LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  “I know this adjustment period is difficult for you, but you should remember that you need friends.”

  “Friends?” I say vaguely as I look longingly at the photo of Gavin and me taken shortly after our wedding. We’re toasting with champagne with Lana Turner and John Garfield at a party following the premiere of The Postman Always Rings Twice. We all looked so young and glamorous and alive. Oh, weren’t those the days?

  “Well, I’m your friend, of course,” says Irene, bringing me back to the present. “And speaking of making new friends, why don’t you come to my house for Thanksgiving tomorrow?”

  I stare at Irene as I consider her invitation. Naturally it pales in comparison to the parties and events I’ve enjoyed over my lifetime. Really, would I ever have imagined myself celebrating a holiday with Irene Porker from Silverton? I don’t think so. “Thank you so much. But I think I am still a bit stressed over yesterday, and I still have so much to do…”

  “I understand, Claudette, but don’t forget that you need to let people into your world. If you set yourself apart, you set yourself up for trouble. Isolation isn’t good for anyone, but it’s particularly bad for older people. We really do need each other.”

  I remember Bea’s little speech about being neighborly. I also remember Page Turner’s invitation to join a book club. And now I have Irene’s offer of friendship and Thanksgiving dinner. Still, I do not feel ready… I’m not sure if it’s my reluctance to completely let go of my old life or just the assumption that these small-town people will simply bore me.

  Irene opens the door. “Oh, wonderful! It looks like the phone company is connecting your line right now. Now you can call for help if you need it.” She reaches into her purse and hands me a business card. “Senior Services encourages us to give these to the people we’re helping. But I’ve written my home phone number on the back. Feel free to call me, Claudette. And if you reconsider Thanksgiving tomorrow, you’ll be most welcome.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for your help today. I really do appreciate it.”

  “You take care now.”

  I stand watching as she drives away in a white minivan, of all things. I cannot imagine why someone her age would choose to drive such an unattractive vehicle. But then she is, after all, Irene Yorker who used to be Porker. Perhaps she’s not as changed as she seems.

  It’s foggy and dreary outside, and it’s still freezing cold. I go back to the kitchen and look over my lists, both the ones Michael made for me and my new one. Yes, now I must call Jackie and get my finances squared away so I actually have some money, perhaps even before the business day ends.

  But I don’t have a phone, neither a cell phone or one that plugs into the wall. I consider going to Radio Shack again, but I haven’t gotten their charge card in the mail yet and I’m not sure if they will allow me to use credit again.

  Then I remember the account at the hardware store and wonder if they might possibly have phones. I add phone to my list and decide it’s time to venture out of my house once more. But fully aware of the freezing temperature outside, I must do this thing right. First I put on my black Versace boots, then slip into my full-length Tucci coat, taking a moment to fondle the buttery smooth, black lambskin leather. I suppose this is something to be thankful for here in Silverton… I seldom had the opportunity to wear these things in Southern California.

  I search in my drawer until I find a pair of soft kid gloves, also in black. This reminds me of my fur coats, still in storage, and I wonder if there might be any way to have them sent to me. I will have to put that on another list.

  I top off all this black leather by wrapping a soft aquamarine cashmere scarf around my neck. I’ve been told that older women shouldn’t wear black unless they soften it a bit with pastels, and I think this scarf does the trick. Although I do wish I had a nice hat to go with this, something to cover my frightening looking hair. Perhaps one that’s similar to the one Irene was wearing today, perhaps in gray. I consider asking her where she got it but can’t force myself to sink to that level. It’s one thing to allow her to give me housekeeping tips, but to go to Irene Porker for fashion advice—well, that is simply too much.

  As I expected, it’s bitter cold outside, and not only is the sidewalk a bit slick with ice, but my windshield is frosted as well. I attempt to use my nice gloves to scrape off the layer of ice, but it’s not working.

  “Need a hand there, lady?” asks the telephone man as he throws something into his van. “I got a scraper.”

