LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  But once we’re finished, I do feel a tiny bit better. Oh, I’m not happy about my life, not by any means, but I’m not quite ready to jump off the top of the Silverton Bank Building just yet. It’s dusky as we go to the car, and although it’s barely six, I am exhausted.

  “Shall we stop by the grocery store?” Michael starts the car.

  “What for?”

  He laughs. “Oh, you know, the basics. Things like coffee, toilet paper, dryer sheets.”

  “Dryer sheets?” I imagine something draped over a clothes dryer.

  “You know, like Cling Free, those little sheets you toss into the dryer to make your clothes and linens smell nice. They come in all sorts of different scents. I recently found lavender, and it’s really delightful.”

  “Oh…you really are a domestic goddess, aren’t you?”

  “Are you saying you don’t want a nice cup of coffee in the morning?”

  “I’m saying I don’t know if my mother even has a coffee machine.”

  “I noticed an old Mr. Coffee on her countertop.”

  “You are so observant, Michael.” I sigh and lean back. “And energetic. How do you do it?”

  “It’s all an attitude, darling. You just need to think more positively.”

  “I’m positively exhausted.”

  “Well, you stay in the car then. I’ll do a little shopping.”

  I put my seat back and fall asleep even before he gets to the store. In fact, I don’t wake up until he’s nudging me and telling me that we’re home.

  “Home…in Beverly Hills?”

  “No, darling. In your new home. Come now, dear, it’s time to play house with Michael.”

  He helps me out of the car and hands me a bag, which thankfully is not very heavy. Then he gets two other bags, and we go into the house, where he unloads his groceries with plume and pride.

  “And see,” he produces a box of Kleenex, “something to wipe your nose.” Then he removes a package of toilet tissue. “And something to wipe something else.” He chuckles as he sets out a bag of what smells like freshly ground coffee. “I would’ve gotten whole beans, but I wasn’t sure if your mother had a coffee grinder.”

  “I seriously doubt it.” I glance around the old tiled counter-top, which is a nice shade of green. I’m glad she didn’t have that changed to pink or blue.

  Michael opens the fridge to set a bag of oranges inside then stops. “Oh my.” He quickly closes it and turns to me with a ghastly expression.

  “What?”

  “Apparently no one cleaned out your mother’s fridge when she died.” He sets his oranges by the sink.

  “Is there a dead body in there or something?”

  “No, it just smells like it.” He frowns. “I wonder if you can afford to replace it on your new budget.”

  Well, this is just more than I can take. I turn around and go down the narrow hallway to what used to be my old bedroom. I throw myself onto what used to be my old mattress and just cry myself to sleep.

  When I wake up, I’m surprised to see Michael standing over me with a laundry basket of what appear to be clean linens. “Feeling better, darling?”

  I slowly sit up and blink into the bright overhead light. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “It’s almost nine. The sheets are clean and dry, and I, for one, am ready to call it a night.” He sighs as he sets the basket down. “Is this where you’re sleeping tonight?”

  I look around and shrug. “It makes no difference to me.”

  Michael begins to put sheets on what used to be Violet’s bed.

  “Not that bed.”

  He turns and stares at me. “I thought you said it made no difference.”

  “Well, it does.” I stand up, go over, and snatch the sheets from him. “I can do this myself, thank you very much.”

  He shakes his head and leaves. “Good night, Claudette,” he calls from the hallway.

  I am surprised that I still remember how to make a bed, but then I’ve made this same bed hundreds of times before. It’s only natural that it would come back to me. But for some reason, this gives me the slightest sliver of hope. Perhaps I won’t be as helpless as I’d imagined.

  “Here are the blankets,” Michael says as he returns. “I gave them a good shake outside.”

  “Thank you.” I suddenly feel guilty. “For everything, Michael.”

  He smiles. “So you do appreciate me?”

  “I think you are my fairy godmother…or godfather…or my knight in shining armor. Yes, I do appreciate you.”

  “For that I will bring in your luggage.”

