LimeLight (26 page)

She stands up, goes over to the painting, and studies it carefully. Then she turns and peers at me. “It’s authentic?”

“Unlike
some
people, I do not care for imitations.”

She points to my hand. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that diamond ring is real too?”

I roll my eyes. “My husband got it for our fortieth anniversary. He was extremely wealthy. Why would I wear a fake?”

“Because it’s huge. No way can it be real.”

“Last time I checked, it was insured for half a million.”

Melinda shakes her head. “And yet you are living in squalor, Mrs. Fioré, using your kitchen as a toilet, and you have human feces on the floor of your bathroom. Doesn’t any of this strike you as odd?”

“Terribly odd.”

“Why don’t you hire household help?”

“Because I must live on a budget now. A very small budget.”

“But you could sell something.” She points to my hand. “I’m sure that ring alone could pay for maid service for the rest of your life.”

“Sell my ring?”

“Or some art. If they really are originals, you’d only need to sell a few and you’d be set for some time.”

“My art?” I say sadly, looking up at the Scully. “And then what would I have left?”

“You might have a clean house and plumbing that works.”

“I suppose…”

“Look, Mrs. Fioré, I can’t help you if you won’t let me. Or if you’re unwilling to help yourself. If that’s the case, we would need to find another living situation for you. But if your paintings and jewelry are authentic and as valuable as you say, then I’m wasting my time here. I have truly impoverished people who actually need Social Services.” She studies me closely. “Unless, of course, you have some other challenges, such as the onset of
Alzheimer’s, dementia, or some other mental health issue. Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

I just shake my head. This woman may think she understands old people, but she does not understand me. I hold up my hands in true desperation. “I
do
need help, Melinda. This is the truth… I do not know how to do the simplest of things. I do not have a phone. I do not have heat. My plumbing does not work. And until I can call my accountant, I am temporarily broke. Now, if you really think I should go downtown and pawn my wedding ring to—”

“No, no, I’m not suggesting that.” She actually seems to give this some thought. “Okay, Mrs. Fioré, this is what we’ll do. Since tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and it’ll be hard to get help, I’ll call the phone company right away. I’ll tell them to get in here today and that it’s an emergency.”

“It certainly feels like an emergency to me.”

She nods and writes something down. “Yes, I’m sure it does.” Then she looks up at me. “And then I’ll call a plumber and tell him it’s an emergency as well.”

“Thank you.”

“And I’ll get the oil company out here too.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“Anything else?”

“I think that should help immensely, thank you.”

She puts her notebook back in the briefcase. “And if I’m going to get these people out here today, I’ll have to jump on it.”
She stands and hooks her handbag over her arm. “You really knew this was a fake?”

I nod. “But if it’s any comfort to you, I am rather an expert at these things.” I look down at my sorry looking outfit. “Although I’m sure you wouldn’t know by looking at me just now…”

“No, but I did notice a nice-looking Kelly bag in your bedroom and several other items I wouldn’t mind having.”

I smile at her. “Maybe I should have a boudoir sale.”

“Hey, if you do, let me know.”

As Melinda leaves, I think it’s possible that I misjudged her earlier. She actually seems somewhat decent, and I find myself wanting to trust her. I just hope she’s sincere about getting me the help I so desperately need.

It has not been easy to admit how helpless I really am. On the other hand, I do not think I can possibly face another night like the one I experienced last night.

A
s soon as Melinda leaves, I straighten my living room. It’s true that I don’t know the first thing about housekeeping, but it’s also true that I’m somewhat lazy, not that I would care to admit this to anyone. But when it comes to menial labor, I am rather unmotivated. However, I was never lazy when it came to other physical exertions, like yoga, golf, tennis, boating…but then those activities were enjoyable.

As I pick up items of clothing, trying to decide the best places to put them (do I keep them or toss them out?), I realize that I’m getting warmer. I suppose this is from moving about. But the fire has burned down to glowing embers. Fortunately someone, probably that attractive paramedic, has set extra firewood on the hearth. So I throw on a few more logs and continue with my cleaning.

As I continue puttering about, putting things where they belong, I observe something quite ironic, something that actually surprises me. Putting a room back in order leaves one with a feeling of something… I believe it’s
accomplishment.
I try to remember who told me this tidbit about housekeeping—that it
is its own reward. I think it was Busybody Bea! Perhaps I’m starting to grasp this concept.

I take a break and fix myself some coffee and a bite of breakfast. But as I sit at the table in my still messy kitchen with my makeshift toilet still in the center of the room, I wonder if Melinda will really follow through with her promises. Perhaps I should consider getting myself a room at that ratty old Motel 6 on the edge of town. Then, as I’m rinsing my cup and plate, someone knocks at the door. I peek out the front window to see a red van, with the black silhouette of a rooster and the words
Rooster Rooter
painted on the side, parked out front. And when I go to the door, a man in brown coveralls is standing on my porch.

“Morning, ma’am. I hear you got plumbing problems.”

“Yes!” I say as if I am happy about that. “Come in!” I open the door wider and let him in.

“Can you tell me what’s going on exactly?”

“Well, first I flushed the toilet, and it didn’t go down like it should.” I grimace to remember. “In fact, it went all over the bathroom floor. Then I took a shower, and the water didn’t go down at all. It seems things are stopped up.”

“Uh-huh. Sounds like a drain problem to me.”

“Well, my stepson helped me move into this house recently, and he mentioned that I should get a plumber to look at the pipes, or something to that effect. Someone told him that if a house sits too long, there could be plumbing problems.”

“That sounds right.” He nods. “I’ll go take a look.”

“The bathroom is this way,” I tell him, wishing it wasn’t in such bad shape.

