LimeLight (21 page)

“That’s a coffee maker?” She bends over and peers at the large stainless-steel machine. “How on earth do you use it?”

I slowly get up, go over, extract my cheat sheet from the drawer, and following it step by step without saying a word, I grind the coffee and go through the paces of creating espresso. As I’m doing this, Bea slices her pumpkin bread, still chattering as if she thinks I care to listen.

“I used to make pumpkin bread from real pumpkins, but then I tried using canned pumpkin and I realized the bread was even better. And, good grief, the time it saves you. Instead of cutting, peeling, and cooking a pumpkin, you just take out a can opener. Couldn’t be easier.”

She’s sitting at the table now, the sliced pumpkin bread on a plate beside my vase of flowers. She’s even put out a couple of small plates and napkins. I pour two cups of espresso, put them on saucers, then go to the fridge for cream. I set these things down for myself and my uninvited guest, and then I sit down.

“That’s awfully strong coffee,” she says after a sip. “You sure you made it right?”

“It’s espresso.” I reach for a slice of pumpkin bread. I smell the slice and pause before I take a bite, waiting to make sure she does the same. Not that I think anything is wrong with it, exactly. I seriously doubt this woman came over here to poison me this morning, although she probably shouldn’t trust me not to poison her.

“Mmm-mmm.” She actually smacks her lips. “Nothing like nice, warm pumpkin bread, fresh from the oven.”

I nod but do not speak. It is actually very good, but I refuse to give her the satisfaction of knowing I like it. I do not want
this woman on my doorstep every morning—even if she does come bearing gifts of food.

Bea pours a generous amount of cream into her espresso, and I take another bite of bread, savoring the spices and nuts. Perhaps I could purchase a loaf from her. Or would that only encourage her?

“Your gay boyfriend told me—”

“Please. His name is Michael.”

“Fine.” She waves her hand in the ridiculous “fairy flip,” as Michael sometimes calls it. “
Michael
told me you weren’t used to keeping house. He even suggested that I come over and give you some tips.”

“He did, did he?” I reach for a second piece of pumpkin bread and imagine the scathing conversation I will be having with Michael when my phone is functioning.

“Yes. And I can see that he’s right. You need help, Claudette.”

“I’ve always had housekeepers and servants.” Perhaps the pumpkin bread is softening me up a bit. “Taking care of these things myself is new to me.”

“Do you know how to wash dishes?”

“Well, of course. I used to wash dishes as a child, and I’m sure it’s like riding a bicycle.”

“How about laundry? Do you know how to do laundry?”

“I saw Michael do it. It seemed rather elementary.” I don’t tell her that I even know about dryer sheets.

“There’s a lot to housekeeping—dusting, vacuuming, washing windows. Most people don’t go about it right, but I believe a well-maintained house is its own reward.”

“Right…” I restrain myself from rolling my eyes.

“Your mother was a good housekeeper.”

“My mother spent the best part of her life cleaning, cooking, doing laundry…and I do not intend to imitate her in that regard.”

“You could do a lot worse. Your mother was a fine woman. I respected her a lot.” Bea actually sniffs. “And I still miss her.”

“Yes, I’m sure…”

“Well, I know you consider my visit an invasion of your privacy,” she says as she finishes off the last of her coffee. “And I get the feeling you’re not the friendly, outgoing type. Come to think of it, you never were. So I figured it was up to me to reach out to you. We’re not getting any younger, Claudette, and like it or not, neighbors are like birds of a feather—we need to stick together. So you might as well count on me knocking on your door from time to time. And I hope you’ll do the same to me someday.” She wipes her mouth on the napkin. “I’ll leave you be now, but if you need any housekeeping tips, I’m right next door.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Bea slaps her forehead. “Oh, I plumb forgot what I came over here to tell you. I’ll be heading out to my daughter Polly’s house around noon today.”

I nod in a vague sort of way, wondering why she thinks I need this bit of trivial information from her.