  By the time he returns with my bags, I’ve made up both twin beds and am feeling rather pleased with myself.

  “Here you go, darling. Your Louis Vuitton has arrived.”

  “Thanks, Michael. And, by the way, the linens do smell good. Those dryer sheets must be a good thing.”

  He nods. “See, you can teach an old dog new tricks.”

  “And I feel like a very old dog tonight.”

  “Tomorrow is a new day, Claudette.”

  I try not to think too hard about this, biting my tongue lest I say something offensive.

  “And we’ll figure out something for that wretched refrigerator. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “You’ll be okay in my mother’s room?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I consider this. For some reason I felt uneasy about spending the night in that room. Oh, it’s nice that it no longer looks like it did when I was growing up, but still, just being there… It is unsettling.

  “Ghosts?” asks Michael.

  “Maybe. Memories can be haunting.”

  “Well, if I see any ghosts tonight, I’ll just send them packing. How’s that?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Sleep well, darling,” he says as he putters down the hallway toward my mother’s room.

  “You too, dear,” I call back.

  I have to smile as I get ready for bed. It is such a pity that Michael is gay. I really think he and I could’ve been very happy together…in our twilight years.

  I am in that delicious state between waking and sleeping, pleasantly dreaming of my luxurious home in Beverly Hills—one of those dreams where I feel as if I have some control over the outcome, but I really don’t. Still, it’s so enjoyable that I want it to go on and on…

  It’s early evening, the sky is streaked with amber and amethyst, and the spring air is velvety warm with a faint breeze laced with hyacinth. Gavin and I are outside by the pool, visiting with an interesting mix of Hollywood friends, some still living, many of whom have already passed on. But this is my dream and, alas, all things are possible.

  I am wearing a strapless platinum gown, and I am still young and beautiful. Robert Mitchum, also young and beautiful, is pouring me a turquoise-colored drink from an oversized martini shaker, looking at me with those sexy, sleepy eyes, when suddenly it all begins to crumble—I hear a banging sound and then a ringing. We must be having an earthquake!

  I sit up in bed, grasping the rough woolen blanket to my chin, and as I open my eyes, I realize that not only has Robert Mitchum disappeared but I am not in Beverly Hills. I look around the small, stark room. I must be back at the horrible Laurel Hills. No, this is my old childhood bedroom in Silverton… Then, like a waking nightmare, it all comes back to me.

  Michael peers into my room, pulling on his red and black Japanese kimono. “Someone’s at the door, darling!”

  “What time is it?” I demand, still grieving over my lost dream.

  “Barely morning.” He frowns. Just then the knocking and the bell ringing starts up again—this time with a vengeance, as if there is a fire or some other state of emergency.

  “Who can that possibly be?” I grumble as I get out of bed and grab my silk dressing gown.

  “I’m about to find out,” he yells from halfway down the hallway.

  “I’m coming too.” I shove my feet into slippers and hurry after
him.

  Michael is fidgeting with the deadbolt. I stand behind him, peering over his shoulder as he opens the door. There, on the other side of the screen door, is the perturbed face of a gray-haired woman, and she’s glaring into this house as if she has every right to see what’s going on.

  “Who are you?” she demands.

  “Who are you?” Michael shoots back at her.

  “I’m Beatrice Jones, and I live next door.” She scowls as she shakes her finger at us. “But that’s not the point. The point is, who are you, and what are you doing in Emma Porter’s house? I never heard that it had been sold.”

  Michael turns to me with a graceful wave of the wrist, as if he thinks he’s Vanna White about to reveal a letter. “This is Emma’s daughter Claudette. And this is Claudette’s house.”

  Beatrice’s beady eyes open wider. “Claudette Porter?”

  “Claudette Fioré,” I correct her with a tone of irritation, as I step more fully into view, looking down on the squat elderly woman whose lack of manners does not appear to exceed her lack of fashion sense.

  She is actually wearing a pair of badly snagged purple polyester pants that are too short, along with grubby white deck shoes and an orange and blue striped polo shirt that’s so tight I’m sure she must’ve used a shoehorn to get it on.

