Cold Shoulder (4 page)

‘Sure, honey, take a shot of this, then what say you and me go and rip up the town? You wanna hit the bars?’

‘Yeah, why not, you son-of-a-bitch?’ Lorraine gave a tough, bitter laugh, and felt herself straightening out as the panic subsided and she was back in control.

That was the first night Lorraine went out to drink alone in one of the old downtown bars. She never knew who she ended up with, she didn’t give a damn, and they didn’t mind when she called them Lubrinski. A lot of Lubrinski lookalikes came and went, and there were many more drunken nights when she didn’t care if Lubrinski was with her or not. All she cared about was getting another drink to keep her away from the terrified woman who screamed.

The downward spiral began the night after Mike left her. It was a long road she travelled, searching for oblivion. It was frighteningly easy. People were real friendly in the bars but they used and stole from her. When the money had gone she sold the furniture, and then the apartment. It was good to have a big stash of money, never to worry where the next bottle came from, and still she kept running from the woman in blue whose terrible screams frightened her so much and dragged her down so far, She could take the fights, and the taunts of prostitutes and pimps. Hell, she had arrested many of them. They pushed her around and spiked her drinks but drunk, she didn’t care. Drunk, the screams were obliterated. Drunk, the men who pawed her meant nothing. Drunk, she could hide, feel some comfort in slobbering embraces, in strange rooms, in beds where the little rabbits didn’t creep into her mind and she didn’t hear the children singing, a high-pitched shrill voice that turned into a scream.

‘Run, rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run… RUN.’

S
HE HAD almost died that night. The hit-and-run driver had probably not even seen her, and Lorraine could remember little. She had been taken to hospital with head injuries. The following weeks were a blur, as she was moved from one charitable organization to another; she had no money and no medical insurance left. Eventually she was institutionalized and preliminarily diagnosed as schizophrenic. To begin with, she was not thought to be an alcoholic as so much else was wrong with her. She had severe abscesses, a minor venereal disease plus genital herpes, skin disorders, and poor physical condition from lack of decent food. Eighty cigarettes a day had left her with a persistent heavy cough. She contracted pneumonia, and for a few days it was doubtful that she would live. When she pulled through, the hallucinations, screaming fits and vomiting made the doctors suspect severe alcohol withdrawal symptoms.

A string of psychiatrists and doctors interviewed her and prescribed various medication. After two months she was transferred to the nightmare of Ward C, Watts City Mental Hospital where LA County sent only their worst cases, the drop-outs and no hopers. Drug-crazed kids, deranged old ladies, suicidal middle-aged women — every fucked-up female soul who walked the earth seemed to be marooned with Lorraine. They added chronic alcoholism to Lorraine’s list of ailments. Her liver was shot, and she was warned that if she did not give up drinking she would be dead within the year. Eventually she was transferred to the White Garden rehabilitation centre.

Rosie Hurst was working as a cook at the centre, one of those women who gave their free time as part of a rehabilitation programme. Rosie, a big, plump, sturdy woman, with short, frizzy permed hair, was a recovering alcoholic with six months’ sobriety. She worked hard and was as friendly as she could be with the inmates, a there-but-for-the-grace-of-God attitude never far from her thoughts. Some of the saner inmates were allocated menial jobs in the kitchen and that was how Rosie got to know Lorraine Page.

Lorraine didn’t want to live. She had been waiting to die, wondering hazily why she wasn’t already dead, and then musing that, perhaps, she was. And this was hell. It wasn’t such a bad hell — the drugs made her more relaxed — but she wanted a drink. It was the only thought that occupied her dulled senses. Her mouth was thick and dry, her tongue felt too big, and she drank water all day, bending down to the small fountain in the corridor, hogging it, mouth open, hand pressed down on the lever for the water to spurt directly into her swollen mouth. Nothing dulled her thirst.

‘How long you been an alcoholic?’

Rosie had been watching her in the corridor. Lorraine couldn’t say because she had never admitted it to herself. She just liked to drink.

‘What work did you do?’

