Hollywood Ending (26 page)

I picked up the remaining quarter from the table just as Elvis finished. ‘My turn,' I said, and put the coin in the slot. I pushed two buttons I knew by heart and waited. The familiar sound of the circus-like keyboard started and Lynette smiled.

‘“California Girls”. Talk about being predictable!'

‘Everybody loves “California Girls”,' I said. ‘Remember, sometimes it's perfectly okay to be like everybody else.'

THIRTY-SIX

When I got home all I wanted to do was sleep: crawl into bed, throw the covers over my head and never come out. Jake hadn't called. At that point I hoped Jake and Hank never contacted me again, that they would disappear from my life just as fast as they had arrived. If Hank wanted to die he would have to do it without me. I'd rather forget I ever knew him than live through losing him, losing anyone, ever again.

But I couldn't sleep. I turned on the television; there was nothing but infomercials and music videos full of hos dancing in front of gangsters. I turned off the TV and put on my headphones, but even the haunting, pitch-perfect voice of Karen Carpenter couldn't soothe me. I had that old death itch. I wanted to hide in corpses, find comfort in the dead. I jumped online, went to all the usual sites, but nothing was helping. Even newly posted pics of Diana's car crash weren't enough to get me excited. Seeing that tuft of beautiful blonde hair sticking out of the crushed BMW just made me feel even sadder. I started to wonder what was wrong with me.

I checked my email. There was a message from Benji; the subject heading read GOLDFISH. I looked at Sid, now renamed Dee Dee after my favourite Ramone, swimming happily in circles in his new bowl from Petco, his scales glistening a healthy orange. I tapped on the glass and he turned his little fish head to look at me: it looked like he was smiling, but it could have just been my imagination. I considered just deleting the email, pretending I never got it. But there was something inside me that couldn't write Benji off quite yet, and now that my relationships with Hank and Jake were disintegrating, it actually felt good to see Benji's name in my inbox. I took a deep breath and opened the email.

Yo,

So how's it going? Sorry it's been a while but I've been really busy—me and the guys have been on so many road trips I'm hardly home anymore. It's crazy. Tomorrow we're going to the shooting range. I'm getting good but not as good as Dan. He's got a semi automatic (don't ask me how he got it) like the one Eric Harris had. Its sick ass.

Anyways, I just wanted to know if you knew what happened to my goldfish? I looked for it today in the cupboard and it was gone. My robe's gone too. Mom said she didn't do anything with it so I thought you might know. Anyways, no big deal. It's just weird you know? I was getting some good data.

There's going to be a party soon and if you want you can come. I think you'll be pretty surprised by where it is. It will be the coolest party you have ever been to. So come if you want.

B.

‘What do you think Dee Dee?' I asked my goldfish. ‘You wanna go to a party?'

His mouth formed an ‘o' and I don't know if it was because I was just really tired but I swear it looked like he was saying no, no, no, and little bubbles started to pop to the surface. I rubbed my eyes, looked at the clock. It was 2 a.m., and I hadn't felt this alone in a very long time. ‘You love me don't you, Dee Dee?' I asked. Of course he did. He had to; I'd saved his life. Is that what it takes to get someone to love you? I turned off the computer, got into bed, and decided to think about it all in the morning, because tomorrow, as they said in the movies, would be another day.

THIRTY-SEVEN

The next day brought no answers, so I went looking for them. After wandering around the house aimlessly all morning, I decided to take a cab to Westwood Cemetery to see Marilyn Monroe's grave. Marilyn was the most misunderstood woman in the world, and no matter how much she achieved she was destined to wander the world alone, and die the same way. If anyone could make me feel better it was her.

Westwood was a small cemetery, hidden behind the skyscrapers of downtown Wilshire. Truman Capote was buried there. Dean Martin. Natalie Wood. Jack Lemmon. Rodney Dangerfield had a headstone that read ‘There Goes The Neighbourhood'. But Marilyn was the biggest star, the one we all came to see. Her crypt was towards the back and you could see it in the distance, the bright colours of a hundred roses, pictures and teddy bears left every day by adoring fans. Already I could see there were people there, a large group of tourists, cameras raised, packed lunches carried in bus tour backpacks. I walked over. Marilyn's crypt in the wall was covered in bright red lipstick kisses. People had scribbled their names on it, left her messages, prayed at her feet. A woman in the crowd turned to her friend.