  “Oh…” She seems slightly tongue-tied as she stares up at me with a look of shock and disbelief.

  “And you have just awakened me out of a perfectly good sleep.” I narrow my eyes for emphasis. I have always believed that it’s best to put people in their places as quickly as possible—first impressions are lasting impressions.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disturb you, but I saw the car outside and thought perhaps it was burglars and—”

  “Burglars in a Jaguar?” asks Michael. “And parked in the driveway, in broad daylight?”

  “I…I wasn’t sure. And no one told me that anyone was moving—”

  “Were you given some sort of responsibility for this property?” I ask, ready to lash into her for the state of the refrigerator if by chance she says yes.

  “No, well, not officially. But I used to check on Emma from time to time. You know how neighbors are… We look out for each other.” She smiles, as if that’s going to make everything just peachy. Perhaps she expects me to invite her in for tea and scones.

  “Thank you for checking on my mother,” I say in a crisp, haughty tone. “Your assistance in that regard is no longer necessary.” I start to close the door, eager to be rid of this nosy old lady who has no sense of propriety, not to mention boundaries.

  “Wait,” she says suddenly. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “Remember you?” I take in an exasperated breath. “Why on earth would I?”

  “I’m little Bea,” she says with a pathetic smile. “You used to baby-sit me.”

  I open the door wider and take a step forward to see her more clearly. Surely this old woman doesn’t expect me to believe she’s the cute little redhead I used to watch occasionally for spending money. Good grief, that girl was at least ten years younger than I.

  “Really, it’s me. I used to live next door with my parents. Remember Audrey and Harry? Well, I grew up, got married, and moved away. But about twenty years ago, my husband left me for a newer model. Then I moved back here to help with Dad after Mother died. Dad had diabetes and terrible eating habits. I tried to get him to eat healthy food, but he died two years ago.”

  I give her the blankest stare as I attempt to assimilate all this senseless information she seems determined to thrust upon me.

  “I used to visit with your mother,” she continues, as if she might go on forever. “Emma liked my company. Sometimes we talked about you, Claudette. She was proud of you. She told me all about your acting career and the important people you knew and how you married some hotshot movie producer.”

  “Director,” I say in a flat tone.

  “Don’t you remember me at all?”

  The truth is, I’d like to say, “No, I do not remember you,” but for some reason I am unable to do this. So I nod. “I do remember a little Bea…but I’m having a bit of difficulty recognizing her…I mean, you.”

  She laughs. “Well, we’ve all gotten older. Although I must say, you look well preserved for your age. Weren’t you about twelve years older than me?”

  “Eight,” I lie.

  “Well, you look darn good. I wish I’d held up like that. But then I suppose all you high-rolling Hollywood types can afford to sashay off to fancy spas and spend millions on facelifts and tummy tucks and lipo treatments that take off the years.” She chuckles. “Just to make the rest of us look bad.”

  I clear my throat. “Uh, well, it’s been nice to see you again, Bea.”

  “And this is your husband?” she persists. I almost expect her to open the screen door now, perhaps use her stained deck shoe as a doorstop.

  “No,” I tell her. “My husband passed on a few years ago.”

  Her eyebrows lift. “Boyfriend, then?”

  I glance at Michael, and he just smiles patiently. I turn back to Bea and, pulling my dressing gown around my neck as if I’m trying to hide something, say, “Yes, you found us out. This is my boyfriend Michael, and you are disturbing our beauty sleep.”

  She giggles, steps back, and says an embarrassed good-bye.

  “Come along, darling,” Michael says in a loud voice before he closes the door.

  “Good heavens,” I say to him as we go to the kitchen. “Can you believe that dreadful woman is twelve years younger than I am?”

  “I thought you said eight.”

  I wave my hand. “Eight, twelve, what’s the difference?”

  “Worse than that, could you believe what she was wearing?” He begins to make coffee. “And in public?”

