The Truth About Delilah Blue

by Tish Cohen

  Lazing on the long sofa was a tall, loosely muscled man of about twenty-five with a diamond stud in one ear. He wore paint-stained chinos and nothing else. One hand was doing a cavity search of a bag of organic pretzels and the other squeezed a can of beer. Broken pretzels that hadn’t made it into his mouth lay strewn on his flat stomach, while rolling papers and a tiny foil package rested on a pillow. Reluctantly, he looked up from the TV.

  “Hey,” he said.

  To his left, with her blouse and cardigan buttoned right to the chin, sitting on the edge of the seat cushion beside him with knees and ankles pressed together and hands clasped primly on her skirt, with a pained expression on her face, sat Kieran. She jumped up when she saw her sister. “Delilah!”

  The man introduced himself as Finn. With Kieran hanging on to her leg, Lila politely inquired as to the whereabouts of the sitter. After draining what was left of his Schlitz Malt Liquor and wiping a grain of sea salt from his beard, he informed Lila he was not only Kieran’s sitter, but the landlord as well.

  Lila tried to hide her shock. “You own this house?”

  He scratched himself. “Technically my parents own it, but it’s mine to live in, profit from, whatever. Gives me a little income to support my work.” The wave of his arm directed her gaze behind the sofa to a makeshift studio with tarps pinned to the walls and a sculpture in progress: wire mesh forming the shape of a reclined woman, with only the lower torso finished in some sort of sculpting medium. From the looks of things, the project had been neglected for some time. The clay seemed to have cracked and dried from the sun streaming in the window, and the floor was littered in crumpled takeout bags, empty wine bottles, dirty glasses.

  Stepping closer, Finn looked Lila up and down. “So you’re Elisabeth’s other daughter?”

  “Lila. Kieran and I have to be someplace.” She grabbed Kieran’s backpack and pulled her toward the door, then stopped. “Sorry. Do I owe you anything?”

  “Naw. Your mother pays me good. Don’t you worry, doll.”

  Lila frowned, unsure what he meant by this. Elisabeth paid half rent, plus the guy was babysitting—how was this considered good? Her eyes drifted back to the unfinished sculpture. If Elisabeth was nude modeling for this guy, she didn’t want to know. Hypocritical, maybe, but what daughter wanted to picture her mother lying on her back with her thighs in the air, spread wide with Finn’s face in between? And if Elisabeth was doing more than modeling with a man who could practically be her son, Lila didn’t think she wanted to know about that either.

  It was time to go. She said her goodbyes and ushered Kieran out to the car. Kieran, however, took one look at the lack of backseat and in her gravelly voice informed Lila that there were laws about front seats and children under twelve not sitting in them because of death by airbag deployment. She only deigned to climb in once Lila convinced her “air bag” wasn’t even a phrase when the 240Z was manufactured, therefore no laws would be broken.

  They’d gone for burgers and milkshakes. Stopped at the bookstore. Now the child was thirsty.

  Kieran looked at the carton and shook her head. “I don’t want low fat.”

  Lila grabbed another and turned to go. “Fine. Let’s get out of here. I’m freezing.”

  “I don’t want that one.”

  “Come on, Kieran. You’re not going to tell me you drink whole milk. No one in L.A. drinks whole milk. It might even be…” she leaned closer and whispered, “illegal.”

  “Not funny. Anyway, I don’t want whole milk.” She stood on her tiptoes and reached for a large carton of nonfat. Chocolate.

  “But you said you didn’t want chocolate. You said white.”

  “I don’t care what flavor.” Kieran pointed at all the choices Lila had offered up. “Those ones don’t have kids on them.” She moved closer to her sister to show her the side of the carton. “Zachary John Miller. Last seen wearing a blue softball uniform.”

  Lila tucked the milk under one arm, took the girl’s hand, and shuffled toward the cash register. “My God, Kieran. I don’t know which one of us is more screwed up, me or you.”

  Her phone buzzed from inside her pocket and she flipped it open. Adam. “Hey, how’s it going?”

  He blew his nose. “Not good.”

  “Aren’t you with Nikki?”