‘Did you know Marilyn was a size
sixteen
?' she squawked.

‘Sixteen? My goodness. She would never have gotten work today.'

‘Not a chance in hell. She was a
very big girl
.'

I wanted to scream, tell them to leave her alone. What more did they want from her? Marilyn was hounded all her life and now, even in death, she was given no peace. Some people believed Marilyn had been murdered by the Kennedys or the CIA, but I didn't believe that. Marilyn just wanted to die. Sometimes when people want to die, there is nothing that can be done, no way to stop them. And wasn't it their right to die if they wished? Who were we to tell others they had to live?

I turned away from them. Graveyards weren't for dead people, they were for us; reassurance that we wouldn't be forgotten when we were gone, that something would remain. I found a concrete seat near the grave of Billy Wilder, sat there and stared at the headstones, the peaceful finality of it all. I don't know how long I was there, but when I looked up it was starting to get dark. I took a cab back to Encino.

THIRTY-EIGHT

When I got home Lynette wasn't there, and I was happy to have the house to myself. I walked into my room, thinking I might keep reading
American Psycho.
I didn't really have the stomach for it anymore: the violence just seemed like violence, with no hidden, deeper meaning. Still, I picked the book up anyway, not knowing what to do with myself, and determined that life should get back to normal. I held the book in my hands, but only skimmed the page. I glanced around my room, once again struck by its barrenness. It still pretty much looked like a guest room, with its bare walls and sparse decor.

It really was time for me to start making the space my own. Perhaps I would still be there in a few years time, now that moving in with Benji was most likely off the cards. I could extend my artefacts collection into a space larger than a single shelf, maybe a glass cabinet similar to Benji's, and I could put framed posters from my favourite movies on the walls:
Harold & Maude
,
Mulholland Drive
,
Animal
House
.

I thought of Jake, his tidy apartment, and wondered what he was doing now. I found myself thinking about all the years I had lived without knowing him, and wondered what he had been doing all that time.

It was then that I saw the photograph pinned to my corkboard, a photograph that hadn't been there when I left for the cemetery early that morning, a photograph I had never seen before. It was an old-fashioned Polaroid of a young woman with long, auburn hair parted down the middle, a baby in her arms. My first reaction was that it was my mother. The baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, looked up at the woman in wonder, a hint of a smile on its tiny face. I knew who the baby was. The baby was me. I had that blanket until I was at least eight, had it in the backseat with me when our car ran into that truck, carried it all the way to the hospital and wouldn't let the nurse take it from me no matter how gently she pulled on it.

That's when I realised who the woman was. It was Lynette, of course. The woman who had told my mother off for letting me watch
Porky's
when I was six, who had walked past me nearly every day for the last ten years and barely brushed against me. Here she was, staring down at me with a large smile on her face, teeth showing, hand wrapped tightly around the blanket, keeping me safe. I wished that I had been shown this photo before, wondered why it should make such a difference. But it did. The fact that Lynette had pinned it there herself told me all I needed to know. Lynette and I would be okay, perhaps better than okay. I took the photo off the board and placed it on my desk. I would buy a frame for it in the morning. It would be the first picture on my wall. It was small, but it was a good start.

I heard something at my bedroom window, the sound of branches snapping. I pulled up the blinds, expecting to find a possum or the neighbour's cat, and jumped back when I saw someone standing outside in the dark, peering in.

‘Jesus!' I screamed.

‘It's just me!' Jake yelled through the glass, tapping on it. ‘Can I come in?

‘Use the front door, you moron!' I yelled, my heart pounding in my ears. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?'

‘I thought this would be romantic.'

‘It's not romantic,' I said, opening the window. ‘It makes you a stalker. It gets you shot by the cops. What are you doing here?'

