Innocent Little Crimes (35 page)

Jonathan flicked on the television. He
put on the Preview Guide and scanned the titles. One show caught
his eye. “Lila Carmichael—An HBO Exclusive.” He grunted with
rage.
That
was one show he
was going to miss. Anxiety raced over his entire body, ready to
twist him into knots. Lila! The curse of his life. Where would he
be today if she hadn’t interfered, no, destroyed his life? When he
thought about the damage she did to his career, he wanted to smash
his fist through a wall.

Impulsively, he turned to
HBO
. I’ll just watch for a few
minutes
. He wanted to see if her act was slipping. He
knew her TV “Q” still went through the roof, even though she
stopped doing her cable series. Boy, what a bombshell when she
walked out on her show. She even had a network deal pending, but he
heard she blew that off, too. It was right after the weekend.
Losing her precious Davis must have freaked her out. Yet every
magazine cover still had her ugly face plastered on it. He read
that her fans sent mail everyday to the studio, begging her to
bring her show back.

That cursed weekend. Why the hell had
he gone? He knew well why. He went to show off and play big
shot—the only one of the group who made it to Hollywood. He should
have turned back when that dumb broad, Melodie, walked off down the
highway. It was an omen. His life turned to garbage because of
Lila.
She
should have died
instead of pathetic, old Davis. He never felt so close to
committing murder as he had that weekend. She unleashed emotions in
him he never wanted to feel again. But to hell with her. He’d pull
himself up again and someday when
he
was on top . . . he’d get even. The sight of
Lila up on the screen made him queasy. He turned off the set,
grabbed his car keys, and left the apartment.

Cruising the dark streets calmed him. Maybe
he’d take in a late movie.

Suddenly, he felt a bump behind him. Through
his rearview mirror he saw a beat-up old car. Too close. A guy got
out and went to examine the damage. Great! That putz rear-ended
him. He shut the motor off, palmed the keys, and stormed out of the
car, fists clenched. Then he saw trouble. The guy was big. As his
panic grew, the other car door opened and another big S.O.B. got
out with a gun tucked in his belt. Jonathan’s stomach roiled.

The first man outstretched his hand. “Hand it
over, man.”

Jonathan’s knees went weak. He’d read
somewhere, if this happened, you were supposed to take a
subservient stance. Don’t look them in the eye. Don’t look at their
faces. If they thought you could identify them, you were dead meat.
Don’t make them have to shoot. He lifted his hands above his
head.

“Okay guys. Take it easy.”

“Your wallet.”

He slowly removed his wallet. The man snapped
it from his grip. Great! He’d gone to the bank today and had five
hundred in cash. And the credit cards. Oy vey! The phone calls he
would have to make. As long as they didn’t hurt him.

“Can I go now?”

Cars were passing in both directions, but
nobody stopped. Not that he blamed them. He wouldn’t stop either.
He only hoped one of them would call the cops.

“The keys, asshole.”

“Keys?” Oh, please, no . . .

“The car, jerk.”

“No, please. Not my car . . .”

The second guy walked over, grabbed the keys
out of his trembling hand, then smashed him in the nose. Jonathan
covered his throbbing face. At the same moment, a knee jolted his
groin. Jonathan groaned and fell to the ground.

He didn’t look up as he heard his beautiful
car start up.

One of them called out to him. “Have a nice
evening, buddy.”

Then both cars were gone.

South Fallsburg, New York

Della Roman made a sweeping gesture with her
hand. “Isn’t this beautiful, kids?” All around her, the maple trees
flamed in crimson and gold. The woods of the Catskill Mountains
filled her with great pleasure, reminding her of so many summers
and falls from earlier years. Years when her life was still ahead
of her, filled with dreams.

Behind her, a group of seven children jumped
in piles of leaves and grabbed at her arms.

“Della, how much longer?” one girl asked.