“And I’ll be gone clear until the weekend. I just thought you should know.” Then she peers curiously at me. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Thanksgiving?” I frown. “When is it?”

“Thursday, of course.”

“
This
Thursday?”

“That’s right. Have you got plans? Maybe spend time with your sister and her kids?”

“Yes…something like that. By the way, what day is it today?” I am so embarrassed to have to ask this, but I really have no idea.

“It’s Tuesday. Thanksgiving is two days away.”

“Oh yes. I suppose I lost track of time…since the move and all…”

She laughs as she stands. “I know just how you feel. I used to have trouble knowing what day it was too. Then I got myself a nice big calendar that’s easy to read, along with one of those boxes you keep your prescription pills in. You know the kind with days of the week printed right on each compartment? Real handy. Do you have one of those?”

“No.”

“Why, you should get yourself one. How else can you keep track of when you took your last pills?”

“I don’t take pills.”

She looks shocked. “No pills?”

“Well, I did take vitamins. Just a multiple and one with calcium
and those horrid-tasting fish oil pills, but I seem to have misplaced them during the move.”

“But no prescriptions?” She shakes her head. “And here you are older than me. I take one for blood pressure, one for high cholesterol, one for my bone density since I started getting osteoporosis. And besides that I take a baby aspirin every day. You don’t even take a baby aspirin?”

“I used to give them to my husband. But, no, I haven’t taken them myself.”

“Well, you should. Everyone our age should do that.”

“Thank you for the medical advice,” I say in a chilly voice. “I’ll consider it.”

“Sure. And if you want to read my AARP magazine, it’s full of good tips for old girls like you and me.”

“Yes, I’m sure it is…” I start to stand now.

“Don’t you get up, Claudette, I can see myself out.”

“Thank you for the pumpkin bread.”

“You’re welcome. And you have a nice Thanksgiving, you hear?”

“Yes…the same to you.”

I listen as she walks through my living room. She pauses, as if she’s looking at something in there, but then a few seconds pass and I hear the front door open and then the screen door slam shut. She’s gone. I let out a relieved breath. And then I reach for another slice of pumpkin bread. It’s really not bad.

Bea is obnoxious, there is no doubt, but the fact that she put my kitchen back in order is somewhat encouraging. So I clear
the table and add the dishes to those that have been collecting in the sink. It’s really gotten to be quite a pileup. Feeling slightly inspired by the cleared countertops, I decide that the time has come to wash the dishes.

I stand there for a moment, leaning against the sink and straining my memory back to my childhood, trying to remember how this was done. I used to do the dishes quite a bit…and I usually complained about it too. I didn’t like how it made my fingernails soft. We used to have this horrible dishpan we put in one side of the sink. We’d fill it with hot, soapy water and then rinse the dishes alongside it. We also had a wire dish drainer to place the clean dishes in. Neither of which I have now.

Even so, I should be able to do this. Really, how hard can it be? I remove the dirty dishes from the soapstone sink. Then I scrub the sink with the dishwashing soap, but when I search for something to stop the sink and keep the water from going down the drain, I find nothing. I stand there for several minutes, just trying to figure out the answer to what I know must be a very simple question. And yet it evades me.

Why not simply do this the old way—with a dishpan and a dish drainer? Except that I have no idea where one purchases such things, or if people actually use them anymore. My Beverly Hills house had two automatic dishwashers. Not that I ever used them myself, but I do recall seeing them in the large kitchen. Sometimes one of them, or even both if we’d had a party, were running.

I briefly entertain the idea of asking Bea about where I might find these tools, but that could entail another long, drawn-out conversation that would only contribute to her because-we-are-neighbors-we-must-now-become-friends theory. I consider the grocery store, but I’m not ready to return to Raleigh’s quite yet. Besides, I don’t recall seeing things like that, although I might’ve missed them.

