Cold Shoulder Read online

  “Little bastards, all of them. I hate their mother, she’s a real whore. Not that I have anythin’ against Hispanics, don’t get me wrong, but she plays her radio sometimes so loud I dunno if I got mine on or it’s hers.”

  Rosie occupied an apartment on the top floor, and Lorraine guessed that what was more than likely the fire escape seemed to be the way to her front door.

  “Here we are, now, you go up ahead. It’s so narrow, this staircase, I’m always stumbling down … watch how you go, the fifth step is loose. It’s wood, crazy considerin’ this used to be part of the fire escape, but the landlord is a cheap son of a bitch.”

  Lorraine laughed—so unusual for her that Rosie looked up at her questioningly, but Lorraine just shrugged. It had amused her about her own assumption regarding the fire escape and then for Rosie to immediately say that was what it had originally been built for. And it was pretty dangerous as some of the boards were not only loose but rotten.

  Rosie unlocked the screen door, then her front door. As she pushed it open a cat screeched and dived out between Lorraine’s legs.

  “That’s Walter. Go in, you first.”

  Rosie’s tiny apartment was stiflingly hot, even with the blinds down. She turned on the air-conditioning, which droned noisily. There was a living room and one cramped bedroom with a tiny bathroom attached. The kitchen was a messy corner of the living room. Rosie busied herself unloading the groceries, pointing out the couch for Lorraine to sleep on, bringing sheets and pillows.

  “Now, do you want some tea, or coffee, or something cold? I think I’ve got chilled Coke—or lemonade?”

  Lorraine leaned back against the sofa, rolling an ice-cold Coke can across her forehead. She was still desperate for a real drink. She gulped at the Coke, draining the can quickly.

  Rosie held up a pack of cigarettes. “I thought you’d be needing one, so here.” She tossed it over. “Now you clean up and run a comb through your hair, and then we should go, the meeting’s due to start in about an hour.”

  Lorraine closed her eyes and sighed. “Maybe I’m a little too tired today.”

  Rosie loomed over her. “Today is when you really need to go, and I can arrange that you go every day for the first few weeks.”

  Lorraine managed a weak smile and hauled herself to her feet, crossing through Rosie’s dusty bedroom into the small bathroom, which was crammed with jars of creams, tubes, and a vast array of worn toothbrushes and half-squeezed toothpaste tubes. Old tights were hung up to dry, large faded panties and a grayish bra pinned on a piece of string, so large Lorraine stared in disbelief.

  She ran the water and bent down to drink it, gulping it down, then she splashed her face and reached for a threadbare towel. She looked at herself then, really studied herself, no drugs and stone-cold sober for the first time in years. The image that stared back was of a stranger. Her eyes were puffy, washed out, red-rimmed, and her nose had small, white-headed spots at each side. She caught sight of her yellowish, stained teeth, the gap in the front. The scar stretched her left cheek slightly, an ugly reminder of a past she wanted to obliterate. She traced the outline of her cracked, swollen lips and then ran her hand through her thin hair. Strands of it came away. It looked as if someone had hacked it haphazardly, any way but straight. Maybe she’d even done it herself, she couldn’t remember. There were not just days or weeks or months she couldn’t remember but whole years.

  Rosie rapped on the door. “What are you doing in there?”

  Lorraine took a deep breath. “Just washing. Won’t be long.” As she dried her hands she gazed at the stains along her fingers, the nails jagged, bitten, and dirty. Everything about her was hideous: she was revolting, she disgusted herself, she was disgusting. And deeply angry. She didn’t know this person. Who was she?

  Rosie looked up from the sofa as Lorraine came out of the bedroom and smiled. “You ready?”

  Lorraine looked around for the pink-framed sunglasses. She pushed them on, as if to hide behind them. “Thank you for taking me in like this. It’s very good of you.”

  Rosie, searching for her keys, wafted her hand. “I made a vow, because somebody helped me out when I was down. I promised that I’d help someone else if I could. I guess that person is you.”

