LimeLight (5 page)

“Will you order room service then? You need to have something.”

“Yes,” I promise. “I’ll do that.”

But after I hang up, I simply turn out the light and go back to bed. I don’t unpack my bag, change into pajamas, or even brush my teeth. Why bother?

I wake up early the next morning. It’s still dark out. But I can’t sleep another minute. My bones ache, and my bladder is bursting. Thankfully I’ve never had the incontinence problems so
many of my generation suffer. My doctor said this is one of the benefits of never having children.

I turn on the light and inch my way toward the bathroom, holding on to the bureau and then the wall as I go. I don’t know when I have felt so achy before. It’s as if I’ve been run over by a truck. As I sit on the toilet, I contemplate the cause of my pain. I’ve not been troubled with arthritis, but my doctor assured me that was due to my fairly active lifestyle. I played golf weekly, attended t’ai chi and yoga classes somewhat faithfully. I even walked on my treadmill while watching Jay Leno sometimes. But all that came to a screeching halt when the IRS intruded on my life. I suppose that’s when old age truly began to set in. Perhaps there is no stopping it now.

As I flush the toilet and then wash my hands, I wonder how difficult it would be to get a hold of a prescription for Valium again. Or perhaps there’s another way out.

I pace back and forth in my room for about fifteen minutes. And to my surprise and relief, the movement helps some. My joints loosen up a little, and the pain seems to lessen. Maybe I’m stiff and sore from sleeping so long. Twelve hours is a bit extreme.

I open the drapes to let in the first rays of morning sun and then even do some yoga stretches. Not only do I feel better, but I’m hungry. I call room service, ordering up a pot of strong coffee with cream. And then, feeling a bit optimistic and even adventuresome, I proceed to order bacon and eggs, something
I’ve avoided for decades. “And throw in some pancakes,” I add, feeling slightly reckless. “And orange juice.”

I return to the bathroom, remove my wrinkled Armani suit, place it in a “to be cleaned” bag, and after protecting my hair with a shower cap, I take a long, hot shower.

I’m thankful for the steamed-up mirror as I emerge from the shower. There is an image I do not care to see. I’ve barely dried off and slipped into the hotel bathrobe when I hear someone knocking on the door.

“Your breakfast, ma’am,” says a nice-looking Hispanic man.

I go to my purse, fumble to find a rather generous tip, then thank him.

“Enjoy.”

“Oh, wait.” I head for the dry cleaning bag. “Can you see that this gets cleaned and returned to me today?”

“Certainly.”

Then I sit down and enjoy my cholesterol-ridden breakfast. Why should I care if I choke my arteries at this stage of the game? I attempt to read the newspaper, but the headlines bore me. Even the entertainment section bores me. All true creativity exited Hollywood in the late sixties…about the same time Gavin and so many of the other greats retired. It’s a shame. And now it seems that so many films are simply remakes of the oldies. What is wrong with young people these days? Haven’t they fresh or new thoughts in their heads?

I set the paper aside and pour another cup of coffee, which I top off with cream. Then I resettle myself into the club chair
by the window. It’s not an unpleasant view—well-maintained pool, greens, palm trees. I suppose I could make myself comfortable living in a place like this. Although I would soon be broke at the price of these rooms. Still, I’m sure some decent retirement homes are in the area.

It’s not even eight yet, but I call my accountant anyway. I can leave Jackie a message insisting that I must see him today. I need to know the state of my financial affairs. I need to make a plan of some sort for my future, no matter how brief. And I don’t know how long Michael will be around to help me sort all this out.

I unpack my bags, hanging things up and setting others aside for dry cleaning, in hopes of undoing some of the damage done by the Laurel Hills “laundry.” Then I lay out a Ralph Lauren suit that makes me look rather authoritative. It’s a summer-weight wool, gray herringbone, dignified with classic lines. I choose a cream-colored silk blouse to go beneath it, along with a paisley silk scarf in shades of blue and gray.

