LimeLight (9 page)

I
’m surprised to see familiar terrain now. The towering evergreens loom menacingly over the road. It’s a scene some might call beautiful, and yet it fills me with anxiety and fear.
What am I doing?
Why did I allow Michael to talk me into this crazy trip?

Perhaps I should demand that we stop this nonsense, turn my car around, and go back to Los Angeles, where I’ll bet it’s not raining. Both Michael and I have been quiet for a bit, and with each passing mile, I feel more and more nervous.

I estimate that we’re about forty miles away from Silverton. But thanks to the twisting road, which seems to have gotten even curvier than I recall, as well as the rain coming down in sheets, I’m sure it will take a good hour to get there.

“So, were they ever happy?” Michael breaks the silence, interrupting my thoughts. “I mean your parents. After they got married and moved to the house in Silverton, were they happy?”

I consider this, then slowly shake my head. “Not that I ever saw.”

“And was your grandfather right about Claude?”

“My grandfather had him pegged. My father was both an alcoholic and a philanderer…and a few other things as well.”

“Your poor little mother. Pity she didn’t listen to her parents.”

“And a pity she was too stubborn to ask them for help.”

“But it seems her father had made it clear where he stood.” He shudders. “Goodness, I couldn’t imagine how it would feel to have a parent tell you that you were dead to them. Horrifying.”

“Yes, I suppose…” Still, the little girl in me was shaking her fist, wishing my mother had set aside her pride and told her parents that she was struggling. What might it have been like if a set of wealthy grandparents had stepped into our lives and helped us a bit, perhaps even rescued us altogether? How different things might’ve been. “But we were so pitifully poor, Michael.”

“And your father never worked?”

“As little as possible. My mother worked her fingers to the bone. And I have to give her some credit. She did all she could to make things better for her girls.”

I try to shove away the image of my mother hunched over her ironing board on a hot afternoon, the sweat literally pouring down her face. She eventually developed a hump in her back. I’m sure it was from all the laundering she did…for the few rich folks in town. Not that they paid her much. “Slave wages,” my dad used to say to her in disgust. And yet he treated her like a slave too.

“Even after doing laundry all day long, my mother would still sit down at night and mend our clothes or darn our socks.
She’d cut cardboard into insoles to make our shoes last longer and then she’d polish the shoes so they looked almost new. Or, if she had a bit of fabric, she would sew us something special. She was a whiz at creating clothes or even redesigning old things. A lot of our dresses were fashioned out of old items of her own clothing, remnants of her former life when she’d been well off. So despite being poor and that it was the Depression, Violet and I went out the door looking perfectly respectable. In fact, we were some of the best-dressed girls at school.”

“Your mother sounds like a saint.”

A tear slips down my cheek. I open my handbag and remove a handkerchief, using it to dab the wetness. “Maybe she was…more than I knew.”

“I know your mother passed away around the same time as Gavin, but how about your father?”

“Fortunately for my mother, he died fairly young. I don’t think he was even forty. I’d been away from home a couple of years by then, and my acting career, brief though it was, seemed to be taking off. I didn’t even go back for the funeral.”

“Any regrets about that?”

“I don’t see why. My father meant nothing to me. If I’d gone to his funeral, it would have only been to say ‘good riddance.’”

“You sound a little bitter, Claudette.”

I adjust my posture, holding my chin up higher. “I don’t think I’m bitter, Michael. It’s just that I simply don’t care. All that was so very long ago. I moved on. I left it all behind me. I wouldn’t even be going there now…if I weren’t, well,
going there now.
”

Michael chuckles. “I have a theory.”

“And this theory somehow relates to me?”

“Mind you, I’m still working this theory out.” He sighs. “But I’ve come to believe that perhaps life is not meant to go perfectly smoothly.”

“Is that so?” I feel skeptical and suspicious. What is he getting at?

“Some people’s lives do seem to go fairly smoothly. For instance you and Gavin… Did you know that I used to envy you?”

I smile. “You envied us?”

“Of course. Lots of people did.”

“Really?” I turn and look at him with genuine interest now. These are the stories I truly enjoy hearing—people who envied me. Delightfully delicious.

