“I suppose I can see your point,” I say modestly.
“For an outsider looking in, or even for an insider such as myself, you and Gavin seemed to have it all. And your lives, like well-oiled machinery, moved along smoothly and elegantly, hardly a bump along the way.”
I don’t add that this image was more perception than reality. Because, of course, that is the nature of Hollywood. “Yes, I suppose I took it for granted, but Gavin and I did have a rather nice life together.”
“And I went through a time of real jealousy.”
“But your life has gone well.” I hope to sound gracious. “You’re a brilliant designer, you’ve had a good career in film, and—”
“Lots of bumps and bruises along the way.” He shakes his head. “Do you remember when my romance with Jerome went sideways, darling?”
“I remember Gavin and I visited you in the hospital after that fight… Your face was a mess. I still cannot believe you didn’t press charges.”
“Jerome paid all my medical bills. And the dental work too.” He points to his front teeth. “Thank God for implants.” He chuckles. “I’ve said that to people before, and they assume I mean another part of my anatomy. But my point is—rather my theory is—I’ve had some rough times along the way, Claudette. Meanwhile, your life seemed to be going rather well.”
“So, are you suggesting it’s my turn to have some bumps in the road? You think I deserve to lose my home, to become old and poor, and to be forced to live in a place like Silverton?”
“I’m not saying you deserve it, darling. If I had my way, your life would continue to be smooth and lovely. You’d still be living in Beverly Hills, and your next plastic surgery would make you look like Madonna.”
“Perhaps I don’t understand your theory.”
“As I mentioned, it’s not fully worked out, but I think that life’s bumps and bruises are meant to make us into bigger people. If life goes too smoothly, we never get to realize all that we might possibly be. It’s like something I heard in church a while back.”
“I still find it hard to believe that you go to church, Michael.”
“Well, it’s not your typical church. Imagine a bunch of people in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, standing on the beach, singing along with a couple of guitars and bongo drums, and then listening to a rather brief talk from a man who seems to be the real deal.”
“I’m sure it’s perfectly charming.”
He ignores my jab. “Anyway, a few weeks ago the lesson was about how God can take the negative circumstances in our lives and transform them into something positive. But we have to let him do this. I don’t have it all figured out just yet, but I do like the sound of it. It gives me hope.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“But you’re not buying it.”
The rain has let up some. Enough that I can see the sign up ahead. “Welcome to Silverton,” I read aloud. “Population 5,648.”
“About to become population 5,649?”
I let out a groan and lean back into the seat, closing my eyes to the painfully familiar scene opening up in front of me. Why on earth did I let Michael talk me into this?
“You’re not dead yet, darling. So far so good, right?”
I don’t say a word. I simply sit there and wish that I were dead. It would be so much simpler.
“Here we are on Main Street of Silverton, California,” Michael says in a tour guide voice, obviously for my benefit since my eyes are still closed. I think I am playing dead. “To the right is Frank’s Auto Repair; across the street is Harper’s Hardware… There is Berryhill Shoes, nice little window display. Silverton Market looks like a good place to pick up some groceries. This is quite charming, Claudette. You can actually walk from one shop to the next. One-stop shopping. And there is the drugstore, Pauline’s, complete with Thanksgiving decorations in the windows. I wonder if they still have a soda fountain.”
Despite my resolve to play possum, I sit up and open my eyes. “And up ahead, at the next intersection is Sequoia Street. Take a right and go two blocks.”
“She speaks.” Michael puts on his turn signal.
The town is still dripping wet from this afternoon’s rain. The sky is gray, and puddles are everywhere. Only a couple of people appear to be out. A middle-aged woman ducking into the bank and a teenager smoking a cigarette under an awning. I don’t know if this is because of the rain or just typical of this sad little town.
Michael makes the turn, and I’m tempted to hold my breath, the way I used to as a child, to see if I could make it the two and a half blocks to our house. My only purpose in holding my breath today would be to see if I could expire—permanently.
“Two fifty-eight Sequoia Street.” Michael turns into the short graveled driveway in front of the house. “A bungalow, Claudette! You didn’t tell me it was a bungalow. I absolutely adore bungalow style. Pity you don’t have some Stickley furnishings to go in it. Oh, hurry, hurry, darling. I can’t wait to see everything. How exciting.”
To my surprise, his enthusiasm is almost contagious. I fumble to get my purse and my weary self out of the car. My joints feel stiff and sore, but I manage to stand to my feet and slowly follow Michael up the narrow paved path that leads to the front porch. And that’s when it hits me. “Oh dear, I have no key.”
He turns and frowns at me. “No key?”
I shake my head. “I’m sure I was given one, after my mother died and her lawyer sent the deed to the house and all. But I have no idea where it is right now.”
“No key.” Michael continues on up to the porch, where he pauses to scratch his head. “Did she ever keep one hidden, Claudette?”
I consider this. “When we were kids, Mother did hide an emergency key, just in case Violet or I ever got locked out. But we seldom locked our doors back in those days… No one did. I don’t think anyone ever actually used it. Do you think it could possibly still be here?”
“It’s worth a try.”