I carefully apply makeup, taking my time to get it just right. Then I fuss with my hair until it finally resembles the style from yesterday. Finally I dress. It’s barely nine thirty. Far too early for Michael to be up after a late night last night. Especially if he’s still on Hawaii time, which I suspect is the case.

So I turn on the television and sit down to watch Regis and Kelly. Regis Philbin is a bit younger than me but still going strong. Although he does get cranky at times, and I must hand it to that pretty Kelly girl. She has the patience of Job and the
wit of Johnny Carson—a real class act for someone her age. I can remember when Regis was Joey Bishop’s sidekick back in the sixties. Joey used to pick on poor Regis something terrible. And then one day, Regis walked off the set, right in the midst of a broadcast. He was the talk of the town that week. And here he is still plugging away. I wonder what his secret is.

The television show is just ending when the phone rings. To my relief, it’s Jackie.

“I’m so glad to hear that you’re out,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Old.” I force a laugh. “But that’s not news, is it.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Beverly Hilton.”

“Nice…”

“The reason I called is because I’d like to go over my financial affairs with you today.”

“Oh, today is pretty busy, Claudette.”

“Please. I need to know where I stand. I need to plan for my future.”

“I really am booked, pretty much for the whole week. But I can let Cindy talk to you. I’m sure she can schedule you in for something next week.”

“Next week is not going to work, Jackie.” I use my no-nonsense business voice now. “I must get an accounting of my finances as soon as possible. Do you understand me?”

“How about if I have my secretary print something out for
you? I worked out some things on paper while you were in the hospital. A budget of sorts. I can have Cindy fax it to your hotel, if you like. Did you say the Beverly Hilton?”

Good grief, it’s not as if I haven’t been a good client for Jackie. I most certainly have. He’s handled my finances ever since Gavin died, shortly after I discovered Gavin’s other accountant wasn’t trustworthy, and I’ve paid Jackie well and regularly. He can’t shove me aside simply because of this recent fiasco with the IRS, can he? “Is that the
best
you can do?”

“It is for today.”

“Fine,” I snap at him. “When do you think it’ll be here?”

“Depends on Cindy. But I’ll have her get on it ASAP.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh, Claudette?”

“Yes?” I drum my fingertips on the desktop. I have absolutely no tolerance for this type of shabby behavior. Jackie is a somewhat tacky individual, and to think that I overlooked the fact that he wears unfashionable polyester suits and smells of cheap cologne.

“Well, I don’t know how to put this gently…but you might want to brace yourself. I mean, the IRS was pretty brutal. And that estate sale didn’t bring in nearly what you had hoped…”

“What exactly are you saying, Jackie?”

“I’m saying it’s time to tighten up that old belt.” He chuckles.

I sink back into the chair as the light of realization begins to glimmer.
“What do you mean?”

“Your finances are pretty much tapped.”

I’m finding it difficult to breathe.
“I am broke?”
I manage to gasp.

“Not broke exactly…but you’re down to the bare bones. And you sure can’t keep spending like you were accustomed to. You’ll need to live on a budget from now on. I’ve tried to make some suggestions. But no more buying fancy clothes or expensive meals, if you get my drift.”

“Yes…,” I say slowly, trying to catch my breath. “I think I understand.”

“For starters,” he continues, although I’m finished with this conversation, “you probably won’t want to stay too long at that hotel.”

“I see…” My head is throbbing now. Am I having a stroke? A heart attack perhaps? The doctor assured me that my heart is in good shape, but he couldn’t know everything.

“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Claudette. But you know me; I always give it to you straight.”

“Right.” I take in a quick breath. “I appreciate that.”

“Take care now.”

“Thank you.”

A chilling numbness permeates my being as I hang up the phone. Does this mean I’m out of money? What does “tightening up the old belt” really mean? Or that my finances are “pretty much tapped”—isn’t that how he put it? That does not sound good to me. But what about our IRAs, Social Security, stocks and bonds? Just how much did the IRS really tap us for?