“For starters you and Gavin
appeared
to be happily married, and we all know what a rare accomplishment that is in Hollywood.” He chuckles, and I know that he knows more than he’s saying, but I must give him credit for his self-control. “You were beautiful, Claudette. You maintained yourself and aged gracefully. Gavin was talented and brilliant and admired. You had a lovely home and an interesting circle of friends. You traveled the world. Really, who wouldn’t envy you?”

“I suppose I can see your point,” I say modestly.

“For an outsider looking in, or even for an insider such as myself, you and Gavin seemed to have it all. And your lives, like well-oiled machinery, moved along smoothly and elegantly, hardly a bump along the way.”

I don’t add that this image was more perception than reality. Because, of course, that is the nature of Hollywood. “Yes, I suppose I took it for granted, but Gavin and I did have a rather nice life together.”

“And I went through a time of real jealousy.”

“But your life has gone well.” I hope to sound gracious. “You’re a brilliant designer, you’ve had a good career in film, and—”

“Lots of bumps and bruises along the way.” He shakes his head. “Do you remember when my romance with Jerome went sideways, darling?”

“I remember Gavin and I visited you in the hospital after that fight… Your face was a mess. I still cannot believe you didn’t press charges.”

“Jerome paid all my medical bills. And the dental work too.” He points to his front teeth. “Thank God for implants.” He chuckles. “I’ve said that to people before, and they assume I mean another part of my anatomy. But my point is—rather my theory is—I’ve had some rough times along the way, Claudette. Meanwhile, your life seemed to be going rather well.”

“So, are you suggesting it’s
my turn
to have some bumps in the road? You think I deserve to lose my home, to become old and poor, and to be forced to live in a place like Silverton?”

“I’m not saying you
deserve
it, darling. If I had my way, your life would continue to be smooth and lovely. You’d still be living in Beverly Hills, and your next plastic surgery would make you look like Madonna.”

“Perhaps I don’t understand your theory.”

“As I mentioned, it’s not fully worked out, but I think that life’s bumps and bruises are meant to make us into bigger people. If life goes too smoothly, we never get to realize all that we might possibly be. It’s like something I heard in church a while back.”

“I still find it hard to believe that you go to church, Michael.”

“Well, it’s not your typical church. Imagine a bunch of people in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, standing on the beach, singing along with a couple of guitars and bongo drums, and then listening to a rather brief talk from a man who seems to be the real deal.”

“I’m sure it’s perfectly charming.”

He ignores my jab. “Anyway, a few weeks ago the lesson was about how God can take the negative circumstances in our lives and transform them into something positive. But we have to let him do this. I don’t have it all figured out just yet, but I do like the sound of it. It gives me hope.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“But you’re not buying it.”

The rain has let up some. Enough that I can see the sign up ahead. “Welcome to Silverton,” I read aloud. “Population 5,648.”

“About to become population 5,649?”

I let out a groan and lean back into the seat, closing my eyes to the painfully familiar scene opening up in front of me. Why on earth did I let Michael talk me into this?

“You’re not dead yet, darling. So far so good, right?”

I don’t say a word. I simply sit there and wish that I were dead. It would be so much simpler.

“Here we are on Main Street of Silverton, California,” Michael says in a tour guide voice, obviously for my benefit since my eyes are still closed. I think I am playing dead. “To the right is Frank’s Auto Repair; across the street is Harper’s Hardware… There is Berryhill Shoes, nice little window display. Silverton Market looks like a good place to pick up some groceries. This is quite charming, Claudette. You can actually walk from one shop to the next. One-stop shopping. And there is the drugstore, Pauline’s, complete with Thanksgiving decorations in the windows. I wonder if they still have a soda fountain.”

Despite my resolve to play possum, I sit up and open my eyes. “And up ahead, at the next intersection is Sequoia Street. Take a right and go two blocks.”

“She speaks.” Michael puts on his turn signal.

The town is still dripping wet from this afternoon’s rain. The sky is gray, and puddles are everywhere. Only a couple of people appear to be out. A middle-aged woman ducking into the bank and a teenager smoking a cigarette under an awning. I don’t know if this is because of the rain or just typical of this sad little town.

