LimeLight (27 page)

She nods, then sets off to search through my cupboards and laundry room, producing cleaning things I didn’t even know I had, as well as a brand-new mop. Michael must’ve been the one to put these things together. Too bad he didn’t have time to give
me some instruction before he left. Then Irene puts me to work spraying some sort of foaming cleaner onto the hallway carpet, and she starts mopping the bathroom floor.

“Excuse me,” calls a man. I go out to the living room to see the plumber standing at the door. “I think you should be good to flow now.”

“Good to flow?”

“You know, the water—it should be flowing just fine. Why don’t you flush the toilet a couple of times just to make sure.”

So I go back to the bathroom. “The plumber said to flush the toilet,” I tell Irene. She’s over by the shower, just dipping her mop into the bucket of water.

“Yes?”

“Should I do it?”

“Well, of course.”

“What if it overflows again?”

She chuckles. “Then we shall just clean it up again.”

So I push the handle and watch as the water miraculously goes down. “It works!” I say, victorious. I wait for the bowl to fill, then flush it again. “It still works.”

“Hurray.” Irene returns to mopping.

“It works!” I proclaim to the plumber.

He’s writing something on a small pad. Then he tears off a piece of paper and hands it to me. “Here you go.”

“What’s this?” I peer down to a line that reads Amount Due.

“A bill, of course.”

“But I don’t have any cash on me.”

“It’s okay. The lady at Senior Services said you’d send me a check once you got your banking and everything set up.”

“Oh yes. Of course.” I smile. “Thank you.”

“You have a happy Thanksgiving now.”

“You too,” I call as he heads back to his rooster van.

By one thirty, Irene and I have made real progress. The entire house smells amazingly clean, and the only chore left to do, besides my messy bedroom, is to wash the dishes and clean the kitchen.

“I do not know how to thank you.” I peel off another layer of clothes and toss them into the laundry room on a growing pile I intend to throw in the trash. The heat still isn’t on, but all this work has warmed me some. Plus, we’ve managed to keep the fire going.

She just smiles. “I suppose you don’t remember me, Claudette.”

“What?” I peer at her more closely. “Have we met before?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we have.”

“Where?”

“You really
don’t
remember, do you?”

I strain my memory, trying to remember where I’ve seen this woman. Admittedly, she is attractive and rather stylish. “Did you live in Beverly Hills?”

She laughs. “Not even close. I used to be Irene Yorker. I went to school with you right here in Silverton.”

My eyes widen.
Irene Porker
—the fat girl we teased relentlessly in school? I swallow hard. “Irene Yorker?” I repeat, careful to get the last name correct.

“Yes. You might not remember me… I was very chubby, and some kids called me Irene
Porker.
” She smiles sadly. “Funny, even after all these years, it still stings a bit to think of that.”

“I do remember you.” Now I’m trying to remember if I ever actually teased her—to her face, that is. I’m absolutely certain I said horribly mean things behind her back. And while no one ever considered me a particularly kind or caring person in school, I did have a sense of decorum. My mother made sure that Violet and I practiced good manners. When we were young, she taught us to behave ourselves and “act like ladies.” Especially in public.

In fact, that was one of the traits that first attracted Gavin to me. He believed I was truly a lady—something that couldn’t be said for all actresses back then, or even now, for that matter. Oh, he might’ve thought otherwise, from time to time, after we married, but I usually tried to maintain a certain sensibility, and in most situations, I could maintain the appearance of good etiquette. “But you’ve changed,” I continue. “Of course, we all have changed. Age does that.”

“I lost the weight after high school,” she says. “It was in college and my first time living away from home. I changed my eating habits, and the pounds just seemed to drop away.”

I nod. “As I recall, your family tended to be heavy.”

She laughs. “That’s an understatement, if there ever was one. They were all horribly obese. My mother grew up in the South, and she loved to cook, and she fried everything.”

“That would make it difficult.”

“Yes, I can remember being called names like Bacon Fat because I came to school smelling like bacon grease.”

I chuckle. “That’s probably because everyone was jealous that you’d had bacon for breakfast and we were lucky to have oatmeal.”

“But oatmeal would’ve been healthier.”

“Didn’t your dad run the grocery store and the meat lockers?”

“Yes. It might’ve been the Great Depression for other people, but the Yorkers always had plenty of food.”

“Speaking of food, I’m starving.” I’m about to invite Irene to go out for lunch when I remember that I’m broke.

“Do you have anything we can fix here?”

I consider this. “Well, I did get groceries a couple of days ago.” Then I look down at my still grimy clothes. “Perhaps I should clean up a bit first.”

“Why don’t you go do that? I’ll see if I can scrape us together something.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Go ahead, Claudette. Take your time… Take a shower, if you like.”

“A shower?” I sigh. “That sounds lovely.”

