LimeLight (20 page)

I still find it hard to believe that it’s gone…forever gone. I know how Scarlett O’Hara felt after Atlanta burned. But Scarlett was lucky: she still had Tara to return to. Oh, certainly, it was in disrepair, but at least she wasn’t locked out and cast into the wind.

It takes me quite some time to find all the things on my list. I walk back and forth, this way and that, through the grocery store every which way…until it feels that I’ve pushed this cart for miles and miles. Perhaps I have. Do they give out maps to grocery stores? Maybe one could somehow design a list that followed the blueprint of the store to save time and energy.

Still, I suppose the exercise is good for me. And at least I have a grocery cart to push and not one of those horrid little baskets that so easily tip over. I even bravely select a bottle of wine. But not Merlot. I don’t think I’ll want Merlot anytime soon.

When I finally make my way to the checkout, my cart is surprisingly full. The store seems much busier this time of day, and most of the lines are full. I suspect that’s because of people who work during the day and have no choice. I make a mental note to come back at an earlier hour next time.

I notice a line toward the end with only two customers waiting in it, and neither of them has much to purchase. This must be my lucky day. I hurry over and get in line behind them. Feeling pleased with myself, I browse through the magazine rack while I wait and eventually decide upon the December issue of
Architectural Digest
, which is featuring “Hollywood Homes for the Holidays.” It will be fun to see if anyone I know is in here.

“Excuse me, lady,” says the sales clerk in a loud voice. “If you wanna check out, you’ll have to put your stuff on the conveyer.”

I look up from my magazine. “Oh…” I nod and place items on the black rubber belt that moves toward the cashier.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” He holds up his hands. “Don’t you know this is the express line?” He points to the sign above his head.

“Well, yes. That’s all right; I
am
in a hurry.”

“No, that’s not it, ma’am. You can’t have more than ten items in this line.”

“Ten?” I look into my fully loaded cart. “But I have more than that.”

“My point.” He shakes his head and nods to the people waiting behind me. “You’ll have to go to another checkout.”

“But I—”

“Sorry, lady, that’s the rule. No exceptions. Especially during rush hour.”

Feeling embarrassed and confused, I start to back up my cart.

“Get your stuff first,” the man commands.

As I load my groceries back into my cart, I can feel the eyes
of the people in line behind me watching. I’m sure they must think I’m a silly old fool. I pull out of the checkout and go to the end of another line. A long line this time.

“Hey, it’s you again,” says the cashier. I look up from the
People
magazine I’m now reading to see Trudy. “Did you get that stain out?”

“No.” I set the magazine back and begin, once again, to set my groceries on the conveyor belt. I feel clumsy and slow, barely able to keep up with her as she rings up my purchases.

“That’s too bad. Paper or plastic?”

“I’ll pay with cash.”

“No, I mean bags. Do you want paper bags or plastic ones?”

“Oh.” I frown now. “What’s the difference?”

She laughs. “One is paper. One is plastic. We usually have those reusable bags you can buy, but we’re out today.”

“Plastic, paper, what difference does it make?”

She studies me for a moment. “Is anyone helping you with these?”

“Helping me?”

“You know, once you get home? Anyone to help carry them into the house?”

“Well, no…”

“I think plastic then. And I won’t load them too heavy. Plastic is easier to carry.”

“Oh, okay.” I look at her name tag again. “Thank you, Trudy.”

“You new in town?”

“I grew up here. But I haven’t lived here in ages. I recently moved back.”

She nods as she puts my bananas in a plastic bag. “Where did you move from?”

“Beverly Hills.”

“Wow.” She stops and looks carefully at me. “Does that mean you’re famous or something?”

I shrug. “Not too famous. I was an actress long ago. My husband was a director…”

“Really?” She looks impressed now. “What did he direct?”

“Oh, probably nothing you would’ve seen. It was a very long time ago.”

“I watch Turner Classic Movies,” she says. “I love the oldies.”

“Have you ever heard of Gavin Fioré?”

“No way! He was your husband?”

I nod, a little self-conscious but also slightly vindicated after my embarrassing moment in the express line, which couldn’t have been slower.

“That is so cool.” She continues ringing up my items.

She chatters at me as she hits buttons and scans things. I don’t know how she can talk and work simultaneously. She mentions some of her favorite old films and really does seem to have a grasp of classic Hollywood.

Finally she tells me the total, and I open my purse. I didn’t realize groceries cost so much. As I search for the right amount of bills, I realize that I’m running low on cash. I remember Michael’s suggestion that I open a local bank account and contact
my accountant to transfer some money, since I asked for him to cancel all my credit cards when I suspected my staff was stealing from me. Fortunately I have enough cash to pay for my groceries. I’m not sure if I could’ve handled the embarrassment of being short.

Trudy hands me my change. “I’ll call someone to help you out with that.”

“Thank you.”

“And it’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Fioré.”

“You too, dear.”

A young Hispanic man shows up and takes my cart for me. He’s shorter than me and could pass for a twelve-year-old. I lead him out to the car and hand him the keys to open the trunk, waiting as he loads the bags of groceries. As I stand there I wonder,
Do you tip these people?
No one has ever told me about these things. So, not wanting to insult him, I open my purse again, pull out a five, and hand it to him in exchange for my keys.

His dark eyes grow large. “What’s this for?”

“It’s a tip.”

“Wow, thanks, lady. This is my first tip.”

That answers my question about tipping. Now I wonder if that young man will be overly eager to help me with my groceries whenever I shop here. And if so, should I continue tipping him, or should I simply explain my ignorance?
Live and learn
, I tell myself as I start my car.

