LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  Yet even as I say this, I remember that time my father wanted a back massage…how he got carried away…but it did not lead to sex! Even so, I’m sure my cheeks are flushed with the embarrassment of this memory.

  “I am not saying my father was a saint. Obviously, he was not. But just for the record, he never sexually abused or molested me. Is that perfectly clear?”

  “Yes…” She nods and stands. “But I guess you can’t speak for your sister, now can you? I mean, you don’t know her side of the story, do you?”

  My hands are shaking as I fold my arms tightly across my chest. “No, well, I suppose I cannot speak for her.”

  “See,” she says victoriously. “That’s probably what it was then. Your dad was talking about doing those things with Violet, not you. I just naturally assumed…”

  It is all I can do not to throw this woman out. But I think she can tell by my expression, my body language, that she is no longer welcome. The tea party is over.

  I am so angry after Bea leaves. I walk around the house like a cat on a hot tin roof. I can’t stop moving…and yet I don’t know what to do. I keep asking myself, what difference does it make? So what if my mother murdered my father?

  In some ways, it was probably self-defense. Or perhaps she didn’t mean to kill him… Perhaps she was simply so angry that she bopped him over the head in the heat of the moment. Not a lot was said at the time about the cause of my father’s death. Violet was the one to call. She told me that Mother had discovered him dead in the morning, that he’d been out the previous night and probably came home late and that he’d either slipped on the icy back steps or passed out from over imbibing.

  Whatever the case, he had fallen and struck his head and either died from the head wound or from exposure from being outside all night or, more likely, both. End of story. No one ever questioned any of this. Well, no one except little Bea.

  As angry as I feel toward Bea, I now consider the bigger picture—what might’ve been. Suppose Bea had told her mother and Mrs. Jones had called the police…and what if Mother had been arrested, either for murder or attempted murder if my father had survived? I imagine the scandal…the humiliation…the trial…my mother spending time in jail…my father continuing to live as recklessly as he had done in the past… Would I have preferred that sort of scenario? Of course not. If what Bea is saying is true, I should be grateful to her, and I should probably apologize for treating her the way I did. In time, perhaps I will. But not today.

  Thinking of Bea reminds me of the towels in the washing machine, so I decide to put them in the dryer. As I’m turning on the dryer, I notice the movement of something eggplant-colored across my backyard. I peer more closely and see that it’s Bea heading across my yard toward her house with a laundry basket that appears to be heavy.

  Curious as to what she’s carrying, I move closer to the window, and that’s when I notice that my trash pile, the one that resembled the melted snowman, is gone. I just shake my head. Why should I care if Bea wants those horrible towels and ruined rug? She is more than welcome to them. Good riddance!

  I continue to pace around my house, replaying Bea’s strange story. I try to imagine my mother, a woman with the patience of Job, being driven to such an extreme corner that she would whack my father over the head like that. For years she quietly put up with his shenanigans, she looked the other way when he indulged in affairs, she cleaned up his messes when he came home intoxicated.

  My mother, the one who was raised in luxury and affluence, worked her fingers to the bone, paid the bills, and took care of everything while my father acted like a spoiled prince and refused to get his hands dirty. She put up with so much for so long. So why did Mother break down? Why did she suddenly and completely lose her temper that night? What would drive a person like her to act that way? And the more I consider all this, the more likely it seems that she had a reason to be enraged. What Bea reported must be true.

  And the real victim here must be Violet.

  My legs feel like rubber bands, and I am so weak that all I can do is sit in the living room and think…and remember. The mind is a remarkable thing. It’s able to repress as well as to recall. And I realize now that I have probably repressed much in the past seventy years. It’s a wonder I can remember these things at all now. Yet they come rushing back at me—with a force that’s overwhelming.

  It started shortly after the back rub incident, about the same time I began distancing myself from my father. Somehow I instinctively knew that my father was dangerous—and that I wanted no part of it. So I spent more and more time with Caroline, including spending the night at her house whenever I got the chance.

  During this time, I didn’t only push Father away, but I pushed Violet away as well. Instead of doing things with her, I did things with Caroline. Naturally, Violet was jealous. And, I suppose, she was hurt.

  I am sure I convinced myself that my choices had to do with survival—my survival. I never even considered the possibility that my fight to survive might have included sacrificing my little sister. Violet was such a plain girl, so quiet and mousy, so wrapped up in her silly books. I don’t think I could even imagine my father being interested in someone like her, not the way he had been interested in me.

  In some ways, I didn’t even blame him for his interest in me—certainly it was twisted and wicked—but I was a pretty girl. And I kept myself up. My hair was always clean and shiny and blond. I imitated the movie stars and dressed as well as I could, and I carried myself with pride. Naturally that was attractive. But Violet did none of those things.

  Still, if I dig deeply into my memory…there were signs. Signs I chose to ignore.

  At first I was jealous when Father began inviting Violet to do things with him. Whether it was a nature walk in the woods or going out to look at the stars on a summer night, it was Violet who was invited, not me. And if she protested, as she began to do later on, he would make her feel guilty by playing the poor injured father that nobody loved. He would make such a scene that Violet would finally give in. Poor Violet.

