I force a smile that I hope is convincing. “Yes. It seemed apropos.”
“Here’s looking at you, kid!” Then he kisses me on the cheek, loads his bags onto a cart, and heads into the terminal.
I stand there watching him as he goes into the building, waiting until he’s out of sight, probably at the ticket counter. I slowly get back into my car, the way a very old woman would do, lifting one foot and then the other. I feel so tired, so alone. So completely cut off from everything. I get back on the highway and drive toward Silverton in silence.
I still have options. There are other ways out. I even consider the possibility of a car accident, except I do not like pain or the possibility of disfigurement, and there are no guarantees that I would not survive a horrible wreck.
I feel exhausted when I get back to town. I park my car in the driveway, go into my house, and lock the door behind me. A part of me is convinced that I will remain in this house indefinitely. I will not go out. I will not speak to anyone. I will find a way to end this thing.
But then I see the living room and how transformed it is from the living room I remember as a child, or even the living room I knew only shortly, the one my mother occupied all those years. And I walk through the house, and I see all the work that dear Michael put into this place. All of his loving attention to detail…and I know I cannot give up this easily. For Michael’s sake, I should at least try.
I open my purse and take out the lists he gave me. Some of these things seem impossible to accomplish without the help of a phone. Those things will have to wait. But then I realize I’m hungry. I’m tempted to go to one of the few restaurants in town; then I remember the grocery list Michael made for me, so I decide to go shopping.
First I go to the bathroom and freshen up a bit. I powder my nose, put on some lipstick, and fluff my hair. I’m not sure if it’s because of the lighting or perhaps because my laser eye surgery is wearing thin, but I really don’t look too terribly bad for a woman my age.
As I go out to my car, I try to remember other actresses in their eighties or thereabouts, women who are still taking care of themselves, still leading active and fulfilling lives. It’s a game I used to play when I needed to lift my spirits, although the list grew shorter each year. Mitzi Gaynor, Angie Dickinson, Shirley Jones… They’re all a bit younger than me. But then there is Doris Day; she’s held up well. And the glamorous Zsa Zsa Gabor, who must be over ninety by now. Finally, as I’m parking at Raleigh’s Food Mart, I think of Lauren Bacall. She’s still going strong, and we’re the same age. Suddenly I feel much better. I can hold my head high.
I go into the store and just stand there. I’m not even sure what to do next. But I think of what I’ve seen on movies and television and pretend that I’m playing a role. Starring as today’s grocery shopper. I can carry this off.
I take a few steps forward to where grocery carts are lined up. But stacked near the carts are the smaller baskets, the type you carry on your arm. Somehow carrying a basket seems a bit more elegant than pushing a clunky wheeled thing about. Besides, I cannot imagine how I would begin to fill an entire cart with food for just me.
“Can I help you?” asks a woman who appears to be a clerk, since she has on a rather unbecoming red smock with a name tag pinned on it.
“No, thank you.” I pick up the smaller basket and hook it over my arm, as if this were something I do all the time. Now if I were shopping for shoes, clothes, art, or jewelry, I would be perfectly comfortable, right within my element. But finding myself in a large, cluttered store that smells a bit like overly ripe fruit and damp cardboard, and with elevator music blaring over my head, I feel rather lost.
I fumble to balance the bulky plastic basket as I open my purse so I can remove Michael’s grocery list, but I don’t see it. I hunt and hunt but finally accept that it’s not there. Either I left it at home or lost it. Still, how hard can this be?
The first section seems to be the bakery, and while some of these sugary items are tempting, it’s best to avoid sweets. Instead I choose a loaf of whole grain bread that resembles what Sylvia used to serve as toast with my orange juice in the morning. Orange juice—of course! But where would I find it? Certainly not with the doughnuts. I walk for what seems a long way without seeing anything that resembles orange juice, and my arm is already feeling the weight of the basket. But I find the wine section and think a nice bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon might be an asset to my kitchen. I select one with a label from a vineyard I recognize and place it in my basket, next to the bread.