‘Can I talk to you?' he said, producing a piece of paper. ‘I wrote something down—'

‘Oh God, what is wrong with you? I'm not interested in hearing another one of your stupid little monologues.'

‘Come on Hilda,' he pleaded, struggling to push the branches out of the way and losing his balance. He had stubble on his face and his eyes were red as if he hadn't slept, or worse.

‘Around the front,' I said, closing the window. He tripped and I heard him fall and curse.

I stormed out the front door, turned the porch light on. A few moments later Jake appeared from the side of the house, a leaf sticking out of his hair.

‘What do you want?'

Again he pulled the piece of paper from his pocket, started to unfold it.

‘No paper!' I said. ‘Just talk.'

‘But I don't know how!' he whined like a kid.

‘You're gonna have to learn, Jake. Normal people have conversations.'

‘I don't know what to say to you. Listen, I'm sorry. I wish I could make you understand, this is just what I do. I do it in cafés, on the street. I hear people talk and I write it down and I make stories out of it. And Hank's story was just so amazing, I was working on it before you even came along. One day he was struggling to get his groceries up the stairs, and I went to help him, and I saw the tattoo on his wrist and immediately I knew I had a great story, a story that had to be written. Then you came along, and you made the story better. It got better when you got there.'

‘Hank was right about you. You
were
spying on him. Asking him questions. That why he's been so scared. Because of you. You and all your questions, making him think someone was out to get him. He's just an old man! Why can't you leave him alone?'

‘That has nothing to do with me. He was crazy a long time before I came into the picture. The neighbours told me.'

‘Oh great, so you're asking other people about him? No wonder he's so paranoid.'

‘Do you ever think that perhaps there's another explanation, Hilda? Do you ever think that maybe there are some things that Hank isn't being entirely truthful about?'

‘Like what?'

‘Don't be coy. There're more holes in his story than Swiss cheese. And you know what? I think he tries to tell you. I think he wants to tell you, but you don't want to hear.'

I wrapped my cardigan tight around my shoulders, started to push Jake in the stomach as I enunciated each word.

‘Don't tell me about what I know.'

‘Hilda, stop it. Stop pushing me.'

‘You stop pushing me!' I said, shoving him so hard he nearly fell onto the grass. ‘I don't even know what you want!'

‘I want you to feel about me the way you do about him!' he said, and I stopped. ‘Why the hell do you care so much about a crusty old fart anyway?'

‘Because he gave me a tile!' I yelled. ‘And, it made me feel like he really understood me, more than anyone else ever had. Until I met you.'

I started to cry. Jake stepped towards me, wrapped his arms around me, and for a moment I fell into him.

‘I just can't live like this,' I cried into his shoulder.

‘Like what?' he whispered, his hand on my hair.

‘With all this death.'

‘I'm alive Hilda. I'm alive.'

I pushed him away. ‘No you're not. You're dead. You're all dead.'

‘Hilda—'

‘Hey!' A voice yelled from the sidewalk: Lynette, home from work, her arms filled with casebooks. ‘What's going on?'

She looked at me, saw my tears, and a hard look settled into her features.

‘Okay buddy,' she said to Jake. ‘Take a hike.'

‘Look, I'm just trying to—'

‘I said take a hike!'

I'm not sure at what point Lynette pulled her DA badge from her bag but all of a sudden she was flashing it in front of Jake's face.

‘You know what this is son?' she said.

Jake sighed. ‘No, what is it?'

‘It's a DA's badge.'

‘Really?'

‘Well, assistant DA. Point is, I could arrest you on the spot. Now, I told you to take a hike. She doesn't want you here.'

‘Hilda—'

‘No you don't,' Lynette said. ‘She doesn't want you here. Not now anyway. If you've got something to sort out, now is not the time. Do you understand?'

‘Okay, I'll go.'

Jake held out his hand to Lynette as I stood silently on the front of the porch, the tears drying on my face.

‘I'm Jake by the way,' he said. ‘Nice to meet you.'

Lynette hesitated for a moment then shook his hand. ‘Assistant DA Lynette Hannigan. Good to meet you too. Now move along.'