“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Bea slaps her forehead. “Oh, I plumb forgot what I came over here to tell you. I’ll be heading out to my daughter Polly’s house around noon today.”
I nod in a vague sort of way, wondering why she thinks I need this bit of trivial information from her.
“And I’ll be gone clear until the weekend. I just thought you should know.” Then she peers curiously at me. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“Thanksgiving?” I frown. “When is it?”
“Thursday, of course.”
“This Thursday?”
“That’s right. Have you got plans? Maybe spend time with your sister and her kids?”
“Yes…something like that. By the way, what day is it today?” I am so embarrassed to have to ask this, but I really have no idea.
“It’s Tuesday. Thanksgiving is two days away.”
“Oh yes. I suppose I lost track of time…since the move and all…”
She laughs as she stands. “I know just how you feel. I used to have trouble knowing what day it was too. Then I got myself a nice big calendar that’s easy to read, along with one of those boxes you keep your prescription pills in. You know the kind with days of the week printed right on each compartment? Real handy. Do you have one of those?”
“No.”
“Why, you should get yourself one. How else can you keep track of when you took your last pills?”
“I don’t take pills.”
She looks shocked. “No pills?”
“Well, I did take vitamins. Just a multiple and one with calcium and those horrid-tasting fish oil pills, but I seem to have misplaced them during the move.”
“But no prescriptions?” She shakes her head. “And here you are older than me. I take one for blood pressure, one for high cholesterol, one for my bone density since I started getting osteoporosis. And besides that I take a baby aspirin every day. You don’t even take a baby aspirin?”
“I used to give them to my husband. But, no, I haven’t taken them myself.”
“Well, you should. Everyone our age should do that.”
“Thank you for the medical advice,” I say in a chilly voice. “I’ll consider it.”
“Sure. And if you want to read my AARP magazine, it’s full of good tips for old girls like you and me.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is…” I start to stand now.
“Don’t you get up, Claudette, I can see myself out.”
“Thank you for the pumpkin bread.”
“You’re welcome. And you have a nice Thanksgiving, you hear?”
“Yes…the same to you.”
I listen as she walks through my living room. She pauses, as if she’s looking at something in there, but then a few seconds pass and I hear the front door open and then the screen door slam shut. She’s gone. I let out a relieved breath. And then I reach for another slice of pumpkin bread. It’s really not bad.
Bea is obnoxious, there is no doubt, but the fact that she put my kitchen back in order is somewhat encouraging. So I clear the table and add the dishes to those that have been collecting in the sink. It’s really gotten to be quite a pileup. Feeling slightly inspired by the cleared countertops, I decide that the time has come to wash the dishes.
I stand there for a moment, leaning against the sink and straining my memory back to my childhood, trying to remember how this was done. I used to do the dishes quite a bit…and I usually complained about it too. I didn’t like how it made my fingernails soft. We used to have this horrible dishpan we put in one side of the sink. We’d fill it with hot, soapy water and then rinse the dishes alongside it. We also had a wire dish drainer to place the clean dishes in. Neither of which I have now.
Even so, I should be able to do this. Really, how hard can it be? I remove the dirty dishes from the soapstone sink. Then I scrub the sink with the dishwashing soap, but when I search for something to stop the sink and keep the water from going down the drain, I find nothing. I stand there for several minutes, just trying to figure out the answer to what I know must be a very simple question. And yet it evades me.
Why not simply do this the old way—with a dishpan and a dish drainer? Except that I have no idea where one purchases such things, or if people actually use them anymore. My Beverly Hills house had two automatic dishwashers. Not that I ever used them myself, but I do recall seeing them in the large kitchen. Sometimes one of them, or even both if we’d had a party, were running.
I briefly entertain the idea of asking Bea about where I might find these tools, but that could entail another long, drawn-out conversation that would only contribute to her because-we-are-neighbors-we-must-now-become-friends theory. I consider the grocery store, but I’m not ready to return to Raleigh’s quite yet. Besides, I don’t recall seeing things like that, although I might’ve missed them.
