Innocent Little Crimes (2 page)

She reached down beside her bed and opened
the bottle of wine. She looked around for a glass and, finding
none, drank out of the bottle. After finishing off the wine, she
went back to the bathroom and shook out two more pills from the
near-empty bottle. Back in bed, she switched off her lamp and put
the headphones on. Soft music filtered into her head and the calm
voice of her therapist set her mind adrift.

“Imagine yourself lying on a fluffy white
cloud. You are weightless.”

Della closed her eyes and listened. The
timbre of Daniel’s voice began to arouse her. Throughout the night
she waited anxiously for sleep. After rearranging pillows and
untangling blankets for the hundredth time, she picked up her phone
and punched in a number. Daniel’s voicemail informed her of what it
always did. He was not available and to please leave a message.

“Daniel. It’s me again. I still can’t
fall asleep. Call me. I need you and why the
hell
aren’t you ever in?” She slammed the
receiver down.

She started seeing her therapist two years
ago. Nothing helped until that night he finally told her she needed
the ultimate therapy. She knew sleeping with her therapist was
against the rules, but she had wanted him from day one, anyway. For
awhile they had their weekly “therapy session,” but lately he was
seeing her less and less. And she needed his “therapy” to get
herself to sleep.

Della finally started to doze as the sun lit
up the apartment building across the street. The door to her room
swung open and disoriented her. Her sister-in-law’s gaze lighted on
her, groggy in bed, then took in the empty bottle of wine on the
floor, the headphones still hanging from one ear, the ashtray full
of cigarette butts. Della knew the room smelled stale.

Margaret could hardly contain her disgust.
“Della, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment this afternoon after work.
I’ll expect you to be home to take care of the kids.” Della barely
moved her head in response.

“Do you hear me? I’ll be back by six. Feed
them supper at five. I’m defrosting some ground beef.”

Della attempted to sit up. Princess stretched
and jumped off the bed.

“And clean that disgusting cat box already.
It’s stinking up the house.”

Later, Della heard the front door slam. She
found the clock that had been knocked to the floor. Ten thirty. She
had slept through breakfast and the kids getting off to school. And
missed Jack Roland’s casting session.

Screw the audition.
It was a lousy under-five, so big deal. A couple of lines in
a dumb soap amounted to zilch. She looked like garbage anyway. She
hadn’t been eating much lately and her clothes hung on her. All
that juice fasting was supposed to give her more energy, but that
was a joke.

After boiling some eggs, she tried to reach
Daniel again, this time getting his service. She left a message for
him to call, stressing it was urgent.

After picking at the eggs, Della searched for
something to wear. The closet was a jumble of dirty clothes strewn
on the floor. She couldn’t tell what was clean. She picked up a
dress and smelled the armpits, then threw it back down.

She sighed and turned to look out the window.
Snow continued to pile in drifts. What did she want to go outside
for? The house was empty, her brother was at the office, the kids
were at school, her sister-in-law at her beauty shop. She shut the
closet door and went into the bathroom for some more Valium. This
time she’d take four. If only she could get some sleep, she’d be
fine; then she could deal with her imprisonment.

She climbed back into bed and lit a
cigarette, smoking five before she finally closed her eyes and
buried her head under the covers.

Little daylight remained when Stacy and Mark,
bundled in coats and scarves and hats, stomped up the steps and
rang the bell.

“Hurry up,” Stacy said, “I’m freezing.”

“Maybe the bell’s not working. The door’s
locked.”

“Ring again. Aunt Della’s s’posed to be
home.”

Mark banged with his fist. “Aunt Della!”

They waited, shivering. Mark looked at his
sister. “Maybe she forgot and went out.”

“Don’t say that. What’re we going to do?”
Stacy started to cry. “I want Momma.”

“Cut it out, Stace. Crying won’t get us in.
Maybe I could try the window.”

Mark climbed the wrought iron railing in
front of the window but his legs were too short to get over. He
scratched his knees getting back down.

“Mark, don’t. You’ll fall!”

“Stacy, shut up. You want to stay out here
and freeze to death? You could, you know.” He pounded on the
door.

Stacy cried harder. “Maybe we should call the
police or something.”