“Not much.” Della turned and looked at her
hikers. They were panting and tired. The air was warm, with an edge
of crispness. Every Friday, before she went back to her Aunt
Evvie’s house, she took the children on a long walk. She well knew
the grounds of the Concord Hotel, the place she first attended a
dazzling stage show, an event that shaped her life to come. How odd
to be working there again, free of the idealistic hopes of her
youth. Now she was content overseeing the day camp. Working with
children satisfied her more than acting ever did. The adoration of
these smaller fans seemed more genuine than the accolades from
fickle adult crowds.

As she approached the door to the main
building, she gathered her charges around her.

“Now, come close and listen. I’m going to
show you something special. Little kids aren’t allowed in here, but
we’ll just sneak in and be real quiet, okay?”

One boy started squirming with excitement.
“Where’re you taking us?”

Della put her finger to her lips. She creaked
opened the heavy door and led the children through a narrow
hallway. A few more turns and she ushered them into a dark room.
Bright lights shone down on the stage, and in the plush interior of
the huge auditorium were rows of velvet-covered chairs, and small
lights running along the aisles. The children stood in awe. Della
motioned with her hand for them to follow her to the side of the
theatre.

They stared at the stage with rapt
attention.

An elaborate set was erected, colorful
city scenery. Actors recited dialogue from an old play Della
recognized.
Wish You Were
Here
.

The girl next to Della leaned over and
whispered, “Is this where you used to be on stage, Della?”

Della smiled and took her hand. “I’ll tell
you all about it another time.” As she watched the actors, she
fought the urge to walk onto the stage and soak in the lights, a
painful mix of excitement and anxiety. Maybe someday.

Later that night, after fixing dinner,
she settled on the couch to brush out her aunt’s hair. It was part
of their nightly ritual. Della told her aunt all the day’s
happenings, even though she knew Aunt Evvie could understand
little. Occasionally, her aunt would make a comment or smile, but
Della knew her being there soothed her aunt. Her brother Edward had
even come from Brooklyn to visit and complimented Della.
That
was a first. She was still
outlawed from visiting the rest of her family, but figured, in
time, that would change. She was seeing a real therapist now and
paying her own bills. Fortunately, her therapist knew enough to
recognize her history of depression. He sent her to a doctor who
prescribed a regimen of pills. The last thing she wanted was to
take more pills, but these really worked. She fantasized tracking
down Daniel, her former “shrink,” and confronting him with his
corrupt, reprehensible behavior, but thought better of it. It was
smarter to just erase the whole past, put it in the trash where it
belonged.

After tucking Aunt Evvie into bed, Della
stacked dishes and settled comfortably on the couch with Cupcake,
her new white Persian cat. After a day of boisterous children, she
relished the peacefulness. Della stroked her cat and smiled,
realizing that she felt content—a familiar feeling these days. She
glanced at the scars on her wrist, hard-pressed to remember the
former feelings of hopelessness. Now, so many simple things made
her happy. She still fantasized owning a house in the Caribbean,
soaking up the sun and feasting on tropical fruit. But, she would
get there someday. On her own.

She pulled her cigarettes from her
purse and reached for an ashtray. She never smoked around her aunt.
One day she would try to quit, but this vice was hard to let go
of.
One thing at a time, Della.
She resisted the urge to pour herself a drink. Instead, she
drew hard on her cigarette and turned on the television.

She flicked through the channels, then
stopped. That face from her past stared at her. Lila standing on a
vast stage, looking ridiculous. Fat, worn, tired. Della emitted a
sigh and, without hesitation, changed the channels until she found
a classic Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers musical.

Her sense of ease vanished. The sight of Lila
brought back the weekend with a rush. Seeing herself strung out.
Sick in heart and soul. Seeing the gang from college and how
shocked they’d been at her fall from grace. But the weekend, as
awful as it had been, was the reason she was here, now. Lila, by
destroying her illusions, actually set her free. She should be
grateful to the cow, but she wasn’t. No cripple ever thanks her
crutch.

And Davis, the golden boy. He had everything
to live for. He died and all the losers got to live.

A peculiar thought came to her.
Davis died for their
sins
.

Ridiculous. Her imagination was in
overdrive.

She concentrated on Fred and Ginger as they
danced their way to love and happiness.

