Cold Shoulder (9 page)

Almost half-way through the third week, the headache subsided and Lorraine was able to shower by herself. That afternoon, Jake took out the clamp stitches. The wound had healed well, but he was doubtful about his prowess as a hairdresser. Lorraine had almost a crew-cut at the back of her head and crown while the front was long and jagged. It gave her an almost boyish look, and she made them laugh when she tied a ribbon around the front strands to keep them from flopping in her eyes. She read a lot, magazines at first, because even flicking through the newspapers gave her a headache but gradually she began to plough her way through Rosie’s spartan collection of bodice-ripping blockbusters.

She kept the money stashed beneath the mattress. Sometimes she had qualms of guilt when Rosie paid for everything, but didn’t know how she could hand out money if Rosie believed she was broke. Afraid of being questioned too closely about its source, she decided against mentioning it. And Jake made no reference to it either.

Four days later, she saw a way round it. When Rosie returned from work, Lorraine presented her with fifty dollars. ‘You can be proud of me, Rosie. I went over to my friend, then to a pawnbroker’s. Here, this is for you. I sold off my things.’ Rosie had no idea that Lorraine had never left the apartment, but she did remark that it was time they discussed the sleeping arrangements. She assured Lorraine she didn’t want her to leave, it was just that Rosie needed a good night’s sleep in her own bed. That night, Lorraine moved back onto the sofa.

Months had passed since Lorraine had last touched alcohol, had been stone cold sober; it was six weeks since the attack. Curled up on the uncomfortable sofa, she began to plan what she should do next. On the positive side, she was sober. She had no craving, yet, but would it develop as she regained her strength?

Money she had, almost three hundred dollars. It seemed like a fortune, but she knew it wouldn’t last long. She wanted to move on, but the question was, where to? And what would she do? Two more days and it became obvious, not just to Rosie but to herself, that she could no longer hide out in the small apartment. Rosie was already hinting that the fifty dollars had been swallowed up in groceries.

Lorraine felt incapable of making major plans for her future; it was the immediate that occupied her. Marooned in the apartment she watched a lot of TV and could follow the murder inquiry. The news showed an artist’s impression of the woman seen in the blue Sedan, which she found almost amusing; it bore no resemblance to herself, and Lorraine felt no guilt in not making further contact. The police were making inquiries in all the cab ranks, trying to trace if anyone answering the blonde woman’s description had hired a cab that afternoon. They had drawn a blank at all the hospital emergency departments. It seemed no one had seen either the woman or the deceased’s blue Sedan on the day of his murder. Lorraine’s phone call was becoming more and more important to the investigation.

Jake, now a frequent visitor, was disturbed by her inertia. In an attempt to motivate her, he suggested that, if she was interested, his friend could do something for her teeth. They needed treatment badly, and the missing tooth didn’t help her looks. If she could find thirty dollars or so, he said, she could get it capped.

‘Know a laid-off dentist, too, do you, Jake?’

Jake laughed, but she was right — his friend was AA and only just starting to rebuild his practice.

Lorraine spent four days in agony, but the end result was two front teeth capped, all her cavities filled, her gums cleaned and the rest of her teeth bleached. Her mouth was swollen and sore, but the exercise had been a success. She used the lie about selling off her belongings again, and paid the thirty dollars. She also gave Rosie another twenty, adding that now she had nothing more to sell or pawn. Rosie believed her: Lorraine was a good liar.

She went to the local hair salon to have her hair streaked, cut and blown dry. Jake’s pitiful attempt at styling limited her choice — the back was so short where the scar was still visible — but the salon made a reasonable job, taking the back and sides even shorter and the front into a low fringe, like a twenties crop, which accentuated her cheekbones, while the highlights gave body to her thin hair. She was by no means transformed into a beauty: her nose was crooked, flattish from where it must have been broken, and the white jagged scar on the left side of her face remained. Nevertheless a new, more confident, Lorraine was emerging.

Rosie was astonished and full of admiration as Lorraine presented herself, and Jake was equally complimentary in a back-handed way. He had whistled, then said, ‘Honey, you must have been a cracker!’

Rosie became a little envious. Nothing she could do to her frizzy mop would ever change her much — and it rankled that Lorraine could have an expensive haircut, yet not pay a cent towards the rent. Money was short, and Rosie’s salary plus her benefits was hardly enough to keep herself, never mind two.