  Lorraine sat at the back of the meeting, hands clenched, face hidden behind the sunglasses. The old church meeting place was on Walnut Street. The other people there had greeted her with such warmth that she had wanted to run out of the building. Gripping her hand, Rosie had found her a seat. She was introduced only as Lorraine. Nobody gave their last name unless they wanted to. As the meeting began, Lorraine was able to get a good look at the others. None looked in bad shape, though a few had a lost air about them, as they sat with their heads bowed or stared into space. Slowly she began to pay attention to those who told their stories.

  One woman recalled how she had not known who she was for fifteen years, because those years had merged into one long, blurred binge. Now she was smart, and positive, and proud that she had been dry for four years. She had met someone who had given her love and stability. Soon, she hoped, she would have the confidence to tell him that she was an alcoholic. He had been so embarrassed for her when, sober, she had tripped over a loose stone and fallen flat on her face. She laughed then, saying that she hadn’t had the heart to tell him she had been facedown on the floor more often than she had been upright. She grew emotional, lifting up her arms as if she were at some Baptist church meeting. Lorraine sighed with boredom. “I’m standing upright now, and I intend to remain this way, just as, when I get a little stronger, I will tell him that I am an alcoholic. Hopefully he will come to one of our meetings so he can fully understand my illness and that I believe, at long last, I am in recovery. I want to recover—just as I know I will always be an alcoholic. I am an alcoholic. Thank you for listening to me, thank you for being here. God bless you all …” She burst into tears and many people clustered around her, hugging her, congratulating her.

  Lorraine remained at the back of the hall, embarrassed by the show of emotion. She was glad when the meeting ended, refusing to hold other members’ hands as they prayed together for strength and guidance. Rosie, on the other hand, was very into it all, her eyes closed, clutching the hands of two elderly women.

  Later, back at the apartment, Rosie was full of enthusiasm and energy. “Those meetings saved my life. Some people have been going for ten or fifteen years. When you face what you are it doesn’t stop. You will always be an alcoholic. One drink, and you’re back at square one. What you’ve got to understand is that you have an illness, and it can kill you. If I hadn’t stopped drinking I’d be dead now, as would most of those people there tonight.”

  She set the table, splashed water into glasses, clanking ice cubes. She was sweating even more than usual from the heat of the stove. Even at seven in the evening, the air-conditioning was so halfhearted that the temperature in the apartment was nearly eighty degrees.

  Lorraine played with her food, drank three or four glasses of water. Rosie reached over and scraped the remains of her meal onto her own plate, plowing through the leftovers as if she were starving. Her mouth bulging with food, she waved her fork in the air: “Now, what are we going to do about finding you some work? You don’t have any money, right? As soon as we’ve finished supper, we can catch a bus, go to another meeting across town, see if maybe anyone has any work, just to tide you over, nothing too strenuous. There’s meetings going on in West Hollywood every day, morning, lunchtimes, and evenings …”

  Lorraine couldn’t face another meeting, let alone another bus ride. “Maybe I could just sleep now? I’m really tired.”

  Rosie nodded—maybe she was pushing it. Instead, she chatted incessantly, about her job as a computer clerk in a banking firm. She took out her family albums, displaying her parents’ home, her ex-husband, the son she hadn’t seen for five years. She talked until her eyes drooped from tiredness. “I lost so much, Lorraine, but I’m hoping to see my son
soon. My ex said that I could have a day with him. I want him to get to know me as I am now. The most important thing is that I take every day on its own, I count every day as precious, because it’s a new day without a drink.” Lorraine smiled, but she was longing for Rosie to leave her alone. She yawned in the hope that Rosie would take the hint and go to bed, but she went on for another hour, delving into the pages of her beloved AA manual as if it were a bible, reading snatches aloud.

  At last she stood up and wagged her fat finger at Lorraine. “I am responsible,” she said. “Keep on telling that to yourself: I am responsible.” She went into her bedroom and closed the door.

  Lorraine flopped onto the couch with relief. She lay there for about fifteen minutes, listening to the air conditioner, the cat lapping its milk … and all she could think about was how she could get a drink without Rosie finding out. Eventually she drifted into sleep. She slept without pills, without alcohol, a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Lorraine was awake before Rosie, and started brewing coffee. It was only five, and still reasonably cool. She felt hungry, too, and ate some bread and cheese, followed by a bowl of muesli. She’d had four cups of coffee and five cigarettes before Rosie appeared.

