Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (13 page)

Chapter 13—Living Well

Camilla wasn’t sure how long someone had been knocking on her door, but finally the pounding made its way into her consciousness. But no one could be at her door, because no one knew she was here but Jimmy, who had a volleyball game tonight.

The knocking continued. Finally, she got up, blew her nose, smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt, and opened the door.

In front of her was a tiny old woman with curly white hair. She wore a purple jogging suit with a K Mart logo on the pocket. Her white ringlets were tied with a purple bow that didn’t quite match the shiny polyester of the jogging suit. She was carrying a bottle of sherry and smiling joyfully.

“I’m Violet. Violet Rushforth, your next door neighbor,” she said with a big smile. “You must be Camellia.”

“Camilla.”

“I just love the name Camellia.” The woman thrust the bottle at Camilla. “I had a sister Camellia, but she died of the whooping cough. There were five of us that lived: Lily, Rose, Daisy, Iris and me—Papa’s little bouquet, he always used to say. I was the youngest. They’re all dead now. Don’t you have any wine glasses?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.” The last thing Camilla wanted right now was a guest, but as the old woman pushed past her into the apartment, she saw she had no choice. “I do have two cups,” she said finally. “I’ll get them. I’m afraid there’s no place to sit but the bed.”

“I don’t mind sitting in the kitchen, hon,” the woman said.

“Oh, I’m afraid there’s no—”

Camilla flicked on the kitchen light. In the corner of the room was a Formica table surrounded by three orange plastic chairs, and another that looked as if someone had tried to spray-paint it green. She had never seen them before.

“He brought them this afternoon,” Violet Rushforth said. “In a big City truck. He said wasn’t it amazing what some people will throw away. I said it was. We had a nice chat. He seemed like such a fine boy.” The old woman’s bright blue eyes squinted up at Camilla’s tearful ones. “But if I’d had any idea he’d make you cry like that, well, I just would have told Mrs. R. to send him packing: table, chairs and all.”

Camilla couldn’t help smiling at the thought that Jimmy the garbage man could be the source of her anguish. She walked to the sink and rinsed her two Melmac cups.

“You can’t drink sherry out of those,” Violet Rushforth said. “Just wait. I’ll be back in two shakes.”

Camilla watched as the old woman shuffled out the kitchen door. She sat in one of the new chairs Jimmy seemed to have delivered, and studied the sherry bottle. It was Dry Sack, the kind her mother drank.

Mrs. Rushforth reappeared a moment later, carrying a gold box with a purple bow on top. She put it in front of Camilla and sat down.

“Housewarming present,” she said, opening the sherry bottle. “I’ve had them for years, just sitting in that box. Glad to give them a good home.”

Camilla opened the box and found, nestled in tissue paper, two etched crystal Lalique glasses.

“They’re too beautiful, Mrs. Rushforth. I can’t…”

“Hold it right there,” Mrs. Rushforth said. “We have to get this straight, right off. You call me Violet. ‘Rushforth’ was just my husband’s name. Husband number six. We’d only been married a week when he dropped dead of a heart attack. Serves me right for marrying an old man. You call me Violet. I call you Camellia. I think that’s fair.”

Camilla had to hide a giggle by sniffling into her handkerchief.

“All right—Violet,” she said. “But I can’t let you give me such a valuable present—”

“You trying to tell me what to do?”

“Of course not, but—”

“Then let’s just fill ’em up, OK?” Violet poured sherry into the Lalique glasses. Etched angel wings showed snowy white against the amber liquid. “You gotta learn how to live well, hon,” she said, raising her glass. “Living well is the best revenge. That’s what they say.”

Camilla studied the elegant glass. “Living well isn’t something I’m very good at these days.”

“Certainly it is, Camellia. Certainly it is. You may have been crying your eyes out over some boy a few minutes ago, but now you’re having a nice housewarming party with your new neighbor. People who take time to be friendly are people who know how to live well.”

“I’m not crying because of a boy.”

“Of course you are,” said Violet. “At your age, it’s always a boy. I saw that one this afternoon. Too good-looking. I should have known he was a scalawag.”

“Jimmy? He’s just a friend. Not even a close friend.” Camilla sipped sherry. “But I guess he’s the only one I have.”

“Now you’ve got two, hon,” Violet said, patting Camilla’s hand. “So why don’t you tell me all about it?”

Camilla found herself relating the awful events of the day to Violet Rushforth. She told about her terrifying boss—she didn’t try to explain how well she knew about his ability to terrify—but she did tell about the endless bus rides to nowhere, and how she could never go back to work at the
Sentinel
, because it was too humiliating, and that she had no money and she’d had to sell her watch, which was partly why she missed the computer thing, and that everything was just too awful.

“It’s not a watch you need, honey. It’s a car.”

“I had one. I lost that on Sunday.” She wiped her eyes.

“So that’s it. Your car got repossessed? And that’s why you’re crying like it was the end of the world? Because you don’t have a car? Or a watch?”

“Or a job,” Camilla said quietly.

“Now, wait a minute. You haven’t lost that yet. There’s no use crying over milk you haven’t spilled, is there?”

“I’m afraid the milk was spilled a long time ago.”

“Camellia,” Violet said with sudden intensity. “Let me give you some advice. Don’t talk about things you don’t know anything about. ‘A long time ago’ is something you don’t know anything about.” She added some sherry to Camilla’s glass.

Camilla could only nod and sip.

“So, what it boils down to is this,” Violet continued. “You’re afraid you’re going to lose your job because you don’t have a watch or a car. Now, the watch I can’t help you with. Never wear one myself. But I do know you can buy one of those digit-ones over to Thrifty’s for about five ninety-five, if you can stand to have something strapped to your wrist. Hate them myself.”