Lorraine could not recall what she’d been up to for the past few years. All the weeks and months had merged into a blur, and she could hardly remember one year from another. Or the bars, dens, seedy, run-down clubs where she had been drunk alongside girls she had once picked up and locked away. They had liked that. And the pimps she had hassled and booked in her days as a vice squad trainee, liked being able to sell her so cheaply. She was known to go with anyone, as long as they kept her supplied with a steady flow of booze. Hotels, bars, dives, private parties… Lorraine would be cleaned up and sent out. It didn’t matter how many or who they were, just as long as she made enough money for booze. She had been arrested, not just for hooking but for vagrancy, and released, pending charges, but had never made her court appearance. She had simply moved on to another bar, another town.

At the time of the hit-and-run accident, Lorraine had reached rock bottom. So far down in the gutter she couldn’t even get a trick, and no pimp wanted her attached to his stable. So many truckers, so many different states, she was unaware she was back in LA. She owned only what she stood up in, had even sold her wedding ring. She was such a wreck that the prostitutes didn’t want her hanging around them. She was even out in the cold from the street winos, because she stole from them. She had become incapable of caring for herself or earning a few cents for food.

No one remembered her as Lieutenant Page, it was all so long ago. The human flesh trade moves on and changes fast. Many of the young vice-patrol cops who saw her falling down in the streets had no idea who she was. Sergeant Rooney had been promoted to captain. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead, and he didn’t care.

No one cared, not even Mike or her children. Mike had tried often, over the years, to help her. He heard from her occasionally on the girls’ birthdays and at Christmas, but she was incoherent on the phone and lapsed into strange silences apart from asking him for money. The calls stopped when Mike moved house. He remarried, and the children settled into a new school, a new life. They no longer asked about their mother; they had a new, better one. Lorraine made no attempt to contact Mike again. She seemed almost satisfied that she had at last severed every tie.

Only Rosie, because of her own problems and her open friendly nature, wanted to help Lorraine, so thin and pale, with that strange waif-like blonde hair that hung in badly cut, jagged edges. Her fingers were stained dark brown with nicotine, and she had lost a front tooth. She also had a strange way of looking at people, her head tilted as if she were short-sighted, an odd, nervous squint, made more obvious because of a nasty scar running from her left eye to just above her cheekbone. The shapeless regulation blue hospital gown hung loosely on Lorraine’s skinny frame. She wore overlarge brown shoes — like a ballet dancer’s; someone had passed them on to her and they flopped at her heels as she walked.

Rosie and Lorraine worked side by side, helping to dish out food and make up trays. As the weeks passed, Rosie realized there was more to Lorraine than appeared on the surface. She never had to be told twice which inmates required a special diet but passed out the food to the right women.

‘You must have had a job once. How old are you?’ Rosie was trying to make conversation.

‘I guess I must be around thirty-six. D’you have a cigarette?’

Rosie shook her head. She’d given up smoking when she gave up booze. ‘I used to work on computers. What sort of jobs did you do?’

Lorraine was delving among the food scraps in the trashcan, looking for a butt end. She gave up and dried her hands. ‘Rosie, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you… I’ll go an’ see if I can steal one.’

Rosie watched as she shuffled over to Mad Mona, who really was out-to-lunch, but always had a guarded packet of cigarettes. She watched Lorraine searching Mona’s pockets, pretending to tickle her, and then the screaming started as she caught Lorraine with her precious packet. But Lorraine got one, because she came back puffing like an asthmatic on an inhaler.

‘Do you have any family?’ Rosie enquired, as Lorraine leaned against the door, eyes closed.

‘Nope.’

Rosie remarked that she had a son somewhere, but hadn’t seen him or his father for years. She busied herself at the sink, and was about to resume her conversation but she saw Lorraine had gone. Rosie took off her overall and went to collect her wages, a pittance, considering the number of hours she put in, but she was only part-time, and most of the staff were Mexican. Probably they were paid even less. She smiled at the receptionist as she buttoned up her baggy cardigan. ‘I’ll see you in a couple of days.’

The receptionist nodded. ‘It’s hot out. You won’t need that on.’

Rosie shrugged — she had arrived so early that there’d been a chill in the air. She asked how long Lorraine was being kept on the ward.