  “Good morning, coffee’s made …”

  Rosie grunted, poured some, and returned to her room. Lorraine sat by the window, smoking. A new day. Would she make it without a drink? Could she make it? Most important, did she want to make it? She didn’t answer the last question—for the moment at least she was too aware of the rich smell of coffee, and that it was a beautiful day.

  Rosie was not at her best in the morning, and got annoyed when Lorraine went to take the first shower. She stayed in the small bathroom for a long time, scrutinizing herself. Scars covered her thighs. Small round marks like cigarette burns were dotted all over her white-bluish skin. Her feet shocked her: they looked like an old woman’s, reddish toes and heels all blisters and corns, with hideously long toenails—she was surprised they hadn’t been cut at the hospital. She scrubbed herself almost raw, using up all the hot water. She oiled and massaged herself with Rosie’s lotions, cleaned her teeth gently, and creamed around her mouth so her cracked lips felt less painful. Finally, she used Rosie’s shampoo and hair conditioner, and then began searching the cabinet for nail scissors and a manicure set.

  Rosie was seething. Lorraine had been in her bathroom since half-past seven and it was now almost nine. When she emerged, swathed in Rosie’s towels, Rosie pushed past her and banged the bathroom door shut.

  “Well, thanks a bundle!” She stormed out. “You’ve taken all the hot water! Now I gotta wait an hour, maybe more. I always have a shower in the morning.”

  “Sorry,” Lorraine muttered. The floor shook as Rosie thudded into the living room.

  “Would you come in here a minute, please!” Rosie boomed.

  Lorraine sighed with irritation and peered into the room. Rosie, like some irate drill sergeant, stood in front of the couch with her hands on her hips.

  “Okay. This is not a hotel. It’s not the goddamned hospital. When you get up in the morning put your bedclothes away, and it’d be a nice gesture if you tried washin’ a dish when you used it. This is my home. It may not look like much but it’s all I got an’ I work my butt off to keep it.”

  Lorraine watched as Rosie dragged her sheets and pillow from the couch and hurled them toward her. They landed at her feet. She was picking them up when the floor shook again and Rosie thrust a dirty ashtray under her nose. “And all this smoking—it’s not good for me. Please try and cut down or at least open the window and wash out the ashtray.”

  Lorraine couldn’t have gotten a word in if she’d wanted to. Rosie slammed into her bedroom and two seconds later charged out again, demanding that Lorraine go back in and clean the bathroom.

  “It was a shit hole when I went in there!” Lorraine screeched. “You like it so fucking much, you clean it!”

  Rosie glared. “No fucking way! Get the vacuum out of the closet, and clean up in there!”

  Lorraine sat down and rubbed her hair with a towel. “I’ve just gotten clean, I don’t want to get all dirty again.” Before she could make any further excuses Rosie charged to the closet, yanked open the door, and dragged out an old-fashioned Hoover. Lorraine continued to rub her hair, looking on as the fat body wobbled under the pink nylon nightgown, and then she caught sight of Rosie’s extraordinary bedroom slippers, like boats, but with the face of Pluto on one and Mickey Mouse on the other. The faces were old and food-stained and Pluto was minus one ear.

  Lorraine almost laughed out loud at the sight of Rosie’s immense bottom as she bent over to fit in the plug. Lorraine grinned at her. “I can see you haven’t had that out for a while, you should run it over the carpet in here. It’s full of cat hairs. Are you working at the hospital today?”

  Rosie switched on the vacuum cleaner and glowered. “No, I am not,” she shouted. “Why? So you can have a good rummage through my things? I only work part-time, in case your memory fails you. Mondays and Thursdays.”

  Lorraine nodded, uncertain what day it was, and fazed by the change in Rosie’s personality. Rosie continued to complain, bellowing above the machine’s roar, which made Lorraine’s head ache. Peace came when Rosie departed for her shower, but only for a moment: more loud thuds emanated from the bedroom as she dressed. Closet doors squeaked, drawers banged open and shut, until Rosie appeared with an armful of clothes which she tossed onto the floor. “Here, something might fit. If it doesn’t, throw it out. I dunno why I kept these old things, maybe because I hoped I’d shrink.… Help yourself.”