She poured more sherry and went on.

“But what I do have is a car. Those Motor Vehicle people don’t want me driving because of my eyes, and I prefer taking the bus anyhow because you make more friends that way. Mrs. R. keeps telling me I should sell the thing, but she knows I can’t because it was a gift. From husband number four. Best of the lot. Can’t go selling something that was a gift.”

Camilla nodded politely.

“So.” Violet drained her glass. “Shall we take Lila for a spin?”

“Who?”

“You and me, of course, I’ll have to show you how to drive her. Old Lila’s got a few quirks. I’ll get the keys. You wash your face. You’ve got mascara all dripping down.”

“Who’s Lila?” Camilla swiped at her eyes with the handkerchief.

“Lila’s the car. Eddie named his cars—all fifty-eight of ’em. Said they ran better if you talked to ’em.”

“Eddie?” she felt as if she were conversing in a foreign language.

“Husband number four. Best of the lot. Wash your face.”

~

Ten minutes later, wearing fresh make-up, Camilla followed Violet’s white curls into a dark alleyway between two apartment buildings about a block away. Violet was talking about husband number two.

“…Freddy worked in Vegas,” she said. “And he taught me not to be afraid of anything. Unfortunately, there were a few things he should have been afraid of, like some of those Italian boys he was hanging around with, and—now Camellia, here I am, 84 years old and I can walk faster than you, what’s the matter?”

“It’s awfully dark,” she said.

“You don’t have to be afraid. That’s what I’m telling you. I’ve got my mace.” Violet pulled a cylindrical object from her huge lavender plastic purse. “It’s this squirt-stuff you spray in somebody’s face if they’re trying to mug you or whatever. Makes ’em choke something awful.”

“Where do you get it?”

“From the police. But first they make you take a class in how to use it. But I’ll tell you what works almost as good—hairspray. About five years ago, this fellow was coming up behind me, and I knew he was going to try and take my pocketbook—because I’d just got my check—and I wasn’t going to let some hoodlum get all that money, so I reached for the mace and turned around and squirted him, and he just stood there choking and wheezing while I ran like the devil.” Violet cackled happily as she trudged on through the dark. “What’s funny is—” she went on, “It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d sprayed him with hairspray instead of the mace.”

 They’d arrived at a crumbling stucco garage with sagging wooden doors, padlocked shut. Violet produced a set of keys. After some struggling, they opened the heavy doors and Violet switched on a light.

“There she is, Camellia—your new car.”

Before them was a shiny, mint-condition, lilac-colored 1958 Edsel.

“Kind of takes your breath away, doesn’t she?” said Violet. “They don’t make cars like that any more. Mrs. R’s little grandson keeps her polished up, changes the oil and all. Not old enough to drive, though. I call him Jonny. That’s my grandson’s name. It’s really Jesus, but I feel funny calling a boy by the Lord’s name, so I’ll keep calling him Jonny, at least until I can find the real one. Camellia, you are so slow. When are you going to get in that car and take us for a spin?”

Camilla had given up hope of making any sense of all this, so she obediently sat in the driver’s seat and opened the door for Violet.

“Where to?” Camilla said.

“Since you’re dressed up so nice and all, I think we should go to the Del.”

“The what?”

“The Hotel Del Coronado. Haven’t you ever been there?”

Camilla admitted she hadn’t. But she had heard of it—a posh resort once frequented by European royalty. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go in a purple Edsel.

“That place was built when folks knew how to live,” Violet said. “They’ve got chandeliers that will make your eyes pop out. Shaped like crowns, some of them. That’s why I’m going to rent the Crown Room for my birthday party, even if it does cost more.”

Camilla had no idea what to say, but that didn’t seem to matter.

“You have to come to my birthday party, Camellia. Next spring. I know it’s months away, but you got to plan these things way in advance. I’ll be 85. Figure I deserve a big, bang-up party. After all, what’s money for? A birthday party is more fun than a funeral. For the guest of honor, anyway…Camellia, will you stop daydreaming and start this car?”

Camilla turned the key in the ignition and heard the purring of a well-tuned engine.

“See, I told you Lila’s a good old car,” Violet said. “I don’t want to see any more tears about the repo, OK?”

Camilla drove the Edsel out onto the street, feeling sad for the deluded, lonely old woman. “I really appreciate the offer, Violet. It’s a lovely car, but I don’t feel right about taking it. It won’t help me keep the job, anyway. I’m losing the job because I was assigned a story I can’t write.”

“You can’t write about that computer whatsit, but nobody wants to read about computers anyhow. They’ll be taking over the world soon enough. Write about something else.”

“Something else?” Camilla hoped she was headed for the right freeway.

“Sure. The way I see it, you learn something new every day. Every day something new comes into your life, and if you pay attention, it’s a lesson. You didn’t learn about computers today, but you learned something. Write about it.”

Camilla smiled. It wasn’t likely that Jonathan Kahn would publish an article about a little old lady with a purple Edsel. “I’m afraid I didn’t do anything but ride around on buses.”

“There you have it, then. Buses were clean, weren’t they? Drivers nice and friendly? Now, I’ve lived in half the cities in the U.S. of A. and I don’t think I’ve met friendlier bus drivers anywhere. You know Harry, on route 24, once drove three blocks off his route to get me to my doctor? It was pouring-down rain, and he said I’d get drownded if he left me at the stop. Said I look just like his grandmother, which is a hoot because Harry’s a big colored fella, and then there’s Miguel, on route 32…”