The receptionist checked on the clipboard behind her. ‘Oh, she’s due to be released. May not be here when you come back Thursday. The doctors haven’t signed her out yet, but she’s down to leave. Has she been okay in the kitchen? You know the way they are — steal anything…’

Rosie’s shopping bag suddenly felt heavy: the chops, the half-chicken she had removed along with the sugar, potatoes and carrots meant she’d be fired if she were caught. She hurried off, saying she wanted to catch her bus.

Lorraine, however, was still resident when Rosie returned two days later. She looked even paler, and coughed continually. According to the receptionist, she had developed a fever, so they were keeping her in for observation. Rosie was concerned, but did not have time to talk as she had to prepare lunch.

It was not until later, when they were washing up, that she could ask Lorraine how she was. She seemed reluctant to talk and didn’t bother helping Rosie with the trays, more intent on guarding her position at the water fountain. Her need for alcohol was becoming more desperate each day; she craved sweets and nicotine, stealing treasured hoards of chocolate bars and cigarette packs from the unwary.

With no money and no place to live, she decided she’d have to turn to Rosie who might have somewhere she could stay — and something worth stealing. That was her sole motive for talking to Rosie. Lorraine wanted a drink, wanted money, wanted out of the crazies’ ward. All Rosie wanted was a friend.

‘You know, I could help you — if you want to help yourself. If you tell me, say, “Rosie, I want to help myself”, then I will do everything in my power to help you. I’ll take you to my meetings… We have counsellors, people you can really talk to, and… they’ll help you get work. You’re an intelligent woman, there must be something you can find…’

Lorraine had given her that odd squinting look, smoking a cigarette down to its cork tip. ‘Yeah. Maybe I could get my old job back.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I was a cop.’

Rosie chuckled, rolling out pastry. She jumped when Lorraine stood close behind her, so close and so tall she had to lean over.

‘I am arresting you on the charge of molesting that pastry, Rosie. Anything you say may be taken down and used in evidence against you…’

Rosie laughed, and Lorraine tickled her, just like she tickled Mad Mona. Far from stupid, Rosie was beginning to suspect that Lorraine was after something. She wondered what it was. She dropped heavy hints that she was broke just in case Lorraine had thought otherwise and was after money…

Three weeks later Lorraine was given her marching orders. While she waited for Rosie to arrive, she cleaned the kitchen. Then she helped Rosie all morning, but it was quite late before she mentioned that she was leaving. To her surprise, Rosie told her she already knew. ‘I’ve been thinking about all the things you’ve been telling me, Rosie. And, well — you’re on. I’ll come to one of these meetings ’cos I want my life back.’ Her voice was hardly audible. ‘I’ll tell you a secret. I really was a cop, a lieutenant.’

Rosie looked up into the pale face. ‘Is that the truth?’

Lorraine nodded. ‘Yeah. Look, can I crash on your floor until I get a place of my own?’ She reckoned if Rosie knew she had been a cop she would trust her. It worked.

Rosie gave a wide grin, concealing her hesitancy. ‘Sure you can, but it’s not much of a place. Do you have a lot of gear?’

Lorraine lied, telling Rosie that her belongings were with a friend she didn’t want to see because she was another drinker — and she wanted to stay clean.

Rosie understood, knowing it was a mistake for a drinker to return to old friends and old habits.

‘Okay. You can stay at my place.’

At the end of the day, Rosie waited for her outside the hospital. Lorraine was wearing an odd assortment of clothes. Nothing fitted — sleeves too short, the skirt waistband hanging around her hips. She carried a clean set of underwear in a brown paper bag, and seemed even taller, thinner and stranger-looking than she had in the safety of the rehabilitation clinic. Someone had given her a pair of pink-framed sunglasses, the lenses so dark they hid her eyes. Seeing her in the bright sunshine, Rosie had severe doubts about taking her in. She wished she had not been so friendly.

Lorraine was silent on the long journey, as they changed buses four times. She didn’t like going back to her home territory, Pasadena, but then she didn’t really know any place any more. She was glad to have Rosie — even felt a strange desire to hold her hand, afraid she would lose sight of her.