  “Thank you,” I call back to him. “I’m from Southern California, and this is all very foreign to me.”

  He chuckles as he comes over. “Don’t know why you’d wanna leave all that warm sunshine down there to move up here.”

  “Trust me, I keep asking myself that very same question.”

  In mere seconds he not only has my windshield cleared but all the other windows as well. “Thank you.” I say sincerely, “I feel I should give you a tip.”

  He just grins. “Consider it my Thanksgiving treat to you, ma’am. And your phone should be working just fine now; it’s all hooked up and ready to go. I just set a couple of phone books and some phone company information on the porch.”

  I thank him again and wish him a happy Thanksgiving, and he hops into his van and drives away. Perhaps I’ve been a bit too harsh on this town. People in Silverton really seem quite nice.

  I get in my car and turn the key, but nothing happens. Something is wrong with my car. I try the key again. Still nothing—absolutely nothing. Then I consider this cold weather. Was there something I should’ve done to my car, something to protect it from the freezing temperatures?

  I get out and look up and down the street, almost as if I expect someone to happen along and help me. This is ridiculous. I will simply walk to town and to the hardware store, where I will purchase my phone and come home. But these lovely Versace boots are probably not the smartest thing for walking on ice, especially with the heels. I go back into the house and change into a pair of sensible gray loafers. Not quite as elegant as my pretty boots, but then neither is a broken leg.

  By the time I reach the hardware store, it is nearly four o’clock and I discover that they will be closing at five. Feeling slightly anxious, not to mention rushed, I get a cart, take out my list, and make the rounds, filling my cart with three laundry baskets, two telephones, and four of the small heaters Irene told me about. I even get an ice scraper. And while I’m in the automotive section, I see a man buying what turns out to be antifreeze. I tell him about my own car problem and being from a warmer climate.

  “Oh yeah,” he says. “You better get some antifreeze into that car ASAP.”

  “Do I do it myself?”

  “I always do. But if you don’t know what you’re doing, you better get someone to help you. Maybe a neighbor or at the gas station.”

  I thank him and put a jug of antifreeze in my cart. Then I notice two women talking about the weather. “My walk was so slick that the mailman almost slipped this morning,” one tells the other. “He told me I better get some rock salt on it or come to the post office and pick up my mail myself.” She hoists a big bag of something into her cart.

  “That’s a good idea.” The other woman picks up a bag and slips it onto the lower shelf of her cart.

  After the women move on, I get a bag for myself. I’m not completely sure what I’ll do with it; so I hope there will be instructions on it. The bag is quite heavy, but I follow the second woman’s example and slide it onto the bottom shelf of the cart. I hadn’t even noticed that handy space down there.

  I wander around the store a bit more. I’m surprised to discover it’s rather comforting being in a hardware store like this. They have so many practical things that one really needs and people who actually know how to put them to use. It’s also a good feeling to know I have credit here and that, although I am broke, I can still make these purchases today.

  Just a few minutes before five, I make my way to t
he checkout. I feel quite pleased with myself and my collection of merchandise. I inform the clerk that I have an account. For a brief moment I worry that something is going to go wrong and she’s going to tell me, “No, you do not,” and send me on my way. But she rings it all up, prints out a paper, which I sign, and then she asks if I need someone to help me load this into my car.

  That’s when it hits me: I did not drive a car. My revised plan had been to simply purchase a phone and carry it home on foot. But somewhere along the way, I forgot all about this and imagined that my car was out in front of the store.

  “Ma’am?” asks the clerk. “Do you need any help out?”

  I put my hand to my mouth. “I am so embarrassed. I completely forgot that I walked to town. You see, my car had a mechanical problem, and I needed to purchase a telephone.” I look at my very full cart and then back at her. “You don’t suppose I could wheel this home and return it tomorrow?”

  She frowns. “For one thing, we don’t allow carts off the premises, and besides, we’re closed tomorrow.”