Michael makes the turn, and I’m tempted to hold my breath, the way I used to as a child, to see if I could make it the two and a half blocks to our house. My only purpose in holding my breath today would be to see if I could expire—permanently.

“Two fifty-eight Sequoia Street.” Michael turns into the short graveled driveway in front of the house. “A bungalow, Claudette! You didn’t tell me it was a bungalow. I absolutely adore bungalow style. Pity you don’t have some Stickley furnishings to go in it. Oh, hurry, hurry, darling. I can’t wait to see everything. How exciting.”

To my surprise, his enthusiasm is almost contagious. I fumble to get my purse and my weary self out of the car. My joints feel stiff and sore, but I manage to stand to my feet and slowly follow Michael up the narrow paved path that leads to the front porch. And that’s when it hits me. “Oh dear, I have no key.”

He turns and frowns at me. “No key?”

I shake my head. “I’m sure I was given one, after my mother died and her lawyer sent the deed to the house and all. But I have no idea where it is right now.”

“No key.” Michael continues on up to the porch, where he pauses to scratch his head. “Did she ever keep one hidden, Claudette?”

I consider this. “When we were kids, Mother did hide an emergency key, just in case Violet or I ever got locked out. But we seldom locked our doors back in those days… No one did. I don’t think anyone ever actually used it. Do you think it could possibly still be here?”

“It’s worth a try.”

I go back down the steps and over to the rosebush, which is sadly in need of pruning, and there beside it is the same old
stone, about the size of a skull. I use the toe of my shoe to push it over, and beneath it is the bottom of a rusty old tin.

Michael stoops down and, using a stick to pry it from the ground, removes the can, which actually crumbles in his hands. But there in the midst of the rusted tin is a brass key, which he presents to me. “The key to your castle, your highness.”

“Thank you.” Then I proceed back to the porch. “Goodness, I hope the locks haven’t been changed.” I open the old screen door. But I can tell that the dark bronze doorknob and lockset are the originals, and the key fits. I open the door but am not sure I want to take the next step. I feel as if I’m paralyzed; my feet are stuck to the porch floor.

“Claudette?” Michael says from behind me. “It’s a bit cold out here.”

I nod. “Yes…I’m going in.” I force one foot in front of the other and walk back into time, back into the house of my childhood. Because of the gray day and the large oak tree that monopolizes the front yard, it’s too dim to see much. I fumble to find the light switch, which as I recall was to the left of the front door.

“Is the electricity turned on?” Michael closes the door behind us, eliminating what little light there was.

“I’ve been paying the bills.” I flip the switch that should turn on the entryway light. To my relief it works. I blink in the brightness, looking around the living room, which doesn’t even seem familiar. And yet it does. I try to distinguish what has
changed and what is the same. “She’s put in carpeting,” I say with dismay.

“Did it have wood floors before?”

“Yes. Lovely dark wood.”

“Then they must still be underneath. We’ll have the carpeting removed.”

“We will?”

“Of course.”

“Look at these windows,” Michael gushes as he pushes back the dust-covered polyester drapes. “Craftsman design, leaded glass, all original.”

I turn on a slightly tacky ceramic table lamp that’s new to me. In fact, most of the furnishings here are not the things I grew up with. I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. I suppose I always imagined my mother stuck in some sort of time warp, still wearing the same sad dresses, using the same sparse furniture pieces. But in a common and unimpressive way, these furnishings have a homier appearance, more comfortable looking than the stiff horsehair couch and wooden chairs I grew up with. And for some reason, I feel a bit better knowing that Mother had this awful plum velvet recliner to sit in. As homely as it is, I can almost imagine her relaxing in it with her feet up. Of course, everything in here is coated with dust, and spider webs give the place the appearance of a slightly haunted house.

“She didn’t exactly have your sense of style when it came to decorating, did she, darling?”

“No. I think one might describe this as early tacky or late Sears and Roebuck.”

He laughs as he holds up a floral pillow in shades of blues and pinks. “But at least everything matches.”