I go back down the steps and over to the rosebush, which is sadly in need of pruning, and there beside it is the same old stone, about the size of a skull. I use the toe of my shoe to push it over, and beneath it is the bottom of a rusty old tin.
Michael stoops down and, using a stick to pry it from the ground, removes the can, which actually crumbles in his hands. But there in the midst of the rusted tin is a brass key, which he presents to me. “The key to your castle, your highness.”
“Thank you.” Then I proceed back to the porch. “Goodness, I hope the locks haven’t been changed.” I open the old screen door. But I can tell that the dark bronze doorknob and lockset are the originals, and the key fits. I open the door but am not sure I want to take the next step. I feel as if I’m paralyzed; my feet are stuck to the porch floor.
“Claudette?” Michael says from behind me. “It’s a bit cold out here.”
I nod. “Yes…I’m going in.” I force one foot in front of the other and walk back into time, back into the house of my childhood. Because of the gray day and the large oak tree that monopolizes the front yard, it’s too dim to see much. I fumble to find the light switch, which as I recall was to the left of the front door.
“Is the electricity turned on?” Michael closes the door behind us, eliminating what little light there was.
“I’ve been paying the bills.” I flip the switch that should turn on the entryway light. To my relief it works. I blink in the brightness, looking around the living room, which doesn’t even seem familiar. And yet it does. I try to distinguish what has changed and what is the same. “She’s put in carpeting,” I say with dismay.
“Did it have wood floors before?”
“Yes. Lovely dark wood.”
“Then they must still be underneath. We’ll have the carpeting removed.”
“We will?”
“Of course.”
“Look at these windows,” Michael gushes as he pushes back the dust-covered polyester drapes. “Craftsman design, leaded glass, all origina
l.”
I turn on a slightly tacky ceramic table lamp that’s new to me. In fact, most of the furnishings here are not the things I grew up with. I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. I suppose I always imagined my mother stuck in some sort of time warp, still wearing the same sad dresses, using the same sparse furniture pieces. But in a common and unimpressive way, these furnishings have a homier appearance, more comfortable looking than the stiff horsehair couch and wooden chairs I grew up with. And for some reason, I feel a bit better knowing that Mother had this awful plum velvet recliner to sit in. As homely as it is, I can almost imagine her relaxing in it with her feet up. Of course, everything in here is coated with dust, and spider webs give the place the appearance of a slightly haunted house.
“She didn’t exactly have your sense of style when it came to decorating, did she, darling?”
“No. I think one might describe this as early tacky or late Sears and Roebuck.”
He laughs as he holds up a floral pillow in shades of blues and pinks. “But at least everything matches.”
I frown. “I never realized my mother was such a fan of pastels.”
“A common and unfortunate decorating mistake of the eighties.”
“What will I do with all these things?” I pick a dusty cobweb off the lampshade.
“First we’ll call Goodwill. I noticed a store on the way into town. We’ll see if they pick up. I instructed the movers not to deliver your things until tomorrow.”
“My things will be here tomorrow?”
He nods. “I made them promise not to show up until later in the day. I wanted some time to get a plan in order.” He clears his throat. “And I can see that won’t be easy.”
Despite the dust, I sit on the couch and let out a sigh of deep despair. “I cannot do this, Michael. I just cannot do this. I am too old. I would rather be dead.”
“Nonsense, Claudette. You’re just a bit worn out. I am too. And I’m hungry. Do you suppose there’s anyplace in town that delivers?”
“Delivers?”
“You know, darling, a restaurant that delivers food. Is there such a thing in Silverton?”
“I seriously doubt it.”
“Well, I will find out.” And he takes out his magical little cell phone, which reminds me that I need to find the charging device for mine, and begins to dial.
While he is preoccupied with this, I use the bathroom, which is almost exactly as I remember it from childhood, and turn on the heat. Everything in here feels damp and cold. Will it ever feel the slightest bit habitable? Or perhaps I will simply develop a serious case of pneumonia, which will bring on my hasty demise. One can only hope.
I go to what used to be my old bedroom. Mine and Violet’s, that is. It’s interesting how so many of my childhood memories don’t even include my younger sister. Why is that? Where was she hiding herself all those years? Probably tucked into a corner behind a book somewhere. She was always very bookish and quiet and self-conscious and insecure.
Surely our home life must’ve troubled her as much as it did me, but somehow it seemed as if she escaped it better. Or it just didn’t affect her to the degree it impacted me. I felt that I would literally suffocate if I didn’t leave this place when I did, and I truly believed that she would follow my example and do the same. But then our father died, and I suppose that changed things some. Who can say?
Violet did leave for a while, to get her teaching degree. But like spawning salmon, she and Clarence came straight back to Silverton. I thought perhaps it was only a temporary form of insanity, but then they got married, settled in, bought their home, had their three daughters, and stuck around.
Violet always acted as if she was happy to live here, as if she liked her job, liked being close to our mother and the smalltown setting. But I felt that she, like me, was simply acting. Over time, I began to accept that we were just different. I always wanted more and more and more… Violet always settled for less.