  I nod. “Right. Thanksgiving.” I consider my dilemma and wonder if I really am developing Alzheimer’s or some other form of dementia. “Perhaps I could simply take one of the telephones with me and then return for the rest of my things after the holiday?” Then I frown as I remember how cold my house was last night. “Although I really could use those heaters… You see, I just moved to town and my heating oil hasn’t been delivered.”

  “Tom?” yells the clerk.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, noticing the customers waiting in line behind me.

  I begin to push my cart away from the register and toward the door. However, I don’t know what to do now. I can’t very well make off with their cart after she explicitly told me that’s not allowed. Still, it’s hard to imagine her calling the police and having an old lady arrested for borrowing a cart just so she could get her heaters home and avoid freezing to death.

  Then I notice the clerk talking to a man, pointing at me. She’s probably telling him I’m crazy and that they should call the authorities before I steal their cart. The other customers are looking at me as well. I can’t read their expressions. Perhaps they’re looking with amusement, or maybe even pity. I don’t think I care to know. I’m tempted to simply take my phone from the bag and march out of here, leaving the rest of my merchandise for them to sort out, when the man, presumably Tom, comes over to me.

  “I’m sorry we can’t let you take the cart from store property.” He glances outside and frowns. “Even if we could, it’s pretty dark out there and it might be dangerous to walk with a cart. Plus, there’s ice to consider.”

  “That’s fine,” I say crisply. “If I could simply take one of the telephones I purchased, I can return later to pick up the remaining items.”

  “I have a better idea.” He checks his watch. “How about if I give you a lift home? My shift is over now anyway, and I’m guessing you don’t live too far away if you walked here.”

  Normally I do not take rides from strangers. But my life has not been normal for weeks now. “Thank you. I would greatly appreciate that.”

  “Let me go punch out and get my coat, and I’ll be right back.”

  Soon the last of the customers have been checked out, and some of the lights are being turned out. “Okay…” Tom returns with his jacket and cap on. “You ready to roll?”

  Then he loads up my things into the back of his pickup and helps me into the cab of his truck, which is rather high. It smells like gasoline in here, and I’m thankful we don’t have far to go. As he drives down Main Street, I tell him my name and where I live. Within minutes he pulls into my driveway behind my car.

  “Hey, nice Jag.” He opens the cab door. “Let me help you outta the truck, Mrs. Fioré. I know it’s a pretty tall step. My wife gives me a bad time about it, but I can’t help it. I just happen to like big tires.”

  “Thank you,” I say as he helps me down.

  “And I’ll give you a hand with your stuff; it’s pretty heavy. Why don’t you go on ahead, turn on the lights, and unlock the door.”

  I feel slightly uneasy and a bit vulnerable as I carefully make my way up the darkened path to the porch. I’ve never worried too much about being a woman alone, but I suppose one can’t be too careful. Still, as I unlock the door, I think that he does seem like a nice young man…and I don’t see what choice I have. I turn on the porch light. How would I even attempt to defend myself if he turned out to be a mugger or worse?

  “I’ll just set this first bag on this bench here,” he says, “and go back for the rest.”

  I consider offering to help but am not sure I want to risk that icy walk again. The next trip he brings the stacked laundry baskets with items in them.

  “I notice you got some antifreeze here, Mrs. Fioré. Was that for the Jag?”

  “Yes.” Then I explain my engine problems.

  He lets out a low whistle. “Wow, I hope it’s nothing serious. If you want, I could put this in tonight. I got a flashlight in my truck. They say it’s gonna get even colder.”

  “Oh, would you?”

  “No problem. Just get me your keys while I unload the rest of the stuff.”

  I carry one bag into the house and retrieve my car keys. For a brief instant I imagine him stealing my car, but then I realize he would have to leave his truck behind to do so. Also, I have a phone and I could call the police if necessary.

  “That’s all of it,” he says when I meet him on the porch.

  “Here are the keys, Tom.”