Then I remember Harper’s Hardware. I sometimes went there with my mother when she was looking for a light bulb or an extension cord or some other odd household item. Perhaps Harper’s would have what I need. If my phone were charged, I could call them and find out. And that reminds of Radio Shack, and I wonder if the phone charger cord has arrived. So I decide to drive to town.
I go to the hardware store first, because that seems more pressing. And to my delight, a young woman directs me to exactly what I need. Not only that, but I also notice a bucket of rakes for leaf removal, and I put one in my cart as well. By now I know that a shopping cart with wheels, like matching shoes and handbags, is a must. Feeling confident and assured, I get into the line—after making certain it’s not the express lane—set my selected purchases on the counter, and wait as the clerk rings them up. But as he’s telling me the total, which isn’t very much, considering, I realize that I only have six dollars and some change. And that is not enough.
“Is there a problem?” he asks as I stare at my wallet.
I look up at him, I’m sure, with flaming cheeks. “Well, yes… I’m sorry, but I seem to be short of cash.” I take in a quick breath.
“We take Visa, MasterCard, American Express, and—”
“I only have one card with me, and I’m afraid it’s expired. You see, I just moved to town, and I’m—”
“You can set up an account with us.” He pulls out a yellow sheet of paper. “It’s pretty easy. You just fill in the form, we put it in the computer, and if you buy enough stuff you even get bonus points.”
“Bonus points?” I echo, unsure of what that even means.
“Yeah. Why don’t you move down there and fill it out while I wait on the dude behind you?”
So I take the form and carefully fill in the blanks—some of which I leave blank—and then hand it back to the clerk. For whatever reason, he seems content with my effort and punches some things into his computer register, prints out a receipt, which he has me sign, then bags up my items and tells me to “have a good day.”
I thank him and feel slightly like a thief as I leave. But as I put my rake and things into the back of the car, I remind myself of how many other things—very expensive things—I once bought on credit. I’m sure it should be just fine. However, now I’m not sure if I can afford the charging device at Radio Shack. And yet without it, how will I call Jackie Berkshire and get my funds transferred? Perhaps they have some sort of a revolving account as well.
To my relief, not only is my phone charger there, but the sales clerk is happy to open a Radio Shack account for me. “Your card will come in the mail in a few weeks, and you can even upgrade it to a Visa account if you want,” says the sales clerk. “And the more you use it, the more rewards you get.”
“Rewards…” I say, pretending to be interested. Then I thank him, sign the receipt, and leave with my charging cord.
It’s noon by the time I get home and take my packages out of my car. I glance nervously toward Bea’s house, but all is quiet there. Her old blue Buick is gone, and I think she has already left for her daughter’s. It should be a nice reprieve t
o have her gone a few days; no more unexpected morning visits for a bit. I should be relieved…but instead I feel slightly lonely.
I walk up to the porch and set my rake by the door for when I might possibly feel like raking, although I don’t expect it to be today. There’s a nip in the air, and the breeze is picking up. I overheard two men talking at the hardware store earlier, saying that the weather pattern was changing and that “the temps were going to get low tonight.”
It’s been so long since I’ve lived in a place that gets cold, and after sixty years, one’s personal thermostat grows accustomed to the warm Southern California climate. So much so that I have no problem wearing lightweight wool or cashmere during the winter months, although I’ve noticed that younger people dress as if it’s summertime year-round. But how will my old bones adjust to these extreme changes in temperature?
Once I’m in the house, I set my dishwashing tools in the kitchen and even briefly consider tackling this lackluster chore. But I really feel tired, not to mention a bit chilled, and perhaps a short nap is in order.
