LimeLight (22 page)

I go to my room, where my bed is still unmade (ever since Michael left), and a rather unbecoming pile of clothing is accumulating on the easy chair. Oh, how I miss my maids and housekeepers…dry-cleaning services that delivered…fresh, clean sheets and towels.

The bedroom, like the rest of the house, is rather chilly. I must remember to turn up the thermostat when I finish my
nap. Michael showed me how to do that before he left. I just hope I can remember. But if it’s going to be cold, a bit more heat would be most welcome.

I put the throw blanket around my shoulders like a shawl, then get into bed and reach for my novel. After a few minutes my hands are so cold I set the novel aside and pull the comforter up to my chin. Thank goodness for down feathers, because soon I’m feeling warmer. And then I’m sleepy.

When I wake up it’s dusky outside, and my nose is so cold it feels slightly numb. I get out of bed to discover it’s even colder now than it was earlier. With the throw blanket still wrapped around my shoulders like a granny’s shawl, I dash out to the end of the hallway where the thermostat to the oil furnace is located. This is not the same furnace we had when I was younger. I don’t know when Mother replaced it, but this model is much smaller and, according to Michael, much more efficient. Or at least it was when we arrived.

Right now the thermostat is set on seventy-two degrees, which Michael assured me should be comfortable, but then he’s not here for this cold front that’s swept in. I turn the thermostat up to eighty-five degrees. If that’s too hot, I’ll simply turn it down before bedtime. But when I reach down to where the hot air is supposed to blow out, it is stone cold. No air seems to be coming out at all. Is this thing even on? But the little light on the thermostat is glowing orange so it must be getting some sort of energy. Perhaps some part of it is broken.

I run back to my bedroom to put something on my bare feet, which are now freezing cold. I dig through my drawers until I find a couple pairs of thick socks, and I layer these on. Then I take out several cashmere cardigans, also layering them on. I must look very unstylish, but it’s preferable to freezing. I also layer on pants, pulling my looser velour warmup pants over two pairs of lightweight wool. I look at myself in the full-length mirror and gasp. The fashion factor is bad enough, but with all these layers of clothing, I now look as if I’ve gained thirty pounds. Well, no matter. No one will be seeing me tonight.

Feeling a bit warmer, I check on my phone. It’s high time to start making phone calls. My plan is to begin with my accountant. I’ll ask Jackie to transfer some funds to Silverton immediately. It’s not quite five yet; he might even be able to do this today. But when I try to use my phone, it doesn’t seem to be working. It appears to be charged just fine, but when I dial the number, it simply says “no service.” I try several different numbers, including Michael’s, thinking he might be able to tell me how to fix this little problem, but nothing seems to be working.

It could be my fault, since I’ve never been terribly clever with all these modern-day electronic devices. Gavin always seemed to understand these things. He would set up computers or video machines for us. Even my phone was purchased and programmed by him. When he first got it for me, I simply had to punch the speed dial button and the number one and I would reach Gavin within seconds. If only I could do that now.

Finally I give up on the stupid phone, which I’m tempted to toss to the floor and stomp on. I have a more pressing need at the moment. Thanks to having taken an extra large dosage of Citrucel this morning, I am headed for the bathroom. Once there, I quickly discover that it’s not easy to use the toilet when one is wearing too many layers. It takes a while to finally get myself situated, and then I’m so cold I’m literally shivering. The bathroom must be the coldest spot in the whole house, and the sooner I’m out of here, the better. Fortunately the Citrucel quickly does its magic.

I hurry to flush the toilet. Then as I’m pulling on my first layer of pants, I notice that instead of going down, the murky looking contents are rising. In desperation, I push the handle again, hoping this second flush will do the trick, but now the water is dangerously high, about to overflow.

With one pair of pants now zipped and two others still around my knees, I hop about, pulling up my pants as the white tile floor begins to resemble a fetid cesspool. I back away from this foul mess, trying to keep my feet on high ground, when I notice my expensive silk carpet from India is about to be ruined.

I lunge for it, hoping to snatch up the rug before it’s too late, but the combination of wet floor and slippery socks causes me to lose my footing, and I plunge sideways, falling smack into the nasty, reeking mess.