Then I notice a good bottle of Merlot and put that in my basket as well. Unfortunately this makes the basket quite heavy, and my arm becomes sore from carrying it. Perhaps I should’ve gotten a frumpy cart with wheels on it after all. I look around, hoping to spot an empty cart, but without luck.
I do not relish the idea of walking the distance of the store, back to where the wheeled carts are lined up. But neither do I like the idea of my poor left arm being permanently disabled due to the handle of the basket, which feels as if it’s cutting through my skin. I walk as quickly as these old legs will carry me.
And just as the wheeled carts are in sight and I think I can bear the pain no more, the weight in the basket shifts. And the next thing I know, the whole thing goes topsy-turvy and turns upside down, dumping the two bottles of wine and the bread to the floor with a loud crash. The Cabernet Sauvignon survives the fall, but the Merlot shatters, spewing red wine in every direction, including the direction of my nice pale blue pantsuit, my favorite Armani, which I wore to see Michael off at the airport.
The clerk who earlier asked me if I needed help is about fifteen feet away, in a check stand, bagging groceries for a man. They both stare at me with surprised eyes, and the clerk asks if I’m okay.
“No, I am not okay.”
“Cleanup by check stand one,” she says into a loudspeaker. She finishes bagging the groceries, then comes over to survey the damage. “Oh man,” she says when she sees my splattered pants. “That’s gonna leave a stain.”
“Do you really think so?” I say wryly. I read the name on her tag. Trudy. That sounds about right.
Trudy looks down at the floor, taking in the tumbled basket, broken shards of glass, red wine spewed in every direction, the loaf of bread. She bends over and picks up the unbroken bottle, holding it up. “Bread and wine…looks like you were going to have communion or something.”
“Or something,” I say sadly.
“You want a towel for your pants?”
“Thank you.” I am still standing in the exact same position I was in when the accident occurred, as if my feet have adhered to the ground. Just then a young man comes up with a mop and bucket, and I manage to peel myself away from the mess.
“Gross.” He begins to mop it up.
“Here.” Trudy hands me a fistful of paper towels. “That should help sop it up—off of your pants, I mean.”
I set my purse on the checkout counter, then bend over to attempt to clean up the mess, but it’s useless. The towels absorb some of the liquid, but the damage is clearly done. Finally I give up.
“Here.” I hand the red-soaked paper towels back to Trudy and pick up my purse. “I think I should go.”
“You don’t want to finish shopping?”
I don’t even answer as I exit the store. An older couple going into the store pause to look at me, staring at my suit as if they think I’d been shot. I suppose the red stain on pale blue might look like blood. But without saying a word, I simply hold my head up and walk straight to my car. My plan is to never set foot in Raleigh’s Food Mart again.
I take in a few deep breaths before I begin to drive. It’s a centering trick I learned in yoga. It helps to calm your nerves. But as I drive straight home, my heart races and I’m sure my blood pressure is rising. Perhaps I will suffer a stroke and that will solve everything. Yet to be found dead in my ruined Armani suit seems such a shame. I make it home, get out of my car, and am halfway up the walk to my house when
I see my neighbor coming my way.
“What happened to you?” Bea hurries over to see me better.
“I had an accident.”
“Is that blood?”
“No, it is not blood.”
“What is it?”
“If you must know, it’s wine.”
“What on earth have you been doing? Stomping grapes?”
I glare at her. “No, I have not been stomping grapes.”
“What then?”
“I was grocery shopping. A bottle of wine fell and broke.”
She frowns at me. “If you were grocery shopping, where are your groceries?”
I simply throw my hands in the air, make a groaning sound, and stomp off into the house, where I remove my ruined pantsuit and stuff it into the garbage can beneath the kitchen sink. It fills the entire thing. I close the cabinet door, trying to put the loss behind me. I am certain that even the best dry cleaner cannot save that suit. I go to the bathroom, clean myself up, then change into a wine-colored Michael Kors velour warmup suit. Too bad I hadn’t worn it to the grocery store.
