LimeLight (34 page)

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 dogs 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.”

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?”