Innocent Little Crimes (36 page)

She took Jason’s hand and squeezed it. He
stopped talking and looked at her with questions in his eyes.

“Thanks,” Cynthia said. “For being a
friend.”

He shrugged again.

Cynthia smiled. The knot in her stomach
loosened.

West Hollywood, California

“Knock, knock,” Peter yelled through the
crack in the door. “It’s the pizza man.”

He waited, listening for sounds of movement.
Matt took awhile to come to the door. Peter stood at the landing of
a second floor apartment in Hollywood, an old peeling building
built in the ’twenties with ornate wrought iron railing and bars
over the windows. Below him, the traffic on Melrose Avenue moved at
a snail’s pace; the headlights weaving down the street resembled
yellow and red snakes. It was Friday night and Melrose was the
hippest game in town.

The aroma from the hot pizza made his mouth
water. Friday nights he spent the evening with a patient named
Matt. He didn’t even know Matt’s last name, or the last names of
the others he visited, for that matter. They all seemed to prefer
the comfort of a first-name basis. With few friends left, this
little personal touch meant a lot. It gave these guys reassurance
where so little reassurance was available.

The door opened.

Whenever Peter saw one of his “neighbors,” as
he liked to refer to them, he steeled his emotions for what he
might encounter. Sometimes they would be fine, happy, almost an
image of perfect health. At those times he found it inconceivable
that they were close to death. The only telltale signs were the
weight loss, the dark circles under the eyes, and the side effects
from medication. But most nights, after he got off work at the
counseling center, he encountered what he called “walking death.”
He mustered every ounce of emotional strength and put on his best
acting ability to smooth over the heaviness in the air. He made it
a point to be cheerful, compassionate, and a good listener, for
sometimes they needed that most of all—just someone to listen to
them.

“It better be pepperoni or you can just
forget it.” Matt leaned over to smell the pizza. Peter saw his head
shake; supporting his neck seemed unbearably straining. Matt
motioned with his hand. “Entrez, entrez.”

“Good to see you up and about.”

“I’m up but not about. Bring the box over
here. We’re gonna watch the tube.”

Peter cleared the coffee table littered with
books and newspapers. The apartment was in its usual disarray. Many
of these places were. The patients could rarely afford domestic
help, and friends were either few or too busy to offer a hand.
That’s what made the assistance program so great. People who did
have spare hours could fill in where needed: buy groceries, clean
homes, take pets to the vet. Peter brimmed with a sense of purpose
and pride. He was doing something that made a difference, and those
he helped showed huge gratitude. Not like the last person he worked
for.

Matt lowered his body into a reclining chair
as Peter dished out the pizza. “So, what’re we watching tonight? It
must be important if we’re skipping chess.”

Matt pressed the remote. To Peter’s
chagrin, Lila’s sneering face assaulted him from the small TV
screen.
Just what I need. An evening with
Lila Carmichael.

“This lady is the funniest thing on legs,”
Matt said. “Not much makes me laugh these days.” He chuckled, then
hacked, doubling over. Peter came to his side but Matt waved him
away.

“Are you sure you want to watch this trash?”
Peter asked. “It might be hazardous to your health.”

“Like I care?” He turned up the volume.
Lila’s crackling voice screamed out at Peter. He swore never to see
her face again, and here he was, forced to watch her show. But how
could he turn Matt down? With a grunt, he sat in an old armchair
and pretended to be amused.

“I never missed her shows when they were on
the air. You ever see any?’ Matt asked Peter.

“A few. Let me get you something to
drink.”

“Beer’s in the fridge. I know I shouldn’t,
but what the hell.”

Peter got up and retrieved two beers. As he
watched alongside Matt, he thought about the day he packed his
things at Lila’s—right after the weekend. When the limo pulled up
at Lila’s house in Bel Air, he told her he quit. She didn’t say a
word; just sat there, sullen and brooding. No word of thanks, no
wishing him well or promising a recommendation. Nothing. Well, he
didn’t want a recommendation from her, anyway. Only to sever the
ties for good.

