LimeLight (23 page)

I glance over to Bea’s house, but it’s dark and quiet, and I know she’s not home. She cannot help me. I look across the street to where Caroline once lived. But a new family lives there now, a family I haven’t even said “boo” to. Besides, what can they do for me? What can anyone do for me? Do I really want the world to know that I’m in such straits? Do I really want to be seen like this, dressed as I am? Smelling of perfumed sewage?

I sit on the little wooden bench that has been on this porch for as long as I can remember. It’s where Violet and I were supposed to sit on a rainy day to remove our rubber boots before going into the house. Too bad I didn’t wear rubber boots tonight. My feet would at least be dry.

I look through the screen and through the leaded glass window and into the house. It looks surprisingly warm and cozy in there. Even if it’s on the chilly side, it can’t be nearly as bad as this. If I stay out here much longer, I probably really will develop hypothermia. And as much as I feel ready to depart this world, I do not relish the idea of being found frozen, in ugly clothes and bad hair, and locked out of my own house.

I don’t know if there’s such a thing as humiliation after death, but I don’t think I care to find out. And I don’t like thinking about the news article that might be written. “The late Gavin Fioré’s widow found dead on porch, dressed like derelict, and smelling of raw sewage. Authorities question her sanity…” No, if I’m going to leave this world of my own volition, I would like to do so in the way that I have lived, at least until recently—
in style.

I stand up and kick the trash basket of firewood, spilling the contents out on the porch. A lot of good that does me now. I pick up a piece of wood and shake it in the air. And then, just like a scene out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie where the burglar breaks through a glass door to gain entry, it hits me. Of course! How simple. How stupidly simple! Even if I have to pay to replace the leaded glass, what is that compared to freezing to death out here?

I swing the sturdy piece of firewood, testing it. And then, holding it like a club, I bash it into the window right above the doorknob with a blast. Then, carefully, just like a real second-story man, I reach in through the shattered opening and unlock the deadbolt. And just like that, I am in.

I’m surprised that it actually does feel a tiny bit warmer inside. I go back to the porch and gather up the rest of the wood. Then, pretending I’m a Boy Scout or perhaps a member of one of those survivor shows that are so popular on reality television, I set out to make a fire. Now, I’ve seen Gavin make a fire before,
but that usually amounted to simply striking a match and igniting something one of our housekeepers had already laid out for him. But I do recall that crumpled-up paper and smaller pieces of wood were involved. So I go off in search of something that will possibly suffice. I don’t have any smaller pieces of wood. And based on this evening’s luck, I don’t trust myself with an ax. Not that I would even find one. But I decide to create my own kindling (I believe that’s what it’s called).

I discover a good-sized cardboard box in the laundry room in which Michael had placed some miscellaneous kitchen things. I dump these items onto the already messy kitchen floor, and then I locate a big knife and begin to shred this box into smaller pieces. After that I search for paper.

Unfortunately I don’t find any newspapers, but I do notice the issue of
Architectural Digest
I recently bought. And without sacrificing the feature on Hollywood homes for the holidays, which I’ve yet to read, I tear out a number of other glossy pages and crumple them up into neat little balls that I stack on top of each other to make a small hill.

Upon this I lay the strips of cardboard, then on that I place the firewood I brought in from outside. I stand back and smile at my efforts. I really do think this will do the trick.

Except that I need a match or a lighter. Michael lit candles the evening before he left. I remember the drawer he set up for me in the kitchen. He called it my “everything” drawer and said it might contain whatever odd thing I’d be looking for. I pull it
open and there, along with some small tools, masking tape, nails and screws, and some things I don’t even recognize, is a box of old-fashioned wooden matches. I truly feel victorious now. Certainly I may have been bullied tonight and even beat up some, but I refuse to let this house get the best of me. Not yet. And not without a good fight. After that, well, I’ll have to wait and see.