Then I remember Harper’s Hardware. I sometimes went there with my mother when she was looking for a light bulb or an extension cord or some other odd household item. Perhaps Harper’s would have what I need. If my phone were charged, I could call them and find out. And that reminds of Radio Shack, and I wonder if the phone charger cord has arrived. So I decide to drive to town.

I go to the hardware store first, because that seems more pressing. And to my delight, a young woman directs me to exactly what I need. Not only that, but I also notice a bucket of rakes for leaf removal, and I put one in my cart as well. By now I know that a shopping cart with wheels, like matching shoes and handbags, is a must. Feeling confident and assured, I get into the line—after making certain it’s not the express lane—set my selected purchases on the counter, and wait as the clerk rings them up. But as he’s telling me the total, which isn’t very much, considering, I realize that I only have six dollars and some change. And that is not enough.

“Is there a problem?” he asks as I stare at my wallet.

I look up at him, I’m sure, with flaming cheeks. “Well, yes… I’m sorry, but I seem to be short of cash.” I take in a quick breath.

“We take Visa, MasterCard, American Express, and—”

“I only have one card with me, and I’m afraid it’s expired. You see, I just moved to town, and I’m—”

“You can set up an account with us.” He pulls out a yellow sheet of paper. “It’s pretty easy. You just fill in the form, we put it in the computer, and if you buy enough stuff you even get bonus points.”

“Bonus points?” I echo, unsure of what that even means.

“Yeah. Why don’t you move down there and fill it out while I wait on the dude behind you?”

So I take the form and carefully fill in the blanks—some of which I leave blank—and then hand it back to the clerk. For whatever reason, he seems content with my effort and punches some things into his computer register, prints out a receipt, which he has me sign, then bags up my items and tells me to “have a good day.”

I thank him and feel slightly like a thief as I leave. But as I put my rake and things into the back of the car, I remind myself of how many other things—very expensive things—I once bought on credit. I’m sure it should be just fine. However, now I’m not sure if I can afford the charging device at Radio Shack. And yet without it, how will I call Jackie Berkshire and get my funds transferred? Perhaps they have some sort of a revolving account as well.

To my relief, not only is my phone charger there, but the sales clerk is happy to open a Radio Shack account for me. “Your card will come in the mail in a few weeks, and you can even upgrade it to a Visa account if you want,” says the sales clerk. “And the more you use it, the more rewards you get.”

“Rewards…” I say, pretending to be interested. Then I thank him, sign the receipt, and leave with my charging cord.

It’s noon by the time I get home and take my packages out of my car. I glance nervously toward Bea’s house, but all is quiet there. Her old blue Buick is gone, and I think she has already left for her daughter’s. It should be a nice reprieve to have her gone a few days; no more unexpected morning visits for a bit. I should be relieved…but instead I feel slightly lonely.

I walk up to the porch and set my rake by the door for when I might possibly feel like raking, although I don’t expect it to be today. There’s a nip in the air, and the breeze is picking up. I overheard two men talking at the hardware store earlier, saying that the weather pattern was changing and that “the temps were going to get low tonight.”

It’s been so long since I’ve lived in a place that gets cold, and after sixty years, one’s personal thermostat grows accustomed to the warm Southern California climate. So much so that I have no problem wearing lightweight wool or cashmere during the winter months, although I’ve noticed that younger people dress as if it’s summertime year-round. But how will my old bones adjust to these extreme changes in temperature?

O
nce I’m in the house, I set my dishwashing tools in the kitchen and even briefly consider tackling this lackluster chore. But I really feel tired, not to mention a bit chilled, and perhaps a short nap is in order.

Before I allow myself to nap, I plug in my new phone charger. I place this on my little secretary desk in the office/guest room, which at the moment is the tidiest place in the house. Then I set my cell phone in the cradle and wait until the little blue light goes on to show that it’s working. I expect the phone should be up and running in a few hours. Perhaps I’ll even call Michael and tell him how well I’m getting on. Although “well” is probably an exaggeration, but at least I’m still alive and I haven’t given up yet.