Lorraine

Lorraine by Geoffrey Zimmerman from JointVentureLightning on Vimeo.

By
Geoffrey Zimmerman

I love you, Lorraine. I haven’t seen you in years and years. And, most assuredly I will never see you again. Before I met you, I know no one had ever said these words to you. Maybe by now they have, but I’ll never be sure. Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I know you are selfless, unquestionably devoted, and maybe someone cares. I do.

Ah, to live in Miami. The biggest vacation hot spot on the East coast, and probably the country. I live in a bungalow in Coconut Grove. Not a town, but an official village, just south of Miami proper, directly across the bay from Miami Beach.

I sit along the sidewalk, (on the sidewalk, actually), at the local bar, The Village Inn, taking it all in. I wear a Speedo and twist in my seat, the white wrought iron chair pinching my bare thighs, and peer down Grove Avenue. I can easily make out the bench where I sat two years ago, alone, drunk, thinking deep thoughts of what was to lie in the future. So ironic.

My first night in this town. I came to the Village Inn with my brother, his girlfriend, (at the time), and their friend, Hope. We drank, laughed and danced to Jimmy Buffet. I had drank too much and was feeling dizzy, so I came outside to clear my head, and sat myself down at that bench. My first night in town. I peered left down the road, then right, then left again. Left seemed more interesting to me. I wondered what lay that direction. Now I know. I’ve been living on that road for a year now. I walk that road in a skimpy bathing suit and flip flops to go to the store to buy cigarettes.

I’ll never forget that first night in town.

Down that road. …The waitress pulls my consciousness to the present with a sort of mental fishhook. “Is there anything more I can get you, Sir?” she asks. An involuntary sigh escapes my lungs and fills the humid space between us. “No, thank you. That’s fine. Thank you.” I pull my wallet out of my sock, (no pockets in this bathing suit), and pay her.

What a languid day. High seventies. Humid as hell. Breezy. Time to go home, I guess. I could sit here all day and listen to these palm fronds overhead that remind me of the sound of satin sheets.

Responsibility. I have my beeper. All the vehicles are procured for the current show. No new script revisions until tomorrow, (I hope). Howard will be happy if I whip up something delicious and tropical. My first effort with dolphin was a masterpiece, but, ever since, I can’t seem to duplicate it. Maybe something with avocados. From the back yard. Mangoes, from the back yard. Then what? Who cares…this jailbait on roller skates seems to be going my way. Maybe she’ll give me a ride.

The bungalow. Seven p.m. Those two huge palm trees in the front yard always impress visitors. I even had some guy knock on the door, and ask if he could climb them, and grab a few coconuts for himself. “Sure”, I replied. They weren’t mine, anyways. I think we made an excellent decision in grabbing this place. The price can’t be beat. The corner location gives us both easy accessibility because of the main road, and tranquility, because all bedrooms face Day Avenue, our sleepy, tropical, palm-lined street. Kids even play in the road. I think every house on Day Avenue is one story. That must be because no one wants to climb stairs in this humidity.

They also like to walk directly from their bedroom to their pool, and splash around amidst bougainvillea, hibiscus, banana trees, and all the rest. There’s something restful and demure about this part of town, but that incipient drug crime stuff always seems to put a damper on things.

Brother’s home. His car’s out front. Slap goes our front door. No one in sight. He must be sleeping. Great time for a nap. I don’t feel like one. Scott should be home soon. What can I whip up? You know, there should be a law that the guy who cooks ALL the meals pays less rent, AND doesn’t have to clean anything up, take out the garbage, or any of that domestic crap. I could sleep if I lay down, but my buzz puts me in ‘the cooking mood, not the sleeping mood. Living in the tropics has an effect on one’s diet. The fridge is filled with fruit, fresh vegetables, fish, beer, (of course), and fancy stuff, since we are all living pretty well, like steak, lobster, crab meat and shrimp. I don’t feel like using heat, so … it’s going to be a salad. Crab meat and shrimp, with some avocados from the back yard and, (of course), beer. With fresh vegs. Perfect.