As I’m leaving the kitchen, I notice a bottle of Cabernet on the counter. That might be just the thing to celebrate my triumph over the nonworking furnace and the possibility of freezing tonight. I imagine myself by my crackling fire, sipping some fine red wine, reading my novel. It’s a happy scene. Perhaps I’ll fix myself a nice plate of crackers and cheese, maybe even slice an apple to go with it.

I open the wine bottle and take it, along with a goblet and my precious box of matches, back to the living room. Then I stoop down, strike the match, and ignite my fire. To my pleasure, it immediately takes off. The magazine pages and the cardboard leap into colorful flames. I then fill my wine goblet and actually toast myself and my fire as I sit down. But just as I take my first sip, I notice that the smoke is not going up the chimney like it’s supposed to. Instead, it’s puffing out sideways, billowing toward me and threatening to fill the living room. I set down my glass and attempt to blow on the fire, thinking perhaps I can force it another direction, but my blowing only increases the flames and the smoke, which is still not going up the chimney. This fire must be extinguished!

I race back to the kitchen. Water…water will put a fire out. I look through the cupboard for a container to carry water in, but all I see is a crystal decanter that holds perhaps a quart or two. No matter! Smoke is now coming into the kitchen! I grab the decanter, rush to the sink, and turn on the water full blast. As I’m filling the decanter, my elbow knocks over one of the stacks of dirty dishes, sending pieces of Limoges crashing to the floor. I cannot deal with that now. I have a fire to put out.

I race back to the living room, now full of smoke, and douse the fire, shaking the heavy decanter so hard it slips from my hands and flies smack into the fireplace to shatter on the bricks. But the water quenches the flames, and soon my fire, along with my hope, sputters and smolders and slowly dies…until all that’s left are ashes, damp charred wood, and splinters of broken crystal.

The fire may be out, but the house is still blue with smoke, and I’m beginning to hack and cough. I open the front door to let in some fresh air. I briefly, very briefly, consider the possibility of an intruder walking in, but what kind of desperate burglar would dare enter this house of horrors? And if someone really is that stupid, I simply do not care. He can rob me and slit my throat, and before I die I will sit up, shake his hand, and thank him for putting me out of this misery.

I am done trying. This house, this life, perhaps even God himself, have beaten me. I am finished. I pick up my goblet and the bottle of Cabernet and slowly walk to my bedroom where,
thankfully, the closed door has kept some of the smoke at bay. I go in and close the door behind me. Still fully dressed in my ridiculous layers of clothing, with bottle and glass in hand, I get into my bed, where I proceed to drink every last drop. This is far more than I would normally drink, but I do not care. I hope it will either poison me or numb me long enough for hypothermia to set in and kill me.

I turn off the light, pull my comforter up to my nose, and prepare to meet my maker. If I have a maker, which I seriously doubt. And if I do have a maker, I am fully prepared to give him a generous and candid piece of my greatly troubled mind.

W
hen morning comes, I am surprised to still be here, but I think perhaps I’m dying. My head is throbbing, my throat is raw and dry, and my nose feels as if it’s frostbitten. I’m still in my bed, still wearing my red ski hat, purple gloves, and all the layers of clothing. But I am not getting up. My plan is to stay here indefinitely, until the end, which I hope isn’t too far off now. I close my eyes and try to remember my home in Beverly Hills…try to remember Gavin…try to remember what it felt like to be young and beautiful…and warm.

I’ve nearly conjured up a pleasant image, something to transport me far away from this hellish place, when I hear the sound of footsteps. It sounds as if someone is on the front porch. Is it possible that Busybody Bea is back? that she will be knocking on my door? No matter, I will not get up. I will not answer. Let her knock all day.

“Claudette?” I hear a woman’s voice calling. I’m not sure it’s Bea, but it sounds as if she’s actually inside my house. I sit up in bed, remembering that I left the front door open last night. Oh, good grief, can’t an old woman simply die in peace?

