LimeLight

by Melody Carlson

  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?”

  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?

  After 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 d
o 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.