As I sit at the kitchen table, waiting for the shrimp to boil, and gently mix up a fine homemade sauce, the balmy evening breeze wafts in through the Florida room in front, across my body, and out the back porch door. It puts me in a calm and pensive mood. It makes me feel like just living. Dreams, aspirations, goals and the struggle for the gold ring vanish from my mind. What more could one want? There’s a rapid knock at the front door. “Come in”, I request. No one enters. A stranger, I assume. No neighbor friends. I turn the shrimp water off, and slide to the front door, my callused bare feet reminding me I must soon sweep and mop the living room floor.

No one else will.

It’s a woman.

I push the front door open and behold the most timid, scared and reserved creature I could imagine. She’s wearing an ankle-length skirt, gray, tied at the waist with a plastic belt. A brown gauze shirt, buttoned to the Adam’s apple, with a brooch, large and dull, nondescript. She’s wrapped tighter than a cornered mongoose, pursued by giant red neck hunters, but her eyes are deep, filled with sadness, longing, fear and desperation. Her nose is long, straight and thin. Her face wrinkled slightly, too early for a thirty year old woman, and her gray-streaked hair is tied in back. “Hi”, I say to her, hoping to issue something light from her mouth, which quivers slightly. “I’m sorry, I need somewhere to go, something … I … can I come in?” “Of course”, I say, seeing no need to worry with this woman in my house, but all the while sensing that this being’s presence is about to shake things up here and provide our tranquil life with a challenge.

We stand together in the Florida room, and she stops, looking over my shoulder at the house and what awaits her inside. “I’m Geoffrey”, I say, coaxing her inside. At first she hesitates, not from anything she sees or senses, but from numbness. She looks off, through the wall in front of her, at something awful and distant, shakes her head, and moves into our living room, away from the thing she saw. She plops herself down on the couch, and gazes up at me. I lower my voice, and hang my arms to the side, showing I have nothing to conceal.

“Can I get you something? A beer? Some lemonade?” “Yes, yes, some lemonade would be nice. I’d like that. Thank you”. On the way back into the kitchen, a small curse escapes my lips, too soft to hear. The shrimp is ruined. No worry. Something bigger than that here. Life is full of small sacrifices. I bring her the lemonade, and see that Howard, my brother, has risen from his nap, and is now introducing himself to our guest.

Howard is handsome. My height, but stronger of build, with shorter hair, and he’s blonde. He’s got strong, Romanesque features and eyes that express his anger, interest, desire but never fear or uncertainty. He wears a light green bathing suit. A Speedo, they call it. He stands impressively over our guest.

She is stammering at whatever questions he’s shot at her as I enter, and her eyes soften and move to mine. They dart back to Howard, then to me, and she reaches up for the lemonade with her right hand while holding her left hand held stiffly and firmly in her lap, creating a fist. She takes a dainty gulp from the glass, keeping her eyes on the room, then gently sets the glass down, half empty. “Thank you”, she says. I nod, and seat myself in the corner chair of the room, across from her. “I don’t want to bother any of you …you must be so busy …I …”. She is interrupted by the sound of a large, early model American sedan rumbling into the front yard and skidding to a dusty halt about a foot away from the front door. Scott’s home. Howard sits at the edge of the couch, and the girl turns to me, then reaches for the lemonade and downs the glass.

Scott charges through the front door, and into the Florida room, his bedroom. The room is about six feet wide and ten feet long. He has a nightstand and assorted cinder block shelves where he places the things of his life. One corner is devoted to his clothing. He’s just home from his job as a waiter. He enters the living room, an inquisitive smirk on his face, as his fingers start unbuttoning his brightly flowered shirt. “Hello”, he says, reaching a hand out to the stranger on the couch. She brings her thin arm up, and shakes his hand. “Scott, we have a visitor. She knocked on the door, and said she needed our help. What’s your name?” I ask, turning to the nervous woman. “Lorraine. Boy, you have a full house here. I don’t mean to bother you. I’m sorry”. “Lorraine, it’s no bother at all. This is Scott, a friend of mine, and that’s Howard, my brother. What can we do to help you out?”