Before I allow myself to nap, I plug in my new phone charger. I place this on my little secretary desk in the office/guest room, which at the moment is the tidiest place in the house. Then I set my cell phone in the cradle and wait until the little blue light goes on to show that it’s working. I expect the phone should be up and running in a few hours. Perhaps I’ll even call Michael and tell him how well I’m getting on. Although “well” is probably an exaggeration, but at least I’m still alive and I haven’t given up yet.
I go to my room, where my bed is still unmade (ever since Michael left), and a rather unbecoming pile of clothing is accumulating on the easy chair. Oh, how I miss my maids and housekeepers…dry-cleaning services that delivered…fresh, clean sheets and towels.
The bedroom, like the rest of the house, is rather chilly. I must remember to turn up the thermostat when I finish my nap. Michael showed me how to do that before he left. I just hope I can remember. But if it’s going to be cold, a bit more heat would be most welcome.
I put the throw blanket around my shoulders like a shawl, then get into bed and reach for my novel. After a few minutes my hands are so cold I set the novel aside and pull the comforter up to my chin. Thank goodness for down feathers, because soon I’m feeling warmer. And then I’m sleepy.
When I wake up it’s dusky outside, and my nose is so cold it feels slightly numb. I get out of bed to discover it’s even colder now than it was earlier. With the throw blanket still wrapped around my shoulders like a granny’s shawl, I dash out to the end of the hallway where the thermostat to the oil furnace is located. This is not the same furnace we had when I was younger. I don’t know when Mother replaced it, but this model is much smaller and, according to Michael, much more efficient. Or at least it was when we arrived.
Right now the thermostat is set on seventy-two degrees, which Michael assured me should be comfortable, but then he’s not here for this cold front that’s swept in. I turn the thermostat up to eighty-five degrees. If that’s too hot, I’ll simply turn it down before bedtime. But when I reach down to where the hot air is supposed to blow out, it is stone cold. No air seems to be coming out at all. Is this thing even on? But the little light on the thermostat is glowing orange so it must be getting some sort of energy. Perhaps some part of it is broken.
I run back to my bedroom to put something on my bare feet, which are now freezing cold. I dig through my drawers until I find a couple pairs of thick socks, and I layer these on. Then I take out several cashmere cardigans, also layering them on. I must look very unstylish, but it’s preferable to freezing. I also layer on pants, pulling my looser velour warmup pants over two pairs of lightweight wool. I look at myself in the full-length mirror and gasp. The fashion factor is bad enough, but with all these layers of clothing, I now look as if I’ve gained thirty pounds. Well, no matter. No one will be seeing me tonight.
Feeling a bit warmer, I check on my phone. It’s high time to start making phone calls. My plan is to begin with my accountant. I’ll ask Jackie to transfer some funds to Silverton immediately. It’s not quite five yet; he might even be able to do this today. But when I try to use my phone, it doesn’t seem to be working. It appears to be charged just fine, but when I dial the number, it simply says “no service.” I try several different numbers, including Michael’s, thinking he might be able to tell me how to fix this little problem, but nothing seems to be working.
It could be my fault, since I’ve never been terribly clever with all these modern-day electronic devices. Gavin always seemed to understand these things. He would set up computers or video machines for us. Even my phone was purchased and programmed by him. When he first got it for me, I simply had to punch the speed dial button and the number one and I would reach Gavin within seconds. If only I could do that now.
Finally I give up on the stupid phone, which I’m tempted to toss to the floor and stomp on. I have a more pressing need at the moment. Thanks to having taken an extra large dosage of Citrucel this morning, I am headed for the bathroom. Once there, I quickly discover that it’s not easy to use the toilet when one is wearing too many layers. It takes a while to finally get myself situated, and then I’m so cold I’m literally shivering. The bathroom must be the coldest spot in the whole house, and the sooner I’m out of here, the better. Fortunately the Citrucel quickly does its magic.
I hurry to flush the toilet. Then as I’m pulling on my first layer of pants, I notice that instead of going down, the murky looking contents are rising. In desperation, I push the handle again, hoping this second flush will do the trick, but now the water is dangerously high, about to overflow.
