“Your laundry!” she exclaims hysterically, hustling right to the kitchen, where she stops and points at the laundry room door, as if that should explain everything.
I am standing behind her now, trying to decide whether or not to call the police to remove this crazy woman from my house. Has she taken complete leave of her senses? “What on earth are you doing?”
“Your laundry!” she shrieks, turning to look at me. “Do you have any idea what is going on in—?”
I push past her and open the door to the laundry room porch, ready to prove that this woman has completely lost her mind, but suddenly there is a wave of white foaming bubbles pouring into my kitchen. I slam the door shut and turn to look at Bea. “What did you do to my laundry?”
“I didn’t do a thing to your laundry,” she says indignantly. “I just came to tell you there’s a problem. Don’t shoot the messenger, Claudette.”
“But what on earth?”
“What kind of soap are you using?” She plants her hands on her hips.
I explain about the dish soap, and she just laughs.
“What is so funny?”
“You never, never put dish soap into the washing machine. Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
I grab a couple of dishtowels, trying to mop up the mess of bubbles on my wooden kitchen floor, but they just keep spreading, almost as if they’re multiplying.
Then Bea looks under my sink, takes out the dishpan, and uses it as a shovel of sorts, scooping up bubbles and tossing them into the sink. After a while, other than a ribbon of foam that continues to creep beneath the bottom of the door, it’s fairly well cleaned up. Bea snatches the damp dishtowels, rolls them into tubes, and wedges them as a dam of sorts to stop the escaping foam.
“What do I do about it?” I ask Bea.
“Well, I tried to go in the back way. I was going to turn off your washer myself, but the door was locked.”
“How did you know there was a problem?” I ask, still slightly suspicious.
“I was out in my backyard shaking a rug. I happened to look over here and saw what I first thought was snow piled all over your back porch steps. I couldn’t figure that out. So I came over to see better and realized it was soap, coming from your laundry room. It appears you have a broken window there. But like I said, the door was locked. So I ran around to the front.”
“Should I go around the back then?”
“That’s what I’d do. That way the soap won’t flood your house when you open the door.”
So I get my key and traipse around to the back porch with Bea dogging my heels, and sure enough, white, foamy bubbles are everywhere. I’m not sure what to do. My wool pantsuit is dry clean only, and I’m sure the soap bubbles will ruin it. Oh, why do I bother to dress nicely at all?
“See,” Bea proudly proclaims, “looks just like snow, don’t it?” Then she points at the heap of garbage next to my trash can. “At first I thought that was some sort of snowman there too. Really had me going for a minute or two.” She peers at me now. “You throwing those towels and things out?”
“Yes.”
She frowns, then looks back toward the back porch. “Aren’t you gonna go in there and shut that thing down?”
I look down at my expensive Versace boots and wonder how Italian leather holds up to soap bubbles.
“Give me that key,” she snaps. “I’ll do it myself.”
Before I can answer, she snatches the key from my hand, marches up the bubble-encased stairs, unlocks the door, and disappears into a white cloud of foam. I stand there just staring with wide eyes. What if she can’t breathe in there? What if she falls down and gets hurt? Will she sue me? Do I even have insurance against such things? I am actually holding my breath, waiting for her to reemerge, and when she does, she looks a bit like a snowman herself.
“Careful on those steps,” I call out. “I’ll bet they’re slick.”
She wipes the bubbles from her face and hair, then comes slowly down the steps and stands before me, where she shakes the remaining foam from her arms and legs like an oversized dog. I step back to avoid the flying bubbles.
“Thank you.” I try to sound truly grateful instead of slightly irritated. “But I really didn’t expect you to do that, Bea. I was simply deciding whether or not to change my clothes first.”
She rolls her eyes. “There’s one good reason why people shouldn’t go around trying to dress like movie stars all the time.”
I frown at her. “I am not trying to dress like a movie star. I simply enjoy quality clothing. I do not believe that’s a crime.”
“Well, it’s a crime to put dish soap in a washing machine. And it’s stupid. Why’d you go and do that, anyway?”
“Because I was out of laundry soap.”
“Why didn’t you go and get some more?”
I consider this. “Because it’s Sunday,” I say, knowing that’s a weak defense. “I thought the stores might be closed.”
“Pish posh, there’s stores open on Sundays—even Raleigh’s is open today. But I don’t see why you’re doing laundry on a Sunday. Who does laundry on a Sunday anyway?”
“I was doing laundry because I needed clean towels.”
Once again she points to my melted snowman of white towels piled by the trash. “What happened to those towels anyway?”
“They are soiled.” I hold my head high, thinking I am just about done with this conversation. Why doesn’t this woman mind her own business?
“Why weren’t you washing them too?”
“Because…they are beyond saving.”
She laughs. “Beyond saving? Just because they got dirty? You really do need to take some classes in housekeeping, Claudette.”
“Perhaps you need to take some classes in etiquette, Bea.”
“And maybe you should take a class in being neighborly.”
“Only if you take a class in fashion and style—even if it’s simply a beginner’s class.”
“Well!”