She sighs deeply and slumps into the couch, her eyes again seeing that monster in her memory. I light a cigarette. As she speaks, no one moves. Lorraine becomes a quiet, earnest narrator, and her words bring her listeners away from Day Avenue. Away from here and now. Into her life.

“I was seventeen when my mother introduced me to her. She was already old and sick, and I was afraid of her because she had black, deep, searching eyes. She had a long face, with a thin nose and one eye that was cloudy, like milk you wouldn’t drink. My mother had forced me to take piano lessons three days a week, two hours each time and by leaving home and taking care of Mrs. Cash I was happy that I wouldn’t have to take those piano lessons any more. My mother cried the day I left. Mrs. Cash and me took the train to Ohio, to a suburb in Cleveland. I had spent my whole life in Pittsburg, and was scared to leave, but mother said it would be good for me. She told me to write.

‘Mrs. Cash was a widow. Her husband was long dead, and an uncle of hers had just died and he left her a big house. I was to be her nursemaid and servant.

The first few years went smoothly. Mrs. Cash was kind to me. She gave me money for the matinees and we even went out to the pharmacy and ate cheeseburgers on my birthday. She really was a nice old lady, except …except …for the liquor. One night I fell asleep reading. I woke to the sound of squeaking. I couldn’t tell where it was coming from, so I listened for a long time. It wasn’t a mouse. I was certain of that. It was rhythmic. I got up, and walked from the library into the dining room. I couldn’t hear the noise any more.’

‘I went back to my chair. I heard it again. I went down the hall, and into the kitchen. The noise was coming from above. I went into the pantry, and could hear that squeak, and groaning …right above my head. It wasn’t a groan of pain. I crept through the house, and quietly went upstairs. As I slowly climbed those stairs, the noise became louder and louder. I stopped at the top. The noise was coming from Mrs. Cash’s bedroom. Now I was concerned.

Why I hadn’t reacted quicker and realized Mrs. Cash was in trouble, I can’t imagine. I rushed down the hall and threw open the door.

The squeaking was her bed, and she was groaning because the fix-it man, Joe, was …was …I closed the door. The squeaking and groaning stopped. I wasn’t sure if they saw me or not, but I couldn’t move. If I made any noise, Mrs. Cash would send Joe into the hall to look. Then he’d beat me.

I knew he would. I stayed there for at least an hour, and then went downstairs to my room. I couldn’t get the image of Joe out of my mind. He had always seemed so nice to me. But he looked at me strange sometimes. I could never tell what was on his mind. I fell asleep in my clothes.

While I was having my breakfast the next day, there was a knock on the door. It was the mailman. He handed me a telegram. I never got a telegram before and that nice, old mailman stood there and watched me read it.

My mother had died. My old minister from home had sent me the telegram. He said he was sorry. Just then, Mrs. Cash rang her breakfast bell. The mailman was on a schedule so I told him good-bye and don’t worry. Then I went to the kitchen and got Mrs. Cash’s breakfast together and went upstairs.

As I walked in her room she looked at me with those searching and deep eyes. They were black and hard. “What were you doing last night creeping around the house at
two o-clock in the morning and why did you come crashing into my room, disturbing me? That is inexcusable behavior”! She took the breakfast tray and started devouring her food, never taking her eye from me.

“I, …I, thought …I’m sorry, Mrs. Cash, I won’t ever do it again, I promise. I thought you were having troubles”…

“Get out of my room. Get out of my sight, you sick, perverted little wretch”. I sat on the back steps and cried.

I thought about all Mrs. Cash and I had been through together.

I thought about my first day here, how we both explored this new house together. I loved her like my mother. There was no one else. No one else. From the back stoop I could look out across Cleveland at the train yards. I saw trains come and go and wondered where they were going. Who was on them. I wanted to ask Mrs. Cash to lend me some money so I could get on one of those trains myself, but she never gave me money.

I walked.

I went down the road the way we never go when we take our walks. I wanted to see what was around the corner. I got to the corner, and looked back. The house looked so different from that angle. An angle I had never seen before. I looked down the new road and started to walk. There was a barbershop. A general mart. A small restaurant, even a print shop. I watched through the window as the men printed things. One of the men waved at me.