I lean my head back and close my eyes. Gavin made a fortune in his time. And other than hiring that shiftless accountant who cheated the IRS, Gavin was careful with our finances. He invested and reinvested. Our home was paid for. Our bank account was well padded. How could it come to this?

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps I won’t stick around to see the fallout. It is one thing to be old and to lose your looks. But to be poor as well? That is more than I can bear. I’ve been poor before, certainly…but it was long ago. I am determined never to go back there again.

If, as Michael says, growing old is not for the faint of heart, then growing old and impoverished must be far, far worse.

G
ood morning, sunshine,” Michael says when I open the door to my room to see him standing in the hallway. His hair is wet; he has on white linen pants, sandals, and a Hawaiian shirt. Just right for lounging around the pool.

“It isn’t morning. And I am
not
sunshine.”

“But you look lovely, darling.” He nods to my suit. “Are we going somewhere special?”

I shake my head, walk across the room, and sit back down in the chair by the window, the same place I’ve been sitting for the past couple of hours. I feel as if I am stuck. I have no idea where to turn, which way to go.

“Something is wrong.” Michael pulls the straight-back chair out from the desk, arranges it directly in front of me, then sits down, leaning forward with an expression of compassion in his eyes. “Tell Mikie everything.”

“I am broke!” I burst out, clutching the linen handkerchief I’ve twisted into a tight wad. “My accountant just called, and he said I—I am broke.” Now I actually do begin to sob, with real tears.

“Oh my…”

We both just sit there, the only sound is of me sobbing, sniffling, and finally blowing my nose. “I don’t know what to do, Michael. I feel utterly lost.”

“You’re completely broke?” He frowns.

“Well, Jackie didn’t use those terms.”

“Your accountant has a lot of nerve, breaking that kind of news to you on the phone.”

“I urged him on. He was too busy to see me, and I was, well, rather unhappy about that.” I remember something. “And, oh yes, his secretary was going to fax me a statement…so I’ll know exactly where I stand.”

“Fax it?” His brows shoot up with horror. “You mean to this hotel?”

“Yes.”

“For heaven’s sake, Claudette, do you want the whole world to know about your financial crisis? Don’t you understand that a fax is an open document that
anyone
can read—?” But Michael is already on his feet and nearly to the door. “I’ll run down to the office to see if it’s arrived yet. If it hasn’t, I’ll make sure it’s handled with utmost discretion.” Then he swears as he closes the door. And I feel like I’m not only old and poor, but stupid as well. What was I thinking?

Michael returns after about twenty minutes, and he has the dreaded papers in his hand. He is just shaking his head as he hands them to me. “Sorry. I couldn’t help but take a peek on the way back up. I’m sure others have seen it too. The stupid
clerk didn’t even bother to put it in an envelope. I’ve a mind to complain to the management.”

I attempt to study the columns of numbers, to force them to add up and make sense, but it’s as if my eyes won’t focus. Finally I hand the pages back to Michael. “Please, just give me the lowdown. Make it as quick and painless as possible.”

So he tells me some figures, but they seem to just float somewhere over my head. I’ve never been terribly adept with numbers. “Exactly how much do I have to live on? Jackie mentioned I would have a budget. He said he’d made some suggestions.”

Michael tosses out another number.

“Is that what I’m supposed to live on for a month?” I feel a tiny bit hopeful since it doesn’t seem totally impossible.

“That’s for a whole year, Claudette.”

I blink and take in a sharp breath. “Is that even possible?”

He frowns and sets the papers aside. “I don’t know…”

My vision grows blurry. Perhaps I really am having a stroke. One can only hope.

“I’m calling that no-account accountant of yours,” Michael says suddenly. “This just doesn’t sound right to me.”

I simply nod, eyes closed, body limp, unable to speak. Perhaps paralysis is setting in. I can barely hear Michael as he demands to speak to Jackie. The words seem to tumble about and mix together until I feel certain he’s speaking in a foreign language. No matter. I do not even care to listen. It’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.