It also irritated Rosie that although she went to AA regularly, Lorraine made excuses to stay in the apartment and read. Eventually she made it clear that she was not a charity, and it was time Lorraine got off her ass…

But Lorraine was scared to leave the safety of the apartment. Even Jake’s presence was comforting. He was always so dependable and calming. She still made no mention of her hidden stash: it was her only security and it meant that she could, if she wanted, go on a whopper of a binge. The idea of drinking remained an avenue of escape for her but she no longer woke up with booze on her mind. Far from it: some days she relished the simple pleasure of waking up and knowing where she was. But that was soon replaced by fear — fear of being let loose and alone.

Lorraine never hinted at her inner turmoil. To Rosie and Jake she appeared confident and composed. She was meticulously clean, often taking two or three showers a day, scrubbing her body until it felt raw. She examined her teeth and gazed at her face in the mirror, studied her scars, as if she was trying to find out who she was, where she had been the past six years.

She drank bottled water all day and ate so well that her skin took on a freshness and her fingernails grew. She sat for hours polishing and filing them, totally preoccupied with herself. She never did any housework, looking on as Rosie changed sheets and went alone to the laundromat. Not once did Lorraine cook or wash up; she ate whatever Rosie banged down in front of her, and ignored the heavy hints about outstaying her welcome.

Finally, Rosie turned to Jake. She wanted him to ask Lorraine to leave.

‘I thought you liked her?’ he mused.

‘I did, I do, but she just
takes
from me, Jake. And I’m not just talking about money. She uses all my hot water, all my things, and now she doesn’t even talk to me, never says thank-you, just sits looking at herself, cleaning herself. Sometimes she reminds me of my goddamned cat. She’s got to leave, she’s driving me nuts!’

Jake came round when he knew Rosie was out. He tapped on the screen door and let himself in. Lorraine was sitting by the window, reading. She looked up, acknowledged him, then returned to her book. ‘We got to have a little chat,’ Jake said, sitting on the sofa. Lorraine didn’t look up. He crossed his fat legs. ‘I know you’re maybe scared of leaving here, you feel safe, feel like you’re getting back to some kind of normality. But it’s an unreal normality, Lorraine. This is Rosie’s home, and she’s broke — caring for you and herself…’

Lorraine snapped the book shut. ‘Okay. I’ll leave.’

‘You don’t have to do that — but you got to get a job, put some money into the housekeeping, help out around the place. Then, when you’ve found your feet, maybe you can get a place of your own.’

Lorraine stared at her manicured fingers and looked out of the window. ‘I dunno about that…’ She turned to him. Her eyes were washed-out blue, wide apart, without expression. He couldn’t tell what she was thinking. ‘It’s been a long time since I worked, Jake. You know — with sane people…’ She half smiled. ‘Maybe I’m not ready to take on any responsibility. I’m kind of living day to day, but I hear what you’re saying, and I’ll leave.’

‘Where will you go?’ Jake asked.

She shrugged. ‘I dunno. I’ll make out. What do you care?’

‘I care a lot — especially after all that dental work you got done! Hate to see you go and start the rot again, because if you walk out of here with no purpose you’ll be back on Skid Row pretty soon.’

She sighed; she felt tired and it hurt to think. She ran a finger along the scar at the back of her head. ‘Skid Row. That where we met, huh? Joke, it was just a joke… Look, Jake, I’m real tired, so if you don’t mind leaving…’

He got up and went to the kitchen. ‘I’l make us some coffee.’ He saw the way her face tightened. She wanted him to leave, he knew, but he hadn’t finished. ‘Let’s talk some more, Lorraine, throw a few ideas around. Like I said, you got to find a purpose.’

She picked up the book again. Jake walked over and snatched it away. ‘You can fuck around with Rosie, Lorraine, because she’s weak and desperate. She needed you in some sick kind of way — it took her mind off her own problems. But now you got to put a bit back, understand me?’

She smirked at him. ‘Why don’t
you
put it back, Jake? Give her a screwing, she needs that more than anything else! She hasn’t been laid in five years.’

He could have slapped her sullen face, but he didn’t. He just held the steady gaze of her washed-out eyes. ‘You been screwed lately, then, do you? Remember it?’

‘I’ve had enough to last me a lifetime.’

‘I bet you did. A lot of drunks whore for booze — that what you did?’

‘Fuck off.’