I had to go back. Suppose Mrs. Cash was dying right then and needed my help. I’d be responsible. I ran back, hoping everything was all right.

The house was quiet and I went upstairs. I knocked on the bedroom door. There was no answer. I listened for a minute and there was no squeaking, so I went in.

She was asleep. I took her tray downstairs.

Everything returned pretty much to normal after that and Mrs. Cash never mentioned that awful night again.

A few months later, a doctor came to the house. He was old and carried a black bag. He didn’t let me in the room when he examined Mrs. Cash, but talked to me later.

“You’d better sit down”, he told me when he came downstairs. He waited a long time before saying anything. “I’ve never treated Rebecca Cash before, but I’m glad you called me my dear. That awful sound she makes when she breathes is a sign of the first stages of emphysema. I’m afraid it’s all due to the proximity of the coal yards and the factories in the vicinity. You have to close all the windows in the house, and place a humidifier in every room where she is.

I recommended that she live in a more humid location and she said she would think about it.

“I suggest you try to convince her to sell the house and move south, preferably to Florida. There she will be more comfortable. Do you understand?” I told him I did.

Another year passed while Mrs. Cash got worse and worse.

Even getting up out of bed and walking to the bathroom made her breath real funny. I kept reminding her of what the doctor said and finally she had a real estate man stop by and she put the house up for sale.

The humidifiers did work a little, I suppose, but she still got worse and worse.

Finally, after it seemed like hundreds of people looked at the house, it was sold and we packed our things for Florida. This was just after my twenty sixth birthday. We didn’t go out for hamburgers that time.

I did buy myself a new dress, though. It’s the one I have on now.

I was never so busy in all my life. I made all kinds of phone calls. I called the train people, the moving people, and had some nice conversations on the phone. One of the fellows even tried to get smart, and asked me out. I almost hung up on him.

Boy, that train ride was exciting. We took a cab there, even though it was just a few blocks. Finally, I could see where other people were coming from, and where they were going. I wanted to ask people so many questions, but Mrs. Cash had me get one of those sleeper rooms, so I could only get out and wander around when she was asleep. Everybody else was asleep then, too, but I did talk with the conductor for a few minutes. I watched the countryside whiz by that window.

When I saw those palm trees for the first time I realized I was crying. They looked so nice and beautiful and tropical.

The whole way to Miami, Mrs. Cash had diarrhea and she was so angry that we were moving. I wanted to forget she was there, but that was impossible. Every ten minutes we had to get up and walk to the john.

Nothing too special happened here in Miami and so many times I missed the old house in Cleveland. We never did buy a house. Mrs. Cash said that was too much trouble, so we stayed in a hotel on Miami Beach.

One time I got to be friends with this nice old lady named Freda. She told me she had a son she wanted me to meet, but he never visited. Freda died. I’ll sure say one thing, though. Down here the weather is nice, except in the summer when you have to stay inside all the time and use the air conditioner.

That doctor was right. Mrs. Cash’s emphysema got better and she didn’t wheeze so much. That’s what the doctor called it, wheezing. What a funny word.

I did try to go in the ocean once, but I never could get sharks out of my head. Burt, this other man at the hotel, told me there were man-eating sharks in the ocean, so I figured I better leave that alone.

Walking on the beach was my favorite thing to do here in Miami. A couple weeks ago, I met this man. He was walking too, and came up alongside me as I walked. He said “hello”, and I said ‘hello’ back. He asked me my name, and I told him. Boy, he was handsome. I don’t know what business he had talking to me. Well, we just walked, and talked about this and that. I ‘completely forgot about the time, and Edward, that was his
name …Edward, bought me a hamburger at a cafe, right on the beach. I told him about Mrs. Cash, and he seemed so interested in me. Boy he was handsome. I told him me and Mrs. Cash were here because of Mrs. Cash’s emphysema. He said Mrs. Cash must have lots of money to afford to pay me my salary. I laughed, and said, “I’m not on a salary. She feeds me, and puts me up”.