  “Shouldn’t take long.”

  I carry everything, except the heavy bag of rock salt, into the house. Then I stand by the front window and watch him. He’s under the hood with his flashlight, apparently pouring that stuff into the right hole or slot or wherever it goes. I certainly hope he knows what he’s doing. Still, it’s not as if the car was running this morning anyway.

  Then he goes around and opens the driver’s door and gets inside. Well, I don’t know what to think, but he cannot back out with his pickup blocking the driveway. The next thing I know, he gets into his pickup, moves it back, then drives it right onto the front lawn, parking it directly beside my car. Well, this is too much. Tom really does plan to steal my car after all.

  I’m just about to run and get my phone out of the box and plug it in when I notice he’s opening the hood of his pickup. Then he pulls out some long ropelike things and goes back and forth between my car and his pickup. I cannot imagine what he is trying to do. I wait and watch, convincing myself that he doesn’t really intend to steal my car, and finally he gets back into my car and somehow manages to make it run. The headlights come on, dimly at first and then brighter. Well, now.

  He hops out and jogs up to my front door. “I’m charging your battery, Mrs. Fioré. It’ll take a few minutes to get it charged up good. That’s what the problem was this morning. My guess is your car’s not used to this cold weather. Too bad you don’t have a garage to keep that pretty baby in.”

  I nod. “Yes. I feel the same way.”

  “You got room on this lot to build yourself one.” He rubs his hands together. “My brother-in-law is a builder. I could give you his number.”

  “Yes. Why don’t you come inside and get warmed up a little. Not that it’s terribly warm in here, but I can try out one of these little heaters.”

  “You get your heater going, and I’m gonna put some of this rock salt out on your walkway; it’s slicker than snot on a doorknob out there.”

  So I remove a small boxlike heater from its packaging, search for an outlet, and finally get the heater set up near the fireplace. I turn the knob and, just like magic, heated air comes pouring out. I feel like cheering. I hear Tom’s boots on the porch and go to let him in. “The heater works.”

  “Well, it’d better or you should take it back.” He walks over to it and warms himself. “You know what you should get, Mrs. Fioré.” He points at my fireplace.

  “More f
irewood?”

  “Maybe…but that’s not what I was thinking. We have these units at the store that slip right into a fireplace, but they’re electric. They look like a real fire and put out real heat, but you don’t have all the mess and ashes and smoke to go with it. Plus, you can close up the flue so you’re not sucking all the heat out of your house.”

  “Close up the flue?”

  He bends over, takes out his flashlight, and peers up into the fireplace. “See this piece of metal right here?”

  I bend down next to him and look up to where he’s shining the light. “I think I see it.”

  “If you keep it closed, except when you want a fire, your house will stay warmer.” He pulls on the metal, and I hear a clunk and some soot falls down. “Just like that.”

  “I see.” I slowly stand up. “Thank you.”

  “No problem. Just don’t forget and start a fire with your flue closed, or you’ll really have problems.”

  I nod as if this is news to me.

  “Nice place you got here.” He glances around my living room. “Really cool stuff too.”

  “Thank you.” Now I feel as if I should do something to thank this young man. Does he expect some sort of payment?

  “Wow, are these real photos or just posters?” He’s studying the photo montage now.

  I go over and stand with him. “They’re the real thing.” Then I tell him about Gavin and his work, and although Tom doesn’t recognize the name, he’s familiar with some of the movies Gavin directed. And he’s impressed. I point out Gavin and myself in the photos, and Tom turns to me and says, “So you were, like, famous?”

  “My husband was…although I did have a brief acting career…but mostly I was famous by association.” I’m somewhat stunned to have admitted this much. But then, really, who is Tom going to tell?

  “Well, that is really cool. I can’t wait to tell my wife.”

  “I’d like to pay you for helping me tonight, but I don’t have any cash on me at the moment.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. I just helped you ’cuz it was the right thing to do.”