Sausalito, California

Cynthia stirred her Shirley Temple as she
stared out the large picture window of the Foothills Country Club.
The view of the boat harbor, lit up under a canopy of stars, took
her breath away. The bar buzzed with boisterous voices—the Friday
evening crowd. She looked around for her date and saw him speaking
on his cell phone by the door. He caught her eye and winked,
motioning with his hand that he’d be done momentarily. Jason was on
the Board of Directors of one of her charity youth groups. He was
pushing forty, divorced, with two teenaged sons. Nice boys, honor
students. Cynthia was impressed with Jason’s parenting skills. A
nice looking man—with a big heart. She enjoyed the way he talked
about the kids; his enthusiasm inspired her.

Yet, she felt uncomfortable at the club. The
last time she was there was with Davis. It seemed so long ago. Yet,
only six months. The memory of their engagement party ran through
her mind, creating a twinge of fresh pain. What was she doing on a
date already? She chastised herself. This was not a date. They were
here to talk business. Budgeting. Jason understood.

Cynthia had made it clear earlier that day
that she wasn’t ready for any entangled relationships. Sure, she
had her whole life spread out ahead of her. Her twentieth birthday
fast approached. But, she still cried herself to sleep most
nights.

And the nightmares kept replaying. Turbulent
water and Davis’s drowning. The worst were the ones in which she
kept reaching for his hand and his fingers slipped her grasp. She
blamed Davis, she blamed Lila, and she especially blamed herself.
The guilt wore her out.

She sighed as Jason slid into the seat beside
her. He squeezed her hand and smiled, searching her face. Cynthia
appreciated his look of concern.

“I’m all right. Everything okay at home?”

“Yeah. Danny couldn’t get the VCR to
reset.” He shrugged. “Kids. They know not to page me unless it’s
important. But he just
had
to
record some comedy special.” Jason signaled a waiter for a drink.
“You want another?”

Cynthia shook her head. Close by, at the bar,
a blast of laughter erupted. She glanced up at the television
mounted on the wall. The crowd seated around on barstools strained
to listen to the set. A stab of pain shot through her as she saw
Lila’s face staring out. The camera slid up close on Lila’s
expression, first serious, then silly. The intimacy of her
expressions more than unsettled Cynthia. She remembered snatches of
words emitted from Lila’s mouth, bits and pieces of that weekend
she had been trying to force from her memory. Jason must have
noticed her agitation. He took her arm and pulled her up from the
table.

“Come on, let’s go for a walk on the
promenade.”

Cynthia tore her eyes away from the set and
looked into Jason’s accepting face. “Sure.”

He shrugged again, so casually. She was
beginning to like that little movement of his. It said: not to
worry, everything will be fine, relax. She wanted to trust him. She
needed someone to lean on, to pour out her heart to. So much pain
welled up tight inside her.

Her parents and friends had tried hard to
comfort her when she returned from Lila’s island. All those
compassionate people, well-meaning but ingratiating. It was easier
to be alone and think. But thinking made her crazy. If only, if
only . . .

Jason entwined his arm with hers and led her
out the French doors. The night was warm and balmy, and a big
harvest moon sat on the horizon. Jason paused at the railing and
looked out. “Quite a sight.”

“Yes, it’s stunning.”

“Should I take you home?”

“No. This is nice. Let’s sit out here and
talk. We need to go over these figures. Besides, if I went home,
I’d just lie in bed watching the news and stuffing my face. No
thanks.” She sat down at one of the round tables on the deck.

Jason stroked her hair and on impulse, leaned
over and kissed her on the lips. He pulled back abruptly. “Sorry, I
don’t know what came over me. It must be the full moon. And you’re
awfully hard to resist.”

Cynthia laughed. “So are you.”

Jason smiled and waited for the awkward
moment to pass. He reached for his briefcase and opened it on the
table. Cynthia relaxed. As Jason spread out the sheets of paper and
started explaining his ideas, a heaviness lifted. She knew later
that night, as she lay in bed, it would come back; it always did.
But, in this moment she felt hopeful, as if everything would be all
right—eventually. Life would go on, without Davis and without Lila.
The nightmares would gradually fade and she would be happy
again.