“With what phone, dumbbell?” Mark attempted
the railing again with renewed determination. He managed to grab
the ledge with his gloved hand and lean over to push at the
window.

“It’s unlocked. Maybe I can shove it. Then we
can get in.”

His gloves slipped on the slick surface of
the window, so he threw them down to the sidewalk. Stacy kept
crying and pounding on the door.

“Della, Della, where are you?” She whimpered
in between gasps. Just then, she heard a crash and looked over to
see Mark’s arm going through the window pane. The shards had
penetrated through his coat, and blood dripped down his fingertips
and onto the snow.

“Oh no!” Stacy screamed. “Mark, get
down!”

Startled by the sight of his blood, Mark fell
from the railing and onto the sidewalk. The door to the adjoining
brownstone opened and a gray-haired woman peered out, the chain
still latched across her door.

“What are you two kids up to?”

“Mrs. Peabody, Mark’s hurt!” Stacy ran down
the stairs toward her. “Momma’s not home and we tried to get in,
but the door’s locked.”

Mrs. Peabody unlatched her door and ushered
in the children. “How can your mother leave you like that—to catch
your death of cold? Let’s wrap that arm. I’ll take you to the
hospital and then try to find your mother. Come on children, hurry
now.”

Della turned over in bed and hit her wrist
against the night table. She abruptly sat up, disoriented in the
dark room. Her head felt like straw. She strained to read the
clock, realizing it was hours past the time her niece and nephew
were supposed to be home from school. For a moment she listened to
the ominous silence in the house, then, still groggy, stumbled out
of bed and turned on the light. The room spun. She threw on her
jeans and reached for the phone, then punched in the number for the
elementary school.

“Come on, come on,” she said, listening to
the interminable ringing. “Answer, damn you!” She slammed down the
receiver, ran into the hall, then the kitchen, turning on
lights.

“Mark, Stacy, are you here? Where are you?
Don’t you play games with me or I’ll tan you.” She went out onto
the front stoop and looked up and down the street. Snow drifted
down from the dark sky, the flakes yellow in the street lamps’
glow. As she searched for footprints, something sticking out of the
snow on the sidewalk caught her attention. Mark’s glove. She
suppressed a cry. And then she looked back up to the apartment and
saw the broken window, and blood streaking the glass.

Della’s breath caught in her throat. She
raced inside and phoned the police. “Please, please help me.”

“One moment please,” the dispatcher said. The
wait was unbearable.

“Damn you, my niece and nephew have been
kidnapped. Something’s happened. Please help me!”

“Calm down, lady. I can’t help you if you’re
gonna bite my head off. Let’s start with some names and addresses
here, all right?”

After giving the dispatcher an earful, she
hung up the phone and fell back onto the couch. The reality of the
situation began to sink in. The fog in her head cleared, leaving
her with pure terror. She had done this—this terrible thing. And
whatever happened to her brother’s kids would be all her fault. The
police assured her they would be right over, that she should stay
put. She clutched the arms of the couch, feeling each second pass
in agonizing slowness. Unbearable agony.

Della ran to the bathroom and rummaged
through the medicine cabinet, this time emptying an entire bottle
of pills into her hand. She didn’t even bother to look at the
label. Whatever she was taking, it wasn’t going to be potent enough
to help her face what lay ahead.

The sound of the door opening summoned Della
from her euphoric haze. From her position on the living room couch,
the odd shapes moving in the dark formed into her brother and
sister-in-law. Her eyes then drifted over to Mark’s bandaged
arm.

Della barely made out the words her brother
and his wife screamed at her. “How dare you, you ungrateful, lazy
tramp!” More curses, words accompanied with spittle. She saw and
heard them in a fog. The accusations floated past her. Della found
it amusing to see their polished manners crumble. They were giants
looming over her, pelting her with anger. Their anger took
grotesque shapes, gigantic fur-balls, which rolled off her and onto
the floor.

A laugh erupted from her mouth.

Her sister-in-law stopped yelling and
stared.

“Edward, she’s flipped. Look at her eyes.
She’s on those drugs again. God help us!”

“Fur balls,” Della muttered, then laughed
again.