Edward said I deserved to get paid, and I should demand to be put on salary. That made me upset. After all, Mrs. Cash was my friend, and what did I need with money, anyway? I said. “She’s probably got you in her will”, he said. “She’ll take care of you when she’s gone”. Now, I had never thought about this, but the more we talked about it, the more Edward convinced me that he was right. He asked me about my dreams, and if I wanted to see the rest of the world. “Sure”, I told him. Who doesn’t have dreams? Edward told me he had been to Japan, and Europe, and Hawaii.

All of a sudden, I remembered the time, and we ran back to the hotel. Mrs. Cash was so mad at me, and told Edward to stay the hell away from me. That’s what she said. I never heard her swear before. She seemed to have all kinds of problems all the time after that, and kept me inside, running errands allover the hotel.

When I was alone at night, I thought about what Edward had said, and made up my mind to ask Mrs. Cash for a salary. My mother had left me one thousand dollars, and that was all gone now. I told Mrs. Cash that I wanted to go see my mother’s final resting place, and give my respects. She called me a liar, and said I was just trying to run away from her. “You young girls are all the same”, she said. “Never want to stay where you are. Always having to run here, and run there. You have a responsibility to me. Your mother sent you to me when you were a little girl, and she promised you’d be with me to the end. That’s a commitment, Lorraine, and you better keep it, or else.”

“Or else what?” I asked her. She never got so angry with me ever, and started screaming at me. She called me a liar, a slut, a whore, and it was all lies. I’m not like that. She said I was a terrible nursemaid, and she never could depend on me, and I was no good. “Run to that man. Run away”, she told me. “Just never come back here”.

I didn’t hit her. I swear I didn’t. But, she swung at me, and fell over in her wheel chair. She smashed her head open on the side of the table, and started bleeding allover the place. She was wheezing. I knelt down to try to help her get back up, and she grabbed me. Her wheezing stopped all of a sudden, and her eyes bulged out. She wouldn’t let go of me. I wanted to go for help. Then she let go of me, and slumped over. I went and got Fred, the man next door to us, and told him to call an ambulance.

When they came, they thumped her chest, but everyone was shaking their head. She died. I stayed in the room after they took her away, and cleaned up the blood. I sat in her room for a long time and cried. I felt so sorry that I had yelled at her and I felt guilty.

Her room felt so empty, so quiet. I was looking for a handkerchief in her nightstand’s top drawer and found twenty dollars. I took it. I know I’m a thief, but what else could I do. I thought about what Edward had said, and was sure Mrs. Cash would leave me some money. There were three paid weeks left at the hotel, and the nice people let me eat off of Mrs. Cash’s food tickets. They only lasted up to the end of the month.

Mrs. Cash didn’t leave me any money. Nobody called the hotel. I looked for Edward, but never could find him again, so when the month was over, I took my bag, and started walking. Some people in a van picked me up on the road, and told me Coconut Grove was a nice place, with nice people. They dropped me off on the corner, in front of your house. I hope you don’t mind. I sure did run my mouth off. I feel a little better now. Maybe I should go.’

Our living room was stone quiet for some time. “No, Lorraine, you can’t go out on the street at this hour”, I told her. “Stay here for the night. We have plenty of room”.

“If it’s no trouble”, she said. I assured her it was the least we could do. As she sat at the table, eating the shrimp I had cooked earlier that evening, I again noticed her left hand was balled up into a fist. “What are you holding so tightly”? I asked. She slowly unrolled her fingers, and showed me a crumpled up twenty dollar bill. I looked her in the eye, and she turned away. “Don’t tell anyone”, she said. We wouldn’t. I gave her another twenty-dollar bill.

It was very hard for me to get to sleep that night. I knew I would be dead tired when I showed up at the studio at seven the next morning, but it didn’t matter so much. Small sacrifice, I thought. When I awoke the next day, Lorraine was gone. No note. No sign she was there. “Good luck”, I whispered.

White wrought iron chair pinching my bare thighs, and peer down Grove Avenue. I can easily make out the bench where I 8!fl.t’]'two