At least it’s dark out now, and I don’t think Busybody Bea will be running out to chatter nonsense at me. And if she does,
I’ll hand her some bags and ask her to help carry groceries for me. That should shut her up. As many bags as are in my trunk, it’ll take an hour to get it all into the house.

It turns out that I’m not far off in my estimate. By the time I’ve made at least a dozen trips from the car to the house and back again, it is well past seven. As I stand in my kitchen amid what looks like a blizzard of white plastic bags, it occurs to me—I still have to put all these things away.

I feel like crying or simply going to bed and forgetting about the whole thing. But then I realize they’ll still be here tomorrow. Not only that, but some of the things might spoil. I may not know much about housekeeping or cooking, but I do know that meat and dairy products need to be refrigerated.

I open a bag and focus on things that need to be chilled. But soon I have dozens of items, everything from toilet tissue to Tums to cottage cheese strewn on all the countertops, the dining table, and even the chairs. I don’t even know where I’ll put all these things.

I finally take a break, clearing a chair so I can sit down. I open a box of rye crackers and eat directly from the box as I survey the dismal mess I’ve created. Oh, why is this so hard? And why did I buy so many things?

And perhaps the hardest question is, how do ordinary people live like this?

E
ventually I manage to put the perishable foods in the fridge. But that’s where I give up. Then I pour myself a tall glass of orange juice, wishing I’d bought some vodka to go with it. I break off a banana and take these out to the living room, which feels blessedly uncluttered compared to my kitchen.

I open the cabinet that contains a small television, take the remote back to the couch, then kick off my shoes and settle back. Hearing Trudy at the grocery store talking about Turner Classic Movies has put me in the mood to watch an old film, but when I click on the television, all I see is a blank blue screen. I try changing the channels and pushing all sorts of buttons, but nothing seems to work. Then I vaguely remember something on Michael’s list about cable service. I turn off the television, peel my banana, sip my orange juice, and try not to envy the people who understand these simple complexities of daily living.

The next morning, at half past nine, I am rudely awakened by the sound of knocking and doorbell ringing. I remain in bed, trying to ignore the noisy interruption, but it goes on and on.
Finally I put on my robe and go out to see what’s the matter. I suspect it’s my busybody neighbor, and when I open the door, I’m proven right.

“Good morning,” Bea says brightly. She’s got something wrapped in foil in her hands. For all I know it might be a bomb or a dead animal.

“What do you want?”

“I want to be neighborly,” she says with a smile. “I brought you some pumpkin nut bread. I just made it fresh this morning.”

“You made it
yourself
?” I say, imagining the worst.

She pulls open the screen door and thrusts her foil-wrapped offering directly beneath my nose. “Take a whiff. It’s still warm.”

To my surprise it smells rather good.

“Got any coffee?” Bea asks.

“I do have coffee, though it’s not made.”

And then to my utter surprise, she pushes her way into my house. “Well, let’s make up a pot and have some of this pumpkin bread with it.”

“Well, I—”

“No problem. You go get yourself dressed, and I’ll make up the coffee.” She literally pushes me through the living room as I protest. “Go on with you. I’ll slice up the bread and get the coffee going, then we’ll sit down and have a nice little chat. Your mother and I used to do this all the time.”

Flummoxed and annoyed, I go back to my room. I am half tempted to get back into bed and pretend I haven’t just been invaded. However, that will not get this woman out of my
house. I find my warmup suit on the chair and grumble as I pull it on.

Just who does this woman think she is? Perhaps my mother didn’t mind such intrusions, but I am not my mother. I march out to the kitchen, fully prepared to give this obnoxious woman a large piece of my mind.

“What happened in here?” she demands when I walk in.

“What do you mean?”

“All this stuff all over the place… Looks like we had an earthquake or something.”

“I was putting things away.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“Last night,” I snap at her. “I got tired and left it until morning.”

She puts her hands on her wide hips and just shakes her head. “I think you need lessons in housekeeping, Claudette. When I saw this place the other day, while your gay boyfriend was still here, it was all in apple pie order. Now he’s been gone a few days, and you’ve let the place go to hell in a handbasket.”

“Michael let you into this house?”

“Sure, he gave me the complete tour. And I was impressed. That man might be fruity, but he sure knows how to put a place together.” She makes a
tsk-tsk
sound. “And you sure know how to mess it up. I can’t even find your coffee maker.”

I am about to tell her to take her pumpkin bread and stuff it where the sun doesn’t shine, but she suddenly starts opening cupboards and poking around.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping.” She puts a can of soup away. Then she picks up a box of bran cereal and holds it up. “You really eat this stuff?”

I don’t answer her. I just stand there, staring in amazement as, one by one, she puts my groceries away. She talks the whole time, saying why you put cans in one cupboard and boxed things in another, as if that should all make sense. Eventually I go and sit down, continuing to watch this crazy woman putting things away.

Today her outfit is a bit more subdued, although tacky as usual. Her polyester pants are a rust color, and her top, which I suspect is also polyester, is a floral design I think is supposed to resemble autumn leaves but looks more like a bad buffet table. And once again she’s wearing those horrible canvas deck shoes that were probably white at one time but look grayer every time I see her.

It takes a while, but finally she is done. And despite my irritation, I must admit, at least to myself, that the kitchen does look better. Will she wash my dirty dishes next? I don’t think I’d complain. Even so, I do not let on that I’m pleased. More than anything I’d like this woman to leave.

“Now, where is your coffee maker?”

With a grim expression, I point to the espresso machine situated in the corner. I’ve only used it a couple of times, and although Michael wrote explicit instructions that I keep in the knife drawer, I still feel challenged.