I glare at her, hoping she’ll take offense and leave now, for I feel certain we’ve both said more than enough. But she just stands there, hands planted on hips, staring back at me. “You know what your problem is, Claudette Fioré?”
“No, but I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“That’s right. You are full of yourself, Miss High and Mighty. You are snooty and pretentious and shallow and mean and—”
“And you are fat!”
Her eyes grow wide, and for a moment I expect her to lunge at me with fists swinging. But she doesn’t. Instead her pale little eyes start to fill with tears, and then she begins to cry.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. You just made me so mad.”
She shakes her head. “No, it’s true. I am fat. My daughter was just telling me that very same thing on Thanksgiving… I pretended not to mind, but it really hurt my feelings.”
“Your daughter said that?” I blink and think that’s a bit harsh coming from one’s own daughter.
“She did. Right in front of everyone too. She thought she was being funny. But I thought it was downright mean.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, what you said about me is true—I am shallow.” I reach for the handkerchief in my pocket and hand it to her.
She nods and wipes her eyes. “Yes, yes, you are.”
“So we both have our faults. What else is new?”
She smiles and hands me back my handkerchief. “Want me to help you clean that laundry room out?”
“How?” I look up to where bubbles cascade down the steps like a foaming fountain.
“You got a mop? a broom?”
I point to the laundry room. “In there.”
“That’ll work.” She looks at me. “You want to go change your clothes first?”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.”
“I have a better idea,” she says suddenly. “You go and make us a nice pot of tea and something to have with it, and I’ll see what I can do he
re since I’m already soapy. Deal?”
“Are you sure?”
“Sure, I’m sure. And I’m guessing I’ll be done before you are anyway.”
So I go inside and put on the teakettle, then locate my Minton teapot and matching teacups, saucers, and sandwich plates. I set out some Earl Grey tea and then set off to find something I can fix to go with it. My refrigerator is beginning to look rather sparse again. I really do need to go to the store. But I can’t very well go to the store without money. Oh, the complications of everyday living!
“Excuse me.” Bea pokes her head in the door from the laundry room. “The bubbles are gone now, and I put the towels through another cycle on the washer, just to rinse out the last of that soap. But I am soaked to the skin, so I’m gonna run home and change. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Relieved that I have a bit more time, I finally take out a round of brie cheese that I got at Raleigh’s last week. I haven’t opened the package yet since I wasn’t quite sure how to properly warm it, and I cannot imagine eating it cold. But when I read the packaging, I am pleased to discover that I can put it in the microwave for one minute. I do this, watching anxiously as sixty seconds tick by. Then the bell rings, I remove it, and the temperature feels just about right.
I peel off the packaging and place the brie in the center of a platter, and then I slice some apples, which I arrange nicely around it, along with some Wellington water crackers. I stand back and look at my culinary creation. Even Sylvia might be proud of me. The teakettle whistles, and before long the Earl Grey is smelling lovely.
I’m not sure how someone like Bea will react to my offering, but by the time I get it all arranged on the table, it looks rather elegantly tempting. The only thing missing, once again, is fresh flowers. Not that Bea would notice.
“Hello?” I hear her calling from the front door. “I’ll just let myself in.”
Seeing that there’s no stopping her, I call out, “Yes, do come in.”
“Look,” she says when she gets to the kitchen, holding her arms out as if she’s modeling. “I dressed up for you.”
Her pantsuit is a bit on the snug side, and the color, eggplant, is not a shade that looks good with her complexion. “Very nice,” I say. “Have a seat.”
She looks at the table. “Is that some kind of cheese?”
“Brie.”
“Is that French?”
“Yes. Would you like to try it?”
“What do you do with it?”
I cut off a generous piece for myself, put it on my plate, and then cut a smaller piece, which I put on a cracker. “Just like that.”
“Is that white stuff mold?”
“Yes. It’s the rind, but it’s meant to be eaten, and it’s delicious.”
She makes a face, and I suppress the urge to growl.
“Why don’t you just try it.” I take a bite to show her that it won’t hurt her.
“Okay, but I don’t think I want to eat that moldy part.”
“Fine.”
She puts a chunk of brie on her plate. Then, as if performing surgery, she removes the rind and finally spreads some on a cracker. She holds it up and smells it, wrinkling her nose. “It smells weird, Claudette. Sort of like a wet diaper, I think. Are you sure it’s not rotten or something?”
I take a whiff, realizing that I really am hungry. “I think it smells divine.” I take another bite, then reach for an apple slice. Really, this woman seems determined to drive me absolutely stark raving mad.
“Hmm,” she says after finally taking a tiny bite. “It’s not as bad as I expected. I suppose I could get used to it.”
“Perhaps it is an acquired taste. And to be fair, I normally serve brie with wine not tea.”
“Why don’t we have wine with it then?”
I stare at her. “I do not usually drink wine in the morning.”
“Oh…”
“But if you’d like…”
“No, no. I’m just not a fancy person like you, Claudette. I guess I never figured out when is the right time or wrong time to drink wine because I don’t normally drink it at all. But I wouldn’t mind giving it a try sometime.”