There I lie for a few stunned seconds, unsure as to whether I have broken any bones or permanently injured myself. But as
I use the edge of the tub to pull myself up to a standing position, I seem to be in one piece.

Seeing that it’s too late for the precious carpet, not to mention myself and these layers of soiled and stinking clothes, I allow the silk carpet to play the role of a giant sponge, sopping up the foul sewage water. I stand there next to the shower, peeling off my ruined clothing, including three layers of cashmere, and tossing all these soggy items to the floor.

Standing there buck naked and freezing and feeling as if I’ve just taken a tumble into an outhouse, I cannot imagine how life could possibly get any worse. I am certain I have reached an all-time low. Either I will die tonight or things will get better. I’m not sure I even care which way it goes.

Shivering uncontrollably, I turn on the shower, wait for the water to get steaming hot, and then get in. I lather Christian Dior shower soap from head to toe and am just beginning to thaw out when I realize that my feet are in standing water. For some reason the shower is not draining properly and the water level, reminiscent of the toilet episode, is about to flow over the edge.

I turn off the water, then grab for several towels. Some of these I throw onto the floor, hoping to create something of a path, an escape route to the door. I wrap the remaining towel around me, making a quick exit and closing the door to the useless and malodorous bathroom.

By the time I reach my bedroom, I am concerned about the possibility of hypothermia. And part of me thinks I should
simply give in to it and die. I’ve heard of old Eskimos being set out on icebergs and left to perish. Perhaps I should surrender to the chilling temperature as well. The problem is that I have always loathed being cold. So I hurry to towel myself dry, rubbing so hard that I’m certain my skin will be raw and bleeding when I’m done. And, once again, I must layer on clothes. Unfortunately I’ve already used and ruined my warmest items of clothing.

Then I remember the extra clothing Michael stored for me, things that didn’t fit in the two closets and that I might want to get rid of. Perhaps some of those clothes are warm. I dash out to the laundry room, which is little more than an enclosed porch and, believe it or not, far colder than the frosty bathroom.

I open some plastic crates and unzip the canvas wardrobe, ransacking through my old clothes until I have a heavy armful of items and run back into the house. I throw these things down into a heap in the middle of the living room and return to search out some more. As odd as it seems, I almost feel as if I’m searching for lost treasure.

I return to the living room and sort through these random pieces of warmer clothing. Most of these things are old, and I don’t even know why I held on to them, although I’m glad now I did. I carry a bunch of things to my bedroom and begin to layer on my odd assortment of miscellaneous pants and tops and socks. I even managed to unearth a red woolen ski hat, a souvenir from a long-ago ski trip in Switzerland; a lime green cashmere muffler from a few Christmases back; and a pair of thick
suede gloves in an awful shade of purple. And once I’m dressed, I add these colorful accessories to my already strange ensemble.

When I’m done, I stare at the image of myself in the mirror and don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Not only do I look forty pounds heavier now, but I’m a complete fashion nightmare in clownish colors. I’m sure I could beat my neighbor Bea out of a “fashion don’t” magazine spot.

The truth is, I’ve thought about Bea a couple of times throughout tonight’s crisis. I actually wish she were home. I think I would happily take refuge there, or at least use her phone to call for some emergency assistance. I don’t know what to do. I consider going to the hardware store to see if they have some sort of heating unit that can be run on electricity, but it’s after six and I feel fairly certain they’re closed.

Besides, would I really want to be seen in public tonight? Not only do I look frightening, but I’m sure I don’t smell very nice either. Despite my hasty shower and Christian Dior soap, that nasty sewage smell still clings to me, even after I douse myself and my clothes with a generous splash of expensive Bvlgari perfume. Even if I do get free of the smell, I doubt I will ever be able to erase that stench from my memory.

The only good that’s come out of the plumbing catastrophe is that, due to all the running about, I feel slightly warmer. I go check on the furnace again, thinking perhaps it’s working after all. But it’s still cold as ice. I give the machine a kick, in case something is jammed. But still nothing. I go and try my cell
phone again, but it’s not cooperating either. It’s obviously charged, but it refuses to connect.