  In the background she heard a heavy thundering sound. “She left. I’m…I don’t know what I am. A mess.”

  “I’m on my way. You’re at home?”

  He let out a long groan, then, “At the beach.”

  IT WAS DARK by the time Kieran and Lila stepped onto the sand in Santa Monica. At Kieran’s insistence, they’d removed their shoes, and the sand was cold and damp beneath their feet, like sugar that had been stored in the freezer. To their left, the famous pier sat neglected. It was, after all, nine-forty-five on a Friday night and barely sixty degrees. Even tourists trying to capitalize on off-season rates weren’t intrepid enough to venture out into the wet, fishy-smelling ocean air.

  “This is definitely not good,” scolded Kieran as she trudged across the sandy parking lot, her unopened milk carton in hand. “I’m usually asleep by now. Into bed at eight, read for half an hour, write in my diary for fifteen minutes, then lights out at eight-forty-five.”

  “Is that Mum’s rule?”

  Kieran looked as if she’d just been asked if she lives beneath the dock on weeknights. “That’s my rule. There was a study; if schoolchildren don’t get eleven hours of sleep, their focus in class suffers. It’s a fact.”

  “I’m sure it is. But it’s okay to break out and do something wild every now and again.”

  “That’s not what the scientists say.”

  “It’s what I say. It’s never hurt me.” Kieran grunted loud enough that Lila stopped. “What’s that supposed to mean.”

  Kieran looked into the wind, squinting. “Nothing.”

  “You can tell me.”

  “Just…you’re a nude model. So I think I’ll stick with the scientists.”

  They waded through the sand toward a small campfire about halfway to the shoreline, where the waves crashed onto the beach. As they drew closer, ocean spray misting their faces, they could see Adam lying on his back beside a wicker basket and a bottle of red wine. From deep within his being came a low-pitched groan.

  Lila dropped to the sand beside him. “Are you okay?”

  Only his eyes moved. “If breathing qualifies me as okay, then yes. For now. But don’t get comfortable. It could all change without warning.” He turned his head to stare at Kieran, who now cradled her milk like a baby. “You brought a child to my wake?”

  “I’m Kieran Scarlett Lovett-Moore. But Scarlett has two T’s, so it’s complicated. Also it’s bedtime.”

  He raised himself up on one elbow. “I know. I’m disruptive like that. If you had any sense, you’d make a break for it.”

  Kieran pretended not to glance back toward the parking lot. With a resigned sigh, she dropped to her knees on the unzipped sleeping bag and shivered. Lila leaned down to move a wicker basket full of crusty bread and cheese, wrapped one end of the cowboy-spackled flannel around her sister’s shoulders, then poured herself a glass of wine.

  “Okay, what happened? The date didn’t go well?”

  “Turns out it wasn’t a date.”

  Kieran plucked a few rose petals off the sleeping bag. “Looks like a date. More than a date.”

  “That’s what Nikki said.” Still supine, he reached for the wine bottle and swigged. Wine dribbled across his cheek. “Turns out this wasn’t a getting-back-together kind of event. More of a let’s-itemize-all-that-is-wrong-with-Adam kind of affair.” He let out another weak groan. “Turned out to be a rather lengthy catalog.”

  “The rose petals were a mistake,” said Kieran, crinkling her nose. “Too Days of Our Lives.”

  “Wait,” said Lila. “I don’t understand. Why come here and rip up your exboyfriend two months after the fact?”

  He rolled his eyes. “It wa
s for my own good, don’t you know? Because after she saw me, us, in the park the other day, she felt inspired—no, obligated!—to swoop in and fix all that is broken in Adam Harding.”

  “In her defense”—Lila tried not to smile—“you were trying to get naked in a public place. I mean, there are laws in place to control people like you.”

  Kieran let out a disapproving sound, like the scrape of a chair.

  “You’re not helping, Lila,” Adam said. “I’m wounded here. I need empathy, not ridicule. I blew it the other day. I went on and on like a complete moron. And there was Bruce-Brice all quiet and respectable with his mint green stripes. And do you know what I almost did earlier? I nearly canceled New York. I figured Nikki and I were going to work out, so why go, you know?”