I nod, trying to be a better sport. She did, after all, clean my laundry room mess. “Well, perhaps you can come over here sometime, say, fiveish, and we can have some wine and cheese.”
“Really?” She looks pitifully hopeful now, and part of me is actually sorry for her. But a much larger part is sorry I just said that. What on earth am I getting myself into by befriending this woman?
Even so, I nod. “Yes, really.”
“Because I think we could be friends, Claudette. I know you were married to someone famous and you were rich and all that. But, really, we’re not so different now, are we? And we’re neighbors. Besides, I know some things…stories about your family…things you might want to know…”
I restrain myself from making the sort of comment that would confirm her earlier accusations that I am pretentious, shallow…mean. “What sort of stories?” I ask halfheartedly as I freshen up my tea.
“Well…” She lowers her voice as if someone might be listening. “The frying pan story is definitely worth hearing.”
“Yes, you mentioned that before, Bea. Just what is the frying pan story, anyway?”
She takes another chunk of brie and cuts the rind off again. “Well, it was a long time ago… I was about nine or ten, as I recall. My dad was working late one night, and Mom asked me to take out the trash for her. It was a real cold night, kind of like the weather we’ve been having lately. I was grumbling to myself and carrying out the trash when I heard yelling. Well, it wasn’t too unusual to hear your parents arguing over at your house. I mean, they argued a fair amount when you and Violet lived at home, but after you left…well, it got a whole lot worse. I was used to it. But I was surprised that they were arguing outside since it was so cold and all. So I sort of hunkered down by the laurel hedge there and just listened.”
She pauses to take a sip of tea, and I try to imagine the nosy little red-headed girl next door, holding her garbage bag and eavesdropping on my parents’ marital squabbles. Not a particularly charming scene, mind you.
“So they were going at it pretty good,” she continues. “And as usual, your dad was drunk as a skunk, and he was saying some awful mean things to your mom, swearing at her and all that. And your mom sounded like she’d had it. She was telling him to go away and to never come back. He was just getting madder and madder, saying really nasty things, kind of threatening things, and I was about to go tell my mom. I thought maybe it was time to call the cops on him.
“Then I heard this loud twang sound, and your dad groaned, and then there was a clunk-clunking sound like something fell down. I stood up and looked over the hedge, and there was your dad, laid out with his feet sticking up on the back steps, and your mom, standing at the top of the steps, just holding this great big black frying pan and staring at her husband with this scared look on her face.”
I gasp and blink and stare at Bea. Is she making this whole crazy story up, just to get my attention? But I remember, once again, how Michael said he’d found a cast-iron frying pan wrapped up so neatly and hidden under my mother’s bed. “Is that really the truth?” I finally ask.
She nods with wide eyes. “Yep. Your mom killed your dad.”
I just shake my head, trying to absorb this. “Why didn’t anyone know about this? Why didn’t you call the police? Why didn’t my mother go to jail?”
“Well, I just stood there looking at her, Claudette, and she looked so scared and sad, and I thought about all the mean things he’d just said to her and about how he’d treated her…and to be honest, I didn’t really know if he was dead or just knocked out—or maybe even passed out. I’d seen him like that plenty of times. Besides, I always liked your mom, even when I was little. She was always really nice to me. And I didn’t want to get her in trouble.
“So I thought to myself, Let sleeping d
ogs lie. I swear those exact words went through my little ten-year-old head. And that was that. I went and dumped the trash, and I never told a single soul. Well, except for your mother. I told her years later, after I moved back in here to help with Pop. We only spoke of it once, and I could tell it made her really uncomfortable, so I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone else.”
“But you’re telling me now.” And even as I say this, I realize that this is a story I would just as soon have never heard. What good can possibly come from knowing that my mother murdered my father at this stage of life?
“There’s a reason I’m telling you.”
“And that would be?” I can hear the irritation in my voice, and I’m sure I’m beginning to sound haughty, but, really, I do not care. I am feeling utterly betrayed. I cannot believe I trusted this woman with my friendship, invited her into my house, fixed her tea, shared my brie with her—and this is how she rewards me?
“It was those mean words your dad was saying to your mother, Claudette. I didn’t understand them at the time… I was too young. So I sort of hid them away inside. But as I got older and wiser in the ways of men and woman and all that, well, I knew what he was saying to her. I knew what she was saying back at him…and I just felt so bad. You know, for all of you.”
“What—do—you—mean?” My voice sounds like an automated computer recording.
“You know, how your dad took advantage of you two girls when you were growing up. That night he was sort of bragging to your mom, saying how his girls…well, you know…how they were lots better in bed than your mother ever was. I’m pretty sure that’s why she whacked him over the head with the frying pan. You can’t really blame her, can you?”
I stand up now, glaring at this horrible woman. How dare she sit at my table, in my mother’s house, and make these kinds of statements? “That is enough.”
“I’m not telling you this to hurt you, Claudette. But just so you’ll know, okay? It seems like you need to know.”
“And I’ll tell you this, Bea, just so you’ll know. My father never did that—what you are suggesting.”
LimeLight Page 25