I go and sit down in the living room. If I were a more resilient woman, I might march myself out to my car, drive back to Raleigh’s Food Mart, and start all over—using a cart with wheels this time. But I do not feel any more resilient than my Armani pantsuit at the moment. I feel beaten. I feel tired. I feel old. My little pep talk about aging actresses faring well left out one very important fact—at least I believe it’s a fact—those actresses are not impoverished. They still enjoy the pleasures and comforts that money can buy. I, on the other hand, do not. This is unfair.
I also feel hungry. It’s half past two now, and I haven’t eaten since the quick bite Michael and I had on our way to the airport early this morning. Yet the mere thought of returning to Raleigh’s Food Mart is too much. I cannot bear it. I get off the couch and go to gaze out the front window. It’s actually a very nice day outside. If I were a stronger, braver woman, I might consider walking to town. Michael encouraged me to do as much. But after my catastrophe at the grocery store, I’m not sure I care to take the risk. What if I tripped and fell? What if that horrible Bea came out and accosted me with more questions? I peer toward her house and don’t see anyone. Still, she could be lurking.
Finally, hunger gets the best of me. Perhaps it’s the Michael Kors warmup suit, but I’m suddenly aware of the fact that my body is in need of exercise. My yoga instructor warned that women my age cannot let things go and expect to get them back. I also remember what I learned from my walking friend Marsha. You do not walk and carry a purse. For two very simple reasons: One, it’s bad for your posture, and two, it’s an invitation to a mugger. So I remove some cash, tuck it into my pocket along with a tissue, and feeling somewhat clever, I prepare to make a quick exit and hopefully avoid my nosy neighbor.
To my relief I make it out of my yard and down the street without being spotted by Bea. I slow my pace some, since it’s obvious by my short, quick gasps that I’m out of breath and out of shape. Still, I find that walking feels somewhat empowering, and although I would never walk alone in Beverly Hills, I feel relatively safe in this small town. I look at the houses along the way, trying to recall who lived where back when I was growing up.
Once I make it to Main Street, I decide to get something to eat at Casey’s Coffee House. Their selection is limited, but I am so hungry I do not care. I go directly to the counter, which is not busy, and order a poppy-seed bagel with salmon cream-cheese spread, the fruit cup, and a latte. I pay the good-looking young man, wait for my latte, then take it and the number he gives me, head over to a small table by the window, and sit down. There’s even a fairly fresh-looking newspaper there, so I can pretend to be reading, which is always an easy way of appearing occupied when one is eating or drinking alone in a public place. My order arrives shortly, and I thank the attractive young man. I almost ask him if anyone has ever told him that he looks like a young Jimmy Stewart, but then think better of it. I wouldn’t want him to get the wrong idea.
I take my time eating my bagel sandwich, using the plastic knife to cut it into small, delicate pieces. One of the secrets of keeping a trim waistline is to eat slowly, carefully, enjoying each bite. I’ve heard this is how French women manage their weight. That and walking. They do a lot of walking and a lot of stair climbing. Finally I’m done with my late lunch. I set the newspaper aside, thank the young man behind the counter, and leave.
It’s surprising how this small achievement bolsters my spirits and increases my confidence. I almost feel ready to tackle the task of acquiring some groceries, although I do not feel ready for Raleigh’s Food Mart. Still, there is the little market down the street. Michael went there and seemed to feel it was adequate. Perhaps if I only got a few things, not so much that I couldn’t easily carry them home. I think of those healthy French women again, getting their skinny loaves of bread, tasty wedges of cheese, a bit of fresh fruit, and a good bottle of wine.
Although I think I shall pass on the wine. I’ve had more than enough already today.
I am feeling rather pleased with myself as I walk toward home. The smart woman at the little market talked me into buying a handy canvas grocery bag with straps that can be looped over one’s shoulder. I realize that carrying even this fairly light load isn’t good for my posture, but every couple of blocks I switch it to the other side.
Being in a French state of mind as I shopped, I bought a small loaf of whole grain bread, a bit of nice sharp cheddar, two Fuji apples, a half pound of smoked turkey, and some cream for my coffee. And I am feeling quite smart as I carry my bounty home.