  “Welcome to Silverton.” I sit in a vinyl covered kitchen chair and let out a big sigh. I still cannot believe I’m here. Or that I intend to stay.

  “And imagine,” continues Michael, “wearing white shoes after Labor Day!”

  “Oh,” I groan. “However will I manage here?”

  “We’ve got a lot to do today,” he tells me as we sit down at the little plastic-top table. Michael has made toast to go with our coffee. “I want you to begin by going through your mother’s things and setting aside anything you want to keep before the boys from Goodwill come to cart it all away.”

  “I’m sure that I don’t want to save a single thing.”

  “What about family photos and memorabilia, Claudette? Surely, you want to set those things aside.”

  “I don’t see why. Besides, I can’t imagine there’s much left here. Mother never had much when we were growing up. And it’s likely that Violet and her girls already took anything worth keeping.”

  He nods. “I’m sure that’s possible. But have a look around… just in case.”

  So I get dressed and then putter around the house, but for the most part, I seem to be right in my assessment. It appears that Violet and her girls have already removed some things, or there just never was much to begin with.

  “I found something of interest,” says Michael. He’s been working on the kitchen for me, dear man. He holds out a cardboard box full of what appear to be old letters. “The postmark on most of these is Beverly Hills, darling. It looks as if your dear mother saved all your letters.”

  I look down at the box. “But I didn’t write her many. Oh, birthday and Christmas cards. The occasional postcard from a faraway place.”

  “Well, do you want them or not?”

  I take the box from him. “I’ll look at them. But they’ll probably just end up in the trash.”

  “You can’t look at them today.” Michael wags his forefinger at me. “There’s too much to be done. Simply set them aside for later.”

  I nod as if taking orders. “Yes sir, Mr. Director, sir.”

  He grins. “Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”

  Naturally, I start in Mother’s room. An
ything worth saving would probably be in here. And being a fashion-conscious woman, I begin with her closet. I’m shocked at how small her closet is, but even more shocked that she still had plenty of room in there. Although her wardrobe is more extensive than when I was child, it is still extremely sparse. I cannot imagine getting by with so little.

  Thankfully the dreadful, old “day” dresses are nowhere to be seen. In their place I find several dark-colored polyester dresses that appear to date back to the eighties. They are what I would call “grandmotherly” dresses, but my mother was elderly back then.

  My mother was about the same age then as I am now. How is that even possible?

  I take out one of the dreary dresses, holding it up to myself as if I’m wearing it, although I would not be caught dead in something like this. It’s a stiff synthetic fabric that I’m certain would never breathe, in a somber shade of yellowy gray that would do nothing for anyone’s complexion. Still holding up the pitiful dress, I peer at myself in Mother’s foggy dressing table mirror and grimace. So sad, so very, very sad. I toss the pathetic dress down onto the bed, along with the others. Goodwill or no Goodwill, I can’t imagine how anyone could possibly want any of these clothes. Still, this is Silverton. And if “little” Bea’s ensemble is any forecast for what’s to come, I wouldn’t be surprised to see Mother’s old wardrobe parading itself down Main Street by next weekend. Perhaps I should have mercy on this town and simply burn these things.

  Finally it’s about two o’clock, and I feel weary and dusty and hungry. I’ve gone through closets and drawers, setting aside very few things to save. I’m not even sure about some of them. So far I’ve gathered several old photos Violet must’ve overlooked, a few pieces of Mother’s jewelry, mostly gifts from Gavin and me, and the box of letters Michael unearthed.

  I actually paused to read a couple of them and am surprised at how Gavin and my mother seemed to have a friendly relationship. In fact, I can tell by what little I’ve read that Gavin must’ve been sending her a fair amount of money, because he tells her to “think nothing of it” and “he just wants her to be comfortable.” I’m sure she must’ve written him, thanked him, but told him not to be so generous. It would be like her to respond like that. And it would be like Gavin to continue sending her money. And, of course, that’s the only reason she was able to do her little home “improvements” like pink carpeting and flowery furniture. Well, good for Gavin. And now I will have all of it removed.