“Violet!”
yells the same voice. “Get in here now! Something is wrong!”

“Will you look at that!” says a male voice.

“Oh dear!” exclaims a voice that must belong to my sister. “Something is terribly wrong here.”

“Someone has broken in,” says the male. “Did you see the broken window?”

“And it smells like smoke.”

“And look at all this—someone has torn the place apart.”

“Where is Claudette?” asks Violet.

“Do you think she’s been hurt?”

“Should we call the police?” asks the male voice. “I think Roberto has a phone out in the van.”

“Maybe we should see if she’s still here first,” says Violet.

“Yes, she might need help.”

“Oh no!” cries Violet.

“A knife!” screeches the other female. “Is that blood?”

“What is that smell?” says the male.

“It smells like something dead,” says the woman.

“Oh, my goodness!” cries Violet. “Do you suppose she’s been murdered? Perhaps lying here dead for days?”

“It’s coming from the bathroom.”

“I can’t bear to look!”

“Stand back, ladies.”

I hear the squeak of the bathroom door, then a gasp.

“What is it, Eddie?” cries Violet.

“Oh!” exclaims the man. “I thought it was a body…but I think it’s just clothing. There seems to be a plumbing problem in here.”

“I’m going for Roberto!” cries the woman, and I hear the sound of clumping down the hallway.

“I’m going into the bedroom,” says Violet urgently. “My sister may need help.”

“This looks bad.”

“Roberto!” screams the woman from the porch. “Get in here now! And bring your phone! There’s been a crime! Hurry!”

I flop back down in bed, pulling the comforter all the way over my head. Oh, how I wish I were truly dead now. Despite the embarrassment of being found like this, I think this level of humiliation is more easily endured in death. At least no one expects you to explain anything. If I had a knife, I think I could actually slit my own throat just now. Blast that burglar who never showed up last night! My bedroom door slowly opens, and I pray for my heart to give out…or a stroke…anything.

“Claudette?”
my sister’s voice is shaky and barely audible. “Are you in here?”

“It looks like someone is in the bed,” says the male voice quietly. “Not moving…”

“Do you think?” Violet’s voice cracks, and she begins to sob. “Oh, Eddie, do you think she’s—she’s dead?”

“Roberto is here to help!” cries the other woman. “I have his phone. I am dialing 911 right now.”

“Roberto,” says my sister. “We think there’s been a break-in…possibly a murder.”

“Ees there a body?” asks a voice that obviously belongs to Roberto.

“We don’t know,” says Violet. “I can’t bear to look.”

“No, no…,” says the other male voice, which must belong to Eddie from McLachlan Manor. “Let someone else do it for you. Why don’t you step outside, Violet.”

“No…I need to be here.”

“Yes, we have an emergency situation. There’s been a burglary and possibly a murder,” says the other woman’s voice. It must be my old friend Caroline. But why Violet brought these people to my house is a complete mystery to me. Not for the first time, I would like to murder my little sister. “The address? I don’t know the number, but it’s Sequoia Street, just a couple of blocks.”

“258 Sequoia Street,” says Violet.

“Stop!”
I fling the comforter off my face as I sit up in bed—just in time to see their horrified faces. Caroline drops the cell phone and clutches her chest as if she’s experiencing a heart attack. Meanwhile Eddie collapses onto my chair, which is piled high with clothing, including a brassiere that’s dangling across the arm.

Violet just stands there with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “You’re not dead!” she finally gasps.

I glare at all of them. “No, unfortunately, I am still very much alive.”

“I think I’m having a heart attack,” says Caroline.

“Here.” Eddie hurries to stand, helping her to the clothing-covered chair. “You sit here.”

“Oh my.” Caroline takes in a slow, deep breath.

“You are okay?” Roberto asks Caroline.

“Yes…just shocked.” Caroline turns and looks at me with a puzzled expression. “But how about you, Claudette? Are you all right? Have you been injured? Should we call for medical assist—”