  Lila watched the way the shadows from the fire changed the look of his face. One moment handsome, the next moment hollowed out. Driftwood snapped and sparked in the flames. “I guess. Depending on why you’re going.”

  “Don’t analyze me. You won’t like what you see.”

  She sat back on her heels. “The view’s not so terrible from here.”

  Another grunt from Kieran.

  Adam glanced at Lila sideways, amused. “Did I just get a compliment from Lichty’s favorite model?”

  “Don’t get all full of yourself. It is pretty dark.”

  “You know what would make me feel better right now?”

  “Not sure I want to hear this, but okay. What?”

  “Painting. You, in my studio, lit only by moonlight. You know I need a model for the designer.”

  A huge wave crashed on the beach. Lila stared at him. She did have a new pose she’d been working on. It wouldn’t be a bad thing to try it out on Adam before class.

  “I asked Nikki,” he said. “She turned me down flat. You know what she said?”

  “Shut up about her.”

  “What?”

  “If you stop talking about Nikki, I’ll do it.”

  A crooked smile inched across Adam’s face. “Seriously? You’re not playing with me?”

  Kieran, who had started crawling around collecting tiny stones, got up on her knees and made a face. “You’re going to strip in front of Adam, Delilah Blue?”

  “Delilah Blue?” Adam repeated. “That’s your full name?”

  “Hey, any teasing and suddenly I’m busy tonight.”

  “No teasing. I like it. It suits you. Delilah Blue. Woohoo.”

  “Gross,” said Kieran. “This night could not get any worse.” In the blackened distance, from about a mile up the shoreline, two close-set lights bobbed and danced across the sand, headed straight toward their fire. She stood up and pushed white strands from her face, watching the lights. “What’s that?”

  Adam jumped up. “That, sweet Kieran, is a sign of our night getting worse.” He began scooping handfuls of sand over the fire, coughing and sputtering when smoke billowed in his face. “It’s the cops.”

  “Kieran, start running.” Lila threw things into the basket. “Go straight to the car.”

  Kieran’s eyes nearly popped out of her head as she scrambled to her feet and wrapped herself in the sleeping bag. “I have to run from the police? Are we criminals?”

  “Kind of.” Adam watched as flames still licked their way through the grit and sand. “We need water.” He caught sight of Kieran’s milk. “Can we use that?”

  “That’s Zachary John Miller!”

  The police jeep was down on the flat sand by the water’s edge now, gaining speed. “Please, Kieran.”

  Scowling, she handed it over and watched, begging Adam to be careful with Zachary John’s face as he doused the fire with nonfat milk. Finally, the flame died out, replaced by billows of hissing gray smoke.

  Adam and Lila threw remaining bits of food and trash into the basket and started to run. “Hurry, Kieran!” When she stood frozen in the smoke, Lila ran back and took her by the hand, pulled her toward the car. “What are you waiting for? Do you want to get caught?”

  Kieran allowed herself to be led, feet dragging through the sand. Finally, as the jeep pulled up to the fire and a cop climbed out and started to shine his flashlight around in the dark, she broke into a run, shouting at her sister’s back, “Next time I listen to the scientists!”

  AFTER INSTALLING KIERAN in bed, watching her wish sweet dreams to her wall of lost friends, and bidding good night to Elisabeth, who had been dozing on the sofa in front of an old movie, Lila picked her way through Adam’s backyard and stood on the steps, watched him set up an oversized H-frame easel in the corner, facing her. He motioned for her to step onto the fresh roll of unstretched canvas in front of the French doors, which were flung open. “Right there.”

  She did what he said without comment.

  When she’d offered to pose, she hadn’t anticipated feeling quite this nervous, or this exhilarated. It was one thing stripping down in class where things were official and she received a paycheck. Stripping down for Adam at eleven-thirty at night in his studio-cum-bedroom was something very different.

  He walked over to his easel and picked up a brush. “Anytime you’re ready, Miss Delilah Blue.”

  She started to unbutton her jean skirt, then stopped. “Can we lose the lights?”