With one pair of pants now zipped and two others still around my knees, I hop about, pulling up my pants as the white tile floor begins to resemble a fetid cesspool. I back away from this foul mess, trying to keep my feet on high ground, when I notice my expensive silk carpet from India is about to be ruined.
I lunge for it, hoping to snatch up the rug before it’s too late, but the combination of wet floor and slippery socks causes me to lose my footing, and I plunge sideways, falling smack into the nasty, reeking mess.
There I lie for a few stunned seconds, unsure as to whether I have broken any bones or permanently injured myself. But as I use the edge of the tub to pull myself up to a standing position, I seem to be in one piece.
Seeing that it’s too late for the precious carpet, not to mention myself and these layers of soiled and stinking clothes, I allow the silk carpet to play the role of a giant sponge, sopping up the foul sewage water. I stand there next to the shower, peeling off my ruined clothing, including three layers of cashmere, and tossing all these soggy items to the floor.
Standing there buck naked and freezing and feeling as if I’ve just taken a tumble into an outhouse, I cannot imagine how life could possibly get any worse. I am certain I have reached an all-time low. Either I will die tonight or things will get better. I’m not sure I even care which way it goes.
Shivering uncontrollably, I turn on the shower, wait for the water to get steaming hot, and then get in. I lather Christian Dior shower soap from head to toe and am just beginning to thaw out when I realize that my feet are in standing water. For some reason the shower is not draining properly and the water level, reminiscent of the toilet episode, is about to flow over the edge.
I turn off the water, then grab for several towels. Some of these I throw onto the floor, hoping to create something of a path, an escape route to the door. I wrap the remaining towel around me, making a quick exit and closing the door to the useless and malodorous bathroom.
By the time I reach my bedroom, I am concerned about the possibility of hypothermia. And part of me thinks I should simply give in to it and die. I’ve heard of old Eskimos being set out on icebergs and left to perish. Perhaps I should surrender to the chilling temperature as well. The problem is that I have always loathed being cold. So I hurry to towel myself dry, rubbin
g so hard that I’m certain my skin will be raw and bleeding when I’m done. And, once again, I must layer on clothes. Unfortunately I’ve already used and ruined my warmest items of clothing.
Then I remember the extra clothing Michael stored for me, things that didn’t fit in the two closets and that I might want to get rid of. Perhaps some of those clothes are warm. I dash out to the laundry room, which is little more than an enclosed porch and, believe it or not, far colder than the frosty bathroom.
I open some plastic crates and unzip the canvas wardrobe, ransacking through my old clothes until I have a heavy armful of items and run back into the house. I throw these things down into a heap in the middle of the living room and return to search out some more. As odd as it seems, I almost feel as if I’m searching for lost treasure.
I return to the living room and sort through these random pieces of warmer clothing. Most of these things are old, and I don’t even know why I held on to them, although I’m glad now I did. I carry a bunch of things to my bedroom and begin to layer on my odd assortment of miscellaneous pants and tops and socks. I even managed to unearth a red woolen ski hat, a souvenir from a long-ago ski trip in Switzerland; a lime green cashmere muffler from a few Christmases back; and a pair of thick suede gloves in an awful shade of purple. And once I’m dressed, I add these colorful accessories to my already strange ensemble.
When I’m done, I stare at the image of myself in the mirror and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Not only do I look forty pounds heavier now, but I’m a complete fashion nightmare in clownish colors. I’m sure I could beat my neighbor Bea out of a “fashion don’t” magazine spot.
The truth is, I’ve thought about Bea a couple of times throughout tonight’s crisis. I actually wish she were home. I think I would happily take refuge there, or at least use her phone to call for some emergency assistance. I don’t know what to do. I consider going to the hardware store to see if they have some sort of heating unit that can be run on electricity, but it’s after six and I feel fairly certain they’re closed.
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