Margaret’s voice came out in a screech.
“Edward, why is she talking about her cat?”

Edward turned and looked at his children
standing in the hall, watching and listening. He lowered his voice.
“Go into the kitchen. I’ll be right there.” After the children left
the room, he turned to Della, who was still sprawled on the couch.
Della kept chuckling, tears running down her face.

Edward spoke through clenched teeth. “This is
the last straw, Della. You hear me? I’ve put up with your . . .
lifestyle for too long. I’ve tried to be patient—God knows I’ve
tried. But this is it. Tomorrow, you’re out, you’re on your
own.”

Margaret pulled at his sleeve. “Edward, look
at her. Shouldn’t we get her to a doctor?”

“Hey, if she wants to kill herself, it’s fine
with me. I’m through with this. I’m tired of being responsible for
her. She’s thirty-six and I have a family to take care of here. I
don’t need this.” He stormed out of the room and his wife
followed.

Della lay for what felt like an eternity,
floating in the dark. She became aware of the quiet in the house,
then realized she had dozed off again. By now everyone had gone to
bed. Groping for furniture, she edged her way back to her room and
found her phone. This time her therapist answered.

“Daniel. It’s me, Della. I need to see
you.”

“Della,” he said, his voice tired. “I thought
I told you not to call my home number unless it was life or
death.”

“I know. It is. I screwed up today. I really
blew it . . .”

“Can’t this wait until tomorrow? Don’t we
have a session at ten?”

“Yes, but can’t I meet you tonight? I need
you.”

“Della. I thought we discussed this. I
thought we decided to keep to the schedule.”

“Oh, Daniel, don’t do this to me. I’m a mess.
I’ve taken pills. Too many pills. Please.” She knew she was begging
but couldn’t help herself.

“You always take pills. Until you get a
handle on the drugs, Della, I can’t see you outside the office.
Have you been listening to the tapes? They should help you
relax.”

“I don’t need the damn tapes, I need you. I
need to feel you touch me and kiss me. Hold me . . .”

“Della. Enough. Go to sleep, it’s two
o’clock. Just sleep and you’ll feel better in the morning. Trust
me.”

“But—”

“Good night, Della.”

Della held her phone for a moment, the
silence penetrating the stillness of the late night. She then
slammed it down and wobbled into the bathroom, turning on the water
to fill the tub. As she undressed, she watched herself in the
mirror with detachment, then eased into the steaming, hot
water.

She was surprised at how soothing such a
simple thing like a bath could be. Submerging herself deeper, she
felt the warmth penetrate her weary bones as she ran the edge of
the razor blade across the crease line of first one wrist and then
the other. As the bath water turned from pink to red, the last
thing she saw was the white and gold envelope she had taped to the
medicine cabinet become unglued from the curls of steam and flutter
down like a dove from heaven into her placid, wet hands.

Chapter 3

Hollywood, California

“Bend over a little more—that’s it, baby,
more, more.”

Jonathan Levin clapped his hands impatiently.
He heard snickering and hushed whispers in the darkness behind him.
“Quiet, please, let’s have it quiet so we can wrap up. Everybody!
Let’s shoot this piece of trash.”

The A. D. held the slate inches from the
actress’s chest. The scantily dressed nurse leaned over the patient
in the hospital bed, her short skirt hiked up, her long legs
spread.

“My favorite position,” someone
whispered.

“Quiet!” Levin said.

“Bedside Manners. Scene twelve, take six.
Marker.” The horn sounded, the red light flashed. Jonathan waited
for absolute silence.

“. . . Rolling . . .”

“. . . Speed. And action . . .”

The actress spoke in a soft southern accent.
“Now, Mr. Barnes, you’re going to have to cooperate a little with
me here. Take your medicine like a good boy. Doctor’s orders, now.”
She leaned over and bumped the patient’s food cart, sending it
rolling across the set.

Jonathan waved his arms in the air. “Cut,
cut!” Exasperated sighs rippled through the room. Jonathan tugged
at the heavy gold chain around his neck. Sweat dripped down his
chest where his silk Italian shirt was halfway unbuttoned, soaking
into his waistband.