So I do take a shower, a long lovely shower, using the last remaining Egyptian cotton towel. And I take my time to get dressed, fuss with my hair, and put on makeup. Fortunately I didn’t ruin all of my winter clothes. I put on my gray Ralph
Lauren tweed trousers, a burgundy cashmere sweater set, and pearls. When I go out to the kitchen, I almost feel like myself again.

“You’ve cleaned up in here,” I say when I notice the clear sink and countertops.

“I find that I’m a better cook with clean surfaces.” She directs me to the table, which is all set. “I was just finishing up this salad to go with our soup and sandwiches.”

“This looks delicious,” I tell her as I sit down.

“Well, they were your ingredients.”

“That might be true, but I never could’ve put them together like this.” I examine the salad, which looks like it could’ve been from one of Beverly Hills’ best restaurants.

“Do you mind if I ask a blessing?” she says just as I’m reaching for my fork.

I pull my hand back. “Not at all.”

Then she bows her head. “Dear heavenly Father, thank you for all your good provisions. Thank you for loving us and taking care of us. And thank you for new friends. Now, please, bless this food to our use. Amen.” She looks up and smiles.

“That was nice. My late husband had taken to saying a blessing before meals. It was a practice he started just a few months before he passed away. At first I wasn’t quite sure what to think of it, since we’d been married for nearly sixty years and he’d never been the least bit religious. But then I got rather used to it… It had something of a calming effect on me. Perhaps it
was a digestion aid. But then Gavin died, and I haven’t heard anyone say a blessing since.”

“I grew up in a churchgoing family,” she says. “So I don’t remember a time when they didn’t ask a blessing. But I rebelled against it for a while in my adulthood.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. In college I decided that I was far too smart and sophisticated for my old-fashioned, fat-eating family.” She chuckles. “I’m glad they didn’t give up on me so easily.”

As we partake in what proves to be a rather tasty lunch, Irene tells me about how she got her teaching degree, then married and had children, and then returned to college for a higher degree. But I have difficulty focusing because I keep wondering,
How can this woman possibly be the same Irene (Porker), the smelly fat girl that no one wanted to sit with during lunchtime?

A
fter lunch, Irene gives me a step-by-step lesson on how to operate the washer and dryer. “It looks like it might take you a few days to get on top of this.” She nods to the heap of clothes on the floor. “The main thing to remember when you’re doing your wash, Claudette, is
do not leave wet laundry in the washer.
”

“Why?”

“Because your things will mildew and then it’s very difficult to get that smell out. Also, you might want to get some laundry baskets to keep your things off the floor.”

“Oh…” I sigh deeply. “So much to do, so much to remember… Do you think I’ll ever be able to do this on my own?”

“It might take some time, but if you don’t give up, you’ll get the hang of it. In the meantime, I recommend you make and use lists.”

“More lists?”

“You already have lists?”

“Well, my stepson gave me some lists before he left.”

“And you’ve been using them?”

“Well, somewhat…” I almost laugh. “It’s just too bad I didn’t take his lists more seriously—I wouldn’t have gotten into so much trouble with things like plumbing and heating yesterday.”

“Speaking of heating, what sort of backup do you have in here, besides the fireplace, I mean?”

“That’s just the problem. I have no backup.”

“You should go to the hardware store and pick up a couple of space heaters. They have these small ceramic units that are highly efficient and don’t take up much room.”

“Wait a minute,” I tell her as I head back in the house. “I think I should write this down.”

After I make myself a new list, I ask Irene how she got so smart about these things, and she just laughs. “When you don’t live the lifestyles of the rich and famous, you learn to do things for yourself, Claudette.”

“Yes, I suppose.” It’s the first reference Irene has made to my former life. I was actually starting to wonder if she was even aware of who I was or who I had been married to…and it was somewhat disappointing.

We’re standing by the front door now, and she’s putting on her coat and getting ready to leave. But she pauses to look at the photo montage Michael arranged for me on the wall by the door.

“Is that your late husband?” She points to a shot of Gavin and me taken in the Mediterranean.

“Yes…” I gaze with longing at the photo taken back in the sixties. I was still quite a beauty back then, still looked good in a
swimsuit. “We were in Monte Carlo… I’d just turned forty and felt that life as I knew it was about to end.”

She chuckles. “Isn’t life ironic?”

“Yes. Here I am more than forty years older, thinking how young I looked.”

She points to another. “Is that Joan Crawford with you in that shot?”

“Yes, although I called her Billie.” I sigh.

“And is that Rita Hayworth?”

“Yes. Gavin was doing a film with her.”

“You’ve had an exciting life, Claudette, lots of colorful friends.”

“If only I could turn back the clock.”

“And do what?” She peers curiously at me. “Just live the same thing all over again? Or would you do it differently?”

I consider this. The truth is, I don’t really know. Most of me would like to simply go back and do the same thing all over again—just for the pure fun of it. But I suppose a part of me has some regrets.

“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.”