I look at our old bedroom, which is exactly the same, with its pale peach walls and the original dark wood floor. The same two narrow twin beds on either side of a window with a painted dresser beneath it. I always used the top two drawers; Violet’s were on the bottom. Violet’s bed was near the door, which made her space a bit more cramped. Mine was near the closet, which I dominated, and I had a whole wall to myself and enough space to squeeze in a straight-back chair and bedside table, both of which are still there. Why didn’t Violet rearrange things after I left? Perhaps she liked it the way it was.
I suppose I might be partially responsible for my sister’s shortcomings. I may have trained her early on—I took more, so she had less. She got hand-me-downs and leftovers and settled for it. Really, I can’t recall her complaining. She never seemed to expect anything more. So maybe I shouldn’t blame myself after all; maybe Violet was just born that way.
It’s strange to think that my sister still lives here in town. Even stranger that she resides in McLachlan Manor. I shudder at the very thought. I know for a fact that I would much rather be dead. I’m sure I would leap headfirst from the tallest building in town, even if it is only three stories, before I would let anyone put me in that place. Or if they did put me there, I would escape first thing and throw myself under a train.
I vaguely wonder if I should let bygones be bygones and go visit my poor sister at McLachlan Manor. Perhaps seeing her in such a depressing place would make me feel better about my own sorry state of affairs.
When Michael finds me, I am standing in my mother’s bedroom. And while it’s certainly not my style, I am relieved to see that everything in this room has changed. It feels as if my mother erased all traces of my father, and for her sake, I’m glad. The walls are an improvement. Instead of that dreadful peach color that seems to be everywhere, these have been transformed to a soothing shade of pale blue.
“More pink and blue?” Michael asks from behind me.
I nod. “And more ugly pink carpeting.”
“Well, I have good news.”
I turn and look at him hopefully. Perhaps he’s received a call from the IRS, telling him that they’ve made a grievous mistake and they are returning my home in Beverly Hills to me. “Yes?”
“First of all, Goodwill is happy to send a truck by in the morning. They will take whatever you’d like to donate and even give you a receipt for a tax deduction.”
I roll my eyes. “Excuse me for not cheering.”
“But that’s not all. I asked the woman at Goodwill if she happened to know of anyone who could remove your pink carpeting and—bingo—her brother-in-law is in the flooring business, and she was going to give him a call for me.”
“I don’t know how you do it,” I say in what I hope is a slightly droll voice.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Deliriously.”
“Unfortunately I struck out on takeout. The only place that delivers is pizza.”
I make a face.
“But the Goodwill lady did recommend an Italian restaurant.”
“Coming from the Goodwill lady, I’m sure it must be simply divine.”
Michael frowns. “You can be such a spoilsport, Claudette.”
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I know you’re being a dear, Michael. And I know I should appreciate your help. And I do. It’s just that this is all so disheartening. I feel as if I’m stuck in a very bad dream, and I’d just like to wake up.”
He nods and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I know, darling. And I am so sorry for all you’re going through. But try to think of this as an adventure.” He walks over to the bed and shakes some dust off the pillow. “Goodness, we’ll have to do some cleaning before bedtime, won’t we?”
“Are we really going to sleep here?” I ask helplessly.
“Would you prefer that Motel 6 on the edge of town?”
I cringe at the thought. “No, I see your point.”
“Tell you what,” he says suddenly. “Let’s pop some li
nens into the washing machine. She does have a washing machine, doesn’t she?”
“Goodness. The last machine I saw Mother using was her old wringer washer. You don’t suppose…”
But when we go out to the back porch, which is now completely enclosed, we find not only a proper washing machine but a dryer as well. There’s even a partially full jug of laundry soap. Before long, Michael and I have stripped the beds, he’s figured out the settings on the washing machine, and a load of sheets is churning away in sudsy hot water.
“I’m surprised you know how to do such domesticated things,” I tell him as he proudly closes the lid.
“Because Richard still works, I try to keep things running nicely in the home.”
“Such a good little housewife.”
“I do my best.”
“Well, you’re ahead of me in that game,” I admit. “I don’t know how I can possibly learn to do those things.”
“You’ll learn. If I can do it, so can you.”
We freshen up a bit and then drive the short distance to town, where Michael parks in front of what used to be Chuck’s Diner but is now called Marco’s. The décor is a bit campy, with its red gingham tablecloths and wine bottles with drippy candles. But at least it smells good, and I realize that I’m really quite hungry.
“We’re new in town,” Michael tells the maître d’. “And we’re a bit worn out from the road. Are you serving dinner yet?”
The man smiles. “Certainly. Right this way.”
The service is unexpectedly good, but then we’re the only ones here at this hour, since it’s not even five yet, and the food is, well, acceptable. Oh, I’m sure if I were in a better mood, or if I were in Beverly Hills with some of my old friends, I might go as far as to admit the food is slightly exceptional. But I am not in that frame of mind. Besides, Michael makes up for my lack of enthusiasm. He gushes about every single thing—the bread, the wine, the salad, the pasta… Goodness, you’d think the man never had a fine Italian dinner before in his life. And I know that’s not true.
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