  Before I can stop myself, I go to the phone, dial Information, and ask for McLachlan Manor. And the next thing I know, my sister is on the other end.

  “Violet,” I say with a thick voice. “This is Claudette.”

  “What do you want?” Her tone is sharp and guarded.

  “I want to talk to you.”

  “Then talk.”

  “No, I want to talk to you in person.”

  “Why?” She sounds very suspicious now.

  “Because I think we need to.”

  “Are you going to accuse me of trying to drive you crazy?”

  “What?” Then I remember what I said to the police. “Oh, Violet. I really felt I was going crazy that day. You have no idea.”

  “I think I have some idea.”

  “Yes, perhaps. But it was even worse than you knew. Look, I am terribly sorry I said those things. All I can say is that, at the time, it seemed reasonable.”

  “Can you imagine how embarrassing it was to be questioned by the police?”

  “More embarrassing than being cornered in my bedroom that morning?”

  “Maybe… Fortunately I had good alibis. My friends at McLachlan stood up for me. Of course, now everyone here thinks that Claudette Fioré has lost her mind.”

  “Yes, I figured as much.”

  “What do you want to talk about, Claudette?”

  “I want to talk about us, our family, just things… I thought perhaps I could pick you up tomorrow, bring you over here… We could talk.”

  She lets out a long sigh. “I don’t know. You were acting awfully strange last week. I don’t think I’d be comfortable alone with you.”

  I consider this. “How about if Caroline comes along?”

  “That might make it better.”

  “Are you comfortable talking about family things in front of Caroline?”

  “I’m sure she knows as much about our family as anyone. Didn�
��t you tell her everything when you were girls?”

  “Maybe…”

  So it’s decided. We will meet at nine thirty Monday morning. I offer to pick the two of them up, but Violet suggests they hire Roberto to drive them to my house instead. She still doesn’t trust me. Perhaps she thinks I plan to kidnap her or maybe that I’m going to drive us all off a cliff like in that strange movie Thelma & Louise.

  Then Violet, in a slightly cynical tone, asks if she should dress warmly, and I assure her that the heat is back on. As soon as I hang up, someone knocks on my door. I just hope it’s not Bea. I do want to straighten things out with her. Just not right now. I brace myself as I open the door.

  “Special delivery,” Garth says with a wide grin.

  “What?”

  “The art we’re swapping. I was enjoying the vibrancy your paintings brought to the gallery, and I got to thinking about you here with your empty walls, and I felt guilty. Celia wrote up some on-loan contracts this morning. Not as involved as the consignment ones, but if you’ll look them over and sign them, I’ll bring in the art and put it up for you.”

  So just like that, I have art and life and color again. I thank Garth for thinking of me, and to my surprised relief, I discover that I like his paintings nearly as much as the ones I’m forced to let go. Perhaps in time I will like his art even more.

  Knowing that I’m having visitors tomorrow inspires me to dust and straighten my house. I want everything to be vastly different from the last time Violet was here. I even get the fireplace ready for a cheerful fire—and I get my hands dirty and open the flue.

  Finally it’s nine o’clock and everything seems to be in its place. My reward for my effort, besides a tidy house, is to sit down with the last of Gavin’s letters to my mother. There are only a few left. And the main topic seems to be God and what happens when we die.

  Dear Mother,

  I wish I had the sort of faith that you described in your last letter. I can’t imagine getting up one morning and suddenly believing that not only is there a God but that he is smiling upon me, ready to welcome me with open arms. That’s not the God I heard about when I was growing up. The God my father preached about was an angry God. He hated sin and sent sinners to hell, where they gnashed their teeth and cried for millions of years. Naturally, according to my father’s theology, I would be among them. So I quit believing in things like heaven or hell. I suppose I never completely quit believing in God, since that was ingrained in me. But I began to believe that if I did enough good things, if I treated people fairly, did my best, lived honorably… that God might reconsider sending me to hell when the time came. I’m sure that must sound silly. It even does to me. But it was the best I could do. Now I’m not so sure. I think I need something more. I’m just not sure how to go about it. Enlighten me.

  Love always,

  Gavin

  As I fold the letter and replace it in the envelope, I consider Gavin’s theory about God and heaven. As far as I know, Gavin was always a good man, an honorable man. In an industry with more than its fair share of scoundrels, Gavin’s reputation in Hollywood was sterling, the gold standard even. And if dear Gavin was worried about not making it to heaven, I hate to imagine where I might be sent when my time comes.

  Of course, I’ve never been inclined to believe anything the least bit religious. I’ve always felt life is what you make it. That’s all. But now as I read Gavin’s letters, which appear to be written in all sincerity, I am not so sure. And as I consider how many things in my life have recently been turned upside down, I think there is the distinct possibility that even more surprises could be in store.

  The next two letters include a number of questions about whether faith is a gift or something we must fabricate in ourselves, whether the Bible is really “the inspired word of God” or just a historical document, and whether or not a loving God could really send “innocent people to hell.” All good questions, I suppose, but not the sort of thing I would have ever given much thought. Still, Gavin was always a deep thinker. He always looked at all sides of a story. Some say that’s what made him such a brilliant director.