When he read that Lila had quit her series,
he wasn’t surprised. Rumors said she planned to retire from show
business. Yet, here she was. She couldn’t keep away from the
spotlight. Nightmares of that weekend haunted him; surely Lila
replayed that scene at the beach over and over in her mind as well.
All those years of plotting and scheming for her sad, lost love.
Was it Oscar Wilde who once said “each man kills the thing he
loves”? With what he knew about Lila, she must be suffering
terribly—or else smothering in denial. And that meant taking her
stress out on everyone around her. He felt sorry for whoever landed
the ignominious job of being her new personal assistant.

Peter listened to Lila’s patter. She was not
up to par. Her lines were funny, but the delivery was off. She
looked haggard and exhausted, especially on the close-ups. Her
makeup was smeared and sweat poured down the side of her face.
Nevertheless, she had the crowd by the crotch, as always. Peter
watched her roam the stage, as he had watched countless other
times. Beside him, Matt laughed and coughed interchangeably. Peter
could tell Matt was in pain, but so fixated on Lila that he didn’t
care.

“I hope in my next lifetime I come back as
funny as her. If I have to come back to this screwed-up planet at
all.”

Peter chewed his pizza and thought how Lila
evoked such loyalty in her fans. She had a gift for reaching the
heart and wrenching it into pieces. All her words were two-edged
swords, unbearably funny and unbearably painful. He thought about
Lila’s life and the events that formed her character: her stifling
upbringing, the series of disappointments and illusions she
encountered through her life, her desperate need to make friends.
Everyone was made of those little bits and pieces, pieces that
moved you uncontrollably toward your destiny, whatever that proved
to be.

Peter smirked. He was sure waxing philosophic
tonight. But it was easy to do, being around these guys who had
maybe weeks to live. So, what was he going to do with the rest of
his life? Whatever he chose, he would make it count.

The pizza box was empty and Matt had somehow
polished off three beers. Peter looked over and noticed Matt had
fallen asleep; his chin rested on his chest and his mouth hung
open. For a panicky moment, Peter thought Matt had died, but then
he heard a quiet snore escape Matt’s mouth.

Peter picked up the remote and turned off the
television. Moving quietly, he gathered the trash and empty bottles
and straightened up the kitchen. After writing Matt a note, he shut
the door behind him and went out into a night bright and bustling
with life.

Epilogue

Under the glittering, flashing marquis that
reads “Lila Carmichael —An HBO Special,” Lila stands, immobile,
sweltering from the spotlights. She’s in a regal, dark maroon
velvet gown, adorned with jewels, the queen of crass. Sweat drips
down her neck, down her cleavage. Her dress sticks uncomfortably to
her skin. Her makeup feels like it’s cracking. As she speaks, she
scans the meaningless faces in the crowd. All eyes are riveted,
infusing her with familiar power. They may as well be faceless.

As she usually does, she singles out two
targets to concentrate on—a young woman in the front, and an old
man in the fifth row. She knows they’ll respond appropriately to
her barbs, and they do. Laughter erupts like scattered explosions
as she does her routine. The cameras follow her every move with
their single, black eyes. Energy surges over the stage like a
flowing tide, enveloping her.

Abruptly, Lila stops. She waits for the
laughter to subside. A hint of irony appears on her face.

“You like fairy tales? I do. Every kid does.
We all grew up on them. When I was a kid, I read every fairy book
there was. That’s probably why all my friends are fairies,” she
says as an aside.

“There was The Green Fairy Book, The Red
Fairy Book, The Purple Fairy Book. There were more books than names
of colors. If your childhood was like mine, then you hid under the
covers and lost yourself in that world of witches and trolls and
elves and handsome princes.

“Once I tried to spin gold out of my hair,
but I got it caught around the toilet paper holder in the bathroom.
My father cut it all off with scissors. I kissed a lot of frogs,
but all I got was bad breath. I remember making a magic potion out
of food coloring and a bottle of perfume I lifted from the 7-11. I
poured three drops in my father’s coffee, hoping he’d change into a
unicorn. Instead he became a fire-breathing dragon that sent me to
bed without any supper. I cast a spell on my mother by saying the
Lord’s prayer backwards. I wanted to turn her into a beautiful
queen. She turned into a witch instead, and washed my mouth out
with soap.”

Lila waltzes grandly across the stage,
waving a jeweled wand. “I guess my childhood was more like a fairy
tale than I thought. I was locked in my tower, to hide me from the
world. It wasn’t really an ivory tower, but, hey, I did have some
lovely polyester drapes and a chenille bedspread. A spell was cast
over me, so that everywhere I went, I spoke gibberish. I was sure I
was saying one thing, but what people heard was something else. It
was an evil spell and it kept me from ever making friends.