  Lorraine looked through the odd assortment of garments, all in dreadful colors and a mixture of sizes, ranging from a ten to a sixteen. Nothing fit. A few items were vaguely clean, but there were no shoes or underwear. Finally she chose a print dress three sizes too large and tied a belt around her waist. At least it would be cool. She put on her panties from the day before, turned inside out. She had no bra, no stockings or tights. She looked around for the brown paper bag she had brought from the hospital, but couldn’t remember where she had left it. Her hair was dry now, and she tied it back with an elastic band, then folded the rest of the clothes and put them into a black plastic garbage bag. She tipped the contents of the kitchen trash can into the bag, and carried it outside for collection.

  Finding herself outdoors in the beautiful sunny morning, Lorraine headed directly to the deli at the end of the street, as if drawn by some invisible force. She stood in the street staring in the window with all the bottles on display. The windows were barred, and she threaded her fingers through the meshing, longing to go inside. She didn’t have so much as a cent, so unless she robbed the place, there was no way of getting a bottle. Reluctantly she walked back to Rosie’s, climbed up the wooden staircase, then hesitated. She could hear Rosie talking on the telephone, and she sat on the steps to listen.

  “Well, I was hoping since I’ve got a few days off this weekend if we could make it Saturday? I can get the bus over …”

  The call went on for a while longer, then Lorraine heard the thudding footsteps, and a door slamming. She went inside and opened the fridge. Rosie appeared, dressed in a white blouse and circular flower-print cotton skirt. Her frizzy hair was wet, and she was tugging a comb through it.

  “Water was still cold! And you had the last Coke yesterday. I’m not a charity, you know. Now, we’d better see which meeting you go to.” Rosie began making a series of phone calls and talked at length to someone whom she described as her sponsor. Eventually she hung up.

  “Jake figures I shouldn’t be your sponsor, but since I’ve taken you on, I’ll give it a try. Anytime, day or night, if you feel the need for a drink, or someone to talk to, then you just tell me. Have you wanted a drink this morning?”

  “What do you think?”

  Rosie sighed irritably, and warned Lorraine that she did not have enough money to ferry them both to meetings all over L.A. “Don’t you hav
e any money at all?” she barked.

  “No, but I’ll manage …”

  Rosie pushed past her into the tiny kitchen area, mixed cereal and fruit in a bowl, and began to munch noisily. Slowly, the warm, friendly Rosie began to surface. She complimented Lorraine on how she looked, and started counting dollars from her purse. Lorraine watched, trying to work out how much money it contained. As soon as she had a chance, she would steal it and get the hell out of the apartment.

  “How about social security? Can you claim any benefits?”

  Lorraine shrugged. Said she couldn’t remember her number, but declined to admit to Rosie why she didn’t want to—the skipped bail, court appearances, debts … If she tried to apply for financial assistance she’d be arrested. Rosie gulped her coffee and began to make a long list, chewing the end of an already gnarled pencil.

  “Okay. We got enough here for a few days, but we’ll look around for jobs, see about taking you down to Social Services to see if they can trace your number and maybe you’ll get some cash. Not that you can live on what they dole out, I know, I’m on it—”

  “We? I can manage on my own.”

  “No, you can’t. I can’t go off to the hospital and leave you, well, not until I can trust you. So here’s some suggestions …” She had jotted down waitress, cleaner—mostly menial jobs—and then listed all the addresses of AA meetings. Lorraine wondered idly if all this effort was to help Rosie stay on the wagon, never mind herself.

  “I thought you said you were something to do with computers. Can’t you get a decent job?” Lorraine inquired.

  Rosie looked up. “Oh, sure. I can get into any bank and they’ll make me head cashier! I lost my job, my respectability. I’ve got no references, not even a driver’s license—they canceled it. I thought you’d know that—if you were a cop like you said. If you were, why can’t you get a decent job?”