  Finally I have the last letter in my hand. Its date is March of 2002, just one month before Gavin’s death.

  Dear Mother,

  Something amazing happened to me yesterday. You know how I’ve been pestering you with so many questions and how hard it’s been for me to grasp the concept of faith. Yet you keep telling me that faith is a gift from God. You even wrote down the Scripture reference. And yet I could not get that through my thick head. Yesterday I was out in the yard, just sitting in the sunshine having a glass of iced tea, enjoying the sounds of the birds in the trees, the flowers, the air…and suddenly something happened inside of me. It was as if something inside me just clicked, or as if the hand of God turned the key that unlocked the door. I’m not even sure how to describe it because it is nearly indescribable. But I knew—I absolutely knew that God was real, that he loved me, and that he has made the way for me to enter into heaven. Just like you’ve been telling me, just like the Bible says. I knew all I had to do was to believe and to receive. So very, very simple. Isn’t it just like you’d been telling me? Faith really is a gift that only God can give. And now it is a done deal. My soul is at peace. Thank you for helping me on this journey, dear woman. If I do not see you again in this earthly life, I do look forward to giving you a great big hug in heaven. What do you know!

  Love eternally,

  Gavin

  While this letter does not surprise me, I do find it deeply unsettling. Primarily because it seems that both Gavin and my mother discovered something that seems just outside my reach. Suddenly I feel like that young girl who wanted it all—the fancy dresses, the expensive jewelry, the luxury cars, the beautiful mansions—and always it remained just beyond my reach. But then I grew up and took my life into my own hands. I did what it took to get what I wanted, and I thought that it worked.

  But now I am not so sure. Now, I find myself back in that same place again—still reaching, still grasping, still wanting… never enough. Sometimes I think my curse in this life is never to be satisfied. Perhaps it will be my curse in the afterlife as well.

  Or maybe what Gavin said in that final letter was true. Maybe faith really is a gift from God. But if that’s the case, what must I do to get God to give it to me?

  I wake up earlier than usual on Monday—a good thing, for I have much to do. I quickly but carefully dress, and then I go next door and knock on Bea’s door. It’s just a little before nine, but because Bea made herself comfortable knocking on my door at odd hours, I think I should be safe.

  She opens the door, then blinks in surprise. She is wearing a fuzzy pink bathrobe and her hair sticks out in all directions. “Claudette?”

  “I am sorry to disturb you like this, but I just wanted to say some things.”

  “What?”

  “First of all, I want to apologize for how I reacted yesterday… when you told me about my mother…and my father…”

  She waves her hand. “Oh, pish posh, who could blame you? I’m sure it was a shocking thing to hear. I could’ve told it a bit more gently. I’ve never been accused of being very restrained. My husband used to say I had hoof-and-mouth disease.”

  “What?”

  “Meaning I was always sticking my hoof in my mouth.”

  “Oh…well, I gave what you told me some thought, and I realized that, as hard as it was to hear, you must’ve been telling me the truth. Not only that, but I should have been more grateful, Bea. I most appreciate that, even though you were a child, you were very thoughtful of my mother and her situation… You cared enough to protect her. I thank you for that.”

  “Well, I—I just don’t know what to say.”

  “Now I should get back to my house. I’ve invited Violet to come over for coffee this morning. I want to talk to her about, well, what you told me.”

  Bea nods with a serious expression. “I expect that’ll be a g
ood thing for both of you.” Then she grins. “Maybe you’d like some pumpkin nut bread to go with your coffee. I just happen to have an extra loaf. Could you use it?”

  “That sounds very nice, Bea.”

  “Come in out of the cold while I go get it.”

  Now I’m not so sure that I really want to go inside her house. Yet I am curious. And once inside, I’m not surprised that Bea’s house, like her, is a mishmash of clashing colors and unrelated styles. She also appears to have a fondness for cheesy porcelain figurines and knickknacks. Shelves cover her walls, filled with all sorts of things. I hate to imagine what would happen if we ever experienced an earthquake up here.

  “Here you go.” She hands me a foil-wrapped loaf. “Tell your sister hello for me.”

  “I will. Thank you for this.” I make my way to the door.

  “And I’m holding you to your promise, Claudette.”

  “What’s that?” I turn and peer at her.

  “You know, for happy hour. You said we’d have wine and cheese some night around fiveish. I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Oh yes.” I nod uneasily. “That’s right.”

  As I walk back to my house, I consider my “happy hour” promise. What could I have been thinking? Still, I have more pressing matters to focus on now. I will think about Bea another day.

  I do one last check of my house. I want everything to be as perfect as possible. I light a fire, making sure it’s venting properly up the chimney, and then I go to the kitchen and make coffee. I get out my sterling tray and set out my Limoges cups and saucers, cream and sugar, spoons and napkins. I carefully slice the pumpkin bread and arrange it on a Limoges plate as well. Then I check the clock. It’s nine forty. Only ten minutes late… I know I shouldn’t be concerned. After all, I’ve been known to be two hours late to a party in the past, fashionably late. Yet for some reason it doesn’t strike me as either fashionable or polite now.