“Not once did my sweet little fairy
godmother appear and wave her little pink wand. You bet I was
pissed! Actually, in my family you waited for Jesus to take you up
in the rapture. Personally, I would have settled for anyone, even
the Jolly Green Giant, to whisk me away to a magic land where candy
canes lined the streets and birds twittered, as long as I didn’t
have to eat those frozen peas! I’d seen the Wizard of Oz twenty
times, so I knew that somewhere over the rainbow was a place where
happy little bluebirds fly. So I ran away from home, and like the
proverbial hero of those fairy tales, went into the deep, dark
woods to seek my fortune. Somehow, I ended up in college.

“Like Bugs Bunny says,” (Lila imitates
Bugs), “‘Ahh, I musta taken a left turn at Albuquerque.’ Like the
prince on his quest, I fell into dangerous trials, fought dragons,
fell in love. But still, I spoke gibberish. Finally, it made me so
crazy, I ended up in a nut house—that is, back at my parents’
house—in a straight-jacket. No kidding! Once again I escaped, and
lo and behold! here I am—The Queen of Comedy, ruling over a vast
kingdom—and, lo and behold! still speaking gibberish.”

The laughs dwindle. Members of the audience
look at one another, puzzled.

Lila seems distracted. She stops, then as if
remembering where she is, walks to the edge of the stage and looks
down, waving her wand in large, slow circles. “Finally, very late,
my fairy godmother appeared. It was about frigging time, I told
her! I expected Binnie Barnes and got Milton Berle instead.

“Borrowing shamelessly from G. B. Shaw, he
said only one thing: ‘Honey, there are two tragedies in life. One
is not to get your heart’s desire. The other is to get it.’ ”

Lila pauses again, dazed and distracted. “At
least, that’s what I think he said. Sounded like gibberish to
me.”

Lila carefully lowers her heavy body down so
she’s sitting on the apron of the stage, swinging her legs like a
kid. The camera stays with her. The crew, knowing she won’t stick
to a script, are ready to move at her whim.

“Funny thing. Like the Emperor’s new
clothes—I get on stage and everyone laughs and laughs. I’m naked
and I don’t know it. I reveal my hidden parts and you laugh. Why?
Why doesn’t anyone tell me I’m naked? Why doesn’t someone save me
from myself? Why doesn’t some Good Samaritan say, ‘Hey, Lila, cover
up, you’ll catch cold’ Or, ‘you’re making an ass of
yourself.’?”

Lila searches the audience. She sees eager
faces trying to stay with her although they are baffled.

“Why doesn’t someone say, hey Li, you are
one screwed-up broad?” She swings her legs and stares off into
space. “I hate myself for it, you know?”

Again she stops speaking and stares
mindlessly out into the sea of faces.

A few nervous giggles travel the room as her
audience waits for the delivery of the next line. But Lila sits
there, motionless, and to her viewers’ surprise she begins to cry.
The audience holds its collective breath.

Slowly, with effort, Lila stands and walks
off the stage.

The audience shuffles uncomfortably in their
seats. The sound is like a wind rustling old, crackling leaves.
They wait, expecting her to return with some gimmick. But a minute
passes, and finally someone breaks the strange spell and starts to
applaud, joined by another, and another, until soon, the room is
swelling with sound, the din rising like an ocean wave that crests
and crashes, and then subsides to silence, leaving no trace of a
footprint or a tear.

~The End~

About the Author

C. S. Lakin writes novels in numerous
genres, focusing mostly on contemporary psychological mysteries and
allegorical fantasy. Her novel Someone to Blame (contemporary
fiction) won the 2009 Zondervan First Novel competition 2009
(published October 2010). Lakin’s Gates of Heaven fantasy series
for adults (AMG-Living Ink Publishers) features original
full-length fairy tales in traditional style. Already in print are
the first books in the series, The Wolf of Tebron, The Map across
Time, and The Land of Darkness, with four more to follow. Her
contemporary mystery Innocent Little Crimes made the top one
hundred finalists in the 2009 Amazon Breakout Novel Award contest,
earning her a Publisher’s Weekly review stated her book was “a
page-turning thrill-ride that will have readers holding their
breaths the whole way through.”