  He flipped a switch and the room went black, save for the glow of the moon filtered through the trees.

  Emboldened only slightly by the velvety darkness, fully aware of his eyes following her every move, Lila regretted not bringing her robe. Dropping the robe would have made things more workmanlike. Peeling off her clothing made it sexual. She debated asking him to step out of the room but decided against it on the grounds that it would call unnecessary attention to the charged atmosphere.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  And then there was silence. Too much silence, soft and loaded. She should have thought to suggest music, if only to cover the sounds of her undressing.

  Her fingers moved along her waistband and found the buttons. She shimmied out of her skirt and kicked it away. Then, standing in a shaft of filtered light, she turned away from him, took hold of the hem of her sweater and paused for a few moments before pulling it over her head. It landed on the floor with a delicate thud.

  Her hands moved up to cover her breasts.

  After a quick glance back to assure herself Adam was still parked at the easel, she stepped out of her panties, one arm still shielding her chest.

  She should turn around.

  If she were in class, she would spin around now. Drop her hands and move into a pose. Any pose. Tonight it felt impossible. As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t turn and face Adam. Staring into the backyard, she said, her voice shrill in the quiet room, “I was thinking I’d lie down on the floor. With my back to you.”

  “Okay.”

  She squatted, lowered herself down, and settled on her side, propped up on one elbow, the other arm resting on her waist. “Like this?”

  He waited, then cleared his throat. “Almost.”

  She listened to him shuffle around a bit, then pad across the tarp. Looking up, she found him standing over her in his boxers, jeans in one hand. Her heart started to thump, with fear and excitement. Was this it? Did he want to make love? More important, did she?

  He bent down, but instead of leaning over to kiss her, touch her, or make any sort of romantic gesture, he carefully draped his jeans over her lower hip, arranged the denim into pleasing folds, and walked back to his canvas. “Now tilt your face up. That’s right. And turn your head slightly toward me. Just a bit.” When she did, he said, “Good. Let your hair fall down your back a bit.”

  She leaned back slightly and shook her head. “Okay?”

  “Perfect. You’re perfect.” His husky voice trailed off, replaced with the sound of bristles stroking taut canvas.

  Twenty-Eight

  It was the last Friday in October and Victor felt like a boy again. He hadn’t woken up this way. He�
�d opened his eyes groggy from a heavy sleep. In fact, from the way his left arm had gone numb and rubbery, he might not have rolled over the whole night through. As he’d lain there, trying to work feeling back into his deadened limb, he’d been vaguely aware of something exciting he had planned.

  Then it came to him and he smiled.

  Marching along Sunset, he ignored all the commuters honking, the shopkeepers polishing windows, the waitresses setting up tables. He strolled through herds of oncoming joggers and young mothers in high-heeled sandals pushing toddlers in strollers built for off-road adventure. Victor, after all, had just as real a destination for his morning as anyone else.

  The day had come. He was going buy himself a dog. No longer would he be alone. For all that had fallen apart in his life, he would have just one tiny being who believed him to be without flaw.

  Not half a block down, he came upon the pet shop. The very one where he’d been denied his multicolored puppy with the spotted tail and the alpha attitude. And the tongue that lapped against Victor’s bearded chin.

  It was Friday. Manager’s day off. That male clerk’s day off too; he’d double-checked by phone yesterday.

  There was the window. The pen. For a moment, he became anxious the pups might have been sold. His little friend might be gone. But as he drew near, he smiled. The fluffy, multicolored pups were right there—fewer, though; there were only three left—napping in a pile in the corner, his alpha pup on top.

  Victor peered through the open doorway to see no sign of the young fellow who’d destroyed his previous attempt. The store was empty but for a meek-looking college-aged girl who stood on a stepstool and sprinkled brownish flakes into an aquarium. A parrot screeched from beside the counter, and one side of the room hummed with filters.

  This time Victor was prepared. He cleared his throat. “The puppies that are in the window. What breed are they?”

  She snapped her tin of fish food closed and stepped down onto the floor, smiling. Her nametag read DIANE.

  “They’re Maltipoos.”