. Both Michael and I have been quiet for a bit, and with each passing mile, I feel more and more nervous.

  I estimate that we’re about forty miles away from Silverton. But thanks to the twisting road, which seems to have gotten even curvier than I recall, as well as the rain coming down in sheets, I’m sure it will take a good hour to get there.

  “So, were they ever happy?” Michael breaks the silence, interrupting my thoughts. “I mean your parents. After they got married and moved to the house in Silverton, were they happy?”

  I consider this, then slowly shake my head. “Not that I ever saw.”

  “And was your grandfather right about Claude?”

  “My grandfather had him pegged. My father was both an alcoholic and a philanderer…and a few other things as well.”

  “Your poor little mother. Pity she didn’t listen to her parents.”

  “And a pity she was too stubborn to ask them for help.”

  “But it seems her father had made it clear where he stood.” He shudders. “Goodness, I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to have a parent tell you that you were dead to them. Horrifying.”

  “Yes, I suppose…” Still, the little girl in me was shaking her fist, wishing my mother had set aside her pride and told her parents that she was struggling. What might it have been like if a set of wealthy grandparents had stepped into our lives and helped us a bit, perhaps even rescued us altogether? How different things might’ve been. “But we were so pitifully poor, Michael.”

  “And your father never worked?”

  “As little as possible. My mother worked her fingers to the bone. And I have to give her some credit. She did all she could to make things better for her girls.”

  I try to shove away the image of my mother hunched over her ironing board on a hot afternoon, the sweat literally pouring down her face. She eventually developed a hump in her back. I’m sure it was from all the laundering she did…for the few rich folks in town. Not that they paid her much. “Slave wages,” my dad used to say to her in disgust. And yet he treated her like a slave too.

  “Even after doing laundry all day long, my mother would still sit down at night and mend our clothes or darn our socks. She’d cut cardboard into insoles to make our shoes last longer and then she’d polish the shoes so they looked almost new. Or, if she had a bit of fabric, she would sew us something special. She was a whiz at creating clothes or even redesigning old things. A lot of our dresses were fashioned out of old items of her own clothing, remnants of her former life when she’d been well off. So despite being poor and that it was the Depression, Violet and I went out the door looking perfectly respectabl
e. In fact, we were some of the best-dressed girls at school.”

  “Your mother sounds like a saint.”

  A tear slips down my cheek. I open my handbag and remove a handkerchief, using it to dab the wetness. “Maybe she was…more than I knew.”

  “I know your mother passed away around the same time as Gavin, but how about your father?”

  “Fortunately for my mother, he died fairly young. I don’t think he was even forty. I’d been away from home a couple of years by then, and my acting career, brief though it was, seemed to be taking off. I didn’t even go back for the funeral.”

  “Any regrets about that?”

  “I don’t see why. My father meant nothing to me. If I’d gone to his funeral, it would have only been to say ‘good riddance.’”

  “You sound a little bitter, Claudette.”

  I adjust my posture, holding my chin up higher. “I don’t think I’m bitter, Michael. It’s just that I simply don’t care. All that was so very long ago. I moved on. I left it all behind me. I wouldn’t even be going there now…if I weren’t, well, going there now.”

  Michael chuckles. “I have a theory.”

  “And this theory somehow relates to me?”

  “Mind you, I’m still working this theory out.” He sighs. “But I’ve come to believe that perhaps life is not meant to go perfectly smoothly.”

  “Is that so?” I feel skeptical and suspicious. What is he getting at?

  “Some people’s lives do seem to go fairly smoothly. For instance you and Gavin… Did you know that I used to envy you?”

  I smile. “You envied us?”

  “Of course. Lots of people did.”

  “Really?” I turn and look at him with genuine interest now. These are the stories I truly enjoy hearing—people who envied me. Delightfully delicious.

  “For starters you and Gavin appeared to be happily married, and we all know what a rare accomplishment that is in Hollywood.” He chuckles, and I know that he knows more than he’s saying, but I must give him credit for his self-control. “You were beautiful, Claudette. You maintained yourself and aged gracefully. Gavin was talented and brilliant and admired. You had a lovely home and an interesting circle of friends. You traveled the world. Really, who wouldn’t envy you?”