Jake gripped her skinny wrist. ‘I fuck off — and you’re fucked. You need Rosie, you need this place, because it’s all you’ve got — but you’ve used her. I’m just trying to help. You’re already helping yourself.’

‘Am I?’ she snapped.

‘Yes. You look a hell of a lot better than when you first arrived — and you can keep on looking and feeling better — but you have to want a future!’

Jake had to hand it to Lorraine: she still didn’t give an inch, still showed no sign of what she was feeling. She did, however, drink the coffee he made and even though she didn’t speak to him again, she seemed to listen, chainsmoking his cigarettes, staring at the wall. Eventually he could think of nothing more to say. He wrote down a few contact addresses for jobs and went away, feeling depressed and disappointed. She didn’t say goodbye or thank him for the extra pack of smokes he had left.

By the time Rosie returned, however, the apartment was tidier, and Lorraine had vacuumed and cleaned the kitchen. Rosie’s bed was made, the shower room was clean. Even the cat had been fed.

Rosie muttered thanks and put down a grocery bag full of cans of Coke, oven-ready french fries, and a cooked chicken. She began cooking dinner as Lorraine watched television, shrugging in reply to anything Rosie said. They ate in silence, Rosie glancing at Lorraine as she sucked each chicken bone, eating with her hands, polishing the plate clean with her bread. Rosie shifted onto the sofa for a better view of the TV as Lorraine cleared the table and washed up. Not until she had dried all the dishes and put them away did Lorraine begin a conversation.

‘Jake was here.’

‘Yeah, I know.’

‘I’il go an’ see if I can get a job tomorrow, start payin’ some rent.’

Rosie nodded. ‘Okay. You want to come to AA tonight?’

Lorraine hesitated. ‘Okay.’

As before, Lorraine sat at the back, playing no part in the proceedings. As she checked over the list of jobs she’d try for in the morning, her head throbbed. Then, without any warning, the sweating began, and she slipped out into the corridor where she found the water fountain. She had gulped down several cupfuls before she was steadier and her mouth stopped feeling like sandpaper. The fountain was close to a large bulletin board: there were lists of contacts, jobs, AA meetings, white elephant and garage sales. Lorraine noted down an address for second-hand clothes.

Rosie appeared, looking concerned, but seeing Lorraine squinting up at the bulletin board in that odd way she had, writing down information, she relaxed.

Lorraine looked over to her. ‘I guess I’ll need some clothes for work. There’s a yard sale on. You want to come?’

It wasn’t until they got there and Lorraine began to stack up suits, shirts, shoes, that Rosie wondered how she was going to pay. When she asked how much they’d cost, Lorraine told her fifteen dollars for the bunch — the woman wanted to get rid of the stuff quickly as she was moving. She had actually paid a hundred and fifty and was now down to less than a hundred bucks in her stash. The fact that she had broken into it for something other than booze, was — even though she didn’t realize it — another step forward.

Rosie sat draining a can of Coke as Lorraine inspected her new clothes, trying them all on, mixing and matching. Her face wore a studied, concentrated expression. She muttered and nodded, running her hand through her hair. ‘Mmmm, nice, not bad… yes, I like it.’

She felt jealous as she watched Lorraine parade up and down like a model on a catwalk. The clothes were good, anyone could see that, tailored skirts and jackets, a particularly nice cream silk shirt, and a black crêpe one, tasteful walking shoes and a pair of brown slingbacks that had never been worn. ‘I doubt if you’ll need that gear for the jobs Jake’s got lined up for you,’ Rosie pointed out, burping from the Coke.

Lorraine was looking at herself in the long wardrobe mirror. ‘Maybe I’m gonna try for a real job. There were quite a few listed at the meeting.’

Rosie pouted. ‘Like what?’

Lorraine turned round. ‘Receptionist — got to look smart for that — nice and easy, sittin’ down all day. I might get lucky.’

Rosie sniffed. ‘You might not.’

Lorraine hardly slept. The sofa was uncomfortable at the best of times, but constant worrying about the next day made her toss and turn. Four times she had to walk through the bedroom to the toilet, but she didn’t disturb Rosie, who slept as always like a beached whale, snoring loudly. Lorraine’s thirst seemed unquenchable. She finished all the Coke, all the bottled water, sweating and shaking, flopping up and down on the old sofa. Then it started — the craving. She badly wanted a beer. Would it be so bad to have just one?