“No, my work is mostly outside, ma’am.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll root out your sewer line, and we’ll see if that solves the problem.”

He heads outside and I go and try to figure out how to clean the horrible mess still in my bathroom—just in case he needs to go in there. But I just stand there in the doorway holding my breath and feeling utterly helpless. Where does one even begin?

Finally, I close the door and return to the kitchen to ponder my dilemma. Seeing my makeshift toilet only makes me feel worse. This has to go. I carefully carry the Crock-Pot outside, empty its contents in the shrubbery, and set it beside the trash can, which is already full to overflowing.

I feel slightly better when I go back in the house and wash my hands. At least that’s gone now. The memory of Melinda standing here and staring at it is more than I can bear. I shudder to think of all that I’ve been through in the past twenty-four hours. My heart must be in excellent condition.

Then, seeing the large plastic crate still on the kitchen floor gives me an idea. Perhaps I can use this to transport the ruined towels from my bathroom out to the trash. But then I remember the smell in there. I’m not sure I can possibly endure it without losing my breakfast. What I need is a gas mask.

I pace back and forth until I finally think I have a solution. I get a silk scarf, which I spray with cologne and then tie around my face like a bandit’s mask. I glance at my image in the mirror and just shake my head. Oh, if my friends could see me now.

I hurry to get the crate and prepare to do the nasty task. But I cannot bear to touch those soiled towels. If only I had some rubber gloves. Then I spot the ugly purple suede gloves. Who cares if I ruin those things? So with my scarf and my purple gloves, I roll up my sleeves and attack that bathroom. First I remove the rug, using the crate to transport it, carrying it through the house at arm’s length. I dump the ruined carpet next to the trash can. Then, one at a time, I do the same with the soggy, putrid towels and clothes, until I’m dumping the last one, lamenting over the fact that these thick white towels—made of the finest Egyptian cotton and of a quality I will not see again anytime soon—are history.

“What on earth are you doing?”

I turn to see a woman staring at me with an expression that suggests she has just spotted an alien from Mars. She is nicely dressed in a Harris tweed A-line skirt, soft brown leather boots, a well-cut tan suede jacket, and a pretty plaid silk scarf. Her hair is hidden by a brown felt hat, complete with a jaunty little feather. And although she’s dressed in a rather stylish and youthful way, I can tell she is actually quite old. Perhaps even older than I.

Naturally, seeing this well-dressed woman in my backyard,
while I am still garbed like the neighborhood bag lady bandit and dumping trash that smells like raw sewage, makes me rather uncomfortable.

Even so, I stand up straight and hold my head high, which reminds me that besides the strange layers of clothes, soiled purple gloves, and bandit scarf, I still have on the horrid red ski hat as well. A pretty picture. Despite all this, I manage to demand, “Who are you?” in a rather haughty voice.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that. But I knocked on the front door and no one answered. The nice plumber said that he’d seen you doing something out back.” She smiles. “My name is Irene Hawthorne. Melinda from Senior Services asked me to come over to visit you. I volunteer for them.”

I frown at her as I attempt to peel off the slightly damp and smelly suede gloves, which I toss into my steadily growing trash pile next to the garbage can. Then I reach up and carefully remove the silk scarf, wipe my hands on it, wad it up, and toss it on top of the pile too.

“You’re throwing that pretty scarf away?”

I nod and pull off the dreadful ski hat and dump that as well. “Good riddance.” I step away from the nasty pile, as if it might spring up and attack me. Then I look at this woman, Irene Somebody. “I do not know why Melinda asked you to come visit me. But as you can see, this isn’t a good day for entertaining guests.”

She laughs. “Well, I didn’t expect to be entertained, Mrs. Fioré. I thought perhaps I could lend a hand.”

I look at her attractive ensemble, perfect for a country drive, casual lunch, or a walk in the park, then shake my head. “I don’t think you understand.” I point to the pile of towels, gloves, scarf, and hat, which in a strangely grotesque way resemble a melted snowman. I blink then look back at her. “I have had plumbing problems.”

“I assumed that was why the plumber was here.”

“Yes. Hopefully he will resolve my problem. In the meantime, I still have something of a mess to clean up.”

“And you don’t want help?”

I study her. “Of course I’d love help. If you know of a housekeeping service that can come out here right now, I’d—”

“I am quite good at housekeeping.”

“I’m sure you are, but you’re not really dressed for—”

“How about if you let me be the judge of that?”

Well, this just irks me. Who does this woman think she is anyway? She comes here, nicely dressed, then has the audacity to think she can clean my bathroom. Perhaps I should let her.

“Fine. Follow me.” I lead her into my house, going directly to the still putrid-smelling bathroom. “Do you feel up to cleaning that?”

She sort of laughs, then actually wrinkles her nose. “That is a bit nasty, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong.
I am.
” And already she’s removing her suede jacket, which she hangs over her arm. “Lead me to the cleaning things.”

“Cleaning things?”

“You know…cleansers, mops…that sort of thing.”

“There are a few things under the sink in the kitchen. And I think I saw a mop in the laundry room.”

“That’s a start.” She looks down at the runner in the hallway. “Have you been tromping back and forth over this carpet and through your house?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“Now it will need to be cleaned too.”

“Oh…”

“Too bad you didn’t use a different route.”

“A different route?”

She points to the window. “If it had been me, I’d have simply tossed them out that window.”

I sigh. “I never thought of that.”

She smiles. “That’s just my point, Mrs. Fioré. And exactly why I came to help you. Sometimes two minds are better than one.”

“Right.” I force a smile. “And, please, why don’t you call me Claudette?”