I am just turning up my walk when, once again, Bea appears out of nowhere, coming from behind, calling my name, and nearly causing me to jump. Honestly, this woman must be lurking around the corner just waiting to catch me.
“Why do you do that?” I ask her.
“Do what?”
“Sneak up on people.”
“I was just putting away my hoses.”
“What?”
“You know, for winter, so they won’t freeze.”
I just shrug and continue up my walk.
“You really need to get those leaves raked,” she says.
“Yes, I know.”
“Where’s that boyfriend of yours? Maybe he can do it.”
I turn and glare at her. “Michael has left.”
She looks curious. “Did you break up?”
“No. He simply returned to Hawaii.”
She brightens. “He lives in Hawaii?”
“Yes, with his other lover…Richard.”
She frowns. “He’s bisexual?”
“No. He’s gay.”
“So, why was he with you?”
I sigh. “You are the nosiest person I have ever met.”
She nods. “Yes. Everyone tells me that. But sometimes you learn things by being nosy.”
“I can only imagine.” I’m on my porch now, ready to make a fast break and get into the house.
“In fact, I know something about your family, Claudette.”
I feign a yawn. “I’m sure you know all kinds of things.”
“Something no one else knows.”
“Really. I don’t think I care to hear about it, thank you anyway.”
Bea steps forward, cupping her hand around her mouth as if she thinks someone else might possibly be listening, which is insane since there is no one else within fifty feet of us. “It involves a frying pan.”
I nod, rolling my eyes. “Yes,” I tell her as I unlock my door. “Does it involve bacon and eggs as well?” Then I tell her a crisp “Good day,” go into my house, set down my bag, and lock and deadbolt the door.
That woman is really starting to annoy me. Not only that but she’s a little frightening too. And I don’t simply mean her wardrobe, which would get her mistaken for a bag lady if she were to be seen walking the streets in Beverly Hills. But her whole intrusive demeanor is unnerving. I would be wise to keep
my distance.
It’s not until I’m unloading my few bits of groceries that her words come back to me. “It involves a frying pan.” Of course that sounds perfectly crazy. But it also reminds me of what Michael told me about finding a cast-iron skillet beneath my mother’s bed. That made no sense either. And suddenly I wonder if there might be a relationship between these two very odd things.
“No,” I say aloud as I set my cheese, cream, and turkey in the refrigerator. “It’s just like when Bea was a little girl; she always wanted my attention. And in her old age she has gotten a bit unbalanced.” It’s only as I’m closing the refrigerator that I realize I’m talking to myself.
My meager rations last me into the next day, but by late afternoon, I am growing tired of the repetition. I’ve searched the house for Michael’s missing grocery list, but although I found the other two lists, the grocery one seems to be permanently lost. My guess is I dropped it at Raleigh’s Food Mart. Still, I should be able to prepare my own list. How difficult can it be? I used to make lists before. Of course, those lists included interesting things like “hair salon at ten, golf at two, magenta heels for tomorrow night’s premiere, meet Edouard at Design Central…”
Oh, to return to those days. I go into my office/guest room and open up the little secretary desk, relieved to discover that it’s still outfitted with the basics like pens and paper and envelopes.
I sit down and begin to make a list. First I write down orange juice, and then I stop. What else? I move at a snail’s pace, trying to decide what I need. And yet, after half an hour I only have orange juice, butter, crackers, lemons, eggs, skim milk. It’s hardly worth making the trip to Raleigh’s Food Mart for just these six items. And yet with two liquid things, the canvas bag will be heavy by the time I get home from the market on Main Street. Finally I go walking about the house, taking my list with me and hoping that somehow this little tour will enlighten me as to what is needed.
I notice that I have dirty dishes in my sink, and when I look for some sort of soap to wash them with, there is none. I add soap to my list. And then also put washing things, although I don’t know what that might be. I proceed like this for another full hour until my list seems worthy of the dreaded trip to Raleigh’s Food Mart. I only hope Trudy’s shift is over by this time of day.
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