I pace about the house, feeling like a trapped animal about to be led to the slaughter. Finally I stop in the living room, still clutching my useless phone in an ugly purple glove. The living room, no longer my peaceful pumpkin haven, is now strewn with the clothing I carried in here earlier. It must look like the dressing room of a homeless shelter. But what difference does it make? Why should I even care?

In complete frustration, I use my last bit of strength and fury to hurl my useless cell phone into the fireplace. Then I begin to sob. “
Why me? Why me?
Oh, God, if there is a God,
why me
?” Tears run down my chilled cheeks now. “Please, God,” I cry out even louder now. “If you are really there, can’t you please, please help me?”

In a state of complete destitution, I sink down into one of the leather chairs that flank the fireplace. I just sit there, staring at the shiny silver pieces of my smashed phone against the soot-darkened bricks. I keep asking myself,
What should I do? What should I do?
And then, like a bolt from the blue, it hits me—my own mother used to make fires right here in this very fireplace.

Occasionally when it was cold out and we actually had firewood, Mother would make a nice, cozy fire. Violet and I loved it when she did this, and sometimes we’d even make popcorn in a clever basket Mother had concocted out of an old piece of window screen and a wire hanger.

A fire could take the chill off this house. Perhaps if I close the doors to the rest of the house, this room would get warm enough that I might bring my down comforter in here. I could sleep on the sofa tonight. It might even be cozy. The question is, do I have firewood? Is there any chance that Mother had stashed some away before she died?

I remember how kind neighbors would sometimes bring us firewood. I know they felt sorry for us; they knew Father was a good-for-nothing…and that Mother struggled hard just to get by. I also remember that what little firewood we managed to accumulate was kept dry in the little woodshed out back.

And despite our love of a nice, warm fire, Violet and I despised going into the woodshed because it was full of spiders. We’d heard that spiders, including brown recluses and black widows, enjoyed inhabiting dark, musty places just like that. Consequently, we would argue about whose turn it was to go out there to get a Mason jar, a garden tool, or some firewood. And for the most part, unless there was an emergency, we only went out to the shed in the daytime.

“But this is an emergency,” I remind myself. I can do this task very quickly. I will simply go straight in, grab some wood, and then come straight out and back to the house. However, I do not relish the idea of carrying pieces of spider-infested firewood in my arms. I must find something to put the wood into.

I walk around the house trying to spot something large enough to carry a few sticks of wood. Finally I remember the
trash container beneath the kitchen sink. I pull out the white plastic bin to discover that my wine-stained Armani suit is still stuffed into it. I remove it, toss it onto the kitchen floor, then telling myself this is an “adventure” and something I can tell Michael or even Caroline about later, I go out to the back porch, turn on the outside light, and march outside.

It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, but the path that leads to the shed, though somewhat overgrown, is still visible. And when I open the door to the shed, the light from the back porch illuminates it just enough for me to see that there is indeed a small stack of firewood there. I am greatly relieved, although still worried about spiders. So I reach in very gingerly, using my purple suede gloves for protection, to pull out one piece at a time and drop it into the garbage can.

Soon I have several pieces and room for no more. But certainly this should be a good starter. I’ll get things warmed up a little and come out here for more. Perhaps I’ll bring a candle next time. My teeth are chattering as I carry my bucket up the back porch steps, and it occurs to me that I’m wearing my slippers.

I set down my bucket of firewood so I can open the door. That’s when I discover it’s locked. I give it a pull and push and a tug and finally a kick, which thanks to the lightweight slipper manages only to bruise my toe. It’s no use. This solid wooden door is securely locked.

I try to recall if I locked the front door when I came home. So much has happened tonight that my memory feels blurry.
But I sometimes forget to lock the front door until I’m in bed and it’s late at night and I’m worried about a break-in. So, carrying my bounty of firewood, I hurry around the side of the house and up onto the front porch. But this door is locked as well. And now my slippers are thoroughly soaked from the wet grass. And despite my layers